Waking in Dreamland (33 page)

Short-handed because of Bolmer’s injury and Mamovas’s absence, the apprentices were having to work twice as hard as before. The Countingsheep brothers’ obduracy had put them hours behind Brom’s schedule. The chief was fretting, wondering if they would now make it to the road before Roan in spite of the traps laid to delay him. Because of the difficult terrain, the mercenaries had stayed away all afternoon. Brom had had no new message from his spy. He didn’t like lacking information, and they all knew it.

Anger bounded up and back through the mental link until Taboret felt if anyone even looked at her cross-eyed, she would embed them in the pavement. They could not finish their road today, no matter how much the chief shouted. It was nearing twilight. Power, strength, and tempers were stretched to their utmost, and they were still miles from the main road.

At least six times during the afternoon they had felt the aching exhaustion that meant Mamovas had drawn upon them to create traps and distractions. The last one had been over an hour ago, and so strong that Taboret had to sit down and gasp for breath. There had been no theft of energy since. Surely that meant that Mamovas and the mercenaries were on their way back?

Yes, she felt an answering echo in her mind to the question. Within a few minutes, she heard three motorcycle engines approaching. Brom signaled them to a halt. It wasn’t long until they could see the three riders. Mamovas just looked tired, and Acton vacant, but Maniune’s face was grimmer than usual.

“Bad news, boss,” he said. “We heard from our friend behind us. They’ve got a spy in our group.”

Brom was so surprised the red spark in his eyes went out for a moment. “What? Impossible!”

“Not impossible,” Maniune said shortly. Taboret guessed that Mamovas had been drawing on him, too, and he wasn’t used to it. Weariness had even dulled
his
aggression. “They’ve been getting help from one of us. I don’t know who, but I’ll guarantee the message wasn’t garbled.”

“All right,” Brom said, turning to the apprentices and clapping his hands. “Everyone! Stop what you are doing. I want your attention. Someone among us is sending information to our pursuers. That is not an approved-of activity. The spy will step forward at once. Now!”

Taboret felt Brom’s superior force of will surge through the link, subduing her own. He bore down harder, grinding into her conscious thoughts like a drill. Confess! Taboret clutched her temples, trying to squeeze the headache out of her head. She wished she had something to confess, if only to make the pressure stop. And then she remembered that she had. Could they have found out about her aberration? It was only the one little time, one tiny little mark on one tree that could have been an accident. She tried hard not to think about it, and sought to suppress her feeling of guilt by concentrating on suspecting others. It could be Lurry who had blown the gaff, she thought. Or Gano. Now, there was a suspicious character!

Her efforts seemed to work. She saw Glinn looking at her with a curious expression in his eyes, and attempted to stare coldly back in her turn, but she was worried.

“No one will step forward? No one will spare his friends and comrades the pain of interrogation? Very well. I shall learn the truth of this later on,” Brom said, raising his hand in the signal to move on. “Proceed.”

Chapter 21

After an early breakfast at sunrise, Roan had the others out on the road. No one was sorry to leave the most uncomfortable campground in his memory. Everyone was groggy and fractious, like tired children.

Since the weather remained autumn-cold, Leonora had had to choose between her tent and her clothes. Roan and Misha helped fashion a new pavilion for her out of leaves and vines. It was very hard work to make anything using influence that worked together with something someone else made. The result wasn’t nearly good enough for her, but she hadn’t said a word. For a moment, Roan regretted that the gestalt would have to be destroyed when they caught up with Brom, because being able to combine strengths was a terrific idea.

It had been a hard night, full of random noises and creatures that, although strange in appearance, were ordinary Dreamish beasts, such as tangle-bats that always got tied up in one’s hair, and young Monsters-In-The-Closet, who sought to make nests in the party’s backpacks and panniers. Sleep had not come easily, despite their long day’s ride, and when it did, it was full of broken dreams and nightmares. Then, they’d had to get up in the middle of the night to move camp from the top of the hill they had chosen, when it turned out to be an anthill, and nocturnal insects at that.

They still saw no reliable signs of Brom’s trail. After twilight, Bergold the owl had flown several times over the general area, looking for Brom’s group. The desert and savannah were crisscrossed with tire marks, but no concentrated pattern to suggest the Alarm Clock had ever come that way.

In the tentative light of morning, the party galloped down the road hoping to run into another sign of artificial interference, a distortion or a nuisance. Roan hated that feeling of constant anticipation, as if someone was going to jump out from behind a tree at any moment and shout “boo!”

“There may be a problem ahead,” Bergold said, poking his head out of a cocoon of map sheets. He was human again, after a good night’s sleep, although he still had big round eyes and downy hair. “About three miles from here is a crossroads.”

Roan noted three other routes intersecting their path. One turned west, but the other two, north and east by northeast, were possibilities. “And then again, we might find more indicators.”

“Certainly we may,” Bergold said, with an encouraging nod.

Automatically, he handed the map up the line until it came to Colenna, who folded it neatly, and stowed it in her handbag.

The older woman’s mudcloth dress looked slightly different that day, as indeed did she. Her skin was darker, and her hair was piled high on her head. The effect was very fashionable. She was a remarkably good traveler, and Roan could tell that Leonora was learning a lot by observing her. When they reached the next town, he would have to make certain Leonora communicated with her family and let the king know where she was. It was odd that no message had caught up with them yet. He knew Felan had sent several communiqués back to Mnemosyne.

“Look, there’s a man sitting at a desk,” Leonora said, as the crossroads came into view.

“Hold!” Spar said, reining in before the man, who was dressed in a dinner jacket and black bow tie. He held a neat sheaf of paper in his hand. “Sir! Have you seen a large group of people pass through here? They would have been riding motorcycles. You know, bicycles with engines?” Spar mimed revving handlebars. “Which way did they go?”

The man looked up at them politely. “Good afternoon,” he said. “In our directions today, north, that way, is the main road to the city of Reverie. South, in the opposite direction, leads to the towns of Hark and Lark, and eventually to the main road leading to the capital city of Mnemosyne. Northeast, a scenic road to the Dark Mysteries. West is the main road to the city of Barbandion, passing through numerous small towns. Updates as construction or Sleeper’s whim occurs. Thank you for listening.”

“Listen!” Spar shouted, swinging down from his horse and putting his face very close to the man’s. “Did a large group of people ride through here with a covered litter? Which way should we go? Did they head for the Dark Mysteries?”

The man looked at them blankly. “Good afternoon,” he began, shuffling his papers. “Your directions for today. To the north . . .”

“He’s only a signpost,” Roan said, disappointed.

“Of all the useless imbeciles . . .” Spar growled.

“He’s not an imbecile,” Bergold said. “He isn’t even a person. He’s a noninteractive, specific information source. It simply means we have to decide for ourselves where to go. Which way did they turn, do you think? Towards Barbandion?”

“Doesn’t feel like it, sir,” Lum said, squinting at the western turning. “I think it’s this way.” He looked at the signpost, who regarded him with a friendly expression but offered no more information. Spar pointed up the road.

“Look, sir, we want to know—”

“Good afternoon, said the signpost amiably. “To the north . . .”

“Never mind!” Spar shouted. “I heard you the first time!”

“No need to yell, dear,” Colenna said.

“I can’t help it. I feel as if I’m sleepwalking.”

“I think everyone’s is still groggy from dinner last night,” Misha said, yawning widely. “Let’s stop and have some lunch.”

“You’re always hungry, aren’t you,” Colenna said, fondly. “You’re still a growing boy.”

“Just taller,” Misha said, patting the top of his head.

“Lunch is a good idea,” Roan said. “I’m hungry, too. Felan, you’ve got our supplies.”

They walked the horses to the northeast side of the crossroads where lush grass grew. As soon as Roan took out Cruiser’s bit, the horse pulled up mouthfuls of fodder, and tossed his head eagerly. He welcomed the break. Roan found he was walking with a side-to-side roll as if he was still in the saddle. It was warmer here than it had been farther south, a relief to his aching muscles.

“I’ve got something special for lunch,” Felan said, showing the first signs of animation Roan had ever seen in him. He flipped out a cloth with a flourish and set it on the ground full of dishes, napkins, and flower vases. “You’re going to love it.”

The others all gathered around the picnic cloth. Bergold spread a napkin over his tidy shirt front and tucked the tip into his collar.

“Here we are! It’s lamb stew.” Felan produced the steaming dish proudly from a basket. “My mother’s very best recipe. It took a while to turn the herbs into the ones she used, but there you are. Enjoy it!” Felan set down the casserole and lifted the lid. The steam that issued from the food was fragrant, but heavy.

“Lamb for lunch, too?” Bergold asked, surprised. “We had lamb chops last night. Surely you know from the Books of Concordance that mutton is a soporific. It makes you drowsy. We need our senses sharp, not dull, lad. You should have bought chicken. A good bit of rooster wakes you up nicely.”

“Mutton was reasonable in Hark, and chicken was outrageous,” Felan said grumpily, setting down the pot lid with a clatter. “If you don’t like it, change it. Surely you can countenance altering your food,” he said to Colenna, who opened her mouth and shut it, refusing to allow him to bait her into another argument. But this time Spar leaned in between them.

“Listen to me, you pup,” he said, shaking a finger under Felan’s nose. “I may only be an old soldier, but it seems you’re pressing your luck to the point where not even a Divine Intervention will save you. You don’t have a nice bed you can settle down on for a nap, so mind your tongue.”

“What else did you buy?” Misha asked, politely. “Perhaps we can save the stew for later tonight when we are ready to sleep.”

With ill grace, Felan offered his marketing basket. All the food he had bought was as boring as the mutton. There was a large container of egg salad, unornamented loaves of bread, mild cheese, and a tub of boiled celery salad.

“You could make a passable quiche out of all this,” Colenna said. “It’ll take some doing.”

“Using up the energy this food is supposed to give us,” Spar grumbled.

“Well, I got bargains,” Felan said, defensively.

“Stupid,” Spar said, throwing up his hands. “You don’t know anything about traveling. Next time, we’ll take our chances and make our own bargains.”

Felan was insulted. “You ought to appreciate good cooking, instead of criticizing it. I went to a lot of trouble over this stew.”

“All right,” Roan said, holding up his hands. “Please don’t argue. It isn’t that bad.”

“I don’t want to fall asleep on the road,” the captain of the guard said. “Have to be vigilant! We want something else.”

They decided to use Colenna’s idea, and make quiche. Roan was elected to try. He tasted the cheese, the bread, and the egg salad. After one taste he put the celery aside. He combined the rest as best he could. Roan had to admit that the resulting pie was not very appetizing, and it took a surprising effort to keep it from turning back into its component parts. The others looked a little disappointed. If they hadn’t been so hungry, they might have turned it down and ridden on until they found another source of food. There was just enough to go around, without seconds. Lum and Hutchings tried not to look as if they were still hungry, but they scraped their plates clean of every crumb.

“Well, that was nice,” Misha said, politely. “Did anyone else buy anything in Hark?”

“Hmmph!” Felan snorted.

“That won’t be necessary,” Roan assured the continuitor. “We will cope with what we have.”

He picked up the casserole of mutton stew, and tasted it. It was very lamby, and exaggerated the tiredness he felt. He exercised his influence to transform the dish into a handsome chicken pot pie large enough to feed all of them, although not generously. He took another taste. It was now chickeny, perking him up nicely. He held out the dish to the others.

“It won’t be perfect, but it’s nourishing food.”

Felan looked insulted and turned away.

“Smells delicious,” Bergold said. “I think I sense one of
your
mother’s recipes.”

“Freak,” Felan muttered sourly under his breath.

“And there’s bread,” Colenna said. “That looks very good, Felan.” The younger man wasn’t appeased, and refused to face them.

“Felan, why don’t you do that for yourself, too,” Bergold said, “and have a nice sit down with the rest of us?” He patted the cloth beside him. The young historian ignored him.

“Your Highness, I have some very nice grapes I picked off the vines we passed earlier,” Misha said, producing them from his knapsack. “May I offer you some?”

“Why, thank you,” Leonora said. She started to reach for them, and Misha hesitated, to make sure the fruit was clean and perfect in appearance. Roan hid a smile. Leonora wanted to interact just a little more closely with her traveling companions, but they continued to treat her with infinite dignity and respect. She had already charmed them, Roan knew. Even Captain Spar, who was unhappy to have to be taking care of royalty in the midst of a dangerous enterprise, had thawed completely to her warmth and kindness. Everyone but Felan, whose behavior teetered just on the edge of cheekiness with her, as it did with everyone. He sat with his back to the rest of them. He’d accepted his portion of chicken pot pie, and turned it laboriously back into stew, and ate moodily, staring down at his plate.