The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(96)

As if summoned by the thought, shapes began to coalesce out of the darkness, blacker than night, never showing themselves but lurking on the edge of vision. Following him, daring him to look back. Devourers. He swallowed and walked faster. Ignore them, and they'll go away, Olivia had told him. Nightmares can't hurt you. But it never felt like that when you were here, in their midst. He could hear their slavering breath, the scrape of claws as they scuttled up around the standing stones. Don't run, they can run faster. His feet wouldn't listen. In moments he was racing across the moor towards the nearest group of lights, breath rasping in his throat.

Flying, that was the way to escape them, but he couldn't remember how. Last time it had just happened: one moment running, the next soaring above the midnight plains. But his feet were as heavy as if his boots were full of water, and still the devourers followed.

On and on he staggered, dodging between the glowing domes that sprang from the grass like puffballs, each the gateway into the dreaming mind of one of Venice's citizens. Somewhere amongst these golden embers would be the white light he remembered from his first encounter with Kiiren, bright as new steel and reassuring as a blade in his hand. And on the other side of the city an answering violet glow, burning with the power of an ancient guiser's soul. Olivia. He wanted to run to her, find out if she had Sandy, but was afraid of the answer. Perhaps that was why the devourers were here. They smelled his fear.

The nightmare creatures were close behind him now, their rank breath hot on his back. One ran straight into a dream-sphere, which shattered as the dreamer awoke. A moment later the devourer leapt out of the dissolving remnants and resumed the chase, a faint scream echoing in its wake.

There was no sign of any white dome. Had Kiiren taken to wearing a spirit-guard himself, out of fear of guisers? Was he even in Venice at all?

Dream-spheres were exploding all around him now, their fractured light momentarily outlining images of the Venetians' worst fears: drowning, secret murder, humiliation. He slipped on the dry grass, fell on his hands and knees with his face mere inches from an intact sphere, his own reflection staring back at him from the glowing surface. Then he saw it, a violet-white corona like the midday sun, cresting a low rise in the distance. He got to his feet again and ran towards it.

As he drew near he skidded to a halt. The lights were blended together, swirling around one another in a way that reminded him all too much of his first night with Olivia. Kiiren and Erishen, joined in a blissful communion that transcended flesh. He backed away. He had his answer.

Turning back towards his sanctuary he felt rather than saw the devourers slip around him, towards the lovers.

"No!"

He backed carefully towards the pale dome and with an effort of will envisaged a blade in his hand, obsidian black as a rent in the dreamscape. The creatures hissed in frustration and he gripped the hilt more tightly, although his incorporeal arm ached in sympathy with his flesh. He stood guard for so long that he began to fear he would never leave the night realm, but at last the light behind him faded and was gone. The blade dissolved with it, and he began the long walk back. There was much to do tomorrow, and he feared he would have too little strength for it.

? ? ? ?
Mal woke the next morning gritty-eyed and so stiff he could not move. Coby had gone, so he had no choice but to lie there with growling stomach and aching head, listening to the household stirring: Jameson's slow footsteps on the stair, Raleigh calling out for more hot water, and somewhere someone whistling a merry dance tune. Another fine spring day in the Serene Republic. Now he appreciated how that serenity was bought with a brutally efficient government.

The door opened and Coby came in. Her face fell when she saw him lying there, and she hurried over to help him up.

"Jameson is putting breakfast out," she said, retrieving his boots. "He's such a patient old thing, fussing over us like a mother hen."

She knelt at his feet and gently lifted one of his calves.

"Guilt," Mal replied with a bitter laugh.

"What?"

"Someone betrayed me to the sbirri. He's the only one who knew where I was going last night."

She looked up.

"I thought he looked guilty when I first arrived, but I never expected…"

"Could be worse. At least he wasn't the one who denounced me. Still, I don't want anyone speaking of our plans in front of him."

"I'll tell Master Parrish. And Master Faulkner, if you like."

She helped him to his feet. He still felt weak as water, but it was no worse than a bad night on campaign, or so he told himself. Breakfast and a cup or three of wine would make all better.

They went down to the dining parlour, where Jameson was setting out bread and cold meats. The old man's hands trembled more than ever, and he would not look Mal in the eye. As soon as he had finished laying the table he fled the room instead of waiting to ask if they had any further need of him.

Coby poured wine for them both, and Mal forced himself to lift the cup, though his hand shook almost as much as Jameson's. A few moments later Ned and Gabriel joined them, and Coby passed on Mal's warning.

"Well?" Ned asked, helping himself to several slices of ham. "What do we do now?"

"We still have find Sandy," Coby said. She took the platter from him and speared a slice for herself, then loaded Mal's plate.

Mal cleared his throat.