"Ladies and gentlemen," the conductor's mellow voice rang out over the loudspeakers in the debarkation lounge where most of the passengers were waiting the following afternoon, "I am very sorry, but the Unfriendly Islands will not permit us to dock. We will have to move on to our next point of interest, another several hours' sailing. I promise you that stop will be worth your while. In the meantime, please avail yourselves of the ship's amenities."
A chorus of groans arose. Morit sprang to his feet. He had received word that the remainder of his comrades-in-grudge had massed upon the Unfriendly Islands. They were ready for an all-out assault upon the Visitors that they guaranteed would be successful.
"What do you mean, we can't land?" he asked. "I demand you put us ashore immediately!"
The conductor spread his hands helplessly. "I'm very sorry, sir, but you can see for yourself."
Morit looked out the nearest porthole at the islet slowly dropping away behind them. Chains were stretched across the harbor entrance, and catapults with fireballs burning in their iron baskets stood ready should anyone attempt to dock. That was intolerable. He could not wait to get away from the Visitors. Their ongoing mournfulness was beginning to annoy him. That the ubiquitous cruise staff saw it as their mission to continue to enforce jollity among the passengers just made their presence all the more annoying. He longed for the day when they and the Visitors were all gone, not just one of them, and he could return to his everyday existence. True, misery continued to follow him wherever he went. Even though he had come out of the water around the Sunset Isle almost dry, his closet and suitcase were filled with seawater. His supposedly permanent-press white duck trousers resembled elephant skin, and his deck shoes came out squelching with every step. He continued to suffer so some undeserving wretch in the Waking World wouldn't have to! Soon, he would be able to hug the secret satisfaction of having struck that vital blow for himself and the other helpless victims in the Dreamland.
He stormed to the telegraphy desk and scrawled a wire to his compatriots that the next opportunity must not be missed. The desk clerk read the message and nodded resignation before reaching for her keyboard. She was one of them. She would spread the word. Morit had already counted dozens of conspirators among the crew and passenger complement. The rest of the Visitors could not be allowed to leave the ship until it was well inside the borders of Elysia.
Morit turned to his wife. She was standing by, evincing mild curiosity, though not enough to ask him what he'd written.
"Since we're stuck here, let's go get lunch."
"Whatever you say, dear," Blanda said. "Everyone's been so nice, I don't mind not going ashore on something called the Unfriendly Islands. Don't you feel the same way?"
"Bah!" Morit exploded. Her good humor in the face of his delayed plans annoyed him so much that he wasn't paying attention when he swung around the corner and ran directly into Persemid Smith. Everything they were carrying went flying.
"Oh!" the redheaded Visitor exclaimed, helping Blanda gather up her knitting bag and purse. "I'm sorry. I was so deep in my own thoughts I didn't look where I was going. Did I hurt you?"
"No," Morit said ungraciously, retrieving his straw skimmer. The Visitor looked up in surprise at his uncompromising tone. She met his eyes briefly, and retreated, her face flushing. Without a glance back, he stalked on toward the restaurant, leaving Blanda behind him to make her foolish apologies.
* * *
Persemid stood gawking after the Nightshades. It looked as though they had been arguing when they came around the corner and ran into her. She wasn't surprised Morit hadn't apologized. He was a contentious type of man. Blanda behaved like a doormat, but Persemid guessed from Morit's expression of apoplectic fury that Blanda was holding her own in the discussion. She had a mild voice that ought to have been soothing, but it always touched off something in her nerves, giving her a measure of sympathy for Morit.
But something different had happened this time. When her eyes met his, she felt as though the deck lurched underneath her feet. In that moment, she saw inside her head momentary flashes of dozens of times in her life she had been frustrated and disappointed, usually when someone else had stepped over her invisible barrier and violated her personal space. They had all been private moments that no one else knew about, and somehow they had been inside his head. She had seen them. How? What could it possibly mean? Did she know Morit in the real world?
Persemid felt the cold of a ball of ice rolling down her spine as she came to an inescapable and harrowing conclusion. She ran to find Chuck.
He was on the top deck, perched on a padded stool at the bar. Since they had failed to save Pipistrella, he had been spending more and more time up there, telling his troubles to the bartender. At that moment he was watching the lanky, dark-skinned man mix a drink. The 'tender pulled down bits of several things from containers on a shelf behind the bar: pieces of fluff, a dash of battery acid right from a six-cell lead-acid battery, a chunk of ball-peen hammer, a section ripped from the picture of a sunrise on a calendar pinned to the wall, two inches of rainbow, and a cherry. Throwing these things into a blender, the smiling man flicked the switch. Chuck held up a finger to forestall Persemid's outburst as the whining roar drowned out all other sound. The bartender poured out the drink. It was mostly orange with a swirl of prismatic light running through it. Chuck took a sip and his back straightened up. He gasped out, "That packs one heck of a kick."
"It's de hamma," the bartender said proudly. "My own recipe."
"Outstanding," Chuck said. "Thanks!" The bartender beamed with pride.
Persemid couldn't wait a moment more. She grabbed Chuck's arm and pulled him away from the counter. Over by the band Kenner was dancing with his latest girlfriend, and Mr. Bolster and Mrs. Flannel sat on deck chairs near the rail chatting, with Spot, a fox terrier, racing back and forth between them. Persemid didn't want any of them to overhear her.
"I have to talk to you," she whispered, urgently. "I know we haven't been getting along too well, but you're the only one around here who talks like a real person. I just ran into Morit. I think I'm the one who's dreaming him!"
"That hostile so-and-so?" Chuck asked, sipping his drink. "No, I can't see it. Besides, it would be too much of a coincidence that he's right here with us. There are millions of people in the Dreamland."
"You don't know me very well," Persemid said, embarrassed and angry that she had to talk about issues so private. "When I looked at him, I saw things in his eyes."
"What things?" Chuck asked, curiously.
"Things that have happened to me," Persemid said, reddening. "I . . . well, there's been times when I've been treated unfairly. I was passed over for a promotion I should have gotten. In his eyes I saw the way I was feeling then, sort of brought out in symbols, and . . . what I wanted to do to the jerk who gave my job to someone else who wasn't qualified to do it. Other memories, too. You don't believe me," she said, tossing her head pugnaciously.
"I do believe you." Chuck sipped the drink thoughtfully. "Whew! I never thought any of us would meet any of our . . . what should we call them? Creations? Did you talk to him?"
"No!" Persemid said, with a horrified expression. "I don't know if he guessed, but if he's me, he'd be smart enough. He might know. I feel awful. That's me, here in the Dreamland. That awful, angry man!"
"He's not all of you," Chuck said. "He's just one facet of your personality. Something . . . you want to work out."
Persemid frowned, drawing her eyebrows down over the bridge of her nose to glare at him—but he was right. She'd read enough books on dream interpretation to understand that.
"But I'm not dreaming right now," she pointed out. "My body is at home, and I am projecting myself here."
"Your mind is open and receptive," Chuck said. "You're probably broadcasting the same wavelengths you would be if you were asleep. And Keir did say that some things take on a reality of their own. He's been doing his own thing at the same time you've been doing yours."
Persemid shuddered at the thought of her insecurities becoming an actual force of nature. She ought to be grateful they manifested themselves as a man instead of a hurricane or a tidal wave.
"What should I do?" she asked.
"Should we do anything?" Chuck asked. "If you did create him, he's trying to accomplish something your subconscious feels is necessary."
"But that's only if he gets to work it out without interference, especially mine. What if he saw the same thing I did? He couldn't live with knowing I exist. He might . . . do something."
"We have to tell Keir."
"He won't confirm whether Morit is . . . is me or not."
"Well, he won't say so directly," Chuck said, uncertainly. "But he'll know if you're right. He knows everything." But even as he said it, Chuck was no longer so certain of Keir's infallibility. He and the others had to rely more and more upon themselves. On the other hand, that was probably part of Keir's agenda. "I'm sure he'll tell you you've got nothing to fear from Morit. Come on, the guy's part of you. He's been almost nice since Pip . . . disappeared. He wouldn't want anything to happen to you. Then he'd disappear, too. Deep down inside, everyone wants to survive."
"That's just it," Persemid said, wrapping her arms around herself in spite of the afternoon heat. "Maybe I don't. I'm afraid of what's deep down inside my psyche."
"We all have dark places in us," Chuck said, trying to sound soothing, even though he harbored similar feelings of unworthiness. "I'm sure Morit is no big problem." But he looked uneasy. Persemid jumped on his uncertainty.
"Look, what if he's involved with those attacks on us?"
"I don't see how," Chuck said, slowly. "To tell you the truth, I'm far more suspicious of Hiramus."
"What? The old man? He's one of us. A Visitor."
"Yeah, but he's turned up everywhere that I was attacked! I look up, and he's the first thing I see, almost every time. I saw him just before that island dunked us."
"Really? But he's had attacks made on him, too."
"He never said so," Chuck said. Persemid stopped to think.
"You're right. He just said we have to be careful."
"Yes. A fat lot of good it did Pipistrella. And he's been following me," Chuck said, with dawning clarity, as he recalled the bearded shadow. It made sense now. "I'm sure it's been him all along."
"Yes, but he's a friend of Bergold. He's a really nice guy. Bergold wouldn't have a friend who was a murderer."
"But what's he hiding?" Chuck asked. "He hardly ever talks to any of us. And that carpetbag of his—if anyone touches it, even by accident, he growls like a wolverine. He's got the influence to kill us all if he wanted to."
"Forget Hiramus," Persemid said, firmly. "We have to find Keir, and hope Morit didn't see what I did."
Reluctantly, Chuck left his drink on the bar. Persemid grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the stairs leading belowdecks. A small island appeared ahead off to starboard. Chuck glanced at it. A pretty place, with a strip of white sand beach running around its perimeter and palm trees sprouting up through forests of green ferns. But either the ship was steering a wild course, or the island was deliberately trying to get in its way. Leaving a wake frothing with whitecaps behind it, the island put on a burst of speed and nipped under the bows of the cruise ship.
Klaxons began blaring. The deck juddered underneath their feet. Chuck jumped down the last few steps and helped Persemid down after him. People were racing in every direction like ants running from a stirred nest. He and she started running for the safety of their cabins. Head down, Chuck didn't see the body coming out of a side corridor at the same time he passed it. He caught a glimpse of Hiramus's bearded face as the three of them collided. Hiramus's precious carpetbag flew out of his hand, hit the ceiling, and opened, showering a collection of beards, wigs, false eyebrows, pots of makeup, costumes and fans everywhere. The older man hastily knelt to start gathering them up.
"I knew it," Chuck exclaimed, furiously. "I told you this guy isn't what he seemed. This stupid bag is full of false faces!" Chuck hoisted Hiramus to his feet. His current body was ideal for manhandling another, being tall, big-boned and muscular. He shoved the bearded man into a corner. "Are you responsible for this chaos? Are you trying to kill us?"
"No, quite the opposite," Hiramus said, speaking with amazing calmness for someone hanging by his neck. "I'm trying to find out who is trying to do it. I'm the King's Investigator. My name is Roan Faireven. Do you think you might let me down now?"
Chuck let his arms drop to his sides as the tall man stood up and brushed himself off.
"You're Roan? We've been hearing about you since we got here. But you're never supposed to change. You've looked different every day since we've been on this trip."
"It is true," the tall man said, solemnly. "I never do change. This is all a disguise." He took hold of a corner of his pointed, graying beard and peeled it off. Chuck gazed at it in surprise. Rather than being stuck to a backing like the false beards he was used to seeing, this one consisted of individual hairs. The grizzled eyebrows followed, revealing straight, black brows that arched up and down as though relieved to be free. Next came most of the flesh from the slightly bulbous nose. What emerged from behind the various appliances was a man who resembled Sean Draper when he had first arrived in the Dreamland: long, narrow face, gray-blue eyes, black hair, straight brows, straight nose, and smile lines bracketing his lips. A handsome guy, Chuck admitted to himself without jealousy, and at least fifteen years younger than he thought. "It's been nice to pretend to be different, at least for a little while, although I admit that I'm happy to dispense with disguises and enjoy wearing my own face, such as it is."
"You're really pretty good looking," Persemid said. "What's the problem?"
Roan sighed. "At best, changelessness is an inconvenience. My lack of adaptation prevents me from escaping from some kinds of peril, when others would simply adapt."
Persemid regarded him pityingly, then looked ashamed of herself. Her embarrassment turned to defiance. "That doesn't explain why you've been pretending to be one of us."
"It was necessary," Roan said. "I'm on board because an attempt to disrupt these tours has happened before. There have been several attacks upon parties of travelers from the Waking World. His Majesty doesn't think it can be accidental. Neither do I. I joined your group to uncover the conspiracy. I like to think I've been of some help so far."
"Are you a guide, too?" Persemid asked.
"Great Night, no," Roan said with a smile. "Sometimes I barely know where I am going myself. It's been a good experience for me to travel with Keir. Indeed, it's been a rare privilege."
Chuck frowned. "How did you get to be part of the group, then? You aren't from the Waking World, but you have a spirit guide and everything."
"Do you think we don't require as much guidance as you?" Roan asked, with a twinkle in his eye. "We in the Dreamland are based upon your psyches, the fruit of your concerns. I thought Keir read me very well in choosing his shape. His choice of a dolphin was particularly apt. It seems to be a fish out of water, but in the end you discover," Roan said, with a wave like a conjurer, "that he's not a fish at all. A dolphin swimming through the air, of course."
"I've had so many questions I've wanted to ask since I heard about you," Chuck said, unable to believe he was in the presence of a local legend. He looked the man up and down. Roan seemed so . . . normal. "How's it feel to be both the dreamer and the dreamed?"
Roan shook his head. "The Sleeper whom I resemble is the creator of the First Province, Celestia. He only dreams me. Apart from having been born there, I have no direct contact with him. My luck is no better and no worse than anyone else's in the Dreamland. If I had, I might have an insight to who is behind these attacks."
"What about this Bergold guy?" Chuck asked, going over the others that had attached themselves to the Visitor party. "Everyone likes him—I like him—but that notebook of his is always out. He has a reason for everything that happens to us, good or bad. Is he the saboteur?"
"No," Roan assured him. "I promise you that. He's my best friend. Just as I told you on the first day, Bergold is a well-respected Historian at court. He's on a mission for the Ministry. He is seeking explanation for certain trends and persistent images. I know he is grateful for all the clarification about the Waking World that you offer. You're performing a great service."
"He knows you're you?"
"Oh, yes," Roan said. "I needed his help. If for no other reason, with details of the way Visitors behave."
Persemid eyed him suspiciously. "And is there really a princess?"
"There is," Roan said, his face lighting up, and Chuck thought that he could smell jasmine in the air. "You saw her at the Big Hat."
"But she didn't know you."
"It was due to my disguise."
"It's not much of a disguise," Persemid said. "A beard or different color hair wouldn't fool anyone for long where we come from."
"Ah," Roan said, sadly, "but you don't understand the psychology of having the same face all the time in a country where everybody is different from minute to minute. People are accustomed to seeing me as I always am. Even a slight change will affect their perception to a level of cognitive dissonance."
"That's true," Chuck said. "They are used to seeing people changing. What they're not used to is people not changing."
"Doesn't your fiancée know where you are?" Persemid asked.
"She knows I am traveling, but not with whom. If I called attention to the group, it wouldn't matter if I could change. My use as an undercover agent would be over."
"But it could be gone now," she said. "It could be us."
"No," Roan said, with a smile. "It couldn't. I have been observing you for several days now. In any case this situation has been going on since before you came here. There is a movement from within the Dreamland to assault these newly incoming groups from the Waking World. Why, precisely, we do not know, but it must stop before there is a real disaster."
"But this is a routine tour," Chuck said, scratching his head with a thick finger. "We're not hurting anyone, or interfering with anything. We're just looking around."
"I know," Roan said, a frown creasing his handsome face. "That is what has been worrying me. You provide no threat that we can discern, yet the attacks continue to grow more violent. We have captured hundreds of conspirators, but they refuse to name the organizer, or the spy who is providing them with information about your current whereabouts. As a result, I have had to keep an eye on all of you, to ensure your safety as best I can."
"It didn't do a lot to help poor Pip," Chuck said, flatly.
Roan bowed his head. "I am very sorry for the loss of Mistress Pipistrella. It would seem the conspiracy has achieved the proportions of an army."
"Sean's the one you should feel sorry for," Persemid said. "She really meant a lot to him. I thought you were responsible."
"We both did," Persemid added.
"I know," Roan said. "I had to risk alienating you to avoid revealing myself."
"And it was your voice I heard before the train went off the cliff!" Chuck was suddenly full of resentment. "You could have saved me from being beaten up in the Meditation Gardens."
Roan let a little smile touch his lips.
"I didn't need to. You managed the situation very handily. An elegant solution. Really Dreamish."
"Thanks, I think," Chuck said, deflated. "It was nothing I did on purpose."
"Where were you going in such a hurry?" Roan asked. "You looked as though you were being chased by nightmares."
Persemid paused, looking uncomfortable. Chuck knew she didn't want to talk about her personal problems, but letting Hiramus—or rather, Roan—in on the whole truth was their best protection.
"I'm pretty sure I'm dreaming Morit," she said. "I don't think I'd ever looked him straight in the eyes before. It happened by accident. When I did I saw things only I know. You don't have to hear about them."
"No," Roan said thoughtfully. "I am glad of the information, though. Thank you for telling me. Morit is one of your creations, eh? The situation is unique, as far as I know. Bergold would probably have statistics on how often it's happened throughout history, but if you'll take my advice, you'll avoid making direct eye contact again. If Morit is a part of the conspiracy and discovers you are his direct creator, you will be in more danger than the others."
"Should we suspect him?" Chuck asked. "He's been really nice to us since Pip . . ." He couldn't finish the sentence. Roan understood.
"No more than anyone else," Roan said. "Alas, this transport is full of people who could be involved. I have been able to eliminate few of them."
"Well," Persemid said, letting out a gust of breath. The ship had stopped juddering, and was smoothly under way again. "You'd better put your makeup on again. People will be coming through here any moment."
Roan bowed to her. "You are quite correct. Thank you." He chose a forked, black beard from the collection on the floor and fastened it on.
"All right, Inspector, we're in this," Chuck said, watching him attach it. The hairs clung to Roan's chin without glue. "What do you need us to do?"
"Nothing active," Roan said, pressing on his mustache. "Keep your eyes open, and let me know your impressions, however unlikely they seem. If you are observant you may pick up information I can make use of. Make certain we are not observed before you approach me. I will be grateful for any help you can give."
He chose a monocle from the collection on the floor and screwed it into his left eye. When it was in place, he was Hiramus again, stiffly formal and much older. Chuck was impressed. For someone who couldn't change faces he sure could disappear into the simplest disguise. "The most difficult task you have ahead is to continue to act as though you believe I am your curt acquaintance, Master Hiramus. Can you do that? If our quarry realizes who I am, they will withdraw and make no further attempts. This time. We must catch him before something else terrible happens." Chuck and Persemid looked at one another.
"You want us to act as decoys," Persemid said.
"If you like to describe it that way," Roan said, with his wry smile.
"I don't like," Persemid said, frankly. "But I can cooperate for the greater good." Chuck's astonishment must have showed on his face. Persemid glared at him. "Don't look at me that way! I mean it."
"Well, I do, too," he said. "I just never heard anyone say anything like that before." Persemid made a face at him.
"Get used to it, if you're going to hang around with me."
* * *
Persemid and Chuck found Keir seated on a lounge chair on the afterdeck with a reflector held under his chin to catch the sun. The guide knew instantly that it wasn't Chuck's problems he was needed to help straighten out, because he became the silver-gray wolf and trotted over to lean against Persemid's legs.
She sat down on the deck chair with an arm around his furry neck and explained what she had seen. The wolf listened, his soulful eyes fixed on her face. "So, I'm aware of Morit, now," Persemid finished. "I don't think I can ignore him. Is he really me?"
Chuck stood uneasily with his back against the bulkhead. Since he was there with Persemid's permission, he understood the wolf's unspoken words.
"Not you alone. He's one of the many collective constructs you put into this world," the crooning and whimpering said. "Morit is mostly yours. He espouses and mirrors your unhappiness. Your creative power reaches into numerous people, places and things in the Dreamland, all solving different parts of the problems you dream of. He's the representation of your anxieties, and those are very personal. I'm sure he means you no harm. Be friendly to him."
"I'm not going near him," Persemid said, firmly. "I know if our positions were reversed I'd hate him. I already know I don't like him. Does he hate me?"
The wolf's mental voice was gentle. "Not you alone," it repeated. "He has a grudge against all things more powerful than he."
Persemid frowned. "I hate having something like that at my back. I wish I could banish him, or make him disappear, or something."
"You can't do that," the wolf said. "Because you are not him, you couldn't live with yourself if you did."
Persemid looked up at Chuck ruefully. "He's got my number."
"Just look out," Chuck said. "Just be careful. I'll help watch your back."
"We'd better all be careful," Persemid said. Keir-the-wolf gave her a deep, knowing look, and curled up to sleep on his lounge. "Look at that. The audience is over."
| Title: | The Grand Tour |
| Author: | Jody Lynn Nye |
| ISBN: | 0-671-57883-9 |
| Copyright: | © 2000 by Jody Lynn Nye |
| Publisher: | Baen Books |