sometimes think the exact opposite of what is true and being proved to them. And then, in the dream, the young man lost his temper and surged up, took hold of a rifle in the hands of the nearest guard, the one standing slack-jawed and sated with cruelty. He tore the rifle away from the man, swung it, clubbing and clubbing, till other guards hauled him off. The guard had a broken skull, and the young thief, only weeks away from freedom, was then looking at years, at a second sentence.
Second Sentence was very effective, less a nightmare than a dream with a nasty, sobering turn at its end. But now that he was catching its other aspect, the dream seemed a lot less useful and positive to Plasir. The old man of Sunken had next to no experience of pity, yet how desperately he looked around him for it. He looked into all the faces. What he saw was what he already knew about the world—that it didn’t make any difference if you kept your temper or stuck to your good resolve, for there was malice, always close, and always ready to lend its icy hand.
Second Sentence showed a way out of trouble—though the young man didn’t take it. Sunken showed that it didn’t matter what you did, because accidents happened, and accidents were opportunities for evil. Second Sentence was a warningdream. Sunken was a nightmare. Taken together, they were horribly incompatible, and Plasir couldn’t help but wonder what a Novelist like Grace Tiebold would make of the dream—for it was
one
dream, and Grace Tiebold would catch it intact, the old man and the young together. She’d catch both the terror and despair of one, and the rage and crushed hope of the other.
Maze Plasir closed his eyes. He would go back to sleep. He would give the troublemaker in the next room another dose. And he’d try to take a better look at the other thing about the dream that troubled him.
Plasir had
been
the thief, on and off, for years. He’d seen everything through his eyes. The thief knew his own past, of course, but he wasn’t really thinking about it on that morning. For instance, Plasir had known from Second Sentence that the thief played the violin, but only learned from Sunken that he had stolen his own instrument from a pawnshop. Plasir knew about the thief only what he’d managed to gather from the young man’s thoughts on that afternoon at the bridge. Then, when he first caught Sunken, the old Lifer had shown Plasir the
face
of the person through whose eyes he’d formerly seen everything.
There was something about that face. Something familiar. The thief looked healthy and happy, and wary and furtive—none of this strange in a criminal on light duty and near the end of his time. But when the stone fell into the river, and the guards turned their spite into sport, and the two convicts were driven to the river’s edge, and the old Lifer gazed into the young thief’s face and saw fear and pity—
“I know that person,”
Plasir thought. “I’ve seen that sensitive, stubborn mouth before. Not in a dream.” He pictured the mouth and the eyes. Eyes full of sadness and shame and resignation and, behind all that, power: pitiless, cold power.
3
HORLEY TOLD GRACE THAT HE’D PROMISED THE GRAND PATRIARCH HIS HELP WITH “ THE CAUSE.”
“What cause is this?” Grace asked. “Tziga’s? Laura’s? The cause of stirring up trouble between dreamhunters and their public?”
“The Grand Patriarch offers refuge to renegade dreamhunters. He thinks the Body is up to no good. Tziga’s ideas and Laura’s actions have nothing to do with him. You can’t blame him.”
Grace glared at her husband. “Am I allowed to blame anyone? Or is it best for me to just bite my lip?”
“Better than biting me, dear. It’s not my fault that Laura and Tziga are out of reach.”
“No, but it is the fault of Erasmus Tiebold.”
Chorley gave a sigh of put-upon patience, kissed his wife on top of her head, and went out.
The Grand Patriarch thanked Chorley
Second Sentence was very effective, less a nightmare than a dream with a nasty, sobering turn at its end. But now that he was catching its other aspect, the dream seemed a lot less useful and positive to Plasir. The old man of Sunken had next to no experience of pity, yet how desperately he looked around him for it. He looked into all the faces. What he saw was what he already knew about the world—that it didn’t make any difference if you kept your temper or stuck to your good resolve, for there was malice, always close, and always ready to lend its icy hand.
Second Sentence showed a way out of trouble—though the young man didn’t take it. Sunken showed that it didn’t matter what you did, because accidents happened, and accidents were opportunities for evil. Second Sentence was a warningdream. Sunken was a nightmare. Taken together, they were horribly incompatible, and Plasir couldn’t help but wonder what a Novelist like Grace Tiebold would make of the dream—for it was
one
dream, and Grace Tiebold would catch it intact, the old man and the young together. She’d catch both the terror and despair of one, and the rage and crushed hope of the other.
Maze Plasir closed his eyes. He would go back to sleep. He would give the troublemaker in the next room another dose. And he’d try to take a better look at the other thing about the dream that troubled him.
Plasir had
been
the thief, on and off, for years. He’d seen everything through his eyes. The thief knew his own past, of course, but he wasn’t really thinking about it on that morning. For instance, Plasir had known from Second Sentence that the thief played the violin, but only learned from Sunken that he had stolen his own instrument from a pawnshop. Plasir knew about the thief only what he’d managed to gather from the young man’s thoughts on that afternoon at the bridge. Then, when he first caught Sunken, the old Lifer had shown Plasir the
face
of the person through whose eyes he’d formerly seen everything.
There was something about that face. Something familiar. The thief looked healthy and happy, and wary and furtive—none of this strange in a criminal on light duty and near the end of his time. But when the stone fell into the river, and the guards turned their spite into sport, and the two convicts were driven to the river’s edge, and the old Lifer gazed into the young thief’s face and saw fear and pity—
“I know that person,”
Plasir thought. “I’ve seen that sensitive, stubborn mouth before. Not in a dream.” He pictured the mouth and the eyes. Eyes full of sadness and shame and resignation and, behind all that, power: pitiless, cold power.
3
HORLEY TOLD GRACE THAT HE’D PROMISED THE GRAND PATRIARCH HIS HELP WITH “ THE CAUSE.”
“What cause is this?” Grace asked. “Tziga’s? Laura’s? The cause of stirring up trouble between dreamhunters and their public?”
“The Grand Patriarch offers refuge to renegade dreamhunters. He thinks the Body is up to no good. Tziga’s ideas and Laura’s actions have nothing to do with him. You can’t blame him.”
Grace glared at her husband. “Am I allowed to blame anyone? Or is it best for me to just bite my lip?”
“Better than biting me, dear. It’s not my fault that Laura and Tziga are out of reach.”
“No, but it is the fault of Erasmus Tiebold.”
Chorley gave a sigh of put-upon patience, kissed his wife on top of her head, and went out.
The Grand Patriarch thanked Chorley
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