Glen Cook - Winter's Dreams

[Anyone who reads "Winter's Dreams" will instantly be aware of its many shortcomings. This is my first assay into short fiction in fifteen years. Some minds are better suited to long, I suppose. Some lack the capacity to leave things out. My last short work appeared in Asimov's, Mid-December 1982 issue. 1985 saw publication of a 240,000 word trilogy prequeling events in that story. "Winter's Dreams," for me is noteworthy for the thousand things left out. It is ever thus. There are always more questions to answer about these people from other dimensions and more events in their lives to chronicle. If they survive.

In effect, "Winter's Dreams" is like an artist's preliminary pencil sketch for one panel in a triptych. A lot of detail and color and polish need to be added before a satisfactorily finished whole appears to my eye.]

The light of three racing moons drenched the smoky city. Silver shadows schooled lazily amongst crowded spires and steeples and minarets, making the gargoyles appear to stir and stretch. Mist crept through the narrow, tortuous alleys and streets, heavy with odors foul and sweet. The air scarcely stirred. Tall black prayer banners rose toward the weary stars, swaying like kelp beneath a gentle sea.

A broad-winged shadow wheeled like a hunting moth, began a circumspect descent that seemed to ignore but never moved out of sight of a certain open window high in the city's tallest tower. The separation dwindled. Then ceased to exist.

An indeterminate form perched on the windowsill, wrapped in its own darkness. The city was silent but a deeper stillness gathered 'till it seemed a clash of cymbals would not dare speak louder than a whisper. The darkness stole inside. A faint, crackling acetylene light tickled the necks of the grey towers facing the window. The gargoyles stirred uneasily.

The room was cramped with gaunt, pallid, hand-wringing men in black, few of whom had any business being there. Functionaries and menials, there was not a fat cell among them. Senior Magician Ymarjon Shredlu thought they resembled nothing so much as a brood of devoutly terrified mantids.

"What's wrong with her?" a reedy voice demanded.

Shredlu glanced at the only fat man present. "I've only just arrived, my lord. But as a preliminary I suggest she be allowed more air."

Lord Everay Sloot shooed retainers. They continued to hold their long, bony hands before them as they retreated, robes flapping like raven's wings. Agitated whispers stirred like the soft rustle of trampled leaves. They sensed trouble.

Lord Everay continued to bluster and throw his weight around. Though not half so imposing a figure himself Shredlu ignored the man. He concentrated on Sloot's daughter.

Everay Ake Winter was a golden child-goddess, a throwback to the Star Walkers, perfectly proportioned, at fifteen summers swiftly approaching the peak of her beauty. The Everays bred stronger by the generation. Already Winter outshone her mother's best.

Master Shredlu hardened the shell round the spark he was amazed to discover still dwelt within him. There was a fierce and alien taint to the air; a smell of something from the Old Times. It troubled him deeply, as though he recognized it down on some near-instinctive level like an almost-forgotten fear-fragrance from early childhood. He rested the tips of the central pair of fingers on his right hand upon Winter's forehead, each and inch above the eye. He shut his own eyes to the gothic splendor surrounding him.

An electric tingle climbed his arm. "Uhm! Tackoo?"

"What?" Everay demanded. "What is it? Is she in danger?" Winter was his beloved and overly indulged daughter, in keeping with tradition, she carried his successor already, conceived within the fortnight, with the Senior and Master Magicians chaperoning the rut to guarantee the quickening of a son. Though he saw it every generation, Shredlu did not enjoy witnessing those couplings. But it was essential to the stability of the domain.

Shredlu paid Lord Everay no mind. The man was fatter, but weak. Shredlu turned Winter's head slightly. In profile she resembled her mother more strongly. He beckoned his apprentice. "Shubam. Razor and soap. Quickly."

"Instantly, master."

"What is it?" Everay demanded. He indulged Shredlu's moods. Shredlu had been around a long time.

"A moment more, my lord." Shredlu stepped to the window. The alien scent was stronger. He stared out at

the grey towers while brushing the sill with the spatulate fingertips of his left hand. The sensitive cells there picked up more of the musk and a strong, ugly taste.

Perhaps the auguries were overly optimistic. Of the thousand futures foreseen for Winter only a scatter in the far estuaries of probability shone brightly.

Apprentice Shubam announced proudly, "Razor, hot water, towels, and shaving lather, master." Shivering, Shredlu turned. His face betrayed nothing. He considered Shubam. The boy was enthusiastic but sloppy - despite knowing what had befallen his predecessor. He had cut no corners with so weighty a witness present, though. The razor was sharp, the towels and water hot, and the lather were of a precisely calculated temperature and consistency. Shubam did well when he concentrated.

Shredlu turned Winter's head farther. "Hold her there, Shubam. Gently!" He daubed lather. Lord Everay continued to fuss but stayed out of the way. Shredlu did not listen. He was old enough to entertain doubts that weight and condition of birth bestowed divinity.

It took just two small strokes of the straight razor to confirm his fears. "Clean her," he told Shubam, dropping the razor into the water. "My lord, she hasn't fallen into a coma at all. A tackoo came in the night,"

"Spare me any witchmaster's obfuscations, Shredlu. Speak only with precision and concision. What might a tackoo be?"

Shredlu maintained his bland exterior. Even an apprentice as raw as Shubam - who had gasped - knew, though no tackoo assault had been reported for generations. Magician's generations.

But the dark reaches of the world still harbored many nightmares from the Old Times. Shredlu summoned one or another himself occasionally.

"Tackoo. One of the Artifact Folk. A vampire of dreams. See the mark on her temple." That was a rusty hourglass an inch tall formerly concealed by Winter's hair. "It took her dreams. Now she is trapped in a sleep where no dreams occur. If she does not dream, she cannot awaken as Everay Ake Winter." Shredlu straightened a strand of golden hair, then thumbed open an eyelid, exposing an empty blue iris. It was not necessary for Sloot to know she could be wakened as something else. "My lord. It's going to be a long siege amongst the books."

Lazy Shubam made a whimpering sound.

In private, Lord Everay Sloot seldom betrayed the impatience and petulance so often demonstrated before an audience. Shredlu suspected the public Sloot of being a pose. Indeed, he suspected Lord Everay wore several personas, onionlike; the real man might never be found by peeling. Shredlu did not let Sloot concern him overly much. One day he would be replaced by the yet unborn Vonce. Sfoot waited quietly while Shredlu consulted his library. Shredlu instructed Shubam who directed a covey of raven men who made haste to comply, lashed on by Lord Everay's unforgiving gaze.

Shredlu sketched a gesture with his right little finger. The light went out of the book before him. It closed itself.

"Magician?"

"This is a matter best not discussed in every pantry and alleyway, my lord."

"As ever, your advice it without flaw, Shredlu. All of you, leave us."

Shredlu nodded at Shubam, who seemed uncertain if the directive extended to himself. Alone with Sloot, Shredlu announced, "My memory betrayed me only in the details, my lord. Tackoo do, indeed, dote on a relish of stolen dreams. They are among the oldest of the Artifact Folk. Literally. They do not die. Neither do they breed. There cannot be more than three left alive in this late age. Our night-visitor will have been the tackoo Syathbir Tolis."