A Dream Within a Dream

Havelock’s Inception in to the Illustrative and Insinuative Order of the Inconscient Brush pt.4

It’s Despil who breaks the silence, turning his head to speak to Sigrid to his right. “Perhaps it is time for our novitiate to experience a demonstration?”

Havelock nods.

“Then let us pass through to the chamber of dreams.” At Sigrid’s direction everyone stands and files through the single door. Havelock finds himself somewhere in the middle, behind Justinian and ahead of Mirandola. Despil and Sigrid are last.

This is not the chamber Havelock passed through when he came through that door. He finds himself in a circular chamber with no windows at all. There are eight chairs ringing a low couch. The lighting is bright but then dims as Zubenelgenubi dons a dark monkish robe that hides his brightness. The other members of the order also put on robes. Gnosos holds out a robe to Havelock.

Who in turn takes the garment and, after exploring the fibres with his subtle touch, assessing the hue, casts it over his head. Given his novitiate status he then waits for instruction from a more experienced member. The robe seems to be made of nondescript cloth. Havelock can’t decide if it’s natural or man-made. The others all take their robes and assume chairs, apparently at random.

It is odd watching Zubenelgenubi and Sigrid shrug in to their robes without hands. It’s not like the robes give them human forms and both his and Sigrid’s robes seem to hover about a foot above the floor. Zubenelgenubi’s brightness is hidden, save for a glow from within his cowl. Sigrid leaves her cowl flung back, her robes billowing, giving no indication of a body within. Her disembodied eyes and mouth ride above her ‘shoulders’ as she turns to Havelock…

“Please, Sir Knight, take the Architect’s couch.”

“Certainly Grand Mistress,” he says as he strides across the floor to the couch. Then with a brief glance at the chairs around the room, gracefully slides on top.

Despil alone remains standing. Havelock senses a surge of power in his vicinity as he calls on something deeply antagonistic to Pattern and of similar calibre. He commences moving his arms, head and legs in a way that reminds Havelock of Hindu dancing but which he suspects is some sort of magical working.

“Just relax and try not to fight this.” Despil’s words are conversational and detached. “I’m creating a working to allow us all to enter in to your dreams. If you try to keep us out of your mind, we can fight our way in but that would rather defeat the point.”

Havelock realises that effectively he has to allow Despil, and eight other lords of Chaos, free access to his thinking machinery. If they intend harm it will be very bad…indeed. Although he could try to fight them off he presumes they are a team trained in using their psyches in combination and lead by a specialist in mind magics. The damage they could cause trying to break in could be very bad indeed.

He recalls the oath he made some few minutes earlier; swearing not to divulge to outsiders anything learnt by any means from within the orders practice. In the belief that his colleagues are so sworn he finds himself glancing towards Justinian, the arbiter. The faceless one has the ultimate poker face and is giving nothing away. Then he relaxes and lets the working happen.

“Are you familiar with the concept of lucid dreaming?” continues Despil, “You should not seek to sleep, merely relax and slip in to a day-dream kind of state and let the working do the rest. Focus on creating the dream.”

Havelock tries to achieve the focus to do this, but finds his mind struggling with the concepts of allowing such free access. He rises slightly from the couch to look less easily at the others in the room. His mind filled with vault doors, barred entrances and heavy locks, all marked with little etchings of Pattern curves.

“Ah, maybe I should apologise, it might not be as easy as all that. Perhaps I should look at your current architects’ work, first?”

Despil pauses in his working. His gaze suggests that he’s not entirely surprised that his subject has chickened out. There’s an awkward pause as Havelock realises that his withdrawal is probably not politic. Then Sigrid’s dry, quiet voice breaks the tension.

“Sir Poliziano, would you kindly relieve the novitiate of his responsibilities as Architect?” Poliziano rises from his chair, his expression is contemptuous. Havelock finds he cannot read anyone else’s expressions at all. Despil’s posture looks uncomfortable so Havelock had better do as he’s told quickly.

Havelock moves from his seated position on the couch towards Poliziano’s vacant spot, circling the opposite way around the couch so as not to confront his replacement. As he does so he considers; if Poliziano was the architect being substituted it may explain some of his attitude, and if I have walked in their constructions before then the more so.

Havelock takes Poliziano’s chair, between Mirandola and Justinian, as Poliziano assumes the couch. Sigrid then motions to Despil to resume his working. Presently Havelock begins to feel a heightened sense of awareness, as Poliziano seems to drift off to sleep.

Mirandola, smiling sweetly and compassionately, produces a picture of Poliziano. It’s a framed icon rather than a playing card but Havelock senses the Trump nature of the image. Across the room, out of the corner of his eye Havelock spies Despil cease his working and slip in to the remaining chair.

Mirandola’s voice is as painfully beautiful as his appearance, unlike Poliziano’s, which, Havelock recalls, was harsh, though perhaps that was the nature of what it had to say at the time.

“Now we may enter the dream of Poliziano. We must do this in a manner both gentle and subtle, insinuating our way in to his psyche. Brashness will invite retaliation by his subconscious.” He places a hand on Havelock’s shoulder. “Let us enter together and you can follow my lead.”

Havelock feels the lightest touch of Mirandola’s hand on his neck and a growing closeness between them. His voice inspires trust and Havelock feels he need not fear Mirandola in this circumstance though, as an Amberite schooled from birth in realpolitik, he realises that he may even now be the victim of a magical working intended to allay his fears. Mirandola, with Havelock attending, turns his attention to the icon of Poliziano. The picture comes alive, as Havelock expects, but does so slowly, seeming to drift in to animation over several minutes.

Poliziano stands in a city with buildings apparently made of adobe, though strange colours play over him. His eyes are shut and he wears a half-smile. “Come brethren!”

Havelock feels Mirandola’s hand tighten on his shoulder. “Do not move your feet, instead lean forward, in to the icon.”

Following his neighbour’s instruction carefully, Havelock musters his poise and leans into the image. He aims to slip gently through the animated aperture into Poliziano’s cityscape. Part of his psyche compares it to slipping in between the sheets of a bed so as not disturb a lover, another compares it to slipping out through the window so as not to disturb her husband.

Havelock leans forward and finds himself moving forward. The transition is much slower than normal but Mirandola evidently feels a need to slow his advance further. Still Havelock feels a definite ‘step’ and his footfall feels like entering a room with an unseen step down – it jars, ever so slightly.

As Havelock’s second foot joins his first, Poliziano’s half smile abruptly turns to a frown, his eyes open as his head snaps towards Havelock. His expression is remarkably like someone suddenly wakened from a daydream by an unwelcome guest.

Mirandola, hand still on Havelock’s shoulder, holds up his other hand and whispers, “Peace, brother!” Poliziano’s eyes close once more and his head again faces forward but the frown remains.

Mirandola turns his angelic gaze back to Havelock and finally drops his guiding hand. “That was fair for a first try, but you will have to cultivate a greater sensitivity when we do this for…real?”

In hushed tones Havelock responds, “Once I have a familiarity with the edge of transition it will be no problem.” He looks around the cityscape for others of the company and, maintaining the low tones, asks “So what now?”

Even as they talk, Havelock sees other members of the order fade in like ghosts. Zubenelgenubi appears first, followed by Sigrid and Despil.

Mirandola keeps smiling beatifically, “We indulge in conversation until everyone has arrived, it may take some small time.”

Havelock sees Justinian coalesce from the ether but he can’t see either of the two venerable Hierophus sages yet. However Sigrid, glancing around the scenery, glides over to join her latest recruit.

“Poliziano has chosen well, we have been here before. Thank you, Sir Mirandola; your sensitivity and tact, as ever, are faultless.” Mirandola, still smiling, bows and withdraws as Sigrid turns to Havelock. Her movement leads him a little away from the rest of the group.

“I hope you are not embarrassed, Lord Havelock; no one present really thought you could perform the duty at first sitting. We have all refused at some time or another… except Despil, of course, but then he is a Sawall.”

“Embarrassed? No,” Havelock returns the smile, deliberately flushing, “I have spent too long as student to other mistresses or masters to let this bother me. Even we of the heretic house of Barimen should try to recognise our limits.” He grinds the last word out as if in displeasure.

He recalls how some of his first lessons had been to curb his pride in being of the blood royal. Discovering that raw talent did not account for learning, that when someone was more skilled than you, you studied them, and mostly you don’t let people manipulate you through egotist buttons. You should look proud, but don’t let that be a lever they can use against you.

Briefly and altogether distastefully, another Sawall begins to come to mind. Cautious of Gnosos’ earlier warnings he firmly pushes the thought away before it forms.

As if to distract from some discomfort and advance the subject, he asks, “So is this environ within the mind of the artist or is it a working elsewhere that Poliziano has just created a bridge to?”

“Yes!” replies Sigrid, emphatically and not at all ambiguously.

Havelock notices two ghostly figures either side of Poliziano. The other knights of the Order are conversing quietly – except Justinian, who seems to be examining the local environment.

“Lord Havelock, do I sense a reaction to the name of Sawall? I understand Despil’s brother, Mandor, is a friend of yours…”

“Lord Mandor has hosted some of the more junior members of my house, myself included, and acted as our self appointed guide at times. However, a friend? No.” Havelock wistfully smiles as he speaks. “It takes far longer for me to call someone a friend. All the friends I have ever had are left far behind, probably dead now. “Mandor Sawall, maybe an ally and perhaps in time I will be able to trust him like a cousin?”

“Oh!” Sigrid sounds quite surprised. “So the rumours doing the rounds are not in fact true? Mandor isn’t in the process of turning House Sawall Amberphile?”

The two figures either side of Poliziano are solidifing; Havelock is now certain they are, or will be in another minute, Gnosos and Zográfos. Everyone else is definitely ‘here’ but Poliziano is maintaining his crucifixion pose. Somehow Havelock understands he must do this until everyone has ‘arrived’.

Briefly he considers Sigrid’s words rhetorical, but no, she is seriously questioning Mandor’s, or House Sawall’s, position. Whose side is she on?

“I think it best,” he lowers his voice conspiratorially, “to leave it with the comment that even those who are not allies can work for the same goal and those who are only associates walk the same path. N’est ce-pas?” He winks and his mouth broadens into a grin as if sharing a joke.

He glances around at his surroundings. Adobe reminds him of the Args of Khermā and their surrounding cities. Out beyond the edge of the Golden Circle Khermā’s population spent their days in these hot, dry settlements. Each Arg at the heart of a pashalik, which were feudal fiefs nominally overseen by the Pashas on behalf of the distant Sultan. However, these over-mighty kingmakers would politic behind the throne or even quietly war amongst themselves. Here for several years Havelock had polished his light cavalry skills and realpolitik. The light in Poliziano’s city is different, but Havelock strains his ear for the noise of the souk and waits for the warm wind on his face. Something here, he realises, tugs at his imagination. He resolves not to let his mind’s eye wander.

“I know not the words you use,” replies Sigrid, “but I understand your meaning, which is as it should be. But do not allow your feelings toward Mandor or House Sawall prejudice you against his brother; Despil is sworn to the Order and you need fear no one… not even Poliziano…”

She allows herself one quick glance at the others. The two Hierophus figures are now almost solid. It occurs to Havelock that absolutely no one has looked toward he and Sigrid since Mirandola left and he suddenly feels certain that his conversation with Sigrid is something pre-arranged.

Sigrid leans closer, dropping her voice, though there was never much chance it might be overheard by the others. “I said that you should not feel embarrassed over your earlier refusal to play the part of Architect, but obviously you must assume a full role in our activities, and soon. Let my words assure you that within the Order we are all friends – that we place loyalty to each other before all other loyalties, even to our houses.”

Havelock resumes examining the creation around him and his new colleagues. Taking particular care to only observe how it is put together and not allow his artistic creativity to envisage what is not already present. Glancing back to Sigrid, he asks, “So Grand Mistress, what lessons should I be learning about the architect’s role? What shall I look out for?”

“Look out for?” Sigrid seems for a moment nonplussed. “By all means feel free to examine Poliziano’s construction in depth, we have time aplenty. But remember that your value to the order lies in your familiarity with the realm of order – we would want you to create something with which others of your kind might feel comfortable.”

Gnosos and Zográfos have finally fully materialised and the disembodied eyes and mouth are turning away. Evidently Sigrid has said all she wishes to say and it seems her words are an invitation to explore.

Momentarily alone, Havelock is at a loss for where to start his exploration of this clay cityscape. With no apparent differentiation of buildings he picks one of the widest streets away from the space they are gathered. So far it has appeared desolate, populated only by the members of the Order.

He selects just such a street and leaves his fellow brethren as he explores the adobe city. It does not feel quite like anything he remembers. Somewhere deep inside, his Amberite intuition tells him something is deeply ‘wrong’ with the place, he suspects on many levels.

As he walks up between the multicoloured but dusty buildings, he starts to consider Dworkin’s latest gift, the card of Benedict. It is becoming very clear that he is being guided to draw the King of Swords into one of these dream worlds, hopefully with a restorative goal. How to do it? How to build the stage onto which such a player as a Prince of Amber might take his turn?

Maybe like the simple trick of memory palaces taught to scribes and scholars, it can be imagined or daydreamed up in the mind of the architect and preserved? Perhaps the brush acts as a focus for this kind of activity? On the other hand this world may have been crafted by Poliziano during a previous use of the couch and then recalled when needed. Havelock breaks off from his thoughts and looks around to see where his wanderings have taken him.

To either side a window and a doorway gape blackly. In the bright light (it can’t exactly be called ‘sunshine’) Havelock can make out nothing in the yawning darkness but his ears catch the scaly slither of something monstrous and reptilian within. Well aware that he is walking through a dream construct within the mind of a Chaot, he pushes on.

Then, to his surprise, he spies a splash of movement with colour up ahead and, faintly, his ears catch familiar voices. Pulling up sharply he feels the adhesions on his back strain painfully. Now advancing slowly, he glances over his shoulder at the pathway he has travelled. In the strange light he tries to judge how far he is from the companionship of his colleagues behind him. Then he stalks forward to eavesdrop on the new voices.

The voices and colours are quickly resolved to be the rest of the Order but approached from a completely new angle. The street did kink a couple of times and Havelock cannot see where he started but he’s sure he cannot have come full circle. He can clearly see Zográfos and Gnosos chatting amiably to Sigrid and Poliziano, who appears to be explaining something by bringing his hands together with straight fingers – they might resemble interlocking cogs were they not at right-angles to each other. No-one appears to notice Havelock.

Then Justinian saunters slowly across the end of the street, halts on spying Havelock some fifty yards away and nods once facelessly. Havelock politely returns the gesture, whilst wondering what senses the Quaestor judge may have and Justinian continues his interrupted perambulation. The others must be out of sight for the moment. Assuming a casual stance, Havelock leaves the end of the street and saunters towards Sigrid and Poliziano. As he advances, the others come in to view on either side. Havelock can’t help noticing that no one interacts with Justinian; he doesn’t seem interested in chatting to others either.

During the short space of time it takes Havelock to move forward, Poliziano continues with his exposition. With his fingers splayed, both hands are interlocked at right-angles at the junction of the ring and middle fingers.

But Havelock may be a little surprised to see the fingers curl – in different directions! Something normal finger joints are not capable of. Havelock finds it difficult to unravel the tangle with his eye. There seem more than the usual number of joints as well. But then Poliziano spies Havelock approaching; his fingers quickly disentangle and his hands fall to his sides.

“Quite a place you have constructed, Poliziano,” Havelock comments amiably once he gets close enough. After inclining his head to acknowledge the Grand Mistress he adds, “Thank you for taking the couch when I felt unprepared. Maybe you could enlighten me on how this design and creation is done properly.”

Poliziano bows his head graciously. “Think nothing of it, brother, we none of us expected you to perform at first sitting.” Although his words echo Sigrid’s, there is an edge to his voice and Poliziano’s tone is very faintly mocking. Zográfos, however, is quite friendly and voluble.

“It is a very nice piece of work in such a small area. You will have noticed that the space curves in on itself; it is impossible to stray far from the centre.”

“It wouldn’t do for our Subject to get away from us, would it?” effuses Gnosos.

Havelock calmly addresses the members from Hierophus, “That raises a few questions, if you don’t mind me asking?” He looks from one face to another and then continues, “Would that not warn the Subject that something was amiss and limit the subtlety of the process? You, Gnosos, described this as a very delicate process, but so far none of you have enlightened me to how construction is done or the methods for extraction once the Subject arrives. If I am to help you with approaches to my relatives I am going to need some deeper instruction.”

Poliziano looks like he was going to say something supercilious but subsides at a glance from Sigrid.

Gnosos waves a hand dismissively, “Oh if the Architect and the Summoner do their tasks aright there’s little chance of the Subject realising that anything is ‘amiss’ because there simply isn’t anything wrong from their, or anyone’s, point of view, don’t you see?”

“The task of the Architect,” expounds Poliziano, only a little sullenly, “is to provide an environment in to which the Subject can be brought. It should be one in which the Subject should be comfortable…”

“…otherwise why should the Subject come here at all? finishes Gnosos.

Zográfos evidently realises his colleagues are missing an important detail. “The convolutions serve several purposes: lastly, if the worst comes to the worst, a Subject that flees can quickly be apprehended, as his flight ‘from’ becomes flight ‘to’, but that has only ever been necessary the once, that I recall; firstly, it makes staging a simple matter, as the Subject walks away from the centre and during his absence we can bring on different persons or the Architect can change the scenery, making him feel he is in fact travelling between places and not simply in a closed circuit; and secondly, from the point of view of safety of both the Subject and everyone else, the Subject finds it difficult to leave the dream.”

“But that’s really the same as the last reason, don’t you know?” comments Gnosos.

“There are also other reasons…of a legal nature.” The new voice is a hoarse whisper in his ear that Havelock has not heard before. Looking over his left shoulder, he finds Justinian’s faceless visage behind him.

“Of course we could do what we do in the subject’s own dream,” chimes in Despil, approaching from the other side with Mirandola, “but that would be very dangerous.”

“Which is why,” Mirandola continues, “the Summoner’s role is so fraught.”

Havelock finds himself the centre of a circle. Everyone regards him gravely. There is an air of expectation, not necessarily of him, however.

“That this is the stage for something like an opera I already understand, and that the Architect designs the set and can shift the scenery seems to follow.” Havelock starts slowly, “That the stage exists to control the situation is obviously sound. I presume that members of this company can provide a cast of characters as needed. Also whilst I do not have the advantages of a fluid form I speculate that in this environ the stuff of dreams could costume me much as the fey do with glamour?”

Shifting slightly to address Mirandola he resumes a more usual tone, “Presumably it is the Summoner’s role to invite the principal to take their turn upon the stage? Entering their dreams and bridging from there to here?”

Mirandola nods in gracious confirmation, but his expression is slightly quizzical, sensing there’s more to come.

“None of this answers my enquiry however. That is all the ‘about’ and not the ‘how’. How is the set constructed? So far I have the feeling of a creative mind asked to paint a portrait. However, although inspired, one who has not held a brush, is not being shown how to hold one, or to mix a pallet of colours. I have been shown a masterpiece,” he glances at Poliziano, “and been told this is what the finished product looks like. I should be more clear with my question. How does all this get created and, please, more clearly than just ‘the Architect dreams it up’?”

Everyone looks baffled, except for Poliziano, who smirks, and Despil, who alone seems to show some understanding of Havelock’s question. He claps a comradely hand on Havelock’s back as he addresses the Order, (luckily several inches higher than the scars left by the demon’s claws).

“Look, my role for the moment is done; why don’t you all set the scene while I bring Havelock up to speed?”