Page 82 of A Theory of Dreaming
Then there was another sound—utterly out of nowhere, but most certainly real. A side door opened beside the dais, and Master Gosse stepped into the chamber.
“My apologies,” Gosse said in a breezy voice, “I overslept.”
That, Preston realized, was probably true. His adviser’s face looked uncommonly pale, the normal ruddiness of his cheeks blanched and faded, and there were gray circles under his eyes. His hair was not combed and his mustache was not gelled. And there was a bleariness to his gaze that Preston recognized at once, with a jolt of alarm: it was the leftover haze of a dream.
My body will be as still as those in their glass mausoleums, but my mind will be so alive as to rend the world apart.
Had Gosse managed to do it? Had he parted the veil on his own?
“Well,” Dean Fogg said, disgruntled, “it’s good of you to show up, though you may be too late. Your student has just told us that he will accept his expulsion.”
“Oh,” Gosse said, with the calmest of smiles, “that would be rather unwise.”
Master Gosse strode to the center of the chamber and paused in front of the dais. Then he turned to face the benches, hands open and palms skyward, looking like an orator from ancient times. And when he spoke, it was with all the passionate articulation of a robed philosopher.
“Mr. Héloury is my very best student,” he said. “He may well be the very best student that this university has ever seen. Not only has his groundbreaking scholarship uncovered a conspiracy regarding one of Llyr’s most prestigious authors, but his current work, on the subject of Aneurin the Bard, promises to be even more revolutionary. For the past weeks we have been pursuing the greatest academic project of our age. This is a project that will bring the university fame and fortune beyond measure, and of course reflecthighly upon its current dean and faculty. But I assure you, I will not be able to continue this endeavor without Preston’s help.”
“This is nonsense,” Baron Southey cut in. “The ramblings of an eccentric lunatic.”
Master Gosse only smiled placidly at him. “Small-minded traditionalists always reject what they don’t understand.”
“Cedric,” Dean Fogg said hurriedly, clearly hoping to prevent an open shouting match, “you’ve never mentioned this new research topic to me. If it is indeed so groundbreaking, why keep it a secret?”
“‘All precious things shatter, if they are found too soon,’” Gosse replied. A quote from Ardor’s “The Garden in Stone.” “My work has already brought prestige to this university. Surely you can trust me to deliver yet more quality scholarship, given time. And,” he added meaningfully, “given the proper assistance. You see, Mr. Héloury is essential to my research. It is only with his aid that I was able to develop what I am tentatively callingA New Theory of Dreaming.”
Preston’s heart began to beat crookedly. He wanted to speak, but no words would come.
“A farce!” the baron bit out. “No scholarship should come at the expense of a student’s safety!”
Dean Fogg’s gaze wavered back and forth, between Gosse and the baron, between Preston and Southey, between the administrators and Lotto and his father. His throat bobbed and the silence grew thick.
Then, astonishingly, the Earl of Clare rose to his feet.
“Dean Fogg,” he said, “I see that you are struggling with how toresolve this difficult matter. Allow me to make it simpler for you: I am prepared to provide agenerousdonation to the university, if you are to drop the charges against Mr. Héloury, expunge this from his record, and restore his full status as student.”
All that happened next unfolded in a blur. Voices ran over Preston, muffled and distant, as if he were trapped below water. He was only vaguely aware of being ordered from the witness stand by Dean Fogg, of the administrators standing and filing out of the room, of Southey and his father charging toward the dais to register their snarled protests. He was aware of Master Gosse fishing in his pocket for a cigarette.
Numbly, Preston approached Lotto and the earl. He opened his mouth to croak out athank you, though it seemed insufficient. And before he could, the Earl of Clare gave him a gentle but bracing pat on the shoulder.
“Don’t worry about it, Preston,” he said. “That Baron Margetson is a real bastard, isn’t he? I always have thought so.”
Twenty-Eight
I have been long at work on the task at hand; longer still have I pondered the true purpose of it. We are not an inordinately unhappy nation, at least that I can see, though the limits of my position perhaps prevent me from perceiving the grueling indignities and daily turmoils of, say, a peasant in his sinking hovel. They who know as much of the lives of kings and heroes as a flea knows of the Saints’ liturgies—perplexingly I am told that it is them who I write for, they who cannot even read.
I think I have been misled in this matter. Those who style themselves kings are the ones who require reassurance of a king’s inviolability, of his immortality. The aristocrats in their wigs, the princes in their palaces—all the virtues and blessings of mortal life they have attained, and yet still they are so afraid.
I write to reassure them of their own immortality. They are all little men, in truth, frightened of death and more so of insignificance, no different from the peasants they scorn. They are afraid to accept that a king can die. They are afraid to accept that, in the end, all kings must.
—fromThe Writings of Tristram Marlais, 135–156 BD, ed. by Dr. Finn Worlock
“Héloury.”
Preston had barely taken a step out of the chamber before Master Gosse approached him. Some color had returned to his adviser’s cheeks—aided, he was sure, by the cigarette he was now smoking heartily—and his gaze was smug. Proud.
“Master Gosse,” Preston said. His voice was creaky with exhaustion. “I...”
“You don’t have to thank me,” he said, and waved a hand. “This is a matter of principle. Expulsion should never have been on the table.” He rolled his eyes and took a long drag from his cigarette. The smell of smoke curled into Preston’s nose and made his empty stomach churn.
