“What the—? No! What is this!” demanded Proto.

  Mayger tilted back his head and laughed uproariously. “Or perhaps not!” he cried.

  The world began contracting to a sphere centered on Reks, surrounded by gloom and mirk. As the sphere of perception shrank, objects on its periphery fell into the void beyond it—trees, horses and men alike—and none came back.

  “This is not fair!” objected Proto.

  “Neither is life!” declared Mayger. “Not unless you make it that way.” He strode calmly toward the mirk and withdrew a small clear vial from his pouch. He swung it at the mists, seemingly catching some within, and quickly corked the vial. Then, he stepped forth into the swirling obscurity and vanished.

  Proto had no idea what the man was doing. But he had other things on his mind, with the world shrinking and blaring all about him. He stared at Reks. The warrior now looked distracted—strangely worried and grim, in a way that seemed foreign to the giant barbarian. He was hard to see through the mists. But he looked different now—slender, of rather ordinary height, and wearing—is that a black turtleneck?

  And then, abruptly, Proto was hurtling headlong through the mirk, through the exit passage, and into the dim blue hallway. He stumbled again but managed to catch himself this time.

  Mayger already was ten yards ahead and strolling away, brushing his hands lightly.

  “What in the world was that?” demanded Proto.

  “What did it sound like?” replied Mayger without looking back.

  “Sort of like an alarm clock and—”

  “Like Einstein and Sherlock, rolled into one!” praised the pink-haired man, throwing up his arms with exaggerated gusto. “What sounds ‘sort of like an alarm clock’ and wakes up dreamers? I’ll leave it to you to put two and two together.”

  Proto watched him walk away and sighed. This place was like the A-Hole Olympics, and everyone he met was competing for gold. Everyone except Somnus, perhaps. But he’d probably be awarding the medals.

  “By the way.” Mayger paused and looked back at him. “That little speech you gave, about keeping what you love by giving up the rest, the way back being forward, and all that. I don’t know where you got that from. But it was inspired. The way you turned him around was—well, impressive.”

  Proto opened his mouth and searched for words. By the time he’d found any, Mayger had begun to turn away. “Who was he? That dreamer. What is he in real life?” asked Proto.

  “Mister Barbarian Swordsman? An artist. The paintbrush and pencil kind. Strange, isn’t it?” replied the slim man. “He graduated from art school just as AI art took off. His grand career launch plans have flopped. He spends most of his time now playing an MMO. Guess what class he plays. Guess what weapon he wields.” He walked away without waiting for an answer.

  Lost in thought, Proto almost forgot to follow Mayger back to the lounge. He still didn’t have much sense of the hallways’ layout, and he’d prefer not to have to find his way back to the lounge. He jogged ahead to the turn Mayger had taken, caught a glimpse of him rounding a bend ahead, and managed to catch up.

  “Another question,” Proto called, stepping beside the pink-haired man. “Normally, I can control what happens in the dream. But there were a couple points today when the dream seemed to . . . resist that. I was fighting a guy, and I tried to make him trip, but it didn’t work. And when I threw a knife in his eye, he was supposed to die, but he just wouldn’t. For some reason.”

  “There’s more than one reason that could happen,” replied Mayger. “But 99% of the time, it’s the dreamer. He’s the master of his own dream. You can control what he’s not controlling. But when he wills the dream in a different direction, it’s awfully hard to overpower that. That’s probably what happened here.”

  That made sense. Proto recalled how the woo-woo-ing dreamer had run up to slaughter his foe after he’d failed to do so. Reks must’ve wanted the scene to play out that way.

  “Another question,” said Proto. “What happens if you die in the dream? Do you die in real life?”

  “You, meaning us? No, we don’t die. Not in any permanent way. Or did you mean dreamers? No, they generally don’t die. Not unless they’re so shocked they have a heart attack or something,” replied Mayger. “Or did you mean you? Would you die? I have my guesses, but no real basis to give you an answer. So I won’t. My advice is, don’t test it.”

  “Great. Helpful.” Proto rubbed his neck where that waraxe almost had hit. “Which raises another question. Everyone keeps hinting that there’s some difference between me and you all. What’s the difference?”

  “The difference is, we’re visitors, but you’re just visiting,” replied Mayger. “At least until your Saturn Return.”

  Proto stared. “ . . . what?”

  “The difference is,” sighed Mayger, turning to Proto, “something you’ll find out if and when you’re meant to. Which, I can say with confidence, is not right now.”

  “Come on,” he prodded.

  “My friend,” said Mayger, “we’ve gone well beyond this substitute’s lesson plan. Ask Astrid sometime. Or, better yet, ask Somnus. Politely, and several drinks in, I’d suggest.”

  The leather-jacketed man led him into the wallpapered lounge, then promptly walked out the room’s other doorway—the one that Proto originally had come from. Hanging over it was a tapestry of a vast and tangled tree, so tall it stretched into the heavens, while its roots crept deep into the netherworld.

  This left Proto in a crowded barroom full of people he didn’t know. He’d have found this awkward in real life. But in the dream, why not just walk up to a group and start talking? Nothing was permanent.

  Let’s see. A Velma-looking woman in glasses and a sweater was sitting with two whiskery black-haired men—identical twins—one in a suit and one in a sweatsuit. One of them was drawing a picture on a napkin and explaining something. A wiry guy was playing cards with two women. One was tall and full-figured and the other slight with a girl-next-door look. A mustachioed man in a three-piece suit had six empty glasses in front of him, and a hat hung from the opposing seat. He glanced at Proto, blinked and went wide-eyed, then looked away and didn’t look back.

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  How about some cards, I guess? He started toward the last open seat at the card players’ table, then decided he ought to get his drink first.

  “Lilac!” he hailed the bartendress, who blinked and took a breath. “Lilac, Lilac, give me my rye back.” He spread forth his arms winningly.

  The pale woman stared at him. “You’re hereby banned from ordering rye.” She turned and started making another customer’s drink.

  “Come on now!” waved Proto. “It was a double rhyme.”

  She did not look impressed. She measured out a double shot, her curved black eyes narrowed upon the spirit.

  “Lilac, Lilac, make me a fried snack.” Proto double finger-pointed at her.

  “You should stop before the whole menu’s off-limits,” she replied calmly.

  “Okay, oh Funless One,” he exhaled wistfully. “I’ll have whatever Somnus last had.”

  She opened her mouth and paused, before turning and grabbing a bottle of armagnac—then, pressed her lips and faced him again. “Didn’t you want a coffee?”

  Proto blinked at her earnest stare. “I . . . did,” he recalled. He didn’t really feel like a drink that’d make him focus and tense up right now. But something about her look told him he should accept this.

  He mustered up some good humor. “You remembered!” He slapped the bar. “Very good, Madame Bartendress. You’ve passed the test. Prepare me my coffee Lilac-style, please, on the double. Don’t make me wait for a thing like this!”

  Turning away, she brushed one of her long loose strands of black hair from her face and let slip a scoffing laugh. But it quickly gave way to a focused look as she started preparing his coffee. Lilac-style. He smiled absently, his thoughts ranging afar.

  “Here. It’s ready.” She set a black mug in front of him a moment later. A large crack had been repaired with white lacquer. The film atop the coffee also looked unusually white.

  Lilac started to turn away, then looked back with wide eyes and warned, “It’s hot. Give it a moment to cool.”

  “Will do.” He blew lightly on the steaming beverage.

  She stared a moment, then brushed a tress from her face again and quickly turned away. She reached rigidly for a glass and began polishing it, staring at it unswervingly. Clink. She set it down and started on the next one, going through stiff polishing motions.

  Proto sipped the coffee and closed his eyes, inhaling. Beneath the creamy layer on top, the drink was black. It had notes of molasses and vanilla—fine and subtle—which somehow stayed sharply distinct rather than blending into mere sweetness.

  “What do you think?” she asked,

  He thought about how to put it. “Lilac-style. I think you’ve captured it exactly.”

  “But what do you think of it?”

  He tilted his head at her. A faint flush bloomed in her cheeks.

  “Coffee, eh?” A hand slapped Proto’s back, scattering the reply he’d been piecing together. “All business, no pleasure for our Provisional Visitor.”

  It was Mayger. He was wearing a blue suede jacket rather than a leather one now. His pink hair now looked as spiky as a silent JRPG protagonist. But he was anything but silent.

  “Alarm clock wasn’t enough to wake you up, eh?” asked Mayger. “Who has coffee after a visit anyway?” He didn’t seem to notice how Lilac’s glass polishing went from stiff to stiffer.

  “That alarm left me deaf, not well-rested,” replied Proto.

  “Well said!” came a booming voice from behind, prompting them both to turn around.

  Somnus strolled up, his long robe swishing in his wake, and sat at a nearby table. “Yes, I recall when there were no alarm clocks. Just dreamers and the Lord of Dreams.” He crossed his legs atop a nearby chair. “Ah, what happy aeons those were! Then, Electryone gave us roosters. And it was all downhill from there.”

  Proto questioned, once again, how his dreaming imagination could muster up a character like Somnus. Some people said you only use 10% of your mind for conscious thought. Maybe they were right. Maybe this was the other 90%.

  “You should’ve seen the look on his face,” said Mayger to Somnus, “when the alarm went off. Like a five year old whose candy just got stolen.”

  “Well, I don’t blame him! That’s how I’d look too!” exclaimed Somnus, throwing his hands up. “Alarm clocks. A sin against Nature, I say!” He shook his long dusky hair. “Anyway, how did it go otherwise?”

  Mayger gave a fair account of what’d happened, and Somnus listened curiously. His ears perked at the part about “keeping what you love if you give everything else up.” He eyed Proto at that point and opened his mouth as though to speak, then seemed to think better of it and let the pink-haired man finish.

  “Well done, well done. You did your part, and the alarm wasn’t your fault,” said Somnus. “Hmph, an alarm! On your third visit! Lady Luck must be against you.” He waved helplessly. “I’ll have to introduce you to her. I think she’d like you.”

  Proto blinked. Who is this guy?

  “Let it be a lesson, though,” the Lord of Dreams went on. “Time waits for no man! And neither do alarms.” His lips curled.

  Minutes passed, Proto finished his coffee, and they chatted. Meanwhile, Lilac swept about the bar, preparing drink after drink with her usual blank-faced efficiency.

  “Well, I’m off. Much to be done,” Somnus declared eventually, rising to his feet. “By the way, Proto. I had your drawers stocked with new clothes. I’d been waiting for you to ask about clothing, but it seems you just weren’t going to! How long would you have worn that same tracksuit, I wonder?”

  “If I had to wear one outfit forever,” Proto replied, “it’d probably be this one.” He looked down fondly at the familiar Saturn emblem.

  “The Ringed One. Strange choice, but it suits you,” said Somnus. “So, in your drawers, you’ll find a few more of those—tracksuits.” He waved a hand at the word. “Plus a few tunics like that one you wore in today’s dream. And even a fine robe like this one!” He tapped his purple and green raiment. “But in navy, yellow and white. And all with the Ringed One emblem.”

  “That’s quite a haul,” said Proto. “Thank you.”

  “Yes, well, we’ll thank you to change clothes at the first opportunity!” retorted Somnus, striding away. “Good day.” And off he went beneath the painting of the old man watching the two young lovers on the beach.

  Something about what the Lord of Dreams had said bothered Proto. He realized what it was a few moments later. “Wait. He said ‘the tunic you wore in today’s dream,’” he recalled to Mayger. “Can you see into dreams from the outside like that?”

  “‘You,’ meaning me and you? No,” replied the lithe man. “But Somnus isn’t me or you.”

  “What else can he do? What is he?” asked Proto quietly.

  “All these explanations you want! You’re drinking too much coffee,” admonished Mayger. “Slow down! Enjoy the moment!” He sipped his drink. “For now, think of Somnus like Santa: ‘He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake. He knows if you’ve been bad or good.’ And so forth. Except instead of being white-bearded, red-suited, and jolly, he’s clean-shaven, fashionably bohemian, and jolly.”

  “Anyway, I”—a yawn interrupted the spiky-haired man as he stood—“will be back in a bit.” He ambled out the door with the tree tapestry above it.

  Clink. There was an unusual lull in customers requesting drinks right now. Lilac had returned to polishing glasses—quick, methodical, and precise as always. Clink. There was rarely much emotion in her black eyes. But they looked particularly hollow right now.

  Proto felt warmth rush in to fill that void. “Molasses and vanilla,” he found himself saying. “Creamy film on top, but black beneath.”

  Lilac looked at him as he raised his mug—that black mug with a white-lacquered crack. He didn’t see any others here like it.

  “Dark flavors, light flavors,” he went on. “You kept them separate. You didn’t muddle it all up into something sweet. What’s already perfect doesn’t need sweetness.”

  Her hands had paused mid-polish, as her pale face went tilted. Now, her black eyes blinked twice.

  “So, to answer your question earlier,” said Proto, holding out his mug, “I think I’d like more of it.”

  Taking a breath, she smoothed her black-and-white waitress outfit. “Well,” she managed. “I suppose I’m not busy right now. I suppose there’s more where that came from.” She smoothed another nonexistent fold in her dress.

  “Well, seconds then. Maybe thirds, maybe fourths! We’ll see where things go from here, Madame Bartendress.” He handed her the unique mug with a flourish and bow.

  “Careful, or you’ll be up all night!” Lilac chided, tapping his hand reprovingly with a finger.

  “Yes, well, I’ve had enough of sleep and dreams today!” he replied, waving lightly at Lilac. “Who needs sleep and dreams when he has Lilac”—he blinked as she met his eyes—“style coffee?”

  Her lips curved up. “And alarm clocks?”

  Proto laughed as she turned around and started her delicate work. While she moved with her usual brisk efficiency, she seemed to bounce a little from step to step. Her light face never quite formed a sweet smile as she worked, but that just made the sparkle in her dark eyes all the more vivid.

  Proto peered at his mug. It was half-empty or half-full, depending how you looked at it, but Lilac was on the verge of filling the other half. We’ll see where things go from here.