THE NEXT AFTERNOON, ARCHER AND AMY STOOD ON Rigby’s front porch. The doorbell’s chime faded slowly within the cavernous mansion.
“I still don’t think this is a good idea,” Amy said.
“Come on,” Archer replied. “Since when have my ideas been anything but good?”
Amy adjusted her glasses and gave Archer an owlish glare of disdain. “You don’t want me to answer that.”
“We’re just going to talk,” Archer said. “This can’t wait.”
“Remember, you promised,” she said. “Nothing physical. Just words, yep?”
Archer didn’t reply. The door opened.
Looking tired and frowning, Rigby appeared in the doorway. “What do you want, Keaton? It’s not your day to look after the pets.”
“Not here for the pets,” Archer said. He kept his voice low, words clipped and tight. “We need to talk.”
“Can’t it wait?” Rigby asked. “Kara and I are working through some equipment orders for Dream Inc. We’re rather busy at the mo—”
Archer stepped toward the door. “Has to be now.”
“Well, seeing as how you’re halfway in already,” Rigby said, stepping aside, “won’t you both come in?”
Archer entered, with Amy as his shadow. Rigby went ahead toward the kitchen.
“Remember,” Amy whispered, “be diplomatic.”
Archer grunted in reply.
At the kitchen table, Kara looked up. Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. Rigby gave a flourishing wave of the hand and said, “Keaton here has something to discuss. Oh, and Miss Pitsitakas . . . why are you here?”
“Moral support,” she said. “Yep.”
Rigby snickered at that. “Well then, please have a seat. I’d offer you something to drink, but I’m rather hoping you won’t be staying that long.” He sat beside Kara and asked, “So what’s this about, then?”
Archer said, “Your computer app reeks.”
Rigby’s bemused look morphed into confusion and then anger. “Excuse me?”
“It doesn’t work,” Archer said, leaning forward. “It’s bugged or rigged or just plain old broken. But I’m guessing you knew that already.”
“What are you talking about?” Rigby asked, the pitch of his voice rising.
“Yes,” Kara said, turning to Rigby, “what is he talking about?”
“The app you gave me,” Archer said, “the one that’s supposed to monitor the so-called balance in the Dream? It’s way off.”
“It most certainly is not,” Rigby replied. “I’ve verified the data. I’ve explored the Dream—wait a moment.” His gaze shifted to Amy. “Does she . . . does she know?”
“She knows enough,” Archer said. “She knows that you’re lying.”
Rigby stood up abruptly, bumping the table. “Don’t you dare enter my home and insult me!”
Archer stood up too. “Would you rather come outside so I can insult you there?”
“Archer!” Amy whispered urgently.
“Calm down, Archer,” Kara urged.
“I’m warning you,” Rigby said. “I don’t know what’s flipped your lid so badly, but let’s get this sorted out, shall we? What’s the problem—as you see it—with the dream app?”
“I told you,” Archer said. “It doesn’t work. I checked the app the other night before I went in. According to the data you had, the Dream realm was completely stable: lots of blues and dark blues. But when I went in, there were more breaches than two Dreamtreaders together could repair in twelve hours of Dream time.”
“That’s rubbish,” Rigby said. “You just aren’t reading the app right.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Right then,” he said, shuffling under some papers and pulling out a tablet computer. He slapped his fingers across the touch screen and held it out for Archer. “See there? The Dream’s fine. You probably just didn’t adjust for the contrast.”
Archer clenched his fists at his side and forced himself not to speak until he had unclenched them. “You aren’t listening,” he said. “I was there. There were breaches all over the place.”
“I was there too, Keaton,” Rigby said smugly. “I collected data, just like I always do. The science is on my side.”
“This isn’t science,” Archer said. “What are you hiding?”
Rigby put down the tablet and stepped around the table.
Kara jumped up. “Rigby, no!”
But he was already in Archer’s face, inches away. “You get out of my house,” he said. He almost sounded calm. “You get out before I throw you out.”
Archer didn’t back down. He matched Rigby’s glare and, in spite of Amy tugging at the back of his shirt, he inched even closer. “I’m a Dreamtreader,” Archer said. “I was chosen to protect the Waking World by watching over the Dream. I’ve learned to see the fabric, to actually see how close to a rift it’s getting. It’s all unraveling, Rigby. Do you know what that means? Do you know what will happen if a rift forms? Do you?”
Rigby growled something feral and low. “You Dreamtreaders and your bloody creeds . . . you’re just so superior, aren’t you? As if you’re entitled. Hah! Selfish, that’s what you are, wanting to keep the Dream for yourself!”
“What’s your solution, then? Destroy everything? Because that’s what you’re doing. Your company is tearing the Dream fabric apart. You’ve got to shut it down. If you won’t, I will.”
Rigby shoved Archer. Archer stumbled backward, stepping awkwardly on Amy’s foot and colliding with the kitchen wall.
“Rigby, what are you doing?” Kara shrilled. She was up and around the table in an instant.
But Rigby kept his back to her and stayed face-to-face with Archer. “So you’re a Dreamtreader,” Rigby growled. “So what? Every person should have the right to dream.”
“Everyone?” Archer asked with a steaming laugh. “You mean everyone who can pay your price, right? Drop the act, Rigby. You’re just in this for the money. Admit it. You’re like a strip miner—just tear everything up, take your profits, and let everything burn.”
Rigby moved so suddenly and so fast that Amy screamed. His strike, if he’d unleashed it, seemed aimed for Archer’s throat. But, like a hammer on a pistol, Rigby’s open-handed chop stayed cocked back.
“That how you roll, Rigby?” Archer asked without so much as a flinch. “If you don’t like what you hear, you get violent?”
Rigby’s striking hand remained in the air and trembled. “You shut your mouth, Keaton. You have no idea. Someone told you that you were special, gave you the title Dreamtreader, and you think you get to run everyone else’s lives? You think you know me well enough to know my motives?”
“Am I wrong, then?” Archer growled.
“Yes, you are wrong,” Rigby hissed. In his striking hand, a strange, wickedly curved blade melted into existence. He leveled the razor tip toward Archer and scowled.
Archer’s eyes widened.
“Rigby, don’t!” Kara yelled.
Archer blinked. “How can you do that?”
Rigby raised the blade menacingly. When he winked, the blade melted into thin air. “See, Dreamtreader?” he said. “Don’t know everything, do you?”
“C’mon, Archer,” Amy urged at his elbow. “Let’s go.”
“Run along now,” Rigby commanded. “Go fix your made-up holes and save the world . . . because Dream Inc. won’t stop. See, now, the Dream is my home too.”
Archer shook his head slowly. “You are nothing more than a trespasser.”
“You’re the trespasser,” Rigby said. “Now, get out of my home . . . and never come back.”
Archer’s simmering anger had gone cold. He glanced at Amy and nodded. She followed him down the hall, down Rigby’s icy walk, and out into the street. Archer shoved his hands in his pockets and began the trudge home.
“ ‘Your computer app reeks’?” Amy said, hurrying up the street to keep up with Archer. “That was your most diplomatic move?”
Later that night, Rigby Thames entered the Dream alone. He journeyed to the Kurdan Marketplace and found Bezeal in his workshop. The wily merchant looked up and his star-point eyes glittered. “In all the Dream realm so vast, the Walker supreme arrives at last. I wonder if his die is cast.”
“I want the key,” Rigby said. “And not just for an hour. I want to own it.”
“Such a thing could be arranged,” Bezeal said. “If you’ll risk joining the deranged. But, of course, there must be a particular kind of exchange.”
Rigby held up a hand. “No deal . . . yet. I want to know a few things first. If I have the Shadow Key, the Sages will leave me alone, right? I can come and go to the Inner Sanctum as I please?”
“Sages know the key and know it well. Its bearer passes through the Libraries where they dwell. And to the deeps, the Sanctum, that sacred cell.”
“What about the Scath?” Rigby asked. “If I own the Shadow Key, will the Scath obey me?”
“Live for mischief, do the Scath, but they will follow your chosen path . . . especially if it leads to wrath.”
“Fine by me, Bezeal,” Rigby said. “What’s your price?”
Bezeal’s white teeth appeared. He gestured for Rigby to draw closer. The merchant whispered for several moments, a sound like rats scratching at wood.
Rigby took a step back. “That’s a steep price.”
“Too rich for your blood, then off you go,” Bezeal said. “I have other suitors, some you might know. The Sanctum’s mysteries to them I will show.”
“I’ll do it,” Rigby whispered.
“What?”
“I’ll do it. I’ll meet your price.”
Bezeal’s smile glistened. From the folds of his cloak, his green three-fingered hand appeared. “You must seal . . . the deal . . . with Bezeal.”
Rigby stepped forward, clasped Bezeal’s hand in his own, and winced.
Rigby held the Karakurian Chamber in his hands and stared down at the Inner Sanctum’s stone door. He turned the cube over and over until he found the sixth full sail of the ship. He placed his thumb upon the sail, sliding it back until there was slight resistance and a faint click. The tall ship lifted, appeared to sail, and then vanished. A metallic trill sounded, and the skeletons on the next side began to dance. One by one, the old boneheads leaped and fell. The Karakurian Chamber shifted and flattened, the rough edges becoming smooth. Metal unraveled like thread and wound itself up tight. Round and round it went until a rod formed, and then the rest of the Shadow Key.
Rigby held the key aloft and shouted, daring the Sages to descend and tell him to be quiet. They did not show themselves, but something beneath the door stirred.
“Threaten me, will you?” Rigby grumbled. He shoved the Shadow Key into its matching hole and gave a violent turn. “I’ll show you, Keaton, you and all the Dreamtreaders, I’ll show you who really owns the Dream!”
He twisted the key once more, heard a thunderous boom from within, and felt a strange trembling wave beneath his feet.
But Rigby did not open the door. He stood upon it, keeping it down with his weight.
“Let us out!” came a raspy whisper.
“We yearn!” came another.
“Yes, yes, free us!”
“We must play.”
“You will serve me?” Rigby asked.
“We are Scath. We serve no man,” came the answer. “We are wild things!”
A chorus of laughter rasped underneath like a nest of rattlesnakes.
“I am the owner of the Shadow Key,” Rigby declared. “You will do my bidding, or you can rot behind that door.”
Some of the Scath cried out. “No, no!” one shouted.
“You bluff us!” another one said. “You want the Masters’ Bindings!”
“Yes, I want them,” Rigby admitted. “And I will have them. But you will not be free until you pledge to serve at my call.”
“We did once, but you tricked us.”
“Not this time!”
“We will not. We will not!”
“It is a hateful tease, releasing us for just one hour! Then you trap us again!”
“Not worth it. Not worth it.”
“Is that what you think?” Rigby asked. “You underestimate me. Pity, for I have such big plans.”
“Tell us, tell us!”
“He lies!”
“He is like Bezeal.”
“I am not like that weasel,” Rigby hissed. “Forget it, then.” He bent down and twisted the key back to the left. Thunder sounded below. Thunder and weeping.
Rigby removed the Shadow Key and started to walk away.
“Wait, wait!”
“We would hear your plan!”
Rigby hesitated until the Scath’s screeching became a wailing storm. Finally, he returned the key to its place in the Sanctum door. “Now then,” he said. He whispered into the keyhole and then gave the key a twist.
“We like it!”
“Yes, yes, ambitious and fun!”
“The teacher man is already there.”
“Locked up tight!”
“We did as you asked. We can be trusted.”
“I know you can,” Rigby said. “But we need to have this understanding between us. I will set you free, but you must do as I ask and come when I call, no matter what.”
“More than an hour.”
“A day! A full day!”
“I will do better than that,” Rigby said. “If you pledge to serve at my call, I will free you . . . forever.”
All the rustling beneath the door ceased. It became eerily silent.
Finally, a tentative Scath voice said, “You are cruel, Walker.”
“Twist our hopes.”
“Be gone with you!”
Rigby rolled his eyes. “You underestimate me again. But I will prove it to you. I will set you free, and I will throw away this Shadow Key so that no one can ever lock you away again!”
“Dare we hope?”
“Risk it, yes, yes!”
“But we will be slaves.”
“Not slaves,” Rigby said. “Servants. There is a difference.”
“We must do your bidding, come when you call?”
“If you don’t need us, can we do mischief?”
“Can we play?”
“If you will pledge me your service,” Rigby said, “then you may do what you wish with your time until I call.”
The shrieking rose to such a calamity that Rigby’s ears rang.
“We will!”
“Serve the Walker!”
“He is Master now!”
“Free us, free us!”
“The Scath are yours to command!”
Rigby gave the key another quater turn. Then he took the corner of the door and threw it open.
A flood of shreds and shadows and peculiar shapes burst up from the gate. They streamed out and swarmed, screeching and chanting and spitting. And then, they were gone.
The Inner Sanctum yawned open for Rigby. He smiled and descended the stairs.