Far beneath the wooden floor, in a chamber walled with concrete, silver, polycarbonate steel, and sound-deadening foam, rows of dreamers lay chained to tables, gagged and blindfolded. The gags muffled their screams and kept them from gnawing off their tongues. An attendant took the receptionist’s note from the pneumatic tube, bent beside a dreamer, removed the muff from her ear, and whispered the message there. The woman went rigid, twitched, and with the quill pen bound to her free hand scribbled a response on a roll of paper that spooled beneath her pen nib. The attendant razored the response free, returned to the vacuum tube, and—

Tara knew the process—she’d never been much of a nightmare jockey, but one did familiarize oneself with the basic tools of one’s profession—but she was glad she didn’t have to watch. Blood and piss didn’t mesh with professional attire. But that, as the Iskari said, was war. No arguing with efficiency: in under a minute, the pneumatic tube vomited her answer. “A technician will join you shortly.” A complex Craftwork sigil occupied the center of his desk, all correspondence runes and irreproducible angles. He traced a glyph-line sequence, and green fire trailed his fingertip. “Have a seat.”

“Maybe we could leave a message?” Abelard whispered.

“We can still talk to her. We have to jump a few hurdles first, is all.”

“What kind of hurdles?”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ll be fine.”

The tech escorted them down a smoked-glass hall to a chamber of tables with tops molded to fit the usual human extremities. “Lie here,” she said, with a slight Camlaander lilt, “side by side, if you please.”

Tara kicked off her shoes and lay back. The table adjusted to her body’s contours. Abelard drilled his finger into the tabletop, then watched the wood flow to fill the pit he’d made. “Come on,” Tara said. “We don’t want to keep her waiting.”

Abelard reclined.

“Do you sleepwalk?” the tech asked.

“I don’t think so.”

Tara shook her head.

“Good.” She adjusted a few levers and turned a few wheels beneath the bed. “Any preexisting medical conditions? No smoking, please.”

Abelard set the cigarette, still burning, on the table.

“Thank you.” From a drawer in the wall the tech produced two paper-wrapped wreaths and slit the paper with a knife. “Completely sterile. Hold still.” The circlets were stainless steel and hinged. Sharp prongs jutted inward.

Abelard squirmed as the needles settled against his skin. “Is this necessary?”

“Yes,” said Tara and the tech at once.

She’d done this before, but still she drew her breath when the tech bent over her. The circlet crimped her hair as it closed. Stupid design—probably built by balding Technicians to balding spec. The circlet’s spikes needled her skin.