Yumi and the Nightmare Painter(73)

“No price,” she said. “They want to help, once we summon them. I think they find us intriguing and enjoy watching us.”

“Sounds like they do care,” he said. “About you. If not about a lot of the things you all have made up about them.”

She smiled. “Right, then. What next? How do we get into that tent without being seen?”

“I figure you’ll simply walk over to it,” Painter said.

“Me? Why me?”

“Yumi. You are literally a ghost at the moment.”

“Oh!” She looked down at herself. And despite wearing roughly the same amount of cloth she did when in Painter’s world, she blushed at her state of near undress. “I guess…that’s useful, isn’t it?”

“For spying? It seems like it might be an advantage, yes.” He peeked at the tent. It was large, almost more a pavilion, and made of thick canvas. It had been set up on a wooden platform some twenty or more feet across that had floating devices underneath to keep it off the stones.

“I wonder…” Painter said.

“What?”

“It’s just…this is what the nightmares do at home. Sneaking around, hiding, peeking in to watch people.” His frown deepened. “They can go right through walls. I don’t suppose…” He glanced at her.

Yumi nodded at Painter in understanding. Then, reminding herself that no one could see her, she slipped out from behind the tree and crossed the last bit of ground to the tent. She hadn’t wrapped her clogs, so they continued to clop, wood on stone.

That sound wasn’t real. She wasn’t real, not completely. When she tried to grab things, her hands passed through them unless she concentrated.

So…upon reaching the tent, she bowed to the spirits underneath, then stepped up onto the edge of the hovering wooden platform. There, she determinedly stepped into the cloth wall.

It, with equal determination, pushed right back.

Yumi glared at the cloth, rubbing her nose. Maybe she wasn’t showing it enough respect. She bowed to the wall as best she could from her narrow perch.

“O wall of cloth,” she said, “grant me the honor of—”

“What are you doing?” Painter hissed at her from behind.

“Petitioning the wall.”

“What?”

She spun toward him and gestured to the tent. “All things have souls, and the soul of the wall is akin to the spirits. All nonliving things are of them! That’s—”

“Yumi!” he hissed.

“—why they become statues when we make requests of them! And why rocks draw their attention. It’s—”

“Look at your hand!”

She hesitated, then glanced at her hand—which in her gesticulating she’d thrust straight through the cloth. Huh. Had her petition worked? Or…

Or had she just not been paying attention? Design said they touched things they wanted to—expected to. So perhaps…

She closed her eyes and stepped forward, not thinking about the cloth. Doing that, she walked straight through. When she opened her eyes, she found herself inside the tent. And wow, the scholars traveled in style. Thick rugs on the floor. Fine pillows and cushions for sitting on. A counter with various liquors, and those serving boys—likely scholars in training—to wait upon their needs.

The lavish display was interrupted by the enormous metal machine at the center, its valves and bars open and gaping, like a heart cut from a beast with the arteries severed.

The lead scholar had a pinched face and almost pointed head—like a blunt pencil. He paced back and forth, looking less intimidating without his hat. The bowl cut of hair didn’t help. It was the sort of style you ended up with when you assumed that because you’d studied literature and engineering, you knew your hairdresser’s job better than they did.

“We should try the vacuum pumps again,” the scholar was saying as he paced.

“It’s not the vacuum pumps,” said a scholar who sat on the floor beside the machine, tinkering with it. “It’s the power source, Gyundok-nimi.”

“We never had a problem with the power source for the father machine,” the lead scholar snapped.

“Pardon, Gyundok-nimi,” another scholar said, lounging in pillows with a half-eaten fruit, “but we absolutely have had problems with the father machine’s power.”

“The Incident?” Gyundok said—and Yumi could sense the capital letter there. “Hasn’t been an issue for years.”

The three other scholars shared a glance.

“Fine,” Gyundok said, his hands going to his hips. “If it’s the power source, you prime it, Sunjun. This machine is small. It will be safe.”

Sunjun—the scholar working on the machine—raised his hands and backed away from it. “Not a chance.”

“We need a spirit,” said the man lounging in the pillows.

“Is that all, Honam?” the leader said, spinning toward him. “Our machine that draws spirits needs a spirit to start, you say. What a useful observation.”

“Maybe that yoki-hijo will call one,” Honam said, taking a bite of his fruit. “We could grab it.”

“Have you seen her stacks?” said Sunjun. “The only thing she’ll be summoning in this town is an apology.”