Dreamstrider (15 page)

“And what makes you so sure?” Brandt asks. But I am a thousand leagues away from them. Professor Hesse, propped against the windowsill, moaning like a starving cat. How easy it would have been for him to neglect to reset the window latch. But for all his regrets, an accident somehow feels off. Had this newfound guilt truly eaten at him so? If he felt so ashamed of what he’d done, why was it only surfacing now? It doesn’t add up, but I’m missing too many pieces to see how.

“The professor appears to have been alone in his office for some time. The theosophy department’s secretary reported no visitors all morning, which rules out all but those wretched tunnelers that scurry around in the early hours,” the constable says. I sit up straighter; Brandt’s hand tightens around my own. I glance at our interlocking fingers, but remind myself that he’s only comforting me. “We found wax paper scraps coated with the Dreamless resin—Lullaby, as it’s known on the streets,” he continues, oblivious to the rage chafing under my skin. “Do you have any reason to believe the deceased wished to harm himself?”

Hesse’s guilt is not mine to tell, I think; but I need to know the truth. I look away from the deputy and take a deep breath. “He had some regrets about past research that had gone awry.” Brandt opens his mouth to interrupt me, but I know to stop there. Any information we give this constable on Hesse’s research has a good chance of being bought and sold.

The deputy nods and jots a note on his little folio. “Lullaby addicts are often haunted by regrets. If you’d seen what I’ve seen in the Dreamless Dens…”

He trails off, and I rankle with bitterness. I don’t need to imagine what he’s seen. I’ve seen it myself. The smell is as foul as any tunnel sewer; the Lullabied men and women roll around in their own excrement as they immerse themselves in endless dreamless slumber. As soon as they wake up, their limp, atrophied hands wave for an attendant to bring more resin so they can pass out again. And the men running the dens are every bit as foul: lieutenants for the various gangs who keep the tunnelers in their debt and their shady aristocrat partners over the barrel.

The constable clears his throat. “What about enemies? We can’t rule out the tunnelers who tended his office, though it appears no one had done a thorough cleaning for quite some time.”

I shake my head. “No. None I can think of. Before he … before he became so overwhelmed with grief…” I take a deep breath. “He was well-loved. He gave people opportunities they wouldn’t have otherwise had.”

“Very well. One final question, miss, then I’ll permit you to view the deceased.”

If he calls Hesse “the deceased” one more time, I may be forced to punch him. I manage a stiff nod.

“We also found this note buried in the stack of papers in his office. Someone else must have written it to Hesse; it doesn’t match any of the writing samples we found in Hesse’s office. It’s a bit threatening in nature, which concerns us, but again, there were no signs of a struggle, or of anyone entering or exiting the room.” The constable clears his throat and smooths out a bit of rumpled parchment before us, covered in a snarled, unfamiliar script.

I am forgotten but not lost.

Surrender the key before it’s too late.

I sink, forgetting there’s no chair to catch me; Brandt grips my arm firmly to keep me upright. “A
bit
threatening? You call that a
bit
threatening?” he says.

The constable’s mustache puffs in consternation. “Blackmailers and extortionists usually give their targets time to make good on their demands before offing them. In any case, we conducted a thorough search of Hesse’s office and home, but we found no keys, save those for his home and office. His home bore no signs of forced entry. The floors were covered in dust, as if Hesse had not been home in a long time—any footsteps would have been easy to spot.”

I nod, but I’m burning up inside. Who would want to threaten Hesse? And what key could they possibly mean? “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I know no more about it than you.”

The deputy closes his folio and opens the interrogation room door for us. “Let us know if anything comes to you later. Please, right this way.”

Our viewing is only half a viewing—Hesse’s entire right side is covered with a heavy black sheet, exposing only his left half, his one visible eye rolled back in despair. Though he’s tightly packed in a bin of ice at the center of the morgue, I can smell rot already settling in. My stomach twists. How can half this man appear so alive, just like the man who took me in, while the other half lies mangled beyond repair?

Brandt stays at my back, waiting for me to signal that I’m ready. His hands are folded behind him and his head is bowed. How I ache for him to embrace me now, to tell me that life will go on, that Hesse’s legacy will endure. That I’ll endure.

“He was … he’d started using Lullaby,” I tell Brandt, softly, out of earshot of the constables. “He was upset about things that had happened long ago. To the other people he had tried to train to dreamstride.”

Brandt swears under his breath. “Others?” He steps toward me; places a hand on my shoulder. I melt into his touch. “I didn’t know about any others.”

My jaw tightens like a screw. “Because they all died. Couldn’t get back to their bodies…” I close my eyes. “And Hesse had been prepared to lose me the same way.”

“No. No.” Brandt’s fingers uncurl from my shoulder and he rakes them through his hair. “How could he have done that? How could he have knowingly subjected you to that?”

But we both know the answer. I look away.

Brandt’s mouth works as he tries to pare out his thoughts. “Even so, it makes no sense. Why is it only troubling him now? Is it something to do with that note?”

“I don’t know,” I say, “but I’m not sure I trust those constables to find out.”

“Well, someone knows.” A darkness creeps into Brandt’s features, one I know all too well. The determination he dons when we’re up against a heinous criminal—murderers and pimps and the like. “And I’m going to find out.”

Brandt hires a coach to bring us back to the Ministry. The drumming rain on the coach’s roof and clatter of wheels over uneven cobbles swells to fill our silent cab. When we pull up to the Ministry gates, Brandt doesn’t move to climb out.

His hand finds mine in the darkened cab; our fingers lace together and cling tight. I wish I could keep this moment forever, the warmth of his bare hand against mine, the darkness concealing us from our obligations, from the roles we must play.

Brandt strokes his thumb along the ridge of my knuckles. “I’m sorry, Livia. Truly I am.”

“Then stay with me,” I whisper.

His face looks ashy against the sullen weather; shadows veil his gaze. His brow furrows, considering. But for too long, he doesn’t answer.

“You’re wanted back home. I understand.” I pull my hand from his. “Go.”

“You know I’ll do anything it takes to find out what happened. Don’t you?” He stares hard at me, intense as lightning. His fingers stay laced in mine. “Do you know that? I’d do anything for you.”

But I know he won’t do the one thing I want most—surrender his obligations as a son of House Strassbourg. Stay at the Ministry. Stay with me.

I say nothing, and turn and head inside the Ministry gates.

“Message for Silke, Miss Livia,” the clerk at the barracks entrance says, perching his glasses on his nose. “From the Farthing liaison. He’s asked you to meet him at the Crossed Heart tavern if you’ve a free moment this evening.”

The mere thought of forcing myself to be someone I’m not after all that’s happened today exhausts me. Part of me wants to curl up in bed and cry, mourn for Hesse, and feel sorry for myself. But then again, isn’t that the best part of playing a role? I needn’t be Livia any longer. I can shed Livia and her troubles and her loss, at least for a few hours.

“Thank you,” I tell the clerk, and head to my quarters to don my best Silke outfit, with my stiletto hidden in the pockets.

Marez is in the far corner of the Crossed Heart, a cleaner and smaller tavern than the ale hall I’d last met him in. He’s smiling and joking with the serving girl, but as I approach his grin broadens.

“Silke. So glad you could join me.” He beckons to the seat across from him at the cramped two-person table. “I hope I’m not keeping you from … whatever secretaries do in their free time.”

“Visit taverns, mostly.” I try on a wry grin for size, and rather like the way it fits. It patches over the ache inside of me.

Marez laughs and shoves a full mug of ale toward me. “Ahh, so you do have a sense of humor after all. I was starting to worry.” Then his smile dims, and he hunches forward over the table. “I’m afraid I don’t have any exciting news to share with you this time. I merely … wished to apologize.”

I curl my fingers around the mug’s handle and lean back in my chair. “For what?”

“For my behavior on our last—outing together.”

Marez tugs at a loose curl over his ear. Is this his “tell,” his indication he’s about to deceive me? Brandt taught me about tells during our missions in the gaming houses, but I was never any good at spotting them—I overthink the clues, falling into endless spirals of possibilities. Is it a tell, or simply a nervous tic? Is he feigning at one, or both? My head spins just contemplating it. Let me dreamstride any day; let a slumbering mind make these connections for me. This subtle art of spy work is far too intricate a spiderweb for my tastes. I feel as trapped as a fly.

“How do you mean?” I ask coolly.

“I confirmed afterward that no one came to harm in the chaos, but Kriza tells me you were upset about it, and you were absolutely right to be. I should have chosen a more subtle method of conducting our search, one that didn’t place any bystanders in danger.”

Something in his contrite face—soft lips, dark and downward gaze—reminds me that he’s not so much older than I am. Isn’t he allowed to make mistakes as well? To misjudge an operation, to mischaracterize a threat. Dreamer knows I’ve done the same. “Barstadters too often make the mistake of valuing some lives more than others,” I say. “I didn’t think you were like that.”

Marez winces. I’ve struck a nerve. “You’re right. I should have considered the threat not only to the ale hall patrons, but to the tunnelers and servers who could have been harmed as well.” He glances up, eyes gleaming like a puppy’s. “Am I forgiven?”

I hesitate a moment, then nod. “Apology accepted,” I say. “We all err from time to time. The important thing is that we learn from it, yes?”

He lets out his breath. “Precisely, my dear.” His finger traces a slow circle around the edge of his mug. “You aren’t like other Barstadters, you know.” He tilts his head. “Considering the well-being of others.”

I narrow my eyes. “The Dreamer teaches compassion for all living things—”

“Yes, yes, I know what the Dreamer
teaches
, but what his students learn is another matter. You think I haven’t heard about the tunneler protests, the fight over the Writ of Emancipation? It’s my job to know of these things.” He grins again. “Tell me, Silke. You’ve let me interpret your dreams for you. But I wager that I can intuit something about your waking life, too.”

“Can you, now?” I fight to keep my tone light—playful, even. But fear is scrabbling at my insides like an animal desperate to escape. What can Marez guess about me? How much does he really know?

He taps one finger against his lips as he looks me over—those eyes of his burning like coals. “Mm, yes. I’m sensing … that you weren’t always a secretary. You’ve risen up through the ranks, and feel you have something to prove. It’s why you strive so much to appear proper, like at the ale hall, when there’s no harm in enjoying yourself.”

I feel a sinkhole tugging me into myself, though I try to smile back at him. “I suppose that’s fair,” I say. “Though I’m enjoying myself now.”

He beams. “Well, that’s a relief! I’ll drink to that.” He takes another sip from his glass, then studies me once more. “In fact—bear with me here—I’m going to guess that you started out from a lower social class than the average Ministry employee. A store clerk’s daughter. Maybe even…” He lowers his voice. “A tunneler.”

The thrum of my pulse crowds out all other sound in the tavern. My mouth tastes like a furnace as I try to respond. “And if I were?” I finally manage to say.

Marez holds my gaze for a second longer, his smile not reaching his eyes. Then he softens and leans back in his seat. “Then I would say you must be very clever and talented indeed, to rise to your current rank.” He laughs to himself. “I would be very impressed—more so than I already am.”

“Than you already are?” I hear myself echoing. Surely he doesn’t mean it—that he wouldn’t regard my former life as a shameful mark. Even if I earn my citizenship papers, I know my peers in the Ministry can never forget where I’ve come from. They can never forget what I represent.

“Despite what Barstadt would have you think,” he says, “the only person who can tell you what you are worth is yourself.” The lamp overhead gutters, tossing his face briefly into shadow. “Not the Dreamer. Not your dreams. And certainly not some foolish aristocrat, passing judgment from the comfort of his lavish home. A home built and maintained by people far more skilled than he, I might add.”

“There’s more to Barstadt than our caste,” I say, but the words are like muscle memory. I say them from habit, not from my gut.

“Of course, dear Silke. Of course. But it’s a person’s talent that fascinates me. Not their upbringing. And in the interest of my not being a complete snob about all things Barstadt—” Marez gestures toward a nearby table, where a group of university students are playing an increasingly loud and alcoholic game of Stacks. “I was wondering if you might teach me how this bloody game is played.”

“What, you don’t play Stacks?” I laugh. The earlier line of conversation settles like sediment; I can’t completely forget the fear of discovery I felt as he questioned me, but I won’t forget, either, what he made me feel. That I am a person for where I stand now, and not for where I was born. “I thought you seafaring folk were the masters of gambling games.”