Dreamstrider (7 page)

Marez chews at his lower lip, studying me with that stare like a spear. My cheeks start to burn; I made the wrong choice in telling them about my dream. Now that I’ve spoken it aloud, I can see plainly how the dream could be an allegory for dreamstriding—always donning different roles when I don others’ skin. But surely they don’t see it that way—to them it might just as easily be an allegory for spycraft.

“Well?” Kriza asks, impatience thinning her tone. “Which one did you choose?”

I glance back out across the docks. “I woke up before I could pick one.”

She makes a deep guttural sound. “Bloody Barstadters and their dreams.”

But Marez keeps watching me. I can feel the heat of his stare like I’m standing too close to a hearth. “Will you permit me to try my amateur hand at dream interpretation? Isn’t that what you Barstadters love to do?”

I grin in spite of myself. “One of our three claims to fame. Dreaming, politicking, and drinking ale.”

“Well, as I’ve no skill for the second and it’s too early for the last…” He laces his fingers together, then stretches them out, knuckles cracking, as if he’s preparing for a brawl. “I think you’re confronted with a choice. You’re stuck in a secretary’s role now, but there are so many other options available to you, though each brings with it a danger.”

“Not a bad first attempt,” I say.

He wags one finger at me. “Ah, but maybe the roles aren’t what they all seem. The fine dresses, for instance—you might think it’s entry into a life of balls and social calls, but you might find it as confining as the tunneler’s rags.”

My throat tightens; memories of life in the tunnels prick my thoughts. “Perhaps.”

“Or maybe—” Marez snaps his fingers. “Or maybe they’re actually all part of the same choice. Maybe you’re meant to be more than just a secretary to the Ministry—maybe you’re meant to be an operative for them, stealing secrets, advancing the empire, all that excitement. And these are some of the disguises available to you.”

“Or maybe you should leave the boring dreams to the Barstadters and pay attention to the docks,” Kriza says.

Marez grins like a boy whose hand’s been swatted away from the dessert tray. “Come now, I’m just having a bit of fun playing the devil’s advocate.” He tilts his head toward me. “I always forget. Do you Barstadters believe in a devil? Out in the western realms, they have a whole pantheon of them.”

An icy breeze whips around us, raking like nails across my exposed skin. His questions makes my stare drift toward the mountain peaks in the east; try as I might, I can’t help but look at the ancient bones strung across the high mountain ridge, the massive ribs on the mountainside curled like the rusted bars of a cage. The Nightmare Wastes’ words echo in my mind; soft as silk, they slither around me until they tighten into a knot. In my pocket, I let my fingers graze the hilt of the stiletto Marez gave me.

“No.” I shove off of the railing and turn away. “We believe in Nightmare.”

“Nightmare.” Marez snorts. “Are you certain your priests didn’t make up the story of Nightmare? Surely the bones on the mountainside are just that—bones of some ancient creature, long extinct. They’re only trying to scare you into behaving with the stories.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “They aren’t just stories. Nightmare tried to turn the real world into a Nightmare realm. He escaped the confines of the dreamworld and sowed chaos and destruction across Barstadt.” He’s a fool if he thinks Nightmare is only an old legend. I’ve felt the chill of the Wastes against the soul. I’ve heard their taunting words. But Marez strikes me far less as a fool, and more someone only too glad to play one for whatever purpose he requires.

The smirk on Marez’s face has faded, though; his eyes narrow as he looks back toward the mountainside. “Then how was he stopped?”

“The Dreamer reached through to our world and slew him. He shattered Nightmare’s heart, and scattered it to the far corners of the realms so he could never rise again.”

Marez falls silent for a moment. “Never is an awfully strong word,” he says at last.

Chapter Five

We find no further leads at the docks to indicate who amongst the aristocracy might be taking surreptitious voyages to the Land of the Iron Winds. It’s just as well; my mind is snagged on what Marez said about the roles in my dream not being what they seem, and I find myself impatient to finish up. Though the average Barstadter doesn’t yet know it, a war is coming, and I’m anxious to do whatever I can to help us fend off the Commandant’s force.

“Liv! Glad I caught you,” Brandt says, just as I’m returning to the Ministry. “Fancy a trip to Kruger’s?”

“I’m not much in the mood for pastries. I don’t suppose you had better luck looking up Houses in the archives?”

“No luck there, but I’ve got something even better. While we’re out, we’re going to meet with One-Eyed Freddy.”

Ever since Brandt, undercover, bailed Freddy out of a bad situation with the Bayside gang, Freddy has been one of Brand’s favorite informants. Showering someone with favors and attention until you can irrevocably trap them in your debt is a trick straight from Brandt’s rules of spycraft. The fourth rule: anyone you could describe as “your newest and dearest friend” is anything but.

Still, it’s not such a bad arrangement for Freddy. He used to be addicted to Lullaby—a nasty resin used in many of the tunnel gangs’ Dreamless dens. It induces sleep free of dreams, both good and bad, thereby sealing the mind against the Dreamer’s nightly messages. But it perforates the brain all the while, until the users are nothing but a lacework of their former selves. It might shush whatever nightmares haunt their sleep, but it smothers everything else about them, as well.

I’ve seen the Lullaby addicts before, scattered through the darkest parts of the tunnels. My mother used it quite often. The Dreamless, they’re called—they collapse in filthy cots and Lullaby themselves into interminable stretches of slumber, neither living nor dreaming. Nightmares prey, not on blood or flesh, but on joy, on dreams of a better tomorrow. The Emperor outlawed the resin years ago; the Dreamer’s priests swear its use is the greatest possible sin. Better to turn to the pricey services of the temple Shapers, who can tug the threads of one’s dreams according to the Dreamer’s will (so they claim) and keep them from upsetting the recipient. But the impoverished Lullaby users are far beyond caring about the law, or the Dreamer. All they want is to shut out the world both inside their heads and out. They just long to forget.

The heady rush of sugar in the air at Kruger’s Pastry Shop is enough to make me forget about traitors and resin and wars for just a few minutes. As soon as we depart with our paper sacks crammed with confections and make our way to the meeting point, Brandt’s positively skipping up and down the winding streets of Barstadt City beside me. Normally, I’d worry he’d draw attention to us, but what’s the harm? The only souls we pass are merchants, and the occasional social aspirant with a gem or two set in the center of her brow. They pay us no mind.

“What has you in such a fine mood?” I ask. “Something Freddy has for us?”

“What, you don’t want it to be a surprise?” He throws an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close, until a gentleman passing us on the sidewalk squints and frowns at us for our impropriety. We share a guilty grin and pull apart; Brandt makes an exaggerated show of tugging down his frock coat like a proper aristocrat. But it’s this Brandt I cherish the most—the clever spy and carefree overgrown boy, not the duty-bound blueblood fumbling to put up a respectable fa
ç
ade that never fits him quite right.

“All right, fine. I know who our traitor is,” Brandt says, under his breath. I widen my eyes, but he hurries to correct himself. “Rather, I’ve narrowed it down to two choices. Five major Houses have blue and silver livery, but only two of them own any craft capable of making the voyage across the strait.”

“That’s splendid!” I exclaim, but we’ve reached the alleyway, and someone hisses at us from the nearby alley’s mouth. Brandt does a quick scan of the street to ensure no one’s watching us, then we slip into the shadows of the alley.

“Freddy!” Brandt fishes a sweet roll out of his bag. “How about a treat for my favorite songbird?”

“Shh, shh, keep it down!” Freddy rubs at his empty eye socket while his good eye watches the street. “I looked into the two Houses you named in your message.”

“And?” Brandt asks, biting into his roll.

Freddy squints at us. “They both got ties to the gangs. No surprise there. But House Twyne, trust me, you don’t wanna mess with them. They deal with the Stargazers and plenty of other nasty sorts besides.” Freddy cringes. “I wouldn’t cross any business partner of theirs, personally. The Stargazer boss is a madman, blood-crazed. I heard he ate his own lieutenant once for betraying him—made an example of him. Serious bad news.”

I look away, shame calcifying inside me. Brandt and I know the frightful vengeance of the Stargazer boss all too well, but Brandt keeps his expression loose. “Sounds like a dumb story the Stargazers themselves made up. You can’t believe everything you hear, Freddy. Good thing you got friends like us watching out for you.”

Freddy crinkles his nose. “Sure. You’re a real pal. I risk my neck for you—”

“House Twyne,” Brandt says, steering him back. “Suppose someone wanted a closer look at their records. Something that might prove they’re tangled up with the Stargazers.”

Freddy shrugs. “Okay, it’s your skin. Your best bet is probably inside Twyne Manor itself—the Lady doesn’t trust the banks, keeps all her accountants on retainer. She’s got some fancy ball comin’ up—masquerade for the Summer’s Retreat. She’s not hirin’ any tunnelers to work it, though, so good luck getting inside without an invitation.”

“I’m sure we’ll manage.” Brandt stretches, exaggerated, a cascade of coins tinkling somewhere inside his clothing. “Well, Freddy, I wish I could say you’ve been helpful, but—”

“Wait, wait.” Freddy grips Brandt’s wrist. “I—I heard a rumor this morning that Jorn the Destroyer was lurkin’ around the Crescent Docks. Is it true?” Freddy stares hard at us. “Jornisander’s working for the Ministry?”

I exchange a glance with Brandt. The Minister assigned Jorn to shadow me with the Farthingers, but only as long as he took his usual precautions to disguise himself. If his former gang, the Stargazers, caught wind of him so close to their tunnels …

Brandt shrugs and takes another bite of pastry. “Would you want me telling whoever asks that you’re working for us?”

“Come on, don’t be that way.” Freddy looks from Brandt to me, but we keep our faces neutral. “Look. You didn’t hear it from me, but…” Freddy sighs. “Not everyone thinks Jorn’s a stool pigeon, despite what the Stargazers say. And I’m not just saying it ’cause I’m one myself. Some folks think he did a lot of good. He really put some fear in the big bosses.”

I rock back on my heels. Jorn had tried to organize the tunnelers to fight for the Writ of Emancipation before, though the Incident, and my failure, unraveled his efforts. “And some folks think Jorn’s methods were no better than the bosses,’” Brandt says. “What’s your point?”

Freddy glances toward the alley’s mouth. “My point is … Jorn or no, the Destroyers are carrying on with what he started, and depending how this whole Writ of Emancipation vote goes, they may be about to get a lot louder.”

Sora had hinted as much, too. As if the Commandant weren’t enough of a threat to Barstadt’s peace, the tunnelers are threatening an uprising, as well. Brandt grins and tosses Freddy the coinpurse. “Now, that’s the sort of gossip I need from you. Keep me posted, will you?”

“Will do,” Freddy says, and checks the alley’s mouth again. “I gotta scramble. Looks like the constables are making another sweep.”

Sure enough, as soon as Brandt and I step back onto the boulevard, a constable approaches us and signals for us to display our citizenship papers. Brandt flips his open with the well-practiced ease of an aristocrat, but I have to dig around in my pockets for a bit to find the weathered temporary papers the Ministry issued me several years ago. Just a scrap with a seal and a signature—all that separates me from the tunneler life I once knew.

Once we’re safely away from Kruger’s bakery and One-Eyed Freddy, I glance at Brandt. “So some of Jorn’s old Destroyer compatriots are still fighting for the Writ?” I ask. “Do you think it stands a chance after all?”

Brandt presses his lips into a thin line. “As much as I’d like to think so, I’m afraid the Stargazers have shattered the Destroyers’ movement. Tunnelers rely on the gangs too much to oppose them effectively, and even if they could stand up to them, why would Lord Alizard pay them any mind? There are too many crooked aristocrats.”

“Like Lady Twyne. Do you think she’s our traitor? What should we do next?”

“I’ll speak to Edina about piecing together a mission plan and present it to the Minister. I say we infiltrate that party at Twyne Manor and see what muck we can rake—unless your new Farthinger friends have a better idea.” He rolls his eyes. “Dreamer bless, that Marez is mighty full of himself, isn’t he?”

I keep my gaze squarely on the cobblestones surging upward before us. “Nothing wrong with that, if he’s earned it.”

“We’ll see how good their information shakes out to be.” Brandt clicks his teeth. “I’m still not pleased that Durst has you working with them. If they ever suspect what you’re capable of—”

“Trust me.” I snort. “They’ve nothing but contempt for dreams.” Kriza, anyway. Marez was intrigued this morning, but I feel like keeping that to myself. “I’m being careful.”

Brandt scans the street—the quiet merchant houses ahead of us, and the crowded market behind, the traders’ patter ringing out. “I know you are. That Marez may be full of himself, but you know, he may have a good point about you.”

“What? About me making a good field operative?” I scoff and look away, though I feel my cheeks heating, recalling the way his gaze seemed to seize me up by the collar and refuse to let me go. “I don’t know. I think maybe he is just … testing me, something of the sort. You of all people should know—”