Dreamstrider

by Lindsay Smith

  Marez holds my gaze with an iron grip. I feel as if he could slice through my flimsy role in an instant, if he so wished; the prospect puts ice in my veins, even as my face heats from his stare.

  “That’s very astute of you,” Marez says at last, breaking the gaze. I slump forward as he turns to Durst, still playing with that curl. “I wonder if your secretary isn’t cut out for fieldwork herself someday. Or is it against imperial code to send women out as spies?”

  “We prefer to avoid subjecting our ladies to the dangers of fieldwork, except when absolutely necessary,” Durst replies.

  “That’s a pity. There’s so much more to our work than playing a harlot for a bit of pillow talk.” Kriza steps toward me and brushes my hair back from my shoulder. Dreamer, but these Farthingers are bold! “I expect you’re made of more steel than your minister would give you credit for.”

  I grit my teeth. “I’m perfectly happy with my duties as they are.” But Marez is smiling at me as if in approval, and warmth surges up my spine.

  “Your secretary is correct about the potential traitors within your city walls.” Marez turns back to Minister Durst. “We heard scattered reports indicating similar activity, though you must understand I cannot fully reveal how we came across this knowledge.”

  “Of course,” Durst says coolly.

  “Someone who owns a vessel in these docks”—Marez gestures at the map of the Central Realms on the wall, pinpointing an aristocratic harbor in our city’s bay—“has been making voyages to the Land of the Iron Winds. They take great pains to conceal their comings and goings, but our ships have tracked their route.”

  I risk a glance toward Brandt’s mirror, though I see only myself in it and the backs of the Farthingers. I’m certain he’s thinking the same thing I am. We can check the registry for the docks and compare it to the master list of House colors in the records hall. It’s tenuous, but if only one House decorates themselves in sapphire and silver and also docks their boats at the same harbor …

  Marez studies the map a moment more before turning back to us. “With your permission, Minister, we’d like to monitor the docks, probe the dockworkers, ask around at the provisioning shops to learn who might be behind these voyages to the Land.”

  “Of course,” the minister says, “provided you allow us to send a Barstadt representative to accompany you.”

  Marez’s gaze rakes over me again. “Why not your secretary?”

  “Perfect,” Minister Durst says. “As long as you don’t demand any work of a delicate nature from her.”

  “But, Minister—” I say before Kriza speaks over me.

  “And we’ve already met her, so you needn’t divulge the identities of any of your other operatives to us.” Her smile is toothy as a shark’s. “We’re in the same business as you, Minister. We understand how it works.”

  Minister Durst forces himself to return the smile. “Consider her to be at your disposal for the remainder of our agreement, unless my duties for her take precedence.”

  Marez turns toward me. “Meet us at the Crescent Docks at first light tomorrow morning, then, Miss … uh…”

  “Grundtag.” I grit out the word like sand between my teeth. “Silke Grundtag.”

  “Silke,” Marez repeats, and it certainly sounds as smooth as silk from him. “Well then. I suppose you lot have your work cut out for you, finding our traitors and planning to stop a war. We may have a good army, but we bow to your navy’s discipline, and at this time of year, our ships are too far to the north and east to recall in time.” Marez seems to be speaking only to me, his dark eyes skewering me in place. I duck my head—must play the unimportant secretary—and wait for Minister Durst.

  “What else can we do to accommodate your team?” the Minister asks.

  Kriza pipes up; through a loose curl of hair, I can tell that Marez is still focused on me. “We’ll send word back to the Confederate Council, of course. However, we’d like to work alongside your Ministry of War to counter the Commandant’s fleet. If we can foil the first step of their plan here, in Barstadt, then we can ensure the Commandant won’t press onward to Farthing.”

  “As you please. You know how to reach us if you learn anything more.” Minister Durst strides toward the door, far more eagerly than he ought, and holds it open for them.

  “Likewise,” Marez mutters. “Likewise.” He bends down to adjust a strap on his sea boots—then straightens, a fine-wrought stiletto nestled in his palm.

  Minister Durst yelps, dashing to the far side of his desk; I fall back, expecting Brandt to come charging out of the armoire. “What is the meaning of this?” Durst demands. “I asked you to surrender your weapons before—”

  “Oh, do relax.” Marez rolls his eyes; with a practiced twist of his wrist, the stiletto flips around so he’s holding it delicately by the blade, extending the hilt toward me. “You Barstadters are sure a jumpy lot. Come, Miss Grundtag.”

  I step toward him, padding softly, the way I used to approach the gang enforcers in the tunnels. Hands where they could see them. No sudden movements. Marez bobs the stiletto at me; I grip it with unsteady fingers.

  “To defend yourself—just in case,” he says. “The folks we’ll be surveilling tomorrow are rather unsavory sorts, and I’d like you to be prepared.” He smiles and bows low while backing toward the door, where Kriza’s waiting.

  But as I turn the blade over in my hands, I wonder whether the gangs and crooks at the docks are the ones I should really fear.

  Chapter Four

  I’m used to the abrupt silence that surrounds me in the Ministry’s living quarters, thick as weeds, but after all that’s happened in the past day, I’ve no patience for it. I have to prepare myself to deal with the Farthingers while the minister prepares us for a possible war. Yet I haven’t a clue how to work as myself in the field; maybe Brandt can help me with that. I snatch a bowl of stew from the mess hall and hurry away to meet him. Don’t give the other operatives a chance to meet my gaze; to question me or question the Ministry in silence for keeping me on after what I let happen to our informant during the Incident.

  But then I find myself wondering how it might feel to meet those looks. To conjure up the Farthing man’s penetrating stare, the one I’d been so certain could part through my own ruse. Marez seems like the sort of man to use flattery and intimidation in equal parts—whatever is required to claim what he wants. He flattered me with his questions, but they felt a little like a velvet leash, guiding me exactly where he wanted me to go. Then again, maybe I am trying too hard to play the clever spy; maybe I’m inventing conspiracies where none exist. I shake my head and keep my eyes down. I shouldn’t be so eager to prove my worth to the Farthing man—but for reasons I don’t quite understand, he seems to see potential in me.

  The warmth starts to leach away from the bowl of stew I carry. It isn’t the freshest meal, but it’s fathoms beyond the watery broth and rotted root cellar cullings we ate in the tunnels (when we were fortunate enough to eat at all). Where’s Brandt gone off to now? He usually joins me in the barracks parlor, but it’s empty save a tunneler dusting the bookshelves; I wander toward the men’s quarters next.

  Finally I hear Brandt’s distinctive laugh—round, unchained, and unabashed—and hasten my step. I turn the corner, ready to call out to him, but his back is to me, and he’s deep in conversation with the other young aristocratic men. “What was I to do?” he says through fits of laughter. “I couldn’t very well refuse the Empress her tea service, even if she had sneezed in it to rival a summer squall!”

  The other boys howl and clap him on the shoulder. “That reminds me of when my parents had me courting the House Addel daughter. She eats like she’s putting on a puppet show in her mouth…”

  I cross the corridor on silent, slippered feet. Brandt’s real life is one of chummy, wealthy friends and society balls and courting dinners and carefree country rides. His work with me is like a hobby. I know that—I feel it daily, chafing at me. How can I b
lame him for choosing his destined life over the Ministry’s work?

  Sora finishes her tasks later in the evening, and, perhaps taking pity on me, challenges me to a round of Stacks in the sitting room. The rest of the Ministry is silent now, concerned with preparations for repelling the Commandant’s fleet. But I’ve an early morning ahead of me, and if I’m to hold my own around the Farthingers, I’ll need my rest.

  *

  “What about that man?” I ask, squinting through the feeble morning light. “His load looks awfully heavy.”

  Marez follows my gaze across the Crescent Docks to where a man dressed in drab shades of gray and brown struggles to haul the contents of a horse cart onto a sleek single-masted flute. “Heavy, certainly. Enough provisions for a month at sea, if not more. But tell me, Silke, how far a journey do you think it is to the Land of the Iron Winds from here?”

  A day, if the Dreamer and the winds favor you—that’s how it was for Brandt’s and my mission.

  But instead I say, “A week, maybe, if the Dreamer favors? I don’t know much about sailing, apologies.” I twist one curl around my finger for added effect. I’ve seen Vera do it on missions before, when she wishes to play dumb, and it usually seems to work. Not that Vera would be thrilled to find me copying her techniques.

  Kriza snorts. “More like a day. Do you even know how to read a map—”

  But Marez silences her with a raised hand. “What does the Dreamer have to do with it?” His tone is light, but I sense darkness at its corners, like a dream threatening to twist into a nightmare. “None of the Farthing privateers pray to your Dreamer, and they sail the seas just fine.”

  “It’s just a saying.” I lean against the wooden railing that overlooks the docks. The Dreamer blessed me with dreamstriding, but sometimes I wonder if that was a lifetime’s cache of good fortune used up all at once. “The man could still be bound for the Iron Winds,” I continue, eager to change the subject. “If he means to sell some of his supplies—”

  But Marez won’t let it drop. “You Barstadters are a strange lot.” His mouth twists into something between a smile and sneer. “Your emperor’s always ready to act when it comes to gobbling up new islands to the west, but when it comes to taking responsibility for what you’ve wrought, it’s all, oh, the Dreamer wills this, the Dreamer wills that.”

  Anger flashes through me like grease on a flame. “If you’d rather not accept our help, then Farthing is welcome to stand against the Commandant alone. Have fun wrangling your bloody pirates into a unified navy—”

  He rumbles with full-bodied laughter. “Such righteousness! Kriza, I like this one.” A proper smile settles on his face; it rubs away the hardened edges, revealing a young man not much older than me. “And here I thought it was Farthing who was doing your empire the favor. But if you’d rather pray to your Dreamer to save you…”

  “The Dreamer rarely has a direct influence on our world. Instead, he encourages us and guides us through our dreams. It’s still our duty to act.” I pull my shawl tighter around my shoulders. “For instance, last night, I dreamed—”

  I clamp my mouth shut, realizing only too late that perhaps I shouldn’t be sharing my dreams with these foreigners who Minister Durst only trusts as far as he can toss them. But they’re both looking at me now, the vultures, faces positively glowing at the prospect of hearing more religious blather from a foolish Barstadter.

  Marez leans in close, propping his arms on the railing beside me. I catch a whiff of his clean leather gear and something spicy underneath it. “Do tell, little secretary. How is the Dreamer guiding you right now?”

  For the thousandth time this morning, I wish Brandt were here to tell me what to do. That I could’ve asked him for a primer last night in handling myself in the field. Something unsettles me about Marez, like he sees me as an experiment for him to poke and prod. Is it better to tell the truth now that I’ve brought it up, and risk exposing something of my real identity, or tell a lie to protect myself, and risk being caught lying? Brandt shared a real nightmare of his when we infiltrated the Dreamless den last summer—it worked well enough for him then. But that wasn’t for a long-term identity like this one is.

  I decide to opt for the truth, for now. “I dreamt I was standing in a great room—like an armory—and I had to select what to wear. Against one wall were elegant ball gowns, in every shade and style. Another wall, plated suits and leather armor and halberds and daggers and all manner of battle garb. Then on the third wall were the gauzy robes, like they wear at the Dreamer’s temples—the high priests. And—and the final wall—the rags and scraps like the tunnelers wear.”

  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 question steers my gaze 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 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 i
nto 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 Brandt’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.