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 blue blood fumbling to put up a respectable façade 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 coin purse. “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 so many 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 wro
ng 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’s just … testing me, something of the sort. You of all people should know—”
“He’s right about your instincts. You haven’t been properly trained, is all. I can talk to Minister Durst about it, see if we can’t arrange for some basic operative training for you.” Brandt smiles, crooked and genuine. “I know you’ll catch on quickly.”
We come to the end of the residential row, passing a steep bridge that crosses into a pocket of municipal buildings—a constabulary, an office for the Ministry of Colonial Management, and, unlabeled and unknown to most Barstadters, the Ministry of Affairs. But my thoughts run to the tunnel entrance far beneath the bridge, just one of the dozens of networks that criss-cross the earth below Barstadt City proper. Brandt may think I can learn, but Durst still holds my temporary citizenship papers. He’s trusting me to keep an eye on the Farthingers now, but one more mistake, and he will cast me back to the tunnels for good.
“I’m not sure we have time for training,” I say, steering myself away from that unpleasant line of thought. “I’m sure the Farthingers will give me ample practice in the field.”
“Make a game of it, then,” Brandt says with a grin. “They’re here to protect Farthing, but I’ve no doubt they intend to gather some information on Barstadt in the process. See what they’re a little too interested in.”
“Aye, Professor.” I nudge him with a grin of my own.
We reach the heavily guarded entrance to the barracks, fenced in by a prickly wrought iron gate. I march up to the guardsman, who knows us both so well by now that we rarely have to produce our papers, but Brandt lingers back.
“Well?” I ask Brandt. “I think we’re overdue for another Stacks tournament. I’ll wager you for your spare pinwheel there.” I gesture toward his bag of pastries.
But then Brandt, my best friend, fades away; what he becomes instead is the aristocrat Brandt. From the tight skin around his eyes and the weary quirk at one corner of his lips, I can see it’s his least favorite role. He looks away from me while he talks, as if he’s reciting something he’s rehearsed. “Actually, I’m staying at my family’s estate tonight. We’re having guests for dinner.”
I arch one brow. “Ones you’re not fond of, I take it.”
He takes a deep breath. “It’s another potential marriage contract.” He says it so quickly it takes me a few moments to parse out his words. “Father’s not going to take no for an answer much longer. The dowries are too large, and the families involved, too influential.”
I don’t hear the rest of his words, because I am a little girl curled up in a remote alcove of the tunnels, her fist clenched around a tithe that could save her life if she’s found. But she only wants the echoing silence of her deep-earth home. Silence too loud to permit footsteps or running water or painful words to break it apart. The silence of true loneliness—of true independence, where trusting no one and feeling nothing is the only way to never get hurt.
“Oh,” I hear myself say, as if I’m my own dreamstriding victim, speaking from my subconscious. Then, before I can stop myself, “Who is she?”
That seems to ease some of the tension from Brandt; his shoulders slump again and he musters a weak smile. “Edina Alizard.”
The blood drains from my face. Of course it would be Edina—clever, kind Edina, who keeps the Ministry’s operations running smoothly and treats everyone like an old friend.
“She’s a good person, Liv. I like that we already know each other—if you could have seen the awkward dinners I’ve had to sit through with other prospects…” He tries to laugh, but stops himself, and frowns instead. “It helps that she works for the Ministry—she understands the truth of my work, and I don’t have to lie. I like that she has ambitions of her own, too. Most of the girls my father’s picked are the sort who frump about the Cloister of Roses, gossiping and visiting the dress shops.”
Yes, Edina is perfectly charming, witty, and amiable—all the things I’m not. Though all she really needs to satisfy Brandt’s father is aristocratic blood. My jealousy is a thorny thing, scratching at my skin from inside.
I always knew this day would come; I can’t keep my dearest friend forever. And that’s all he is to me, I remind myself sternly—my partner, my accomplice, my best friend. He can never be anything more.
“What about her father?” I ask. The words come too easily, spilling out of me like loose grain. “One of the dirtiest aristocrats of them all.”
Brandt winces, pastry bag crumpling in his fist. “Yes, yes, I’m aware…”
But those thorns are scratching, scratching. “I mean, if you think it’s wise to spend time around someone who’d happily toss you to the wolves if he knew the real nature of your work—”
“Livia!” Brandt cries. “I know what her father’s like. She does, too. Obviously she doesn’t agree with his deeds, or she wouldn’t be working for the Ministry, trying to undo the harm her father’s criminal friends cause. But we can’t just change the very fabric of Barstadt society. The Houses have to marry, alliances must be forged, the Empire must carry on. We…” He hesitates. “We all have our roles to play.” Brant’s gaze reels out, casting somewhere far beyond me. “If I have to marry to fulfill my duties to House Strassbourg, then better I wed someone who understands me, who shares my passion for serving Barstadt.”
What does that matter? I want to scream at him. He’s already promised his father—once he weds, he’ll quit the Ministry and take his place managing House Strassbourg’s affairs. And then he’ll be expected to produce heirs, and attend the Imperial Court … That’s the way with aristocrats and their obligations. As soon as one’s met—as soon as one knot’s untied—two more pull tight.
I shift my weight, bag of pastries hanging limp at my side. “Well … have a lovely night,” I finally say.
“You too, Liv.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and heads off.
I look back toward the guard station, but as I try to imagine the evening that awaits me—dinner alone in my room, reading in the records room or the library, staring wistfully out the window while I avoid the other operatives’ sour looks—I can’t bring myself to walk through the gates. The sunlight will last for a few hours more. I check my bag of pastries—still a few honeycakes left, Professor Hesse’s favorite—and set off toward the university. If I can’t do anything more to protect the waking world from the coming war, then maybe I can look to the dreaming one.
Banhopf University looms in the backdrop of the municipal district, its muted tile buildings crammed every which way on the hillside. Though Barstadt buildings already tend toward the tall and narrow, the university takes the style to new extremes—each subject of study has its own tower, thrusting skyward like a beacon of knowledge and power (according to the professors) or like a gauntlet of interminable staircases (to the tunnelers who must clean the place).
I once called Banhopf home, but that’s too misleading—it was my home like a mansion might be home to a rat. At night, while tending to my cleaning duties, I watched, and I fettered away crumbs; I scrubbed and dusted and mopped and fetched professors their food; but when the candelabras were lit and the
classrooms filled, my job was to scurry into the labyrinth of tunnels underground and not interfere with Banhopf’s lofty pursuits.
But I belong on these manicured lawns now, striding with confidence in a lady’s dress, not hunchbacked in a corridor after hours, scrubbing marble until it glints with my dour reflection. The scholars glance at me sideways, but they’re deep in discussions of philosophy or math or dream interpretation with their peers, all of them flapping about in black velvet robes like flightless birds. I keep my shoulders tossed back. I belong.
Rather than mount the trek toward Hesse’s office high up in the Theosophy Tower, I decide to check his laboratory first, where he conducts all his experiments, blending his religious scholarship and research with the latest advances in modern scientific knowledge. More often than not, this means training priests of the Dreamer in accessing Oneiros and shaping the dreamworld and dreams. Sometimes, though, Hesse’s mad hypotheses about the interplay of body, soul, and dreams results in something like dreamstriding. A scientifically sound theory just waiting for someone like me to come along and prove it true.
As I weave through the honeycomb corridors, I pass a young boy polishing the marble flooring, his hands and knees knobby and red from the effort. I reach into the bag of pastries and fish out a tartlet, then set it atop the nearest bookshelf. I remember the rules. The cleaning boy could lose his job if anyone saw me give it to him directly.
I slip into the back of Hesse’s laboratory, but I needn’t have worried about disturbing a lecture; Hesse and two students are out cold in their cots. The sounds of Hesse’s snores crowd out any other possible noise. I find the timepiece Hesse uses for his exercises—they’ve still some twenty minutes left in Oneiros. My muscles itch; it feels strange to be surrounded by people lost in Oneiros and just stand by. Both of the students look like typical Banhopf boys, soft-muscled, well-dressed, and without the ashy complexion of a sun-starved tunneler; both show the beginnings of jewel markings set into their foreheads and cheeks. More than likely, they’re seeking either priesthood or a fancy scroll with the Banhopf University imprint to hang in their mansion.
Dreamstrider Page 6
