Dreamstrider

by Lindsay Smith

  “Sorry,” I whisper. What else can I say?

  She nods. “Stay close. Follow me inside. Move like I move; step where I step.”

  I remain pinned against the wall while she busies herself prying the office window open. After a quick peek around the curtains, she shimmies through. Dreamer have mercy on my poor, misguided soul. I plunge in after her. I take care to place my feet only on the same floorboards she does as we move into the center of the office.

  Kriza throws open a massive leather-bound ledger on the manager’s desk and flips through it a page at a time, scanning each one briefly for indications of what Lady Twyne was using the fence for. I raise one eyebrow and await further orders. “Check the room for hidden compartments,” she says after a prolonged silence. “Walls, desks, drawers, floorboards … It’s all right to make noise, but be quick about it.”

  I nod like I know what she’s talking about and do my best to imitate Brandt and Vera whenever they search a room. I knock against walls, press on chair rails and crown moldings, tap on the floor. I’ve no idea what I’m listening for, but Kriza seems satisfied enough with my efforts to leave me be while she continues to pore over the manager’s records.

  “This looks promising,” I say. I swing open a hinged painting of the turbulent Itinerant Sea to reveal the front of an iron safe. Kriza glances up, tilts her head at it for a moment, then crinkles her nose.

  “You really are a secretary, aren’t you?” She smirks. “The ale hall’s manager likely makes regular payments to the many criminal groups in your fair city. He’ll only be keeping worthless Imperial notes in there. Any of the real proceeds—like those from his smuggling operations—will be hidden elsewhere.”

  “Imperial notes aren’t worthless,” I mutter, but I continue my quest. Fixed to the underside of the desk is a lewd sketch of a naked lady in what I’m quite certain is an anatomically impossible position. I drop it on the desk and shuffle a mass of papers over it.

  Kriza pulls a small notepad from her blouse—where she found space in her ale-wench clothes, I can only hazard a guess—and jots something down, but she offers up no clues, and I ask no questions.

  My foot catches on an uneven floorboard beneath the northern hand-woven tribal rug. I toss the rug back, and the floorboard pulls away cleanly in my hand.

  Kriza peers over the ledger at me. “Anything useful?”

  “Looks like a stash of papers.” I pull out a tightly rolled scroll and unfurl it. “A map. I’m not sure of where.” I sort through the stash. “A list of figures. They look like dates perhaps, and then some sort of shorthand … And what’s this?”

  A gem winks at me from the bottom of the hollow. It’s an amethyst, but a particularly ugly one, shot through with a milky crack and caked in grime. It warms my fingertips as I pick it up; maybe the hollow rests atop a gas line. I glance around the office, looking for gas lamps.

  “Let me see.” She shoves me out of the way and scoops up the contents of the concealed stash, scarcely glancing at the gemstone before wrapping it in a paper scrap. “I’ll ask your minister if there’s any significance.” She studies the roll of papers hidden beneath where the amethyst rested. “Mm. Shipping records. We’ll review these with your minister.” She stuffs them all down her shirt and nods at me—about all the approval I’ll get from her, I suppose. “Anything else?”

  I turn up some false citizenship papers (a poor job, really; I’ve worked the streets with Brandt enough to recognize bad fakes when I see them) and a stack of Imperial notes that must have been set aside in case a hasty escape was needed. I think for a moment about pocketing the bills. It’s only slightly more than the monthly pay the minister sets aside for my living expenses—I live in the barracks free of charge—but this kind of money would feed a family of tunnelers for the rest of their lives. It’s the kind of money that might, just might, buy them the type of citizenship papers that could actually pass for the real thing, opening the door to working in the ale halls, or the merchant shops, and maybe even renting a room in a tenement someday.

  My fingers twitch, thinking of the paltry savings I’ve set aside with Brandt’s creditor. This one stack of bills would nearly double it. I could easily buy my citizenship papers—no longer be owned by the Ministry. Or a lab rat that Hesse would have gladly sacrificed in his pursuit of greater knowledge and power.

  No. I wedge the floorboard back into place. These Farthingers may see no problems with their moral flexibility, but I have the Dreamer to answer to. I can’t stoop to theft, no matter what scum I’d be stealing from.

  Kriza finishes sifting through the ledgers and moves to a strange set of binoculars jutting out of the wall. “Pretty common invention back in Farthing—they show what’s happening down in the ale hall, thanks to an elaborate set of angled mirrors,” she explains, noting my expression. “Mm, looks like the riot’s still going strong, but I wager that pond-scum manager’ll be back up here to secure his money soon. Let’s be on our way.”

  I follow her out the window. The smell outside has changed sharply; instead of the distant chamber stink and the scent of hay from the stables next door, there’s something harsh and warm in the air. I pause, sniffing again. As I recognize the scent, my stomach drops.

  Fire.

  “Was burning down the ale hall always part of the plan?” I charge after Kriza as she effortlessly hops down to the alleyway below.

  She merely shrugs. “And why not? We’ve no more use for it. We found the information we needed. Now everything will burn, and they’ll have no idea that we even took the records.”

  I stomp after her through the narrow alley. “But all the people in there! Innocents—and the manager’s money, whether it goes to the crime rings or not—”

  “Innocents? Oh, please. An hour ago in the ale hall, you looked like you’d set fire to them yourself, given the chance.”

  “It’s one thing to be annoyed, quite another to risk their lives!”

  “I’m not sure you realize what is at stake here, little secretary.” Kriza stops at a junction in the alley and faces me with sharp, dangerous eyes. “Both our countries’ existences, our lives—everyone’s lives. If some poor drunkard can’t find his way to those gaping barn doors in time, then that’s a small price to pay.”

  “I’m not sure it’s for you to decide,” I say under my breath, but my words are lost in the crackle of catching flames.

  Chapter Eleven

  Barstadt City is riddled with temples to the Dreamer in every possible shape and style, from spires encased in solid gold, where the aristocrats cleanse themselves and pray, to makeshift huts wedged into alleyways. I only visited the latter as a tunneler, while aboveground Barstadt slept, and I still prefer them for their silence, their emptiness. It took only one trip to the Banhopf University temple with Professor Hesse to learn that the ostentatious, chatty temples where everyone splashes and babbles about their dreams all at once, as though they were comparing mansion décor, were not for me.

  My favorite temple is a small, windowless fort just off the main harbor, quiet as a crypt and almost as cold, where they pump seawater in for the cleansing pool. With the strange dreams I’ve been having, and my unsettling conversations with Professor Hesse and Marez, I need somewhere I can untangle those images without interference—just me and the Dreamer, like a soothing hand steering me along toward the right path. The pool’s salty tang flares my nostrils as soon as I step through the carved bronze doors into the dank sanctuary. A priest in training helps me into a loose white shift after I press a few coins into her palm, and another priest, a dream interpreter with an onyx eye set into his brow, approaches to offer his opinion on whatever dreams have visited me of late. But I cross my arms and bow to him—a polite decline. These eerie dreams are for me alone.

  Sometimes, the temple priests recognize me—the frequent trespasser on the sacred grounds of Oneiros. The strongest priests split their time between this world and Oneiros. They might work as Shapers, altering the dream
world to suit their needs and easing or interpreting their clients’ dreams, or they may serve as guardians ushering home the souls of lost dreamers who’ve slipped into the shared world. They once held Nightmare’s minions at bay and would do it gladly again. The priests’ work is noble. Sanctioned. The High Priest, who knows of Hesse’s work, resents my presence in Oneiros and questions whether it serves all of Barstadt.

  Fortunately, no one here today knows me for the intruder I am. No scoldings or resentful stares.

  Once barefoot, I slip into the reflecting pool. The water is cool, but not bitingly so; I stride farther into the pool as quickly as I dare until the water reaches my breasts and the white shift billows around me like a jellyfish. Waves slap against the granite sides of the pool. I close my eyes and focus on the sounds of water, on the whispers of candles guttering in their stands, as I recite an old nighttime prayer.

  Bury your fears, and bury them deep

  Where they shan’t find you while you sleep

  The Dreamer has locked the Nightmares away

  But only your hopes can keep them at bay.

  No one is safe from a lesser nightmare or a frightful dream, from replaying moments of regret or guilt or doubt while he or she sleeps. The Dreamer cannot save us from fear. All he can offer us is the assurance of glorious moments not yet lived.

  How many will never see their better dreams come true because they sought to dreamstride? Just how many died before Hesse found me? The cold water stings my skin, making it contract like scaled armor, but I welcome the pain.

  Dreamer. Why did you give me this gift? Why did so many others have to die where I was allowed to succeed?

  The water kisses my arms. The salty sea mingles with soft incense and the smell of damp stone. I sift through my jumbled thoughts for the Dreamer’s calm voice, the reassurances the priests claim to hear, but I do not find it.

  Sometimes I wonder if it is a curse that someone as insignificant as me should carry this great duty. But I want to serve the Empire. I want to serve you. What do you mean by these strange dreams? Are you only warning me of the endless trials I must face, or will you teach me how to pass them?

  The Commandant readies his army while Barstadt and Farthing join forces against him. The tunnelers struggle for emancipation. An aristocrat speaks of raising Nightmare from the dead. Professor Hesse warns of the grave cost of dreamstriding—one I’m not certain I can bear, now that I know of the deaths. And I, the sole dreamstrider, the Ministry’s dismal disappointment, pine for a boy I can never have and a freedom I can never earn.

  I wade deeper into the pool until the water reaches my chin. The Dreamer’s monolith stone rises before me, at the far end of the small pool. Carved into the rock above the water, the faceless Dreamer’s arms stretch wide; clouds swirl around him as he towers into the heavens, surrounded by fanciful images from dreams. Beneath the water’s surface, however, I can just make out the dark silhouette of inlaid onyx representing Nightmare. The Dreamer pins that winged reptilian beast underwater.

  The Nightmare Wastes once slurped up untethered souls to feed Nightmare, his black heart feasting on despair and surrender. With Nightmare vanquished, true nightmares prey most easily on only the most miserable spirits, who have allowed their dreams to become prisons of their own making. The burden of guilt and regret, the looming shadows of fear and anxiety, stitch together into frightful beasts while they sleep. They drive people to the Lullaby—even the mighty Professor Hesse.

  Show me how to serve you. Show me how to protect my Empire from the Commandant, and from Nightmare.

  “Livia.”

  I whirl around; the splash ricochets through the temple chamber. Brandt stands at the shallow end of the reflection pool. He’s never accompanied me to the temple before; he looks more out of place than the time we had to drag a Bootstraps lieutenant out of a brothel. I’m not ready to leave the pool, but something darkens Brandt’s soft gray eyes, and a warning trills down my spine. I cross my arms, bow to the monolith, and then wade out of the pool.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask. “How’d you know to find me here?”

  He hangs his head as I climb the steps. Candlelight bounces off the waves, tiling his face with squares of reflected light. “It’s a challenging time for you right now. You always come here whenever you’re troubled.”

  He’s right; usually, the Dreamer’s temples comfort me. So does talking with Brandt, but he’s been so busy of late with his other life … I cross my arms over my breasts, for modesty’s sake; the soaked white gown sticks to me.

  “I’m afraid I have bad news,” Brandt says, eyes flicking to my face for just a moment. “Professor Hesse … The constabulary found his body this morning.” Brandt hunches his shoulders. “I’m so sorry, Livia. I know what he meant to you.”

  My arms fall to my sides. I’ve searched all morning for the Dreamer’s Embrace, and now I ache for arms, any arms, to squeeze me until I stop shaking. My ears ring with the absence of sound. The temple grows darker as my vision narrows, as my ribs knit shut.

  Brandt steps toward me, arms raising, reaching for me. The embrace I craved. He wraps me in his warmth, but only for a second, and then he’s gone, hands jammed in his pockets and a guilty cast to his face.

  Foolish Livia. What more was I hoping for? I force my eyes shut and curl my hands into fists as my thoughts whirl out of control.

  How dare Hesse regret what he’d created, how dare he turn to Lullaby to ease the guilt? He bore the weight of the dead’s souls for so long—I don’t understand why they’d only begun to trouble him of late. Am I responsible for them, too? But the anger behind my thoughts only curdles into pain, a pain deep in my chest, where Professor Hesse should be. Maybe Hesse was a monster for experimenting on us. Even while he knew it might kill me, he allowed me to be something more than a tunneler. Something more than a piece of property the gang leaders could sell off, something neither seen nor heard unless it pleased the masters to take notice of me. He saved me from far worse work and gave me coin to silence my endless hunger.

  But I betrayed them for him. I left my mother to her stupor and the other tunnelers to their plight, changing only my fate, not the whole system that bound us so. The criminal system—that’s what Marez called it, and he was right. I took the golden platter of service to the Empire that he offered me and didn’t so much as glance back. How could I?

  I wander through the uncharted desert of my grief while I shiver and drip on the sacred temple floor. What more could I have done? What should I have left undone? What other secrets did Hesse try to chase from his mind with a smear of resin on his lips? Perhaps I should be crying, but even though I’m trembling, I can’t seem to shake a tear free.

  “I’m so sorry, Livia.” Brandt tucks a wet curl back behind my ear, and his hand lingers against my cheek. “I wish I knew what to do or say…”

  I look into those stone-dark eyes. All he needs to do is stay with me—not leave me, like Hesse, to fend for myself in the Ministry. But I can’t ask that of him. And he can’t give that to me. I lower my gaze.

  Brandt’s fingers curl against my cheek, and he lowers his face toward mine. The scent of cedar on his well-kept clothes and fire from a tended hearth cut through the chill that surrounds me. I imagine our mouths colliding. A rush of heat and flesh. For a moment, as his fingers tremble, I can almost believe he’s imagining it, too. Something to burn away this mournful cold. But then his jaw ripples with a loud swallow, and he leans away.

  “We’re expected at the constabulary near the university,” he says, jamming his hands back into his pockets. The relief is visible in the slope of his shoulders as he backs away. I must have imagined that warmth. He was only trying to give me comfort, and I poisoned it with my selfish needs. “The—the inspector has a few questions for you.”

  *

  Heavy autumn rain slashes the streets as Brandt and I turn the final corner to Banhopf University’s constabulary post. I’d started to warm up after the chill
of the cleansing pool, but now I’m soaked through. Brandt tugs his heavy tweed jacket up over his head and hugs me tight against him with his other arm so he can shield us both. Ordinarily, I would smile at him. I might even blush at his spicy scent, so close to me, and take comfort in our shared warmth. But I recognize the stiff suit Brandt wears beneath his coat, formal and fresh, the sort of thing he wears for his courting dinners at House Strassbourg.

  The constable’s deputy seats us, sopping wet, in a questioning room. “Aye, I’ve some questions for you, miss. You’ve been seen in the deceased’s company. But I can’t allow you to view the deceased unless you’re a family member.” He’s taller than some horses I’ve seen; his spike helmet scrapes the low ceiling, dusting his black velvet uniform with flecks of paint.

  “Not exactly,” I say slowly after looking to Brandt for reassurance. “He was—he was like a father to me.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to explain that a bit further, miss. I’m on strict orders only to show him to immediate family.”

  Strict orders, my arse, I think bitterly. I haven’t met a constable yet who can’t be convinced to blind-eye his duty for enough coin. A city doesn’t grow a gang culture as elaborate as ours without such corruption. Marez’s condemnation of Barstadt rings in my mind and rankles my blood. I hated him when he said it, but now I see that he’s absolutely right.

  “Hesse had no other family.” Despair frays my tone. I’ll not buy into the corruption if I can help it. “His wife died before I met him, and she never bore him any children…” I trail off, finding no shift in the deputy’s stony expression, and look to Brandt.

  “You say the Ministry’s overseeing this case?” Brandt asks, and the deputy nods. “Then consider us part of the case, as well.” He pulls a leather folio from inside his breast pocket and drops it onto the table between us. It bears the lacquered red symbol of the Ministry, flecked with enough gemstones to discourage most casual forgers. I glare at Brandt. It’s not safe for him to carry such a thing when we’re working a mission, obviously, and as a general rule, he should keep his association with the Ministry quiet. But I owe him my thanks.