Dreamstrider (5 page)

Sora’s gaze drops away from mine. She’s only a sliver of a girl, her hair the color of a candle’s flame and as flimsy to boot. She hasn’t the strength to deceive, I think, and that bodes poorly for any tunneler. “N-no, miss. They’re all right.”

“Please don’t lie to me. What is it, tithes? Here—this should more than cover you for the month.” I scoot a jewelry box stuffed with trinkets toward her.

“Oh, Miss Livia, I couldn’t possibly—”

“Nonsense. Keep the tunnel bullies at bay, and soon enough, we’ll get you proper papers, all right?”

She smiles; even at fourteen, her doe lashes and fine bones mark her as easy tunnel prey. I see too much of my former emaciated self in her. If I can help even one tunneler escape as I did, then I’ll have served the Dreamer well.

“I’ll do my best, miss.”

Edina Alizard pokes her head into my room, her dark curls pinned up and draped so that they perfectly frame her deep brown face. I notice Sora tensing at the sight of her. “Ah! Miss Livia! You’re back. I’ll take that to mean my assets in the Land of the Iron Winds did their jobs.”

“They smuggled us right to the Citadel’s front door with no trouble at all.” It was what happened in Oneiros that has me shaken. “Thank you for that.”

Edina smiles warmly. I want to believe Edina actually likes me, but she’s the sort of person who can find virtue in even the most savage gang enforcer. “Do you know if Brandt’s around?” she asks.

“He is, but we’re meeting with the Minister shortly. Shall I give him a message?”

She tilts her head, contemplating, then shakes it. “Not to worry, I’ll catch him later. Best of luck with the Minister.”

Sora shakes her head, watching Edina depart. “I’ll never understand how as nice a girl as her could have such a wretched father. The Writ of Emancipation went up for a vote again yesterday.” Her lip curls back.

I pause, hairbrush stuck in a knot of my curls. For years, the aristocrats’ council has contemplated a number of writs designed at granting full citizenship to the tunnelers. And for just as many years, they’ve found countless reasons not to grant them. “I wager it didn’t pass.”

Sora makes a retching sound deep in her throat. “All thanks to Lord Alizard.”

“Of course he’s going to block it,” I say. “Look at all the money he makes, keeping the gangs in his back pockets. His livelihood depends on keeping the tunnelers out of proper society.”

“It’s just not fair. Hardly anyone manages to escape.” She crosses her arms. “Some of the tunnelers over in the Bayside branch are talking about storming the next aristocrats’ convention. Force them to look at us, hear us out.”

My heart twists for her—for all the tunnelers. I can barely make use of the gift that allowed me to leave the tunnels. But I can’t admit that to her. “Be careful. You don’t want to jeopardize your work with the Ministry.”

“Nonsense. My friend says we have to rub their noses in the truth of us, of what they’ve done to us. That even if we don’t go as far as the Destroyers did, we can’t stay quiet.” She shakes her head. “I—I’m sorry, Miss Livia. I don’t mean to get you in trouble by talking this way.”

I grip her hand and give it a sharp squeeze. “No, Sora. I’m only sorry that I can’t be of more help. If there were anything I could do to help you get your citizenship papers—”

“Sure. I know you’d help me if you could. But don’t worry. I’ve got…” I watch her chew at her lip through the mirror. “Options.” She drops into a curtsey. “I’ll send word to the Minister you’re on your way.”

Fear pricks at me like frost, but I force myself to my feet. Like when Brandt and I cross the threshold into the heart of an operation: the only way out is through. I pray for the Dreamer to make me strong for whatever lies ahead.

The Minister of Affairs, Petran Durst, is a wiry man, his hair ashy against ruddy, high cheeks and his goatee pinched to a point from years of stroking it while in deep thought. He’s already pacing his office when Brandt and I enter; he looks up at us as if he can’t remember who we are for a moment before finding his composure.

“Brandt. Livia.” If any of his fury at me has returned, he’s hiding it well. “I need your report on the Iron Winds right away. It may aid us with another issue that’s arisen.”

“Yes, sir. The situation with the Land of the Iron Winds is worse than we feared.” I take a deep breath. “The Commandant is planning to invade through the harbor, and we think Barstadt aristocrats are helping him from within the city.”

Brandt steps forward. “We’ll write a full report with the battle plan details tonight, but we need to act now. Alert the Emperor and the Admiralty. They’re planning a direct attack on Barstadt City. And the Commandant seems to be building toward some sort of new … weaponry.”

“A direct attack? And a new weapon to empower them?” He blinks a few times, like clearing something away. “I—yes. I’ll need all the details, but your full report will have to wait. I need Livia to—”

“Wait?” Brandt cries. “Beg pardon, Minister, but Barstadt City is in imminent danger. I’m not sure what could possibly trump that.”

“A delegation from Farthing’s secret police is here,” the Minister says, his tone bladed. “The Emperor just authorized an information-sharing agreement with the Farthing Confederacy. It would seem we aren’t the only ones concerned about the Commandant’s recent aggression. Several Farthing ships have been chased through the straits by well-armed Iron Winds naval vessels. The Farthing Confederacy is spooked, and they don’t scare easily. They’ve decided to offer us their wealth of intelligence in exchange for Barstadt’s superior naval protection, should the Commandant attack either of our nations. Which sounds very likely, based on your report.”

Farthing, willing to share intelligence with Barstadt? The Barstadt Empire’s relationship with Farthing has always been a tenuous one, which I suppose is the best that can be hoped for when dealing with a nation of pirates, privateers, and merchants known for their ruthlessness. We don’t try to absorb them into our Empire, and they mostly leave our ships alone, turning their efforts to the north and east in the Farthing Sea to pick over the Eastern Realms’ ships instead. But I suppose the threat of invasion by the Commandant’s overwhelming numbers is enough to make them swallow their isolationist pride. Their military is skilled, but unequipped to repel the sheer number of the Commandant’s forces.

“The Emperor’s already agreed to their terms,” Durst says, “and your information only adds to the urgency. The Minister of War is making all the necessary preparations to shield both our nations from an attack.” Durst holds up his hands. “But I need someone working with the Farthing envoys to ensure they give us their full cooperation—and that we don’t give them any more information than we absolutely must.”

Brandt looks at me. With that darkness in his eyes, I fear I know what he’s about to say. “Do they know about Livia’s … ability?”

A chilly perspiration plasters my dress to my skin. Alliance or not, I don’t want anyone else to know about dreamstriding.

Durst puffs out his cheeks, the shadows under his eyes dark as bruises. “Not to our knowledge, no.” He swallows, and the apple in his throat bobs anxiously. “But the Farthingers are a wily bunch. I personally only trust them as far as I can toss them.”

I nod. Some tunnelers used to speak of the Farthing Confederacy like a fairytale land, an idyll world far from the rigid hierarchy of Barstadt, populated by pirates and entrepreneurs. With enough wits, Farthingers may scrabble their way into wealth for a time, but there’s always another waiting to scrabble over them.

Minister Durst clasps his hands together. “We haven’t much time to waste if we’re to foil the Commandant, so I’ve asked the Farthingers to meet with us now for an initial debriefing. After they are occupied, we can set to work stopping the Commandant’s plans.”

Brandt ruffles the fringe of soft hair that hangs over his brows. “But who will act as our representative? You’re not going to reveal our identities to them, are you?”

Minister Durst wrings his hands like he’s trying to scrub something from them. “Yes, as for that…” He glances at me. “I can’t risk exposing both of you as Ministry operatives to the Farthing team, so only one of you will serve as our official representative through all of this.”

Brandt steps forward, fire in his eyes. “Let it be me, then. We have to keep Livia secret.”

I shake my head. “Brandt’s the better operative—we have to preserve his identity. Besides, any time I work in the field, I’m not actually me. It’d make more sense for them to work with me, and not find out what you look like.”

Brandt’s expression darkens. “Livia, please. These people aren’t our friends, even if they are our allies. If they were to learn the truth about you—”

“No, Livia is absolutely correct,” Minister Durst says. “If they know Livia’s appearance, it won’t hinder her missions. But if they know what you look like, Master Strassbourg, all your future missions will be compromised. Who knows what the future may bring—our current alliance with Farthing is never a guarantee.” Again, he looks at me, but his gaze is reluctant, and I know he’s only picking the lesser of two poor choices. “I can’t take that risk.”

“With all due respect, Minister—Livia’s far more important to the Ministry than I, and she’s never had proper field training. And if anything were to happen to her—”

“Yes, Master Strassbourg, that’s why I’m assigning you and Jornisander to shadow her meetings with the Farthingers from afar. Will that allay your fears?”

Of course, the future may also bring a better-trained dreamstrider than I to the Ministry. Hesse is always searching for another, and when he finds one, what use will my clumsy attempts be? I see this hope in the Minister’s razor-thin smile. Despite my gift, I could still be replaced.

Brandt eases back on his heels, though the muscles in his neck are still taut. “It’s something, yes.”

I relax somewhat, too. Jorn the Destroyer started his career in the tunnels as Stargazer gang muscle, but since he joined the Ministry, he’s proven himself an invaluable asset. He knows how to work connections throughout the tunnels and the gangs, and his days in the tunnel brawling rings certainly proved his skill at breaking noses in new and interesting ways, should the occasion require.

“Glad to hear it.” The Minister’s gaze casts about his office. “Brandt, you’re welcome to watch our meeting from the observation room.”

“As you wish, Minister.” Brandt pries open the door to what I thought was an ordinary armoire in one corner of the Minister’s office and disappears in a flurry of coats.

“It’s a trick looking glass,” Minister Durst says, pointing to the gilded mirror on the wall beside the armoire. “Brandt can see us, but we can’t see him. I have a little study set up back there so he can take notes.”

I glance toward the glass and give Brandt a feeble smile.

“Livia, you’ll be posing as one of my secretaries for the duration of this alliance. Silke Grundtag—that’s your name now.”

I wrinkle my nose at the awful pseudonym. “Yes, Minister.” I check my pale yellow gown, flocked with burgundy roses hedged by soft blue stripes. It should suffice for the role of secretary, though I’ve none of Brandt’s skills at subterfuge.

“Excellent. Don’t attest to first-hand knowledge of anything they ask you about—just claim you’ve read it in our operatives’ reports. And if you have any doubt whatsoever as to whether you should share something, wait for me to say it first.”

My first time portraying myself, instead of someone else. I glance toward the mirror. Everything in me screams that I’m not ready for this new venture, that it’s another opportunity to fail, but my country needs me. The Dreamer must have seen something in me worth my gift. I’ll try to believe it, too.

Minister Durst yanks a velvet rope along the wall beside his desk and a bell rings deep within the Ministry’s bowels. After a few moments, a set of doors swing open, and Durst’s head secretary ushers in a man and a woman in brazen garb.

The woman wears leather breeches, leather boots, even a leather girder over her black silk tunic. Two empty holsters hang at either side of her hips, most likely one for a dagger and the other for a revolver; she must have surrendered her weapons when she entered the Ministry. Curling hair an unnatural shade of scarlet drapes her face, hanging down past her not insubstantial breasts. Like most Farthingers, her skin is amber and dusty from a life lived beneath pine trees and winter clouds and overcast seas. Barstadt weather is only somewhat milder, but our skin is much darker and earthier.

The man is only a few years older than I am, but he carries himself with the bravado of Brandt’s most arrogant personae. His well-muscled ribcage is hoisted high; his dark eyes sparkle beneath curly raven locks, mussed as if he’s just stepped off a Farthing flotilla. I’m not nearly as quick at reading people as Brandt is, but he instantly strikes me as the sort of man who thinks himself three steps ahead of anyone he encounters.

“A pleasure, Minister Durst,” the man says, jabbing his hand toward the minister to shake, though the motion is as forceful as a punch. “I’m Marez Tanin, and this is my associate, Kriza Avard.”

Kriza inclines her head toward the minister as he and Marez shake. I keep my hands folded behind my back and my face lowered like a good, obeisant little secretary. If the minister chooses not to introduce me, all the better.

“Please,” the minister says, “have a seat. May I offer you drinks?” He strides toward a polished array of bottles and tumblers near his desk, but Marez and Kriza shake their heads and continue to stand, legs spread in Vs and arms behind their backs. Their faces tilt upward, defiant, proud. “Very well, don’t mind me.” The minister pours himself two thumbs from his favorite bottle of brandy.

“You do not ask your secretary to fetch your drinks for you?” Kriza asks, eyeing me sideways. I suppress a grimace. Have I already spoiled our ruse?

“My secretary has other matters to attend to,” Minister Durst says coolly. I can see he’s flustered, too, in the heat rash rising on his neck, but thankfully he’s facing them dead on.

The man, Marez, steps forward. “All right, Minister, you promised to share the details your source knows regarding the Commandant’s battle plans. Will you finally deign to regale us? Did your dreams deem today auspicious enough for you to share?” He looks at Kriza, and they share a brittle laugh. “Your councils and ministries have already picked our agreement to death like rabid dogs over a kill. I think it’s time we heard this report.”