Dreamstrider (6 page)

Minister Durst nods toward me. “Silke, my dear? Summarize the operatives’ reports from their expedition into the Land of the Iron Winds last month—the details of the Commandant’s battle plans.”

Of course, he means Brandt’s and my expedition
yesterday
. He must have told the Farthingers that we’d already confirmed similar information to what they shared. I’m shaking as I bow low and clear my throat. I wish I could say it was part of my act as the nervous secretary, but I am no Brandt. “They were able to glimpse battle plans drawn up by the Commandant and General Cold Sun that indicated a direct attack on Barstadt City, via the harbor.”

Minister Durst nods, his gaze somewhere beyond my shoulder. Neither of the Farthingers reveal any surprise or concern. Their gaze is far too flinty for my comfort.

“Based on the arrangement of troops, we believe that the Commandant has secured assistance from someone on the inside—someone within Barstadt City,” I continue, though I omit that the traitor is likely an aristocratic woman.

“That’s a very interesting assessment,” Marez says, turning toward me with a strange glint in his gaze. “How would you characterize the potential traitor?”

I glance toward Minister Durst; he gives me a slight nod to continue. “Well, the reports indicate—”

“No, I’m not asking about reports.” Marez takes a step toward me, dark eyes glinting. “I’m asking for
your
opinion.”

My whole body is trembling like pickled jelly. I imagine Brandt on the other side of the false mirror; I try to summon the quick wit he would use in this situation. But nothing comes. “Well.” I smooth down the skirts of my gown, then force myself to look at the Farthingers. “It could be an aristocrat, dissatisfied with their station and aspiring toward the throne. Or it could be a disgruntled crime boss looking to strike back at the Empire for some transgression.”

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 field work 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 field work, 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.”

“Very well. 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 with laughter 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 blame 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 then; 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.”