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Authors: Lindsay Smith
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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 Brand’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.
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 blueblood fumbling to put up a respectable fa ç ade 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
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 Brand’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.
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 blueblood fumbling to put up a respectable fa ç ade 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
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