Vera was quickly learning the sounds different bones made when they shattered. The twinkling smash of finger bones as fist met face—the meaty bite of the jaw, with the added arpeggio of teeth knocking loose. Wet, sucking slaps as ribs popped and punctured the lungs they encased. Vera forced herself to lean forward for a better view of the brawling ring. There it was, the dry autumn-leaf crackle of a massive thighbone splitting in two.
And now for the reigning champion’s signature move: a slow, rolling crunch up his opponent’s spine. It reminded her far too much of the harp lessons in her parents’ parlor that she’d left behind for this life.
“And there you have it, folks! Another flawless victory from Jorn, fighting for the Stargazers tonight!” The announcer stepped into the ring, as far as possible from Jorn’s hulking, heaving, gasping mass. “Bad luck for the Bayside gang. But I’m sure they’ll cough up another challenger for next week!”
The roaring, teeming crowd, frothy as the storm-tossed Bay of Dreams, might as well have been whispering for all Vera heard them. Her gaze fixed on the blood-spattered behemoth that was Jornisander, bodyguard to the Stargazers gang boss. No, it couldn’t be mere coincidence that the Stargazers had insisted on this brawl as the venue for their meeting. The Stargazers wanted to make clear the cost of breaking an agreement with them; wanted to let Vera know that she wasn’t bargaining with timid hares.
But then, Vera wasn’t the timid hare she was portraying, either.
“Now there’s a smart fighter,” Vera’s companion, Tyrond, said, gesturing toward Jornisander in the ring. “He fights slow, almost lazy. Lets those muscles do the work for him while his opponent wears himself out.”
“Looks dumb as rocks to me,” Vera said. He’d have to be, to fling himself into death matches again and again. Not that she reckoned he had much choice in the matter.
Tyrond laughed to himself. “Yeah, probably. Makes for a better bodyguard that way. Stargazers don’t want some smarty learning all their secrets.”
Vera allowed herself a narrow smile. That was her true purpose here: not to broker some tedious deal, but to learn all of the Stargazer gang’s secrets for the Ministry of Affairs. Her gaze skimmed over the pulped corpse of the other fighter as the fight organizers struggled to pry it off the sawdust ring. He wasn’t the only one with a death wish here tonight.
“Let’s wait for the riffraff to clear out. The Stargazers should be sending out a lieutenant to meet with us soon,” Tyrond said.
“They’d better,” Vera huffed. “My client isn’t in the business of waiting.”
But inside, she was a roiling sea of nerves. The fresh tang of blood in the air mingled with the afterbirth of her dreams from last night. Violent dreams, blossoming with bruises, threats, a knife blade at her throat. Most Barstadters interpreted their dreams as a promise from the Dreamer, a gentle nudge toward wonderful things to come. But Vera’s always felt more like a warning.
Dreamer, I hope you know what you’re doing, she prayed, and waited.
* * *
“Please, please, come inside. Make yourselves at home.”
The cramped tunnel dead-end looked decidedly unlike any home Vera had ever known, but she followed the lieutenants inside without protest. If the stacks of busted wood pallets, rags, and burlap sacks and the sickly tang of Dreamless resin in the air seemed unusual to her guide, Tyrond, he didn’t show it. Vera sat on the painted crate the lieutenant offered her, gathering her skirts around her with just enough show of prissiness to suit the character she was playing.
“I’m Synarius. First lieutenant of the Stargazers.” The man drummed his fingers against his well-fed belly—one of the few she’d seen since they’d entered the tunnels this evening. “And this is my second—”
“I don’t give a damn who you are. Who you
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