Free Dreamstrider by Lindsay Smith Page B

Empire must carry on. We…” He hesitates. “We all have our roles to play.” Brant’s gaze reels out, casting somewhere far beyond me. “If I have to marry to fulfill my duties to House Strassbourg, then better I wed someone who understands me, who shares my passion for serving Barstadt.”
    What does that matter? I want to scream at him. He’s already promised his father—once he weds, he’ll quit the Ministry and take his place managing House Strassbourg’s affairs. And then he’ll be expected to produce heirs, and attend the Imperial Court … That’s the way with aristocrats and their obligations. As soon as one’s met—as soon as one knot’s untied—two more pull tight.
    I shift my weight, bag of pastries hanging limp at my side. Brandt stares past me, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. “Well … have a lovely night,” I finally say.
    “You too, Liv.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and heads off.
    I look back toward the guard station, but as I try to imagine the evening that awaits me—dinner alone in my room, reading in the records room or the library, staring wistfully out the window while I avoid the other operatives’ sour looks—I can’t bring myself to walk through the gates. The sunlight will last for a few hours more. I check my bag of pastries—still a few honeycakes left, Professor Hesse’s favorite—and set off toward the university. If I can’t do anything more to protect the waking world from the coming war, then maybe I can look to the dreaming one.
    Banhopf University looms in the backdrop of the municipal district, its muted tile buildings crammed every which way on the hillside. Though Barstadt buildings already tend toward the tall and narrow, the university takes the style to new extremes—each subject of study has its own tower, thrusting skyward like a beacon of knowledge and power (according to the professors) or like a gauntlet of interminable staircases (to the tunnelers who must clean the place).
    I once called Banhopf home, but that’s too misleading—it was my home like a mansion might be home to a rat. At night, while tending to my cleaning duties, I watched, and I fettered away crumbs; I scrubbed and dusted and mopped and fetched professors their food; but when the candelabras were lit and the classrooms filled, my job was to scurry into the labyrinth of tunnels underground and not interfere with Banhopf’s lofty pursuits.
    But I belong on these manicured lawns now, striding with confidence in a lady’s dress, not hunchbacked in a corridor after hours, scrubbing marble until it glints with my dour reflection. The scholars glance at me sideways, but they’re deep in discussions of philosophy or math or dream interpretation with their peers, all of them flapping about in black velvet robes like flightless birds. I keep my shoulders tossed back. I belong.
    Rather than mount the trek toward Hesse’s office high up in the Theosophy Tower, I decide to check his laboratory first, where he conducts all his experiments, blending his religious scholarship and research with the latest advances in modern scientific knowledge. More often than not, this means training priests of the Dreamer in accessing Oneiros and shaping the dreamworld and dreams. Sometimes, though, Hesse’s mad hypotheses about the interplay of body, soul, and dreams results in something like dreamstriding. A scientifically sound theory just waiting for someone like me to come along and prove it true.
    As I weave through the honeycomb corridors, I pass a young boy polishing the marble flooring, his hands and knees knobby and red from the effort. I reach into the bag of pastries and fish out a tartlet, then set it atop the nearest bookshelf. I remember the rules. The cleaning boy could lose his job if anyone saw me give it to him directly.
    I slip into the back of Hesse’s laboratory, but I needn’t have worried about disturbing a lecture; Hesse and two students are out cold in their cots.