Dreamstrider by Lindsay Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

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