Jornisander the Destroyer—a name long drenched in blood. A prized fighter in the tunnel brawling rings, where victory only came from total annihilation. The iron fist of the Stargazer gang, protecting the gang leader from enemies real and imagined as he carried out whatever gruesome tasks the leader didn’t wish to soil his own hands with.
But Jorn was always more than a hammer and a blade. He saw the way the gangs exacted revenge, extracted payment, exploited tunnelers, all while fattening their own purses and those of the aristocrats who colluded with them. He believed life could be different for himself and all tunnelers. And so he decided to spill some blood of his own.
A murdered gang lieutenant here and there, some aristocrat’s accountant found strangled in his sleep—the blood stains spread far, though I can’t say anyone mourned their passing. All of his victims were monsters in their own rights—one prostituted tunneler children to vulgar aristocrats; one beat a tunneler woman to death for failing to offer a suitable tithe.
Jorn recruited more disgruntled tunnelers to his cause, and they branched out from random violence into more precision strikes. Some of his allies, too, turned to other means—educating tunnelers, urging them to resist the gangs’ demands, fighting for rights and pay and even, most improbably of all, citizenship for all tunnelers. Jorn only set it in motion, but the movement grew far beyond his vengeful killings to protect tunnelers who’d been wronged. Eventually, the Ministry couldn’t ignore whatever campaign was taking place. And there was Jorn, right at the source.
The Ministry convinced him to secretly inform to them on the gang leaders and their activities. With Jorn’s help, Durst promised, they could root out corruption and exploitation through legal means, and help the Destroyers advance their cause of emancipation for the tunnelers (though, of course, they couldn’t support it outright). From the information Jorn passed us, the Ministry dismantled three Dreamless dens, five gambling houses, and an elaborate smuggling scheme that stretched across Barstadt’s northern colonies.
Jorn was good at what he did, and while the Ministry knew there were always risks, it was only a matter of time before the Destroyers’ successes started to put Jorn in danger. Adolphus Retch, the leader of the Stargazer gang, liked the prestige of keeping a winning brawler like Jorn as his pet, but Jorn wanted to see Retch burn. For Jorn, it was personal, given the countless times Retch had sent Jorn into the brawling ring to kill or be killed with no other options as a born tunneler. But the Ministry had other reasons, too, to bring the Stargazers down—not least of all for the chaos they sowed within the tunnels and without. The Stargazers were, after all, the biggest and cruelest of the gangs; rumors of Retch’s evil deeds were whispered like warnings to keep tunnelers and aristocrats alike in their thrall. Durst proposed an extraction when he feared the risk to Jorn was too great—we’d pull Jorn out of the tunnels in a spectacular fashion, make it look like he’d been killed so no one would come looking for him to blame, and grab as much dirt on Retch as we could on the way out. Turn it over to the courts. Use Jorn’s detailed testimony to see Retch tried for his crimes.
Durst chose Brandt to helm the mission. Brandt and I had mostly done trifling operations thus far, infiltrating alehouses and the like, but this mission was complicated and needed a dreamstrider. Brandt was certain I was ready to handle something more. Durst agreed to put me on the team, not only for the close access dreamstriding offered into paranoid Retch’s inner circle, but, it seemed to me, to convince himself that I’d really lived up to all Hesse had promised about me after all.
This would be the first mistake.
I remember clearly the way I felt, sitting in the briefing room while Brandt reviewed his plans with us. The bright blossom of excitement unfurling within me, of pride, of a sense of rightness within the world. If I served the Dreamer right, I’d help Barstadt. I’d help the case for the Writ of Emancipation. If I could be strong enough, good enough. I believe I could be, at last. That the Dreamer would give me the strength.
Jornisander and Thrum, one of Jorn’s fellow vigilantes, met Vera, Brandt, and me at the back entrance of the Stargazers’ resin warehouse down by the docks. My eyes bulged at the sight of them—Jorn, larger than life, like a stone carving that should be holding up a colonnade in the Imperial Quarter, and Thrum, nearly as tall, but wide enough to seal shut a tunnel line.
They had already knocked out one of Retch’s lieutenant’s, Synarius, and they took us to the storage room where they’d stashed his unconscious body. Brandt produced a scarf from his ridiculously dapper vest and feathered it under Synarius’s nose. I pulled a face before gulping down my dreamwort elixir, and when I opened Synarius’s eyes I found Vera pouring a cloudy liquid, like overskimmed milk, from a pitcher into smaller bottles at the bottom of her cart.
Brandt spread a grimy oilcloth over my body in the corner. “Are we almost ready?”
“Almost.” Vera kept one eye on me as she topped off the rest of the jars.
I pulled myself to standing. Too fast, but I was impatient, ready to jump into the action and prove myself. I wasn’t used to Synarius’s scratchy eyes and legs like coiled springs. And the smell from whatever Vera was pouring—sharp, making my head spin from vicious little fingers that sank into my skin and held tight. Then, as I tried to move, Synarius’s feet snagged on the bundles of ropes on the storage room floor—
I caught myself, but when I tripped, I’d splashed the substance Vera had been pouring all over her right arm, her chest, her shoulder. She sucked down a deep breath and proceeded to swear at me as quietly as she could manage.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I’m still gaining my footing!” I snatched a scrap of fabric from her cart, nearly upending the remaining jars of liquid, then started smearing the scrap all over her wet gown.
“Give me that, you imbecile, before you kill us both.” She ripped it from my hands—from Synarius’s hands. “Do you have any idea what this is?”
“Your—your liquor. That you and Brandt are pretending to sell to Retch.” Synarius’s voice wasn’t equipped for such a meek, shuddering tone.
“And also a highly dangerous, highly flammable, highly unstable compound. Lion’s milk.” She sighed. “Didn’t you read the mission brief? We’re using it to burn this warehouse to the ground.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered again.
Vera opened her mouth to continue the tongue lashing, but Brandt spoke first. “Vera. Are you a part of this team, or not?”
Vera’s mouth slowly eased shut.
“Good. Then respect your team members—all of them. We have a job to do.” He turned toward me. “Be careful. Take it slow if his body’s throwing you off, all right?”
I nod, tension easing away.
Jorn knocked on the storage room door before poking his head inside. “It’s time.”
Jorn accompanied Brandt and Vera into the main warehouse, where Stargazer lackeys stirred giant vats of the noxious Lullaby resin, while we waited in the storage room for them to carry out their charade. I could smell it from our storage room, mingling with the spilled lion’s milk, twitching at Synarius’s bulbous nose. Thrum watched me with eyebrows stitched together, like he was waiting for the Synarius he knew and feared to reemerge.
Through the tin walls, I could hear Brandt’s voice rising and falling in his easy salesman patter as he wheedled with Retch. Retch was having none of it—I could tell from his truncated responses—but it didn’t matter. As long as we had Retch on edge.
Thrum rested a hand on my shoulder. “Are you ready?”
The Ministry of Affairs’ reports on Synarius scrolled through my head. His quirks, his hatreds and likes (mostly hatreds), his relationship with Adolphus Retch. They were cousins, after a fashion, and had grown up on the streets together, but Adolphus was always one step ahead, a little nimbler on his feet and crueler in his deal making. I was nervous, but I felt prepared. As prepared as I could reasonably be.
I followed Thrum into the main corridor.
“Boss.” Thrum stuck his head into the warehouse, and I caught a glimpse of Brandt, freezing mid-gesture as he bartered with Retch. Dreamer, but he looked so confident—shoulders back, head high, lips curled with satisfaction. I pushed my shoulders back, trying to show even a fraction of his cool. “Synarius is here. Want me to take him to your office?”
Retch nodded. “I’ve heard enough of these jokers. Let’s go.”
Jorn’s mouth twisted. “Boss, you promised you’d hear out my friends.”
Retch’s face turned ghastly in the lamplight; for a moment the only sound was of the resin brewers churning the vats with their wooden paddles. “I don’t give a damn what I promised you.” Retch turned to Brandt. “Look, I couldn’t care less about your special brewing method. I wouldn’t care if it made me shit gold. Piss off, and if I catch you trying to sell this garbage in my market, I’ll hang you from the rafters by your balls.”
Jorn squares his shoulders. “But, boss—”
Retch silenced him instantly with a raised eyebrow. “I could swear I just gave you an order. You heard that, didn’t you, Synarius?”
I swallowed hard. “Aye, I heard that.”
Retch whirled back to Jorn with a knife-blade smile on his lips. “So I did. I worry you’ve forgotten your place, Jorn. You may be friend to every tunneler, but at the end of the day, you report to me. You belong to me.” He shooed Brandt and Vera off. “Get your tunnel rat friends out of here, then join us in the office.”
Jorn nodded, curt but confident. We’d counted on Retch to turn him down, of course; but I could see some of Jorn’s hatred for Retch dancing in his eyes. He and Thrum could easily have killed this man if they wished. They were both trusted guards; they both had regular access to Retch and plenty of brute strength behind them. But they were only two men, and the Ministry could do so much more to dismantle the gangs, see Retch tried for his crimes, possibly even help them liberate the tunnelers. They wanted to see the Stargazers destroyed.
For a moment I let Synarius’s features soften as these thoughts ran through my head. I suppose I’ll never know if that was the second mistake.
“What did you think of the girl I sent you last night?” Retch asked, striding past Thrum and me to climb the stairs to his office. “Eh? A fighter, wasn’t she?”
“Quite the treat,” I said casually, not wanting to dip into Synarius’s consciousness.
This, this would be the third mistake.
“All right, all right, all business today, aren’t we? About time you took our work seriously.” Retch led us into the office, where a skylight afforded him a dazzling view of the stars. My gaze, though, went straight to the safe in the corner as Retch made his way toward it—our final prize. With Retch’s logbook, we could dismantle the entire Stargazer gang, bring Retch to justice, out every corrupt aristocrat to ever work with him … My heart pounded at the thought. Justice for the tunnelers. For all of Barstadt. And with the corruption ripped out at its roots, the Writ of Emancipation was sure to pass.
The dial spun in Retch’s fingers, loud as horse hooves in my heightened senses. A click and the door fell open. Come on, Brandt. I flexed Synarius’s fingers. Let’s get this over with.
“No! Damn you! I won’t leave without selling a batch to Retch!”
Brandt’s screech wafted up the stairs to the office, followed by a fierce clattering, like metal ringing against the copper resin vats. “Boss!” Jorn screeched. “Dammit, boss, come quick!”
Retch charged for the office door. In a blink, I saw the rest of our plan playing out. Retch, rushing down to the main room to see what the commotion was, and protect his prize crop—the Lullaby. Thrum seizing the logbook and hiding it in his substantial coat. Brandt striking the match and tossing it into the cart of lion’s milk jars as Jorn pretends to evict him and Vera.
Fire. Chaos. And lots and lots of smoke to cover our movements. Thankfully, the milk was slow-burning enough that everyone could make it out safely, but Retch didn’t need to know that. Once the whole warehouse was a pile of ash, there’d be no telling that Jorn and Thrum made it out alive, that the logbook hadn’t been incinerated.
But Retch stopped at the office threshold. “Synarius.”
Lakes have frozen over for less than that voice. Hearts have stopped for less.
“Want me to reason with ’em?” I asked.
“I was just thinking…” Retch tilted his head, unsettlingly calm despite the chaotic noises coming from the warehouse, and peered up through the port window cut into the ceiling of his office, bathing us in starlight. “About the girl I sent you last night.”
I felt the apple of Synarius’s throat twitching against the collar of his shirt. “Yes? What about her?”
Retch’s eyes narrowed into knife slits. “That I didn’t send you one.”
Thrum’s hand flew to his belt, but Retch was too fast. With one quick whistle through the air, Retch’s dagger buried itself in Thrum’s forehead, all the way to the hilt. Thrum crashed to the wooden floor, rattling the whole warehouse.
“Who are you?” Retch took slow steps toward me. He didn’t need to hurry—he already had a fresh dagger in his palm. “You look just like my lieutenant. Sound identical. But you can’t be him.”
“Please, Adolphus!” I threw up Synarius’s hands. Retch circled around me like a wolf; over my shoulder, Brandt, Vera, and Jorn continued to shout and stomp about, oblivious to the situation unfolding in the office. “It’s me, Synarius! We’ve known each other since we were kids!”
“Then you know I will kill you. No matter how close we are.”
I leaped for the doorway, stumbling on Synarius’s thick legs and crashing to the floor. Retch’s knife embedded itself into the doorframe, where my hand had been moments before. I gripped the staircase railing to pull myself up, but he snatched me by Synarius’s thick ankles. “Abort!” I screamed. “Abort the mission!”
Then Retch’s wooden plank connected with the back of Synarius’s head.
Flashes. Blood-smeared images of the warehouse, of Jorn and Brandt and Vera running toward me, still hauling that cart full of lion’s milk. Adolphus Retch’s ghoulish face glaring down at me like a denizen of Nightmare made flesh. Retch screaming that my whole family would burn, that I’d be fed to his hounds. And that piece of lumber, chasing me as I skidded and rolled down the stairs; connecting with Synarius’s thick body, again and again, snapping my bones and slicking my eyesight with blood. I had to get closer to the storage room, where my body lay. If I could drag myself just a little farther—
Dimly I felt the pain bubble through as I forced myself out of Synarius’s body and went into Oneiros.
I grabbed the lead back to my body and woke up tangled in a musty tarp in the storage room, surrounded by screams from the other side of the door as Synarius woke back up to his cousin beating in his skull. I seized a torch from the wall and burst back out of the storage room. “Let’s go!” I wheezed. “Now!”
And Vera widened her eyes at me too late as I pitched the torch into the cart of lion’s milk jars.
Where the gauzy sleeve of her dress tangled in the wooden slats.
It was Jorn, in the end, who saved all of us. He scooped up Vera even as her dress caught fire and shoved Brandt and me toward the door. Vera screamed as the flames dug deep into her flesh; my last glimpse was of Brandt frantically helping her beat them out. Jorn didn’t even look back for Thrum; I think he already knew.
“I’ll find you, Jorn. You and all your friends. I’ll tear the flesh from you myself! I’ll destroy you!”
As Retch turned to stop him, Jorn kicked the cart over, spilling the now-flaming liquid all over the warehouse floor.
Synarius may have been Stargazer scum the same as Retch, but no one deserved to go like that—beaten alive and set aflame. Thrum certainly deserved better. If anyone deserved to die that night, it was Retch himself. But he survived, even if most of the warehouse did not, and he rebuilt the Stargazer empire.
And Jorn, who should have led the investigation into the Stargazers, revealing that he was alive only after we’d built our case and he was no longer in danger of assassination, has instead been relegated to a twilight land. Retch can’t go after him without drawing heat from the Ministry, but neither can Jorn operate in Stargazer territory without opening himself to an attack from Retch’s men.
Months passed before I could look Vera or Jorn in the eye without seeing those flames, that knife buried to its hilt. Without hearing Vera’s screams. Smelling her arm as it cooked. Envisioning all the tunnelers who believed in Jorn that I’d now betrayed. I never looked up in the inquisition; I barely answered Minister Durst’s questions. The unspoken truth hung in a fog around us like the stink of lion’s milk: were I anyone but the dreamstrider, I’d be back in the tunnels now, begging for scraps of food.
I can never forget where I’ve come from, where I deserve to be. And I will never forget what it’s cost me and everyone who crosses my path. I’d be a fool to think they’ve forgotten, too.