The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters (87 page)

Yet there was more to it, if only in simple mechanics. The men wore gloves to touch the glass—indeed to even look within it was perilous, as those who had died at Tarr Manor made clear. But how then did this precious information serve the Cabal—how was it
read
? If a person could not touch a book without risking their life or sanity, what was the point? There must be a way…a key…

Svenson glanced behind him. Had there been a noise? He listened…nothing…merely nerves. The men finished loading the chest. Bascombe tucked the notebook under his arm and snapped his fingers, issuing orders: these men to take the chest, these to go with the Minister, these to stay. He walked with Crabbé to the doors—and had the Minister handed something to his assistant? He had…but Svenson could not see what it was. And then they were gone.

The two remaining men stood for the barest moment and then, with a palpable relaxation of their manner, stepped one to the sideboard and the other to a wooden cigar box on a side table. They spoke smilingly to one another, nodding at their charges. The one at the sideboard poured two tumblers of whisky and crossed to the other, who was even then spitting out a bitten tip of tobacco. They swapped gifts—tumbler for cigar—and lit up, one after another. Their masters not gone for ninety seconds, they were smacking their lips and puffing away like princes.

Svenson looked around him for ideas. This observation room was less fully appointed than the other—there was no drink and no divan. The two men walked around the room, making a circuit of the furniture and commenting on their charges, and it was only another minute before they were fumbling through the pockets of a tailcoat or a lady’s handbag. Svenson narrowed his eyes at the actions of these scavengers, and waited for them to come nearer. Right before him was the divan holding the churchman and the Arabic woman—with her head lolling back (eyes dreamily half-open to the ceiling) the pearl earrings shone brightly against her dark skin…they would have to notice them.

As if they had heard his thought, one man looked up, saw the pearls and ignored the five victims in between to hurry directly to them. The other followed, sticking the cigar in his mouth, and soon they were both leaning over the passive woman, their black backs facing Svenson, not two feet away from the glassy barrier.

He placed the barrel flat against the mirror and pulled the trigger. The bullet slammed into the back of the nearest man and then, with an unexpected flourish, out his chest to shatter the tumbler in his hand, sprawling him across the unfortunate cleric. His companion wheeled at the shot and stared without comprehension at the round hole in the mirror. Svenson fired again. The glass starred at this second puncture, a sudden spider’s web clouding his vision. He quickly stuffed the revolver into his belt and reached for a small side table of inks and paper, tipping them brusquely to the floor. Three strokes with the table, swinging it like an axe, and the mirror fell away.

He dropped the table and looked behind him. The sound of the shots would have traveled for the most part back through the tunnels, not forward into the house, and he had to trust that they’d been well-insulated for secrecy’s sake.
Why
was no one following? On the carpet at his feet the second man was breathing heavily, shot through the chest. Svenson sank to his knees to find the entry-point and quickly concluded the wound was mortal—it would be a matter of a minute. He stood, unable to bear the gaze of the gasping man, and stepped to his fellow, quite dead, rolling him off of the elderly churchman. Svenson shifted the body to the floor, already assailed by feelings of guilt and recrimination. Could he not have wounded them? Shot once and bluffed them into submission, tied with curtain cords like Flaüss? Perhaps…but such niceties—had human life become a
nicety
?—left no time to find the women, to secure his Prince, to stop these fellows’ masters. Svenson saw that the dead man still held a burning cigar between his fingers. Without a thought he reached down and took it, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes with long-missed pleasure.

The men were unarmed, and with no weapons to pillage Svenson resigned himself to more stealth and theatre, holding the empty revolver as he walked. He’d left the room’s other occupants as they were and picked his way through an empty string of parlors, watching for any trace of Bascombe or Crabbé, but hoping it was Bascombe that he found. If what he had guessed of the books from Tarr Manor was true, that they were capable of absorbing—of
recording
—memories, then the chest of books rivaled an unexplored continent for value. He also realized the particular worth of Bascombe’s notebook, where the contents of each book—of each mind!—were cataloged and detailed. With those notes as a guide, what question could not be answered from that unnatural library? What advantage not be found?

Doctor Svenson looked around him with annoyance. He’d walked through another sitting room to an airy foyer with a bubbling fountain whose sound obscured any distant footfalls that might point him in the right direction. The Doctor wondered idly if the labyrinth of Harschmort had a Minotaur. He crossed heavily to the fountain and looked into the water—could one ever
not
look into the water?—and laughed aloud, for the Minotaur was before him: his own haggard, soot-smudged, battered visage, cigar in his face, weapon in hand. To the guests of this gala evening, was
he
not their determined, monstrous nemesis? Svenson outright cackled at the idea—and cackled again at the antic hoarseness of his voice, a raven trying to sing after too many cups of gin. He set down his smoke and stuffed the pistol into his belt, and reached into the fountain’s pool, scooping water first to drink and then to splash across his face, and to once again smooth back his hair. He shook his hands, the droplets breaking his reflection to rippling pieces, and looked up. Someone was coming. He threw the cigar into the water and pulled out the gun.

It was Crabbé and Bascombe, with two of their functionaries walking behind, and between them, unmistakably, his posture characteristically sharp as a knife-point, Lord Robert Vandaariff. Svenson scrambled to the other side of the fountain and dropped to the floor, for all his fear and fatigue feeling caught out like a character in a comic operetta.

“It is astonishing—first the theatre, and now this!” The Minister was speaking, and with anger. “But the men are now in place?”

“They are,” answered Bascombe, “a squad of Macklenburgers.”

Crabbé snorted. “That lot has been more trouble than they are worth,” he said. “The Prince is an idiot, the Envoy’s a grub, the Major’s a Teuton boor—and the
Doctor
! Did you hear? He is alive! He is at Harschmort! He must have come with us—but honestly, I cannot imagine how it was accomplished. He can only have been stowed away—hidden by a confederate!”

“But who could that be?” hissed Bascombe. When Crabbé did not reply, Bascombe ventured a hesitant guess. “Aspiche?”

Crabbé’s answer was lost, for they had moved through the foyer to the edge of his hearing. Svenson rose to his knees, relieved they had not seen him, and carefully followed. He did not understand it…though Vandaariff walked between the two Ministry conspirators, they paid him no attention at all, speaking across his body…nor did the Lord take part in the plotting. What was more, what had happened to Bascombe’s treasure chest of blue glass books?

“Yes, yes—and it’s for the better,” Crabbé was saying, “both of them are to take part. Poor Elspeth has lost a quantity of hair, and Margaret—well, she was keen to press ahead. She is
ever
keen, but…apparently she had a
confrontation
with this Cardinal at the Royale—she—well, I cannot say—she seems in a
mood
about it—”

“And this is along with the…ah…other?” Bascombe politely cut in, bringing the conversation back to its subject.

“Yes, yes—
she
is the
test case,
of course. In my own opinion, it all goes too fast—too much effort in too many places—”

“The Contessa
is
concerned about our time-table—”

“As am
I,
Mr. Bascombe,” Crabbé replied sharply, “but you will notice for yourself—the confusion, the risk—when we have tried to simultaneously manage
initiations
in the theatre, the Comte’s
transformations
in the cathedral, the
collections
in the inner parlors, the
harvest
from Lord Robert”—he gestured casually to the most powerful man in five nations—“and
now
because of that blasted woman, the Duke—”

“Apparently Doctor Lorenz is confident—”

“He is
always
confident! And yet, Bascombe, science is pleased if one experiment out of twenty actually succeeds—the mere
confidence
of Doctor Lorenz is not enough when so much hangs at risk—we need certainty!”

“Of course, Sir.”

“Just a moment.”

Crabbé stopped, and turned to the two retainers walking behind—prompting Svenson to abruptly crouch behind a molting philodendron.

“Dash ahead to the top of the tower—I don’t want any surprises. Make sure it’s clear, then one of you return. We will wait.”

The men ran off. Svenson peeked through the dusty leaves to see Bascombe in the midst of a deferent protest.

“Sir, do you really think—”

“What I think is that I
prefer
not to be overheard by
anyone
.”

He paused to allow the two men to fully vanish from sight before going on.

“Before anything,” began the Deputy Minister, glancing once at the figure of Robert Vandaariff, “what book do we have for Lord Vandaariff, here? We need something as a place-holder, yes?”

“Yes, Sir—though for now it can be the one missing, from Lady Mélantes—”

“Which
must
be recovered—”

“Of course, Sir—but for the moment it may also stand in as the keeper of Lord Vandaariff’s secrets—until such time as we have occasion to irreparably
damage
another.”

“Excellent,” muttered Crabbé. His eyes darted around them and the small man licked his lips, leaning closer to Bascombe. “From the beginning, Roger, I have offered you this opportunity, have I not? Inheritance and title, new prospects for marriage, advancement in government?”

“Yes, Sir, I am well in your debt—and I assure you—”

Crabbé waved away Bascombe’s obsequiousness as if he were brushing off flies. “What I have said—about there being too many elements in motion at once—is for your ears alone.”

Again, Svenson was astonished to find neither man referring in the slightest to Lord Vandaariff, who stood not two feet away.

“You are intelligent, Roger, and you are cunning as any person in this business—as you have well proven. Keep your eyes open, for both our sakes, for any out of place comment or action…from
anyone
. Do you understand? Now is the sticking point, and I find myself brimming with suspicion.”

“Do you suggest one of the others—the Contessa, or Mr. Xonck—”

“I suggest nothing. Yet, we have suffered these…
disruptions
—”

“But these
provocateurs
—Chang, Svenson—”

“And your Miss Temple,” added Crabbé, a tinge of acid in his tone.

“Including her only strengthens the truth, Sir—which they each have sworn—that they have no master, nor any plan beyond plain antagonism.”

Crabbé leaned closer to Bascombe, his voice dropping to an anxious hiss. “Yes, yes—and
yet
! The Doctor arrives by way of the airship! Miss Temple penetrates our plans for Lydia Vandaariff and somehow resists—without assistance, which one can scarcely credit—submersion in a glass book! And Chang—how many has he killed? What havoc has he not set off? Do you flatter these so much that they have done all this without aid? And where else, I ask you, Roger, could that aid have come from, save within our number?”

Crabbé’s face was white and his lip shaking with rage—or fear, or both, as if the very idea of being vulnerable set off the Minister’s fury. Bascombe did not answer.

“You know Miss Temple, Roger—possibly better than anyone in this world. Do
you
think she could have killed those men? Shrugged off that book? Located Lydia Vandaariff and quite nearly spirited her from our grasp? If it was not for Mrs. Marchmoor’s arrival—”

Bascombe shook his head.

“No, Sir…the Celeste Temple I know is capable of none of those things. And yet—there
must
be some other explanation.”

“Yet do we have it? Is there an explanation for Colonel Trapping’s death? All three of our
provocateurs
were in this house that night, yet it is impossible that they would know to kill him without some betrayal from within our ranks!”

They fell silent. Svenson watched them, and with patient slowness reached up to scratch his nose.

“Francis Xonck
was
burned by Cardinal Chang.” Bascombe began to speak quickly, sorting out their options. “It is unlikely he would undergo such an injury on purpose.”

“Perhaps…yet he is extremely cunning, and personally reckless.”

“Agreed. The Comte—”

“The Comte d’Orkancz cares for his glass and his transformations—his
vision
. I swear that in his heart he considers all of this but one more canvas—a masterwork, perhaps—but still, his thought is to my taste a bit too…” Crabbé swallowed with some discomfort and brushed his moustache with a finger. “Perhaps it is simply his horrid plans for the girl—not that I even trust those plans have been fully
revealed
…”

Crabbé looked up at the young man, as if he had said too much, but Bascombe’s expression had not changed.

“And the Contessa?” Bascombe asked.

“The Contessa,” echoed Crabbé. “The Contessa
indeed
…”

They looked up, for one of their men was returning at a jog. They let him arrive without any further conversation. Once he reported the way ahead was clear, Bascombe nodded that the man should rejoin his companion ahead of them. The man crisply turned and the Ministry men again waited for him to disappear before they followed in silence—evidently not finished with their brooding. Svenson crept after them. The possibility of mistrust and dissension within the Cabal was an answer to a prayer he had not dared to utter.