Gordon Dahlquist

by Volume Two The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

  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 silen
ce—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.

  Without the trailing men to block his view, he could see the Minister more clearly—a short determined figure who carried a leather satchel, the sort one might use for official papers. Svenson was sure it was not present when they had collected the books, which meant Crabbé had acquired it since—along with his acquisition of Lord Vandaariff? Did that mean the satchel carried papers from Lord Vandaariff? He could still make no sense of the Lord’s apparent participation—his unforced accompaniment—at the same time they utterly ignored him. Svenson had assumed Vandaariff to be the plot’s prime mover—for not two days before the man had quite deliberately manipulated him away from Trapping’s body. However long the Cabal might have planned to spring their trap, whatever control they had established, whatever somnambulism … it had been recently done—for surely they had drawn on the full resources of the Lord’s house and name to achieve their ends, which only could have been begun with his full participation and approval. And now he followed along—in his own house—as if he were an affable pet goat. Yet Svenson’s first glimpse of the man, as he crouched behind the fountain, had shown his face free of the scars of the Process. How else was he compelled? By way of a glass book? If it were only possible to get Vandaariff to himself for five minutes! Even that much time would afford a quick examination, would give the Doctor some insight into the corporeal effects of this mind control, and who could say … some insight into its reversal.

  For now however, unarmed and outnumbered, he could only follow them deeper into the house. He could hear from the rooms around them a growing buzz of human activity—footsteps, voices, cutlery, wheeled carts. So far their path had skirted any open place or crossroads—undoubtedly to keep Vandaariff from public view. Svenson wondered if the servants of the house knew of their master’s mental servitude, and how they might react to the knowledge. He did not imagine Robert Vandaariff to be a kindly employer—perhaps the household did know, and happily celebrated his downfall—perhaps the Cabal had dipped into Vandaariff’s own riches to purchase his people’s loyalty. Either possibility kept Svenson from trusting the servants … but he knew his opportunity was quickly slipping away. With each step they traveled closer to the other members of the Cabal.

  Svenson took a deep breath. The three men were perhaps ten yards ahead of him, just turning the corner from one long corridor into—he presumed—another. As soon as they disappeared he dashed ahead to make up ground, reached the corner and peeked—five yards away, and onto a thin runner of carpeting! Svenson stepped out, revolver extended, and rapidly advanced, his padded footfalls mixing with theirs—ten feet away, then five, and then he was right behind them. Somehow they sensed his presence, turning just as Svenson reached out and took rough hold of Vandaariff’s collar with his left hand, and pressed the revolver barrel against the side of the Lord’s temple with his right.

  “Do not move!” he hissed. “Do not cry out—or this man will die, and then each of you in turn. I am a crack shot with a pistol, and few things would give me more pleasure!”

  They did not cry out, and once again Svenson felt the disquieting capacity for savagery creeping up his spine—though he was no particular shot at all even when his gun was loaded. What he didn’t know was the value they placed on Vandaariff. With a sudden chill he wondered if they might actually want him killed—something they desired but shrank from doing themselves—especially now that Crabbé had the satchel of vital information.

  The satchel. He must have it.

  “That satchel!” he barked at the Deputy Minister. “Drop it at once, and step away!”

  “I will not!” snapped Crabbé shrilly, his face gone pale.

  “You will!” snarled Svenson, pulling back the hammer and pressing the barrel hard into Vandaariff’s skull.

  Crabbé’s fingers fidgeted over the leather handle. But he did not throw it down. Svenson whipped the gun away from Vandaariff and extended his arm directly at Crabbé’s chest.

  “Doctor Svenson!”

  This was Bascombe, raising his own hands in a desperate conciliatory gesture that was still for Svenson too much like an attempt to grab his weapon. He turned the barrel toward the younger man, who flinched visibly, then back toward Crabbé who now hugged the satchel to his body, then again to Bascombe, pulling Vandaariff a step away to give himself more room. Why did he not get better at this sort of confrontation?

  Bascombe swallowed and took a step forward. “Doctor Svenson,” he began in a hesitant voice, “this cannot stand—you are inside the hornets’ nest, you will be taken—”

  “I require my Prince,” said Svenson, “and I require that satchel.”

  “Impossible,” piped Crabbé, and to the Doctor’s great exasperation the Deputy Minister turned and spun the satchel like a discus down the length of the corridor. It bounced to a stop against the wall some twenty feet beyond them. Svenson’s heart sank—God damn the man! If he’d possessed a single bullet he would have put it straight between Harald Crabbé’s ears.

  “So much for that,” Crabbé bleated, babbling fearfully. “How did you survive the quarry? Who helped you? Where were you hidden on the airship? How are you still tormenting my every plan?”

  The Minister’s voice rose to a high-pitched shout. Svenson took another step back, dragging Vandaariff with him. Bascombe—though frightened the man had courage—again stepped forward in response. Svenson put the gun back against Vandaariff’s ear.

  “Stay where you are! You will answer me—the whereabouts of Karl-Horst—the Prince—I insist …”

  His words faltered. From somewhere below them in the house Svenson heard a screaming high-pitched whine, like the brakes of a train slamming down at high speed … and within it, like the silver thread run through a damask coat made for a king, a desperate woman’s shriek. What had Crabbé said about the Comte’s activity … “the cathedral”? All three stood fixed as the noise rose to an unbearable peak and then just as suddenly cut away. He dragged Vandaariff back another step.

  “Release him!” hissed Crabbé. “You only make it worse for yourself!”

  “Worse?” Svenson sputtered at the man’s arrogance—O for one bullet! He gestured at the floor, at the hideous noise. “What horrors are these? What horrors have I already seen?” He tugged Vandaariff. “You will not have this man!”

  “We have him already,” sneered Crabbé.

  “I know how he is afflicted,” stammered Svenson. “I can restore him! His word will be believed and damn you all!”

  “You know nothing.” Despite his fear, Crabbé was tenacious—no doubt a valuable quality in negotiating treaties, but to Svenson galling as all hell.

  “Your infernal Process may be irreversible,” announced Svenson, “I have had no leisure to study it—but I know Lord Vandaariff has not undergone that ritual. He bears no scars—he was perfectly lucid and in his own mind but two evenings ago, well before such scars would fade—and what is more, I know from what I have just observed in your theatre that if he had been so transformed he would be fighting my grip quite violently. No, gentlemen, I am confident he is under the temporary control of a drug, for which I will locate an antidote—”

  “You’ll do nothing of the kind,” cried Crabbé, and he turned his words to Vandaariff, speaking in a sharp, wheedling tone that one would use to order a dog. “Robert! Take his gun—at once!”

  To Svenson’s dismay, Lord Vandaariff spun and dove for the pistol with both arms. The Doctor stepped away but the Lord’s insistent grasping hands would not let go and it was instantly apparent that the automaton Lord was more vigorous than the utterly spent surgeon. The Doctor looked up to see Crabbé’s face split with a wicked smile.

  It was the last stroke of arrogance that Doctor Svenson could bear. Even as Vandaariff grappled him—a hand across his throat, another stabbing at the weapon—Svenson w
renched the pistol away and thrust it at the Minister’s face, drawing back the hammer.

  “Call him off or you die!” he shouted.

  Instead, Bascombe leapt for Svenson’s arm. He slashed the gun at Bascombe as he came, the jagged sight at the end of the barrel digging a raw line across the younger man’s cheekbone, knocking him off his feet. At that moment Vandaariff’s hand clamped over Svenson’s, squeezing. The hammer clicked forward. Svenson desperately looked up and met Bascombe’s gaze. They both knew the gun had not fired.

  “He has no bullets!” cried Bascombe and he pitched his voice to the far end of the corridor. “Help! Evans! Jones! Help!”

  * * *

  Svenson turned. The satchel! He threw himself away from Vandaariff and ran for it, though it carried him straight toward the returning escorts. His boots clattered against the slippery polished wood, his ankle spasmed in protest, but he reached the satchel, scooped it up, and began his hobbling run back toward Bascombe and Crabbé. Crabbé screamed to the men who—he had no doubt—were all too close behind him.

  “The satchel! Get the satchel! He must not have it!”

  Bascombe had regained his feet and came forward, hands out, as if to bar Svenson’s way—or at least tackle him until the rest could dash his brains out. There were no side doors, no alcoves, no alternatives but to charge the man. Svenson recalled his days at university, the drunken games played inside the dormitories—sometimes they would even manage horses—but Bascombe was younger and angry, with his own foolish game-playing to draw upon.