Gordon Dahlquist

by Volume Two The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

  “You were?” asked Miss Temple, a bit abruptly.

  “I have asked myself if I inadvertently witnessed some clue, or overheard some secret—anything to entice Mr. Xonck to curiosity, or that he might use against his siblings, or even to conceal his own part in the Colonel’s death—”

  “Is it possible you knew who had killed him or why?” asked Miss Temple.

  “I have no idea!” cried Elöise.

  “But if those memories are gone, then it follows they must have been worth taking,” observed Miss Temple.

  “Yes, but because I learned something I should not have? Or because I was—there is no other word—seduced to even take part?”

  Elöise stopped, her hand over her mouth, tears gleaming in each eye. The woman’s despair struck Miss Temple as real, and she knew as well as anyone—after her experience of the book—how temptation might sway the sternest soul. If she could not remember what she’d done, if she was here stricken with regret, did the truth of it really matter? Miss Temple had no idea—no more than she might parse the relative state of her own bodily innocence. For the first time she allowed a gentle nudge of pity to enter her voice.

  “But they did not enlist you,” she said. “Miss Poole told the Comte and Caroline that you were quite a nuisance.”

  Elöise exhaled heavily and shrugged Miss Temple’s words away. “The Doctor rescued me from an attic, and then was taken. I followed, with his gun, and tried to rescue him in turn. In the process—I’m sorry, it is difficult to speak of it—I shot a man. I shot him dead.”

  “But that is excellent, I’m sure,” replied Miss Temple. “I have not shot anyone, but I have killed one man outright and another by way of a cooperative coach wheel.” Elöise did not reply, so Miss Temple helpfully went on. “I actually spoke of it—well, as much as one speaks of anything—with Cardinal Chang, who you must understand is a man of few words—indeed, a man of mystery—the very first time I laid eyes upon him I knew it was so—granted, this was because he was wearing all red in a train car in the very early morning holding a razor and reading poetry—and wearing dark spectacles, for he has suffered injury to his eyes—and though I did not know him I did remark him, in my mind, and when I saw him again—when we became comrades with the Doctor—I knew who he was at once. The Doctor said something about him—about Chang—just now, I mean to say, in the theatre—I didn’t make sense of any of it for that abominable shouting and the smoke and the fire—and do you know, it is a queer thing, but I have noticed it, how at times the extremity of, well, information, assaulting one of our senses overwhelms another. For example, the smell and the sight of the smoke and flames absolutely inhibited my ability to hear. It is exactly the sort of thing I find fascinating to think on.”

  They walked for a moment before Miss Temple recalled the original drift of her thought.

  “But—yes—the reason I spoke to Cardinal Chang—well, you see, I must explain that Cardinal Chang is a dangerous man, a very deadly fellow—who has probably killed a man more often than I have purchased shoes—and I spoke to him about the men I had killed, and—well, honestly it was very difficult to talk about, and what he ended up telling me was exactly how someone like myself ought to use a pistol—which was to grind the barrel as tightly into the body of your target as you can. Do you see my point? He was telling me what to do as a way of helping me sort out how to feel. Because at the time, I had no idea how to talk of anything. Yet these things that have happened—they tell us what kind of world we are in, and what sort of actions we must be prepared to take. If you had not shot this fellow, would either yourself or the Doctor be still alive? And without the Doctor to take me off that table, would I?”

  Elöise did not answer. Miss Temple saw her wrestling with her doubts and knew from experience that to overcome those doubts and accept what had occurred was to become a significantly less innocent person.

  “But this was the Duke of Stäelmaere,” Elöise whispered. “It is assassination. You do not understand—I will assuredly hang!”

  Miss Temple shook her head.

  “The men I killed were villains,” she said. “And I am sure this Duke was the same—most Dukes are simply horrid—”

  “Yes, but no one will care—”

  “Nonsense, for I care, as you care, as I am sure Doctor Svenson cared—it is the exact heart of the matter. What I do not give a brass farthing for is the opinion of our enemies.”

  “But—the law—their word will be believed—” Miss Temple gave her opinion of the law with a dismissive shrug.

  “You may well have to leave—perhaps the Doctor can take you back to Macklenburg, or you can escort my aunt on a tour of Alsatian restaurants—but there is always a remedy. For example—look how foolish we are, waltzing along who knows where without a second’s thought!”

  Elöise looked behind them, gesturing vaguely. “But—I thought—”

  “Yes, of course.” Miss Temple nodded. “We will surely be pursued, but have either of us had the presence of mind to look through the Doctor’s pockets? He is a resourceful man—one never knows—my father’s overseer would not step foot from his door, as a rule, without a knife, a bottle, dried meat, and a twist of tobacco that could fill his pipe for a week.” She smiled slyly. “And who can say—in the process it may afford a glimpse into the secret life of Doctor Svenson …”

  Elöise spoke quickly. “But—but I am sure there is no such thing—”

  “O come, every person has some secrets.”

  “I do not, I assure you—or at least nothing indecent—”

  Miss Temple scoffed. “Decent? What are you wearing? Look at you—I can see your legs—your bare legs! What use is decency when we have been thrust into this peril—treading about without even a corset! Are we to be judged? Do not be silly—here.”

  She reached out and took the Doctor’s coat, but then wrinkled her nose at its condition. The ruddy light might hide its stains but she could smell earth and oil and sweat, as well as the strongly unpleasant odor of indigo clay. She batted at it ineffectually, launching little puffs of dust, and gave up. Miss Temple dug into the Doctor’s side pocket and removed a cardboard box of cartridges for his revolver. She handed it to Elöise.

  “There—we now know he is a man to carry bullets.”

  Elöise nodded impatiently, as if this were against her wishes. Miss Temple met her gaze and narrowed her eyes.

  “Miss Dujong—”

  “Mrs.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Mrs. Mrs. Dujong. I am a widow.”

  “My condolences.”

  Elöise shrugged. “I am well accustomed to it.”

  “Excellent. The thing is, Mrs. Dujong,” Miss Temple’s tone was still crisp and determined, “in case you had not noticed, Harschmort is a house of masks and mirrors and lies, of unscrupulous, brutal advantage. We cannot afford illusion—about ourselves least of all, for this is what our enemies exploit most of all. I have seen notorious things, I promise you, and notorious things have been done to me. I too have undergone—” She lost her way and could not speak, taken unawares by her own emotion, gesturing instead with the coat, shaking it. “This is nothing. Searching someone’s coat? Doctor Svenson may have given his life to save us—do you think he would scruple the contents of his pockets if they might help us further—or help us to save him? It is no time to be a foolish woman.”

  Mrs. Dujong did not answer, avoiding Miss Temple’s gaze, but then nodded and held out her hands, cupping them to take whatever else might come from the coat pockets. Working quickly—despite the pleasure it gave her, Miss Temple was not one to continue with criticism once her point was made—she located the Doctor’s cigarette case, matches, the other blue card, an extremely filthy handkerchief, and a mixed handful of coins. They gazed at the collection and with a sigh Miss Temple began to restore them to their places in the coat—for that seemed the simplest way to carry them.

  “After all of that, it appears you are right—I do
not think we have learned a thing.” She looked up to see Elöise studying the silver cigarette case. It was simple and unadorned save for, engraved in a simple, elegant script, the words “Zum Kapitänchirurgen Abelard Svenson, vom C. S.”

  “Perhaps it commemorates his promotion to Captain-Surgeon,” whispered Elöise.

  Miss Temple nodded. She put the case back in its pocket, knowing they were both wondering at who had given it to him—a fellow officer, a secret love? Miss Temple draped the coat over her arm and shrugged—if the last initial was “S” it needn’t be interesting at all, most likely a dutiful token from some dull sibling or cousin.

  * * *

  They continued down the narrow red-lit passage, Miss Temple dispirited that the Doctor had not caught up, and a bit curious that no one else had pursued them either. She did her best not to sigh with impatience when she felt the other woman’s hand on her arm, and upon turning tried to present a tolerant visage.

  “I am sorry,” Elöise began.

  Miss Temple opened her mouth—the last thing she appreciated after berating a person was that they should then waste her time with apology. But Elöise touched her arm again and kept on speaking.

  “I have not been thinking … and there are things that I must say—”

  “Must you?”

  “I was taken aboard the airship. They asked me questions. I do not know what I could have told them—in truth I know nothing that they cannot already know from Francis Xonck—but I do remember what they asked.”

  “Who was it asking?”

  “Doctor Lorenz gave me the drug, and bound my arms, and then he and Miss Poole made certain I was under their influence by the most impertinent demands … I was powerless to refuse … though I am ashamed to think of it …”

  The woman’s voice dipped deeper in her throat. Miss Temple thought of her own experience at the mercy of the Comte and Contessa, and her heart went out—yet she could not help speculating on the exact details of what had happened. She patted the woman’s silk-covered arm. Elöise sniffed.

  “And then Minister Crabbé interrogated me. About the Doctor. And about you. And about this Chang. And then about my killing the Duke—he would not believe I had not been put up to it by another party.”

  Miss Temple audibly scoffed.

  “But then he asked me—and in a voice that I do not think was heard by the others—about Francis Xonck. At first I thought he meant my employment by Mr. Xonck’s sister, but he wanted to know about Mr. Xonck’s plans now. Was I in service to him now. When I replied that I was not—or at least did not know—he asked about the Comte and the Contessa—especially about the Contessa—”

  “It seems a long list,” replied Miss Temple, who was already impatient. “What about them exactly?”

  “If they had killed Colonel Trapping. He was particularly suspicious of the Contessa, for I gather she does not always tell the others what she plans to do, or does things without caring how it may ruin their plans.”

  “And what did you tell Deputy Minister Crabbé?” Miss Temple asked.

  “Why, nothing at all—I knew nothing.”

  “And his response?”

  “Well, I do not know the man, of course—”

  “If you were to hazard a guess?”

  “That is just it … I should say he was frightened.”

  Miss Temple frowned. “I do not mean to insult your former employer,” she said, “but from all accounts … well, it seems the Colonel is not exactly missed for his good qualities. Yet as you describe Deputy Minister Crabbé’s curiosity, so I heard the Comte d’Orkancz pressing Miss Poole for the same information—and indeed the Contessa and Xonck asking as well, in a coach from the station. Why should all of them care so much for such a, well … such a wastrel?”

  “I cannot think they would,” said Elöise.

  Whoever killed the Colonel defied the rest of the Cabal in doing so … or was it that they had already defied the Cabal—already planned to betray them? Somehow Trapping knew and was killed before he told the others! The Colonel still breathed when Miss Temple had left him: either he had just been poisoned or was poisoned directly afterwards. She had been on her way to the theatre … by the time she got there, the Comte was in the theatre … as was Roger—she’d watched Roger climb the spiral staircase before her. She had not seen Crabbé or Xonck—she’d no idea then who Xonck was—nor any of the Macklenburgers. But behind her—behind everyone and alone in the corridor … had been the Contessa.

  Their passage came to an end. To one side was a third curtained alcove, and to the other was a door. They peeked around the curtain. This viewing chamber was dominated by a larger chaise draped with silken quilts and furs. In addition to the drinks cabinet and writing desk they had seen before, this room was fitted with a brass speaking tube and a metal grille that must allow for instructions to be relayed between each side of the mirror. It was not a room for observation alone, but for interrogation … or a more closely directed private performance.

  The room that lay beyond the wall of glass was like no other Miss Temple had seen at Harschmort, but it might have disturbed her even more than the operating theatre. It was a pale room with a simple floor of unvarnished planking, lit by a plain hanging lamp that threw a circle of yellow light onto the single piece of furniture, a chaise identical to the one before them, distinguished by both an absence of silks and furs and the metal shackles bolted to its wooden frame.

  But it was not for the chaise that upon looking through the mirror Miss Temple’s breath stopped fast, for in the open doorway of the room, looking down at its single piece of furniture, stood the Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza, red jewel-teared mask over her face and a smoking cigarette holder at her lips. She exhaled, tapped her ash to the floor and snapped her fingers at the open door behind her, stepping aside to allow two men in brown cloaks to carry in between them one of the long wooden boxes. She waited for them to pry open the box top with a metal tool and leave the room, before snapping her fingers again. The man who entered, his manner an awkward mix of deference and amused condescension, wore a dark uniform and a gold-painted mask over the upper half of his face. His pale hair was thin and his chin was weak, and when he smiled she saw his teeth were bad as well. On his finger however was a large gold ring … Miss Temple looked again at the uniform … the ring was a signet … this was Doctor Svenson’s Prince! She had seen him in the suite at the Royale—and had not recognized him at once in a more formal uniform and different mask. He sat on the chaise and called back to the Contessa.

  They could not hear. Moving quietly to the brass grille, Miss Temple saw a small brass knob fitted to it. The knob did not pull, so she tried to turn it, moving ever so slowly if it should squeak. Its movement was silent, but suddenly they could hear the Prince.

  “—gratified of course, most enthusiastically, though not surprised, you must know, for as the mighty among animals will recognize one another across an expanse of forest, so those in society matched by a natural superiority will similarly gravitate, it being only fitting that spirits united in an essential sympathy be followed by a sympathy of a more corporeal nature—”

  The Prince was in the midst of unbuttoning the collar of his tunic. The Contessa had not moved. Miss Temple could not readily credit that such a man could be so shamelessly describing to such a woman the destined aspect of their imminent assignation—though she knew one could scarcely underestimate the arrogance of princes. Still, she pursed her lips with dismay at his droning prattle, as he all the while dug at the double row of silver buttons with a pale hooked finger. Miss Temple looked to Mrs. Dujong, whose expression was equally unsteady, and leaned her lips quite close against her ear.

  “That is the Doctor’s Prince,” she whispered, “and the Contessa—”

  Before she could say more the Contessa took another step into the room and closed the door behind her. At the sound the Prince paused, interrupting his words with an unhealthily gratified leer that revealed a bicuspid gone
grey. He dropped a hand to his belt buckle.

  “Truly, Madame, I have longed for this since the moment I first kissed your hand—”

  The Contessa’s voice was loud and sharp, her words spoken clearly and without regard for sense.

  “Blue Joseph blue Palace ice consumption.”

  The Prince went silent, his jaw hanging open, his fingers still. The Contessa stepped closer to him, inhaled thoughtfully from her lacquered holder and let the smoke pour from her mouth as she spoke, as if upon exercising her hidden power she had become that much more demonic.

  “Your Highness, you will believe you have had your way with me in this room. Though it would very much give you pleasure, you will be unable to convey this information to anyone else under any circumstances. Do you understand?”

  The Prince nodded.

  “Our engagement will have occupied your time for the next thirty minutes, so it will be impossible that I have in this time seen either Lydia Vandaariff or her father. During our encounter I have also confessed to you that the Comte d’Orkancz prefers the erotic companionship of boys. You will be unable to convey this information to anyone else either, though because of it you will not begrudge any request the Comte might have for unaccompanied visits to your bride. Do you understand?”

  The Prince nodded.

  “Finally, despite our encounter this evening, you will believe that upon this night you have taken the virginity of Miss Vandaariff, before you are married, so rapacious is your sexual appetite, and so little can she resist you. In the event she conceives, it is therefore entirely as a result of your own impulsive efforts. Do you understand?”

  The Prince nodded. The Contessa turned, for at the door behind her came a gentle knock. She opened it a crack, and then, seeing who it was, wide enough for that person to enter.