Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

by Gordon Dahlquist

  He could not see the base of the tower from his vantage point and was about to seek a better view when he heard a metallic clang and spied, in one of the cells opposite him, a flicker of movement…legs…a man was descending into the cell by way of a ladder. Abruptly he heard another clang much nearer, to his right. Before he could see where it exactly was he heard a third directly above his head, from the very cell he peered into. A hatch in the ceiling had been heaved open and the legs of a man in a blue uniform slithered through, feeling for a metal ladder bolted to the wall that Chang hadn’t noticed. All sorts of men and women were climbing into the cells across the chamber, usually a man first who then assisted the ladies, sometimes being handed folding camp chairs, setting up the prison cells as if they were private boxes at the theatre. The air around Chang began to buzz with the excited anticipation of an audience before an unrisen curtain. The man in the blue uniform—a sailor of some sort—called merrily up through the hatch for the next person. Whatever was about to start, Chang wasn’t going to do anything about it where he was. However much he’d just discovered, he’d made the wrong decision as far as locating Celeste. Whatever the Comte had arranged for all of the people to watch, Chang was sure she would be part of it—for all he knew she could be descending the central tower that very minute.

  As he ran his lungs met each breath with a crest of small sharp pains. Chang spat—more blood this time—and again cursed his stupidity for not killing the Contessa outright when he had the chance. He drove himself forward—looking for a staircase, some way up to the main level, it had to be near—and saw it at the same time as he heard the sound of steps descending straight toward him. He could not get away quickly enough. He pulled apart his stick and waited, breathing deeply, lips flecked with red.

  He did not really know who he expected to see, but it was definitely not Captain Smythe. The officer saw Chang and stopped dead on the stairs. He glanced once above him and then stepped quickly forward.

  “Good Lord,” he whispered.

  “What’s happening?” hissed Chang. “Something’s happening upstairs—”

  “They think you are dead—I thought you were dead—but no one could find a body. I took it upon myself to make sure.”

  Smythe drew his saber and strode forward from the stairs, the blade floating easily in his hand.

  Chang called to him. “Captain—the great chamber—”

  “I trusted you like a fool and you’ve killed my man,” Smythe snarled, “the very man who saved your treacherous life!”

  He lunged forward and Chang leapt away, stumbling into the corridor wall. The Captain slashed at his head—Chang just ducking down and rolling free. The blade bit into the plaster with a pale puff of dust.

  Smythe readied his blade for another lunge. In answer—there was no way he could possibly fight him with any hope of survival—Chang stood tall and stepped into the center of the corridor, snapping his arms open wide, cruciform, in open invitation for Smythe to run him through. He hissed at Smythe with fury and frustration.

  “If you think that is so—do what you will! But I tell you I did not kill Reeves!”

  Smythe paused, the tip of his blade a pace or so from Chang’s chest, but within easy range.

  “Ask your own damned men! They were there!” snapped Chang. “He was shot with a carbine—he was shot by—by—what’s his name—the overseer—Blenheim—the chamberlain! Don’t be a bloody idiot!”

  Captain Smythe was silent. Chang watched him closely. They were close enough that he might conceivably deflect the saber with his stick and get to the Captain with the dagger. If the man persisted in being stupid, there was nothing else for it.

  “That was not what I was told…” said Smythe, speaking very slowly. “You used him as a shield.”

  “And who told you that? Blenheim?”

  The Captain was silent, still glaring. Chang scoffed.

  “We were speaking—Reeves and I. Blenheim saw us. Did you even look at the body? Reeves was shot in the back.”

  The words landed like a blow, and Chang could see Smythe thinking, restraining his anger by force of will, his thoughts at odds. After another moment the Captain lowered his sword.

  “I will go examine the body myself.” He looked back at the stairs and then again to Chang, his expression changing, as if he were seeing him freshly without the intervening veil of rage.

  “You’re injured,” said Smythe, fishing out a handkerchief and tossing it to Chang. Chang snatched it from the air and wiped his mouth and face, seeing the dire nature of his wounds reflected in the officer’s concern. Once again the notion that he was truly dying pressed at his resolve to keep on—what was the point, what had ever been the point? He looked at Smythe, a good man, no doubt, bitter himself, but bolstered by his uniform, his admiring men—who knew, a wife and children. Chang wanted to suddenly snarl that he desired none of those things, loathed the very idea of such a prison, loathed the kindness of Smythe himself. Just as he loathed himself for loving Angelique or having come to care for Celeste? He looked quickly away from the Captain’s troubled gaze and saw everywhere around him the luxurious, mocking fittings of Harschmort. He was going to die at Harschmort.

  “I am, but nothing can be done. I am sorry about Reeves—but you must listen. A woman has been taken—the woman I spoke of, Celeste Temple. They are about to do something to her—an infernal ceremony, I have seen it—it is beyond deadly—I assure you she would rather die.”

  Smythe nodded, but Chang could see that the man was still goggling at his appearance.

  “I look worse than I am—I have come through the pipes—the smell cannot be helped,” he said. He offered the handkerchief back, saw Smythe’s reaction, and then wadded it into his own pocket. “For the last time, I beg you, what is happening above?”

  Smythe glanced once up the stairs as if someone might have followed and then spoke quickly. “I’m afraid I barely know—I have just now come in the house. We were outside, for the Colonel’s arrival—”

  “Aspiche?”

  “Yes—it is quite a disaster—they arrived from the country, some sort of accident, the Duke of Stäelmaere—”

  “But people are entering the great chamber to watch the ceremony!” said Chang. “There is no time—”

  “I cannot speak to that—there are parties of people everywhere and the house is very large,” answered the officer. “All of my men are occupied with the Duke’s party—after they landed—”

  “Landed?”

  “I cannot begin to explain. But the whole household has been turned over—”

  “Then maybe there’s still hope!” said Chang.

  “For what?” asked Smythe.

  “All I need is to get upstairs and be pointed in the right direction.”

  He could see that Smythe was torn between helping him and confirming his story. He suspected that the presence of Aspiche had done as much as anything to spur the officer toward mutiny.

  “Our transfer to the Palace…” began Smythe quietly as if this were an answer to Chang’s request, “was accompanied by a significant rise in pay for all officers…life-saving for men who had spent years abroad and were swimming in debt…it should be no surprise when a reward—the money being now spent—turns out instead to be…an entrapment.”

  “Go to Reeves,” Chang said quietly, “and talk to your men who were there. They will follow you. Wait and stay ready…when the time comes, believe me, you will know what to do.”

  Smythe looked at him without any confidence whatsoever. Chang laughed—the dry croak of a crow—and clapped the man on the shoulder.

  “The house is confusing at first,” Smythe whispered to him as they climbed the stairs and crept into the main-floor hallway. “The left wing is dominated by a large ballroom—now quite full of people—and the right by a large hallway of mirrors that leads to private rooms and apartments—again, now quite full of people. Also in the right wing is an inner corridor that takes one to a spiral stair
case—I have not climbed it. When I saw it the corridor was lined with Macklenburg guards.”

  “And the center of the house?” asked Chang.

  “The great reception hall, the kitchens, the laundry, staff quarters, the house manager—that’s Blenheim—and his men.”

  “Where is Lord Vandaariff’s study?” asked Chang suddenly, his mind working. “At the rear of the house?”

  “It is”—Smythe nodded—“and on the main floor. I have not been there. The whole left wing has been restricted to special guests and a very few trusted staff. No Dragoons.”

  “Speaking of that,” said Chang, “what are you doing here? When did you come from the Ministry?”

  Smythe smiled bitterly. “The story will amuse you. As my men were relieved from their posts, I received urgent word—from my Colonel I assumed—that we were needed at the St. Royale Hotel. Upon hurrying there—though domestic quarrels are not our usual duty—I was met by an especially presumptuous woman, who informed me that I must accompany her at once to this house by train.”

  “Mrs. Marchmoor, of course.”

  Smythe nodded. “Apparently she had been agitated by a certain fellow in red—an absolute villain, I understand.”

  “I believe we took the same train—I was hiding in the coal wagon.”

  “The possibility occurred to me,” said Smythe, “but I could not send a man forward without sending him on the roof—we were forbidden to pass through the iron-bound black railcar.”

  “What was in it?” asked Chang.

  “I cannot say—Mrs. Marchmoor had the key and went in alone. Upon our arrival at Orange Locks we were met by Mr. Blenheim, with carts and a coach. He went into the black car with his men, under Mrs. Marchmoor’s eye, and they brought out—”

  “What was it?” hissed Chang, suddenly impatient to know, yet fearing to hear the words.

  “Again, I cannot say—it was covered with canvas. It could have been another of their boxes, or it could have been a coffin. But as they were loading it I distinctly heard Blenheim order the driver to go slow—so as not to break the glass—”

  They were interrupted by the sound of approaching bootsteps. Chang pressed himself flat against the wall. Smythe stepped forward and the hallway rang with the unmistakable and imperious voice of Mr. Blenheim.

  “Captain! What are you doing apart from your men? What business, Sir, can you have in this portion of the house?”

  Chang could no longer see Smythe but heard the tightening of his voice.

  “I was sent to look for Mr. Gray,” he answered.

  “Sent?” snapped Blenheim with open skepticism. “By whom sent?”

  The man’s arrogance was appalling. If Chang were in Smythe’s place, knowing the overseer had just murdered one of his men, Blenheim’s head would already be rolling on the floor.

  “By the Contessa, Mr. Blenheim. Would you care to so interrogate her?”

  Blenheim ignored this. “Well? And did you find Mr. Gray?”

  “I did not.”

  “Then why are you still here?”

  “As you can see yourself, I am leaving. I understand that you’ve moved my trooper’s body to the stables.”

  “Of course I have—the last thing the master’s guests want to see is a corpse.”

  “Indeed. Yet I, as his officer, must attend to his effects.”

  Blenheim snorted with disdain at such petty business. “Then you will oblige me by vacating this part of the house, and assuring me that neither you nor your men will return. By the wish of Lord Vandaariff himself, it is for his guests alone.”

  “Of course. It is Lord Vandaariff’s house.”

  “And I manage that house, Captain,” said Blenheim. “If you will come with me.”

  Chang struck out as best he could for the Lord of the manor’s study. His look at the prison plans had not been so detailed as he might like, but it made sense that the warden might have personal access to the central viewing tower. Had Vandaariff simply adopted—and no doubt expanded and layered with mahogany and marble—the previous despot’s lair for his own? If Chang’s guess was right, Vandaariff’s study could then get him to Celeste. It was the thought he kept returning to in his mind, her rescue. He knew there were other tasks—to revenge Angelique, to find the truth about Oskar Veilandt, to discover what falling-out between his enemies had led to Trapping’s death—and normally he would have relished the idea of juggling them all together, to carry their evolving solutions in his head as he carried the sifted contents of the Library. But tonight there was no time, no room to fail, no second chances.

  He could not risk being seen by anyone, and so was reduced to painful dashes across open corridors, creeping to corners, and scuttling back into cover when guests or servants happened by. With a scoff Chang thought of how nearly everyone in the pyramid of Harschmort’s inhabitants was some sort of servant—by occupation, by marriage, by money, by fear, by desire. He thought of Svenson’s servitude to duty—duty to what, Chang could not understand—and his own doomed notions of obligation and, even if he disdained the word, honor. Now he wanted to spit on them all, just as he was spitting blood on these white marble floors. And what of Celeste—had she been a servant to Bascombe? Her family? Her wealth? Chang realized he did not know. For a moment he saw her, wrestling to reload his pistol at the Boniface…a remarkable little beast. He wondered if she had shot someone after all.

  The guests, he saw, were once again masked and in formal dress, and their snatches of conversation all carried a buzzing current of anticipation and mystery.

  “Do you know—it is said they will be married—tonight!”

  “The man in the cape—with the red lining—it is Lord Carfax, back from the Baltic!”

  “Did you notice the servants with the iron-bound chests?”

  “They will give us a signal to come forward—I had it myself from Elspeth Poole!”

  “I’m sure of it—a shocking vigor—”

  “Such dreams—and afterwards such peace of mind—”

  “They will come like trusting puppies—”

  “Did you see it? In the air? Such a machine!”

  “Fades in a matter of days—I have it on the highest authority—”

  “I have heard it from one who has been before—a particular disclosure—”

  “No one has seen him—Henry Xonck himself was refused!”

  “I’ve never heard such screaming—nor right after, witnessed such ecstasy—”

  “Such an unsurpassed collection of quality!”

  “Spoken in front of everyone, ‘is not history best written with a whip mark?’ The Lady is superb!”

  “No one has spoken to him for days—apparently he will reveal all tonight, his secret plans—”

  “He’s going to speak! The Comte as much as promised it—”

  “And then…the work will be revealed!”

  “Indeed…the work will be revealed!”

  This last was from a pair of thin rakish men in tailcoats and masks of black satin. Chang had penetrated well into the maze of private apartments and presently stood behind a marble pillar upon which was balanced an ancient and delicate amphora of malachite and gold. The chuckling men walked past—he was in a middling-sized sitting room—toward a sideboard laid with bottles and glasses. The men poured themselves whiskies and sipped them happily, leaning against the furniture and smiling at one another, for all the world like children waiting for permission to unwrap birthday presents.

  One of them frowned. He wrinkled his nose.

  “What is it?” asked the other.

  “That smell,” said the first.

  “My goodness,” agreed the other, sniffing too. “What could it be?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “It’s really quite horrid…”

  Chang shrank as best he could behind the pillar. If they continued toward him he would have no choice but to attack them both. One of them would surely have a chance to scream. He would be found. The fi
rst man had taken an exploratory step in his direction. The other hissed at him.

  “Wait!”

  “What?”

  “Do you think they might be starting?”

  “I don’t understand—”

  “The smell! Do you think they’re starting? The alchemical fires!”

  “O my goodness! Is that what they smell like?”

  “I don’t know—do you?”

  “I don’t know! We could be late!”

  “Hurry—hurry—”

  Each tossed back his whisky and slammed down his glass. They rushed unheedingly past Chang, straightening their masks and smoothing their hair.

  “What will they make us do?” asked one as they opened the door to leave.

  “It does not matter,” the other barked urgently, “you must do it!”

  “I will!”

  “We will be redeemed!” one called with a giddy chuckle as the door closed. “And then nothing shall stop us!”

  Chang stepped from his spot. With a shake of his head, he wondered if their reaction would have been any different had he not traveled through the furnace pipes, but merely arrived at a Harschmort drawing room bearing the normal odors of his rooming house. That smell they would have recognized, he knew—it had been settled into their social understanding. The hideous smells of Harschmort and the Process carried the possibility of advancement, suspending all natural judgment. Similarly, he saw now the Cabal could be as blunt and open as it wished about its aims of power and domination. The beauty was that none of these aspirants—crowding together in their finery, as if they’d managed an invitation to court—saw themselves as people dominated, though their desperate fawning made it obvious that they were. The unreality of the evening—their induction—only served to flatter them more, thrilling themselves with the silks and the masks and scheming—enticing trappings that Chang saw were nothing but the distractions of a circus mountebank. Instead of looking up at the Contessa or the Comte with any suspicion, these people were turned gleefully the other way, looking at all the people—from within their new “wisdom”—they might now dominate in turn. He saw the brutal sense of it. Any plan that trusted for success on the human desire to exploit others and deny the truth about one’s self was sure to succeed.