Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

“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 Staelmaere —”

“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 staircase—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