Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

something to at least, in his last moments, unsettle his executioners’ stomachs.

He realized that Mrs. Stearne was looking at him. He cocked his head in a mocking invitation for her to speak…but she was, for the first time, hesitant to do so.

“I would…if I may, I would be grateful—for as I say, I was elsewhere occupied—if, with the Comte…if you could tell me what you saw…down below.”

It was all Chang could do not to slap the woman’s face.

“What I saw?”

“I ask because I do not know. Mrs. Marchmoor and Miss Poole—I knew them—I know that they have undergone—that the Comte’s great work—”

“Did they go to him willingly?” demanded Chang.

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Stearne replied.

“Why not you?”

She hesitated just a moment, looking into his veiled eyes.

“I…I must…my own responsibilities for the evening—”

She was interrupted by a peremptory snort from Aspiche, a clear admonishment at this topic of conversation—or indeed, conversation with Chang at all.

“Instead of you, it was Angelique.”

“Yes.”

“Because she was willing?”

Mrs. Stearne turned to Aspiche before he could snort again and snapped, “Colonel, do be quiet!” She looked back at Chang. “I will go in my turn. But you must know from Doctor Svenson—yes, I know who he is, as I know Celeste Temple—what happened to that woman at the Institute. Indeed, I am led to understand that you yourself were there, even perhaps responsible—I do not mean intentionally,” she said quickly as Chang opened his mouth to speak, “but only that you well know that her state was grave. In the Comte’s mind this was her only chance.”

“Chance for what? You have not seen what—what—the thing she has become!”

“Truly, I have not—”

“Then you should not speak of it,” cried Chang.

Aspiche chuckled.

“Does something amuse you, Colonel?” snarled Chang.

“You amuse me, Cardinal. A moment.”

Aspiche stopped walking and pulled his arm from Mrs. Stearne. He reached into his scarlet coat and removed one of his thin black cheroots and a box of matches. He bit off the tip of the cheroot and spat. He looked up to Chang with a vicious grin and stuck the cheroot into his mouth, fiddling with the matches for a light.

“You see, I was introduced to you as a man of unfettered depravity—a figure without scruple or conscience, ready to hunt and kill for a fee. And yet, what do I find—in your final hours, with your life boiled down to its essence? A man in shackles to a whore who thinks as little of him as she does yesterday’s breakfast, and working in league—the lone wolf of the riverside!—with an idiot surgeon and an even more idiotic girl—or should I say spinster? She is what—twenty and five?—and the only man who’d have her has come to his senses and thrown her aside like a spent nag!”

“They’re alive then?” Chang asked.

“Oh…I did not say that.” Aspiche chuckled, shaking out the match.

The Colonel inhaled through the cheroot’s glowing tip and sent a thin stream of smoke out of the side of his mouth. He offered his arm again to Mrs. Stearne, but Chang made no move to continue.

“You will know, Colonel, that I have just come from killing Major Blach and three of his men—or perhaps five, there was no time to be sure. It would give me as much pleasure to do the same to you.”

Aspiche scoffed and blew more smoke.

“Do you know, Mrs. Stearne,” Chang pitched his voice loud enough that every Dragoon would hear him clearly, “how I was first introduced to the Colonel? I will tell you—”

Aspiche growled and reached for his saber. Chang raised the book high over his head. The two lines of Dragoons all raised their blades in readiness to attack. Mrs. Stearne, her eyes at once quite wide, stepped between them all.

“Colonel—Cardinal—this must not happen—”

Chang ignored her, glaring into Aspiche’s hate-filled eyes, hissing with relish. “I met the Colonel- Adjutant when he hired me—to execute—to assassinate—his commanding officer, Colonel Arthur Trapping of the 4th Dragoons.”

The words were met with silence, but their impact on the surrounding soldiers was palpable as a slap. Mrs. Stearne’s eyes were wide—she had known Trapping as well. She turned to Aspiche, speaking hesitantly.

“Colonel Trapping…”

“Preposterous! What else will you say to divide me from my men?” cried Aspiche, in what, Chang had to admit, was a very credible impression of impugned honor—though Aspiche, being such a blind egotist, had probably already convinced himself that the contract for murder had never occurred. “You are a well-known lying, murdering rogue—”

“Who did kill him, Colonel?” taunted Chang. “Have you found that out? How long will you survive before they do it to you? How much time will the sale of your honor purchase? Did they ask you to attend when they sunk his body in the river?”

With a cry, Aspiche drew his saber in a wide scything arc but then, partially unsteadied by his rage, put his weight on his weak leg and just for a moment tottered. Chang shoved Mrs. Stearne to the side and snapped his right fist into Aspiche’s throat. The Colonel staggered back, hand at his collar, choking, his face red. Chang immediately stepped away, close to Mrs. Stearne, raising his arms in peace. Mrs. Stearne at once shouted to the Dragoons, who were clearly an instant away from running Chang through.

“Stop! Stop it—stop it—all of you!”

The Dragoons hesitated, still poised to attack. She wheeled to Chang and Aspiche.

“Cardinal—you will be silent! Colonel Aspiche—you will behave like a proper escort! We will continue at once. If there is any more nonsense, I will not be responsible for what happens to any of you!”

Chang nodded to her and took another careful step away from the Colonel. He had grown so accustomed to Mrs. Stearne’s calm manner that her genuine authority had surprised him. It was as if she had somehow invoked it from within, like something learned, like a soldier’s automatic response from training—only this was emotion, a force of character that allowed a woman who knew nothing of command to assert control over twenty hardened soldiers—and in the direct place of their officer. Once more, the true impact of the Process left Chang amazed and unsettled.

They continued in silence, turning into another back corridor, skirting the kitchens. Chang looked through every open door or archway they passed, searching for any sign of Svenson or Miss Temple, or any hope of escape. The momentary pleasure at baiting Aspiche had gone, and his mind was once more plagued with doubt. If he could smash the book in the direction of one line of soldiers and then dash through the gap it created, he knew he had a chance—but it was useless if he didn’t know where he was going. A blind rush was likely to lead straight into another band of soldiers or a malevolent crowd of adherents. He’d be cut to pieces without a qualm.

Chang turned at the sound of running steps behind them. It was one of the Dragoons Aspiche had sent to find Blenheim. The trooper made his way through the rear line of soldiers and saluted the Colonel, reporting that Blenheim was still missing, and that the other groups were fanning out through the interior rooms. Aspiche nodded curtly.

“Where is Captain Smythe?”

The trooper had no answer.

“Find him!” snapped Aspiche, as if he had asked for Smythe in the first place, and the trooper was impossibly stupid. “He should be outside—arranging the sentries—bring him to me at once!”

The Dragoon saluted again and dashed off. Aspiche said nothing more and they continued on.

More than once they were forced to wait while a group of guests crossed their corridor, moving on a different