He dropped the table and looked behind him. The sound of the shots would have traveled for the most part back through the tunnels, not forward into the house, and he had to trust that they’d been well-insulated for secrecy’s sake. Why was no one following? On the carpet at his feet the second man was breathing heavily, shot through the chest. Svenson sank to his knees to find the entry-point and quickly concluded the wound was mortal—it would be a matter of a minute. He stood, unable to bear the gaze of the gasping man, and stepped to his fellow, quite dead, rolling him off of the elderly churchman. Svenson shifted the body to the floor, already assailed by feelings of guilt and recrimination. Could he not have wounded them? Shot once and bluffed them into submission, tied with curtain cords like Flauss? Perhaps…but such niceties—had human life become a nicety?—left no time to find the women, to secure his Prince, to stop these fellows’ masters. Svenson saw that the dead man still held a burning cigar between his fingers. Without a thought he reached down and took it, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes with long-missed pleasure.

The men were unarmed, and with no weapons to pillage Svenson resigned himself to more stealth and theatre, holding the empty revolver as he walked. He’d left the room’s other occupants as they were and picked his way through an empty string of parlors, watching for any trace of Bascombe or Crabbe, but hoping it was Bascombe that he found. If what he had guessed of the books from Tarr Manor was true, that they were capable of absorbing—of recording—memories, then the chest of books rivaled an unexplored continent for value. He also realized the particular worth of Bascombe’s notebook, where the contents of each book—of each mind!—were cataloged and detailed. With those notes as a guide, what question could not be answered from that unnatural library? What advantage not be found?

Doctor Svenson looked around him with annoyance. He’d walked through another sitting room to an airy foyer with a bubbling fountain whose sound obscured any distant footfalls that might point him in the right direction. The Doctor wondered idly if the labyrinth of Harschmort had a Minotaur. He crossed heavily to the fountain and looked into the water—could one ever not look into the water?—and laughed aloud, for the Minotaur was before him: his own haggard, soot-smudged, battered visage, cigar in his face, weapon in hand. To the guests of this gala evening, was he not their determined, monstrous nemesis? Svenson outright cackled at the idea—and cackled again at the antic hoarseness of his voice, a raven trying to sing after too many cups of gin. He set down his smoke and stuffed the pistol into his belt, and reached into the fountain’s pool, scooping water first to drink and then to splash across his face, and to once again smooth back his hair. He shook his hands, the droplets breaking his reflection to rippling pieces, and looked up. Someone was coming. He threw the cigar into the water and pulled out the gun.

It was Crabbe 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.”

Crabbe 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 Crabbe did not reply, Bascombe ventured a hesitant guess. “Aspiche?”

Crabbe’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,” Crabbe 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,” Crabbe 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.”

Crabbe 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 Melantes—”

“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 Crabbe. 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—”

Crabbe 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—”

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