Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

memory of an attack on Herr Flauss. It was mere deduction to assume the true culprit was still in hiding.”

“I see,” said Svenson. “Yet I do not see why you waited to expose me.”

“Do you not?” the Comte said, with a smug condescension. “First…where are your companions?”

The Doctor groped for words, his fingers flexing, then let them burst forth with scorn and rage.

“Damn you, Sir! Damn you to hell—you heard for yourself! Their throats have been cut by Colonel Aspiche!”

“But not yours?”

Svenson scoffed. “There is no virtue in it. Chang was half-dead already—his dispatch was a matter of seconds. Miss Temple”—here Svenson passed a hand across his brow—“you will not doubt how she fought him. Her struggles woke me, and I was able to break the Colonel’s skull with a chair…but not, to my undying shame, in time to save the girl.”

The Comte considered the Doctor’s words.

“A moving tale.”

“You’re a bastard,” spat Svenson. He waved a hand at Lydia without taking his eyes from the Comte. “You’re the worst of the lot—for you’ve wasted gifts the others never had. I would put a bullet through your brain, Monsieur—send you to hell right after Aspiche—with less remorse than I would squash a flea.”

His words were met with laughter, but it was not from the Comte. To Miss Temple’s surprise, the Prince had roused himself from his chair and taken a step toward his one-time retainer, the snifter still cradled in his hand.

“What shall we do with him, Monsieur? I suppose the task is mine—he is my traitor, after all. What would you suggest?”

“You’re an ignorant fool,” hissed Svenson. “You’ve never seen it—even now! For God’s sake, Karl, look at her—your fiancee! She is given someone else’s child!”

The Prince turned to Lydia, his face as blandly bemused as ever.

“Do you know what he means, darling?”

“I do not, dearest Karl.”

“Do you, Monsieur?”

“We are merely ensuring her health,” said the Comte.

“The woman is half-dead!” roared Svenson. “Wake up, you idiot! Lydia—for heaven’s sake, girl—run for your life! It is not too late to be saved! ”

Svenson was raving, shouting, flailing his arms. Miss Temple felt Chang take hold of her arm and then— chiding herself again for being one step behind the game—she realized that the Doctor was making noise enough to cover their way down the stairs. They descended quickly to the lowest steps, just out of sight of the room. She looked down at the pistol—why in the world had the Doctor given it to her? Why did he not try to shoot the Prince himself? Why not give it to Chang? She saw Chang look down at the weapon as well, then up to meet her eyes.

She understood in an instant, and despite everything, despite the fact she could not even see his eyes, felt the sting of tears in her own.

“Doctor, you will calm down!” cried the Comte, snapping his fingers at Angelique. In an instant Svenson cried out and staggered, dropping to his knees. The Comte held up his hand again and waited just long enough for the Doctor to regain his wits before speaking.

“And I will hear no more disparagement of this work—”

“Work?” barked Svenson, waving his arms at the glass beakers, at Lydia. “Medieval foolery that will cost this girl’s life!”

“Enough!” shouted the Comte, stepping forward ominously. “Is it foolery that has created the books? Foolery that has eternally captured the very essence of how many lives? Because the science is ancient, you—a doctor, with no subtlety, no sense of energy’s nuance, of elemental concepts—reject it out of hand, in ignorance. You who have never sought the chemical substance of desire, of devotion, of fear, of dreams—never located the formulaic roots of art and religion, the power to remake in flesh myths most sacred and profane!”

The Comte stood over Svenson, his mouth a grimace, as if he were angry for having spoken so intimately to such a person. He cleared his throat and went on, his words returned to their customary coldness.

“You asked why I waited to expose you. You will have overheard certain disagreements amongst my allies— questions for which I would have answers…without necessarily sharing them. You may speak willingly, or with the aid of Angelique—but speak to me you will.”

“I don’t know anything,” spat Svenson. “I was at Tarr Manor—I am outside your Harschmort intrigues—”

The Comte ignored him, idly fingering the knobs on his metal implement as it lay next to Lydia’s pale leg.

“When we spoke in my greenhouse, your Prince had been taken from you. At that time neither you nor I knew how or by whom.”

“It was the Contessa,” said Svenson, “in the airship—”

“Yes, I know. I want to know why.”

“Surely she gave you an explanation!”

“Perhaps she did…perhaps not…”

“The falling-out of thieves,” sneered the Doctor. “And the two of you seemed such particular friends—”

The Prince stepped forward and boxed Svenson’s ear.

“You will not speak so to your betters!” he announced, as if he were making polite conversation, then snorted with satisfaction. Svenson looked up at the Prince, his face hot with scorn, but his words were still for the Comte.

“I cannot know, of course—I merely, as you say, deduce. The Prince was taken mere hours after I had rescued him from the Institute. You—and others—were not told. Obviously she wanted the Prince for her own ends. What is the Prince to your plans? A dupe, a pawn, a void in the seat of power—”

“Why, you damned ungrateful rogue!” cried the Prince. “The audacity!”

“To some this might seem obvious,” said the Comte, impatiently.

“Then I should think the answer obvious as well,” scoffed Svenson. “Everyone undergoing the Process is instilled with a control-phrase, are they not? Quite by accident the Prince was taken by me before any particular commands could be given to him—the Contessa, knowing that, and knowing the Prince’s character would predispose everyone to think of him as an imbecile, seized the opportunity to instill within his mind commands of her own, to be invoked at the proper time against her putative allies—something unexpected, such as, let us say, pushing you out of an airship. Of course, when asked, the Prince will remember none of it.”

The Comte was silent. Miss Temple was amazed at the Doctor’s presence of mind.

“As I say…fairly obvious,” sniffed Svenson.

“Perhaps…it is your own fabrication…yet credible enough that I must waste time scouring the memory of the Prince. But before that, Doctor—for I think you are lying—I will first scour you. Angelique?”

Svenson leapt to his feet with a cry, but the cry was cut to a savage choking bark as Angelique’s mind penetrated his. Chang burst forth from the stairwell, running forward, Miss Temple right behind him. Svenson was on his knees holding his face, the Prince above him, raising a boot to kick the Doctor’s head. To the side stood Angelique. The Prince looked up at them with a confused resentment at being interrupted. The Comte wrenched his attention from Svenson’s mind with a roar. Angelique turned, a little too slowly, and Miss Temple raised the revolver. She was perhaps ten feet distant when she pulled the trigger.

The shot smashed into the glass woman’s outstretched arm at the elbow, shearing through with a spray of bright shards and dropping the forearm and hand to the floor, where they shattered in a plume of indigo smoke. Miss Temple saw Angelique’s mouth open wide but heard the scream within her mind, indiscriminately flaying the thoughts of every person in the room. Miss Temple fell to her knees, tears in her eyes, and fired again. The bullet pierced the cuirass of Angelique’s torso, starring the surface. Miss Temple kept squeezing the trigger, each hole driving the cracks deeper, lancing into each other to form fissures—the scream redoubled and Miss Temple could not move, could barely see, flooded with random memories stabbing her mind like daggers—Angelique as a child at