Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

dook dook sounds of wine being poured—a substantial amount of wine. The first man spoke again. “Do you think we can risk a light?”

“The Deputy Minister—” began the second voice.

“Yes, I know—all right—and it’s just as well. I don’t want to look at this fellow any more than I already have. What a waste of time. When is he supposed to be here?”

“The messenger said he had a prior errand before he could meet us.”

The first man sighed. Svenson heard the sound of a match—an orange glow flickering under the door—and then the puffing of a man lighting a cigar.

“Do you want one, Bascombe?” the first man asked. Svenson searched his memory. He’d met or overheard the introductions of so many people in the last weeks—had there been a Bascombe? Perhaps, but he couldn’t place him—if he could just see the man…

“No, thank you, Sir,” replied Bascombe.

“I’m not ‘Sir’,” the first man laughed. “Leave that for Crabbe, or the Comte, though I daresay you’ll be one of them soon enough. How does that feel?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. It’s happening very quickly.”

“The best temptations always do, eh?”

Bascombe did not respond, and they were silent for a time, drinking. Svenson could smell the cigar. It was an excellent cigar. Svenson licked his lips. He wanted a cigarette desperately. He did not recognize either of the voices.

“Have you had much experience with corpses?” asked the first voice, with a trace of amusement.

“This is actually my first, in such close quarters,” answered the second, with an air that told Svenson the man knew he was being goaded, but must make the best of it. “My father died when I was much younger—”

“And your uncle of course. Did you see his body?”

“I did not. I have not yet—I will of course—at the funeral.”

“You grow used to it like anything. Ask any doctor, or soldier.” Svenson heard more sounds of pouring. “All right, what’s after corpses…what about women?”

“Beg pardon?”

The man chuckled. “Oh, don’t be such a boiled trout—no wonder Crabbe favors you. You’re not married?”

“No.”

“Engaged?”

“No.” The voice hesitated. “There was—but no, never so significant an attachment. As I say, all of these changes have come quickly—”

“Brothels, then, I assume? Or schoolgirls?”

“No, no,” Bascombe said, with a professionally patient tone that Svenson recognized as the hallmark of a skilled courtier, “as I say, my own feelings have always, well, always been in service to obligation—”

“My goodness—so it’s boys?”

“Mr. Xonck!” snapped the voice, perhaps less appalled than exasperated.

“I am merely asking. Besides, when you’ve traveled as much as I have, things stop surprising you. In Vienna for example, there is a prison you may visit for a small fee, as one would visit a zoo, you know—but for only a few more silver pfennigs—”

“But, Mr. Xonck, surely—I beg your pardon—our present business—”

“Didn’t the Process teach you anything?”

Here the younger man paused, taking in that this might be a more serious question than the bantering tone implied.

“Of course,” he said, “it was transforming—”

“Then have some more wine.”

Had this been the right answer? Svenson heard the gurgling bottle as Francis Xonck began to hold forth. “Moral perspective is what we carry around with us—it exists nowhere else, I can promise you. Do you see? There is liberation and responsibility—for what is natural depends on where you are, Bascombe. Moreover, vices are like genitals—most are ugly to behold, and yet we find that our own are dear to us.” He sniggered at his own wit, drank deeply, exhaled. “But I suppose you have no vices, do you? Well, once you’ve changed your hat and become Lord Tarr, sitting on the only deposit of indigo clay within five hundred miles, I daresay you’ll find they appear soon enough—I speak from experience. Find yourself some tuppable tea cozy to marry and keep your house and then do what you want elsewhere. My brother, for example…”

Bascombe laughed once, somewhat bitterly.

“What is it?” asked Xonck.

“Nothing.”

“I do insist.”

Bascombe sighed. “It is nothing—merely that, only last week, I was still—as I said, not significant—you see, one can only smile at how easy it is to believe—believe so deeply—”

“Wait, wait—if you’re going to tell a story, then we need another bottle. Come on.”

Their footsteps moved out of the kitchen, to the hall, and soon Svenson heard them descending the cellar stairs. He didn’t feel he could risk slipping past—he had no idea where the wine cellar actually was, or how long they would be. He could try to find the front door—but knew he was in the perfect position to learn more where he was, as long as he wasn’t discovered. Suddenly Svenson had it. Bascombe! He was Crabbe’s aide—a thin, youngish fellow, never spoke, always paying attention—he was about to be a Lord? Chiding himself Svenson realized he was wasting the most immediate source of information of all. He dug out another match and pushed silently through the swinging door. He listened—they were well out of hearing—struck the match and looked down at the dead man on the table.

He was perhaps forty years old, hair thin, clean-shaven, with a sharp pointed nose. His face was covered with red blotches, vivid despite the pallor of death, lips stretched back in a grimace, revealing a mouth half-full of tobacco-stained teeth. Working quickly as the match burned, Svenson pulled back the sheet and could not help but gasp. The man’s arms, from the elbows down, were riven with veins of lurid, jagged, gleaming blue, bulging out from the skin, cutting through it. At first glance the veins looked wet, but Svenson was shocked to realize that they were in fact glass—and that they ran down through the man’s forearms, thickening, seething into and stiffening the flesh around them. He pulled the cloth farther and dropped the match with surprise. The man had no hands. His wrists were completely blue, starred, and broken—as if the hands below them had shattered.

The footsteps returned below. Svenson whipped the cloth into place and retreated to the dining room, carefully stilling the swinging door, his mind reeling at what he’d just seen. Within moments he heard the men in the hall and then entering the kitchen.

“Another glass there, Bascombe,” called Xonck, and then to a third man, “I’m assuming you will join us—or me, at least—Bascombe doesn’t quite share my thirst. Always watching from a distance, aren’t you, Roger?”

“If you insist,” muttered the new voice. Svenson stopped breathing. It was Major Blach. Svenson slowly slipped his right hand around the butt of the revolver.

“Excellent.” Xonck extracted the cork from the new bottle with a pop and poured. He drank, and Svenson could hear him emit little noises of pleasure as he did. “It’s very good—isn’t it? Damn—my cigar seems to have gone out.” Svenson saw the light of a match flare. While it burned, Xonck chatted on. “Why don’t we give him a peek—get the cloth, Bascombe. There you go—in all his glory. Well, Major, what do you say?”

There was no response. After a moment the match went out. Xonck chuckled. “That’s more or less what we said too. I think old Crabbe said ‘bloody hell!’ Except of course it’s not bloody at all.” Xonck cackled. “Find relief where you can, that’s what I say.”

“What has happened to him?” asked Blach.

“What do you think? He’s dead. He was rather valuable, don’t you know—rather skilled in the technical mechanics. It’s a good thing there’s still Lorenz—if there is still Lorenz—because, Major, I’m not quite certain you