Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

“He does now command the regiment.”

Smythe nodded in brusque agreement. His face hardened. “I’ve said enough. What was your meeting?”

“I am a man who does things,” said Chang. “Adjutant-Colonel Aspiche engaged me to find Arthur Trapping, who had disappeared.”

“Why?”

“Not for love, if that’s what you mean. Trapping represented powerful men, and their power—their interest —was why the regiment had been transferred from the colonies to the Palace. Now he was gone. Aspiche wanted to take command, but was worried about the other forces at work.”

Smythe winced with disgust. Chang was happy with his decision to withhold the whole truth.

“I see. Did you find him?”

Chang hesitated, and then shrugged—the Captain seemed plain enough. “I did. He is dead, murdered. I do not know how, or by whom. The body has been sunk in the river.”

Smythe was taken aback. “But why?” he asked.

“I truly don’t know.”

“Is that why you were here—reporting this to Bascombe?”

“Not…exactly.”

Smythe stiffened with wariness. Chang raised his hand.

“Do not be alarmed—or rather, be alarmed, but not by me. I came here to speak to Bascombe—what is your impression of the man?”

Smythe shrugged. “He is a Ministry official. No fool—and without the superior airs of many here. Why?”

“No reason—his is a minor role, for my errand truly lay with Xonck, and with the Contessa Lacquer-Sforza, because they were in league with Colonel Trapping—Xonck especially—and for reasons I do not understand, one of them—I don’t know which, nor, perhaps, do they—arranged for him to die. You know as well as I that Aspiche is now in their pocket. Your operations today, taking the boxes of machinery from the Royal Institute—”

“To Harschmort, yes.”

“Exactly,” said Chang, not missing a beat but elated at what Smythe had revealed. “Robert Vandaariff is part of their plan, likely its architect, along with the Crown Prince of Macklenburg—”

Smythe held up his hand to stop him. He dug out his flask, unscrewed it with a frown and took a deep drink. He held it to Chang, who did not refuse. The swig of brandy set off another fire in his throat, but in some determined self-punishing way he was sure it was for the better. He returned the flask.

“All of this…” Smythe spoke almost too low to hear. “So much has felt wrong—and yet, promotions, decorations, the Palace, the Ministries—so we can spend our time escorting carts, or socialites stupid enough to set themselves on fire—”

“Whom do you serve at the Palace?” asked Chang. “Here it is Bascombe and Crabbe—but even they must receive some approval from above.”

Smythe was not listening. He was lost in thought. He looked up, his face marked by a fatigue that Chang had not previously seen. “The Palace? A nest of impotent Dukes posing around an unloved, fading hag.” Smythe shook his head. “You should go. The guard will be changing, and the Colonel may be with them—he often meets with the Deputy Minister late in the evening. They are making plans, but none of the other officers know what they are. Most, as you can imagine, are as full of arrogance as Aspiche. We should hurry—they may have been given your name. I take that your story of being ill was a fabrication?”

Chang stood with him. “Not at all. But it was the result of being poisoned—and having the dreadful manners to survive.”

Smythe allowed himself a quick smile. “What has come of the world when a man won’t obey his betters and simply die when they ask him?”

Smythe led him quickly down the stairs to the second floor, and then through several winding corridors to the balcony above the rear entrance. “It is relieved later than the front, and my men will still be here,” he explained. He studied Chang closely, glancing over his clothing and ending at his impenetrable eyes. “I fear that you are a scoundrel—or so I would normally find you—but strange times make for strange meetings. I believe you are telling the truth. If we can help each other…well, we’re that much less alone.”

Chang extended his hand. “I’m sure I am a scoundrel, Captain. And yet I am these people’s enemy. I am much obliged for your kindness. I hope some time to return it.” Smythe shook his hand and nodded to the gate.

“It is half-past nine. You must go.”

They walked down the stairs. On a whim, Chang whispered to him. “We are not alone, Captain. You may meet a German doctor, Svenson, of the Prince’s party. Or a young woman, Miss Celeste Temple. We are together in this—mention my name and they will trust you. I promise they are more formidable than they appear.”

They were at the gate. Captain Smythe gave him a curt nod—anything more would have been noticed by the troopers—and Chang walked out into the street.

He made his way to St. Isobel’s Square and sat at the fountain, where he could easily see anyone approaching him from any direction. The moon was a scant pale glow behind the murky clouds. The fog had risen from the river and crawled toward him across the bricks, its moist air tickling his raw throat and lungs. With a nagging dismay he wondered how badly he’d been injured. He had known consumptives, hacking their life away into bloody rags—was this the first stage of such a misery? He felt another twinge as he inhaled, as if he had glass in his lungs, cutting into the flesh with the movement of each breath. He hawked up a gob of thick fluid from his throat and spat on the paving. It seemed darker than normal, but he could not tell if it was more of the blue discharge or if it was blood.

The boxes were sent to Harschmort. Because there was more room? More privacy? Both were true, but a further thought arose to him—the canals. Harschmort was the perfect location to send the boxes away to sea…to Macklenburg. He berated himself for not studying the maps in the cupola room when he’d had the chance. He could have at least described them to Svenson—now he only had the barest sense of where they had placed a few colored pins. He sighed—a lost opportunity. He let it go.

The time he’d been insensible had spoiled his hope to find Miss Temple, for wherever she might have reasonably gone, it was doubtful she would still be there—no matter what had happened. The obvious possibility was Bascombe’s house, but he resisted it, as much as thrashing Bascombe might have pleased him, no matter what the man’s true loyalties. For the first time he questioned whether Celeste might not have the same resistance—was it possible that Bascombe hadn’t been her destination? She had left them churning with emotion, after speaking of what she had lost. If that didn’t mean Bascombe, then who could it mean? If he took her at her word—which he realized he never had—Bascombe was no longer anchored to her heart. Who else had so punctured her happiness?

Chang cursed himself for a fool and walked as quickly as he could to the St. Royale Hotel.

He ignored the front and instead went directly to the rear alley, where white-jacketed men from the night kitchen were dragging out metal bins heaped with the evening’s scraps and refuse. He strode to the nearest, gestured to the growing collection of bins and snapped at him. “Who told you to leave these here? Where is your manager?”

The man looked up at him without comprehension—clearly they always put the bins there—but stuttered when faced with Chang’s harsh, strange demeanor. “M-Mr. Albert?”

“Yes! Yes—where is Mr. Albert? I will need to speak to him at once!”

The man pointed inside. By this time the others were watching. Chang turned to them. “Very well. Stay here. We’ll see about this.”

He stalked inside along a service corridor, taking the first turn he could find away from the kitchen and Mr. Albert. This led him, as he had hoped, to the laundry and storage rooms. He hurried on until he found what he wanted: a uniformed porter loafing with a mug of beer. Chang stepped in—amidst mops and buckets and sponges —and shut the door behind him. The porter gulped with surprise, backing up instinctively into a clattering array of broom-handles. Chang reached out and took him by the collar, speaking quickly and low.

“Listen to me. I am in haste. I must get a message—in person, discreetly—to the rooms of the Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza. You know her?” The man nodded. “Good. Take me there now, by the rear stairs. We cannot be seen. It is to preserve the lady’s reputation—she must have my news.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a