Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

gone the other direction…this must have happened here too…the book’s energy must have entered deeper into the people who died, leaving its mark as it drained them utterly. But why them and not the others? He looked back at the smiling people around Miss Poole. None of them could remember exactly what they had revealed—indeed, did they even know why they were here? He shook his head at the beauty of it, for each could be safely sent back to their life, lacking any knowledge of what had been done, aside from a trip to the country and a few strange deaths. But when was there not a way to explain deaths of those considered to be insignificant? Who would protest—who would even remember those killed?

For a moment Svenson’s thoughts stabbed toward Corinna—the degree to which her true memory was retained in his breast alone—and he felt within him a sharpening rage. The death of Starck weighed heavily, but he took the words of the simpleton Aspiche (why must such men always reduce the complexity of the world to single- syllable thinking—an empire of grunts?) as a reminder of who his enemies truly were. He was not Chang—he could not feel good about killing, nor kill well enough to preserve his life—but he was Abelard Svenson. He knew what these villains were doing, and which of them were truly doing it: above him on the platform balcony, Harald Crabbe and the Duke of Staelmaere. If he could kill them, then Lorenz and Aspiche and Miss Poole did not matter— whatever mischief they made in the world would be limited to the reach of their own two arms and would land them in the same undoubted discontent they knew before their glorious redemption in the Process. The Process depended on the organization of the Cabal—on these two, on d’Orkancz, Lacquer-Sforza, and Xonck. And Robert Vandaariff… he must be the leader. Doctor Svenson suddenly knew that even if he did escape he would not be meeting Chang or Miss Temple at Stropping Station. Either they were dead, or they would be at Harschmort.

But what could he hope to do? Aspiche was tall, strong, armed, and vicious—perhaps even a match for Chang. Doctor Svenson was unarmed and spent. He looked back to the kiln. Lorenz walked toward them, shucking his gauntlets as he came. Above, Crabbe and the Duke chatted quietly—or Crabbe was chatting and the Duke nodding at what he heard, his face glacially impassive. Svenson counted fifteen wooden steps to their platform. If he could make a dash for it, reach them ahead of Aspiche—Crabbe would again throw himself in front of the Duke…Svenson thought of his pockets—was there any kind of weapon? He scoffed—a pencil stub, a cigarette case, the glass card…the card, perhaps if he could snap it in his hands as he ran, and use the jagged edge, one sharp cut into Crabbe’s throat, and then to take the Duke hostage—to drag him up the steps, somehow—would he have his coach above?—making it back to the train, or all the way to the city. Lorenz was nearing them. It was the perfect distraction. He casually slipped a hand into his pocket and groped for the card. He shifted his feet, ready to run.

“Colonel Aspiche,” called Doctor Lorenz, “we are nearly—”

Aspiche swung his forearm savagely across the back of Svenson’s head, knocking him to his knees, his skull near to bursting with pain, his stomach heaving, tasting the vomit in his throat, blinking tears from his eyes. Somewhere behind him—it seemed miles away—he could hear Lorenz’s thin laughter and then the dark hiss of Aspiche at his ear.

“Don’t even think of it.”

Svenson knew he would probably die, but he also knew that if he did not get off his knees he would lose whatever infinitesimal chance he had. He spat and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, noticing with vague surprise that his hand held the blue card still. With a terrible effort he braced his other arm on the grimy clay and raised one knee. He pushed off, wobbled, and then felt Aspiche take hold of his greatcoat collar and yank him up to his feet. He let go and Svenson staggered, nearly falling again. Again he heard Lorenz laugh, and then Crabbe call out from above.

“Doctor Svenson! Any new thoughts about the location of your comrades?”

“I am told they are dead,” he called back, his voice hoarse and weak.

“Perhaps they are,” responded Crabbe. “Perhaps we have taken enough of your time.”

Behind him he heard the metal swish of Colonel Aspiche drawing his saber. He must turn and face him. He must snap the card and drive the sharp edge into his neck, or his eyes, or…he could not turn. He could only look up at Crabbe’s satisfied face, leaning over the railing. Svenson pointed to the quarry walls and called up to the Deputy Minister.

“Macklenburg.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Macklenburg. This quarry. I understand the connection, your indigo clay. This can only be a small deposit. The Macklenburg mountains must be full of it. If you control its Duke, there is no end to your power…is that your plan?”

“Plan, Doctor Svenson? I’m afraid that is already the case. The plan is what to do with the power we’ve managed to achieve. With the help of wise men like the Duke here—”

Svenson spat. Crabbe stopped mid-sentence.

“Such vulgarity—”

“You’ve insulted my country,” called Svenson. “You’ve insulted this one. You’re going to pay, each arrogant one of you—”

Crabbe looked past Svenson’s shoulder to Colonel Aspiche. “Kill him.”

The shot took him by surprise, as he was expecting a blow from a saber—and it took him another moment to realize that it wasn’t he who had been hit by the bullet. He heard the scream—again, wondering that it wasn’t coming from his own mouth—and then saw the Duke of Staelmaere reel into the railing, clutching his right shoulder, quite cleanly punctured, blood pouring through his long white fingers clutching the wound. Crabbe wheeled, his mouth working, as the Duke dropped to his knees, his head slipping through the rails. Above and behind them, both hands tightly gripping the smoking service revolver, stood Eloise.

“God be damned, Madame!” shouted Crabbe. “Do you know who you have shot? It is a capital offense! It is treason!” She fired again, and this time Svenson saw the shot blow out through the Duke’s chest, a thick quick fountain of blood. Staelmaere’s mouth opened with surprise at the impact, at the shocking scope of his agony, and he collapsed to the planking.

Svenson whirled, drawing new energy from his rescue, and—recalling something he’d once seen in a wharf- side bar—stomped on Colonel Aspiche’s boot in the same moment he shoved the man straight back sharply with both hands. As the Colonel fell back, Svenson’s weight fixed his foot to the ground so that he was both unable to rebalance himself and to prevent his own weight from being thrown against his pinned ankle. Svenson heard the cracking bones as the Colonel landed with a cry of rage and pain. He leapt away—Aspiche, even so down, was swinging the saber, face reddened, tears at the corners of his eyes—and dashed to the stairs. Eloise fired again— apparently missing Crabbe, who had retreated into the corner of the landing, arms over his face, hunched away from the gun. Svenson charged and struck him in his exposed stomach. Crabbe doubled forward with a grunt, his hands clutching his belly. Svenson swung again at the Deputy Minister’s now-exposed face, and the man went down in a heap. Svenson gasped—he had no idea how such a blow would hurt his hand—and staggered toward his rescuer.

“Bless you, my dear,” he breathed, “for you have saved my life. Let us climb—”

“They are coming!” she said, her voice rising with fear. He looked back down to see Lorenz’s assistants and the gang of men from the benches all running. Lorenz had helped Aspiche to his feet and the limping, hopping Colonel was waving his saber and bawling orders.

“Kill them! Kill them! They have murdered the Duke!”

“The Duke?” whispered Eloise.

“You did right,” Svenson assured her. “If I may, for there are many of them—”

He reached for the pistol and took it, pulling back the hammer, and jumped down to the cowering Crabbe. The men charged up the stairs as Svenson took the Minister by his collar and raised him to his knees, grinding the gun barrel against Crabbe’s ear. They surged to the very edge of the platform, eyeing Svenson and Eloise with hatred. Svenson looked over the rail to the quarry floor to where Lorenz stood supporting Aspiche. He shouted down to them.

“I will kill him! You know I will do it! Call your fellows off!”

He looked back to the crowd and saw it part to allow Miss Poole to pass through. She stepped onto the platform, smiling icily.

“Are you quite all right, Minister?” she asked.