Gordon Dahlquist

by Volume Two The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

  “He is absolutely under our control,” protested Crabbé, “you saw yourself—”

  “I saw no proof at all! It would have been simple to counterfeit!”

  “Ask Bascombe—”

  “Excellent—of course, we shall rely on the word of your own trusted assistant—now I shall sleep soundly!”

  “Do not take anyone’s word,” snapped Crabbé, growing angry in his turn. “Call Lord Robert back—go see him yourself, do whatever you like, you’ll see he is our slave! Exactly as planned!”

  “Then why,” said Francis Xonck in a calm dangerous tone, “did you interrupt the examination?”

  Crabbé stammered, gesturing vaguely with his hands. “Not for the precise reason I stated at the time—I admit that—but so as not to compromise the apparent authority of the Duke and Lord Robert by publicly degrading them with scrutiny! Much rests on our remaining invisible behind these figureheads—including them in the examinations would have revealed them for what they are, our servants! So much is in turmoil already—Blenheim was to escort his master to begin with, to maintain appearances—if it were not for Roger’s quick thinking to step forward—”

  “Where is Blenheim?” snapped the Contessa.

  “He seems to have vanished, Madame,” answered Caroline. “I have questioned the guests as you asked, but no one has seen him.”

  The Contessa snorted and looked past Miss Temple to the door, where Colonel Aspiche stood, having entered last of all.

  “I do not know,” he protested. “My men searched the house—”

  “Interesting, as Blenheim would be loyal to Lord Robert,” observed Xonck.

  “Lord Robert is under our control!” insisted Crabbé.

  “The control of your man Bascombe, at least,” said Xonck. “And what were those papers?”

  This was to Aspiche, who did not understand the question.

  “A satchel of papers!” cried Xonck. “You took them from Doctor Svenson! Bascombe took them from you!”

  “I have no idea,” said the Colonel.

  “You’re as bad as Blach!” scoffed Xonck. “Where is he anyway?”

  The Comte d’Orkancz sighed heavily. “Major Blach is dead. Cardinal Chang.”

  Xonck took this in, rolled his eyes, then shrugged. He turned back to Colonel Aspiche.

  “Where is Bascombe now?”

  “With Lord Robert,” said Caroline. “After Mr. Blenheim—”

  “Where else ought he to be?” cried Crabbé, growing exasperated, “Where else? Distributing the message books—someone had to do it in Blenheim’s absence!”

  “How fortunate he thought to step in,” said the Contessa icily.

  “Mrs. Marchmoor is with him—surely you trust her as much as I trust Bascombe!” sputtered Crabbé. “Surely they have both proven their loyalty to us all!”

  The Contessa turned to Smythe. “Captain, send two of your men to collect Mr. Bascombe as soon as he is finished. Bring him here, along with Lord Robert, if necessary.”

  Smythe gestured immediately to his men, and the Dragoons clattered off.

  “Where is Lydia?” asked Xonck.

  “With the Prince,” answered Caroline, “saying good-bye to the guests.”

  “Thank you, Caroline,” said the Contessa, “at least someone is paying attention.” She called to Smythe. “Have your men collect them as well.”

  “Bring them to me,” rasped the Comte d’Orkancz. “Their part of our business is not finished.”

  The Comte’s words hung balefully in the air, but the others remained silent, as if to speak at all would restart a now-settled disagreement. The Captain detailed two more Dragoons and returned to his place on the far wall, looking at his boots as if he could not hear a word.

  “All this can be settled with ease,” announced the Deputy Minister, turning to the Comte d’Orkancz, “if we consult the book wherein Lord Robert’s thoughts have been stored. That book will make it perfectly clear that I have done what we agreed. It should contain a detailed account of the Lord’s participation in this entire affair—facts that only he could know.”

  “At least one book was destroyed,” rasped the Comte.

  “Destroyed how?” asked the Contessa.

  “Chang.”

  “Damn his bloody soul!” she snarled. “That really is the limit. Do you know which book it was?”

  “I cannot know until I compare those remaining against the ledger,” said the Comte.

  “Then let us do so,” said Crabbé waspishly. “I would be exonerated as soon as possible.”

  “The books are in transit to the rooftop,” said the Comte. “As for the ledger, as you well know it remains in the possession of your assistant.”

  “My goodness!” cried Xonck. “It seems Bascombe’s become a powerfully valuable fellow!”

  “He will bring it with him!” protested Crabbé. “It will be settled. All of this is a ridiculous waste of our time—it has divided our efforts and created dangerous delays—and the most likely explanation for all these questions stands before us.” He thrust his chin toward Miss Temple. “She and her comrades have caused no end of trouble! Who is to say it was not they who have killed Blenheim!”

  “Just as Cardinal Chang slew Mr. Gray …” observed Xonck quietly, turning his gaze to the Contessa. Crabbé took in his words, blinked and then, heartened by the shift of inquiry, nodded with agreement.

  “Ah! Yes! Yes! I had forgotten it—it had been quite blown from my mind! Contessa?”

  “What? As Chang is a murderer and Mr. Gray gone missing, I have no doubt the man was killed. I know not where—my instructions for Mr. Gray were to assist Doctor Lorenz with the Duke.”

  “Yet Chang says they met underground—near the pipes!” cried Crabbé.

  “I had not heard this …” rasped the Comte d’Orkancz.

  The Contessa looked up at him and pulled her spent cigarette from the holder, dropping it to the floor and stepping on the smoking butt while she screwed a new one in its place.

  “You were occupied with your ladies,” she replied. Miss Temple perceived just a whisper of discomfort cross the Contessa’s face as she took in the small glass woman, standing placidly as a tamed leopard, careless of their bickering, her brilliant indigo color more striking for her proximity to the Comte’s dark fur. “Chang claimed Mr. Gray had been tampering with your works—at my instruction. The clearest evidence of this, of course, would be if something had gone wrong with your efforts—however, as far as I can tell, you have produced three successful transformations. As this is a process I quite freely admit I do not understand in the slightest, I offer your results as evidence that Cardinal Chang is a liar.”

  “Unless he killed Gray before he could do his damage,” said Crabbé.

  “Which is idle, baseless speculation,” growled the Contessa.

  “Which does not mean it is not true—”

  The Contessa swept to the Deputy Minister and her hand—apparently occupied with replacing her cigarette case in her bag—was now wrapped with the bright band. Its glittering spike was hard against Crabbé’s throat, digging at a visibly throbbing vein.

  Crabbé swallowed.

  “Rosamonde …” began the Comte.

  “Say it again, you bothersome little man,” hissed the Contessa, “and I will rip you open like a poorly sewn sleeve.”

  Crabbé did not move.

  “Rosamonde …” said the Comte again. Her attention did not shift from Crabbé.

  “Yes?”

  “Might I suggest … the young lady?”

  The Contessa moved two quick steps away from Crabbé—clear of any counter-stroke from a weapon of his own—and wheeled to Miss Temple. The woman’s face was flushed—with open pleasure, it seemed—and her eyes flared with excitement. Miss Temple doubted she had ever been in such peril.

  “You underwent the Process in the theatre?” The Contessa smiled. “Is that it? Yes, directly after Lydia Vandaariff?”

  Miss Temple nodd
ed quickly.

  “What a shame Miss Poole cannot confirm it. But here we are not helpless … let me see … orange for Harschmort … attendant whore … hotel, I suppose … and of course, doomed …”

  The Contessa leaned forward and hissed into Miss Temple’s ear.

  “Orange Magdalene orange Royale ice consumption!”

  Miss Temple was taken by surprise, stammering for a response, then recalling—too late—the Prince in the secret room—

  The Contessa took hold of Miss Temple’s jaw, wrenching her head so the women stared at each other. With a cold deliberate sneer the Contessa’s tongue snaked from her mouth and smeared its way across each of Miss Temple’s eyes. Miss Temple whimpered as the Contessa licked again, pressing her tongue flat over her nose and cheek, digging its narrow tip along her lashes. With a triumphant scoff the Contessa shoved Miss Temple stumbling into the waiting arms of Colonel Aspiche.

  Miss Temple looked up to see the elegant lady wiping her mouth with her hand and mockingly smacking her lips.

  “ ’Thirty-seven Harker-Bornarth, I should say … excellent vintage … shame to waste it on a savage. Get her out of here.”

  She was dragged without ceremony down a nearby hallway and thrown, there was no other word for it, like a sack of goods into a dimly lit room guarded by two black-coated soldiers of Macklenburg. She sprawled to her knees and wheeled back to the open door, hair hanging in her eyes, in time to see Aspiche abruptly slam it shut. A moment later it was locked, and his bootsteps retreated into silence. Miss Temple sank back on her haunches and sighed. She dabbed at her face, still sticky with saliva and port, with the sleeve of her robe, and looked around her.

  It was, as she had speculated earlier, the exact sort of dusty, disused parlor where she had met Spragg and Farquhar, but with a cry Miss Temple saw that she was not alone. She leapt to her feet and lunged at the two figures sprawled facedown on the floor. They were warm—both warm and—she whimpered with joy—they breathed! She had been reunited at last with her comrades! With all her available strength, she did her best to turn them over.

  Miss Temple’s face was wet with tears, but she smiled as Doctor Svenson erupted into a fearsome spate of coughing, and she did her best to wedge her knees under his shoulders and help him to sit up. In the dim light she could not see if there was blood, but she could smell the pungent odors of the indigo clay infused throughout his clothing and his hair. She shoved again and swiveled his body so he could lean back against a nearby settee. He coughed again and recovered so far as to cover his mouth with a hand. Miss Temple brushed the hair from his eyes, beaming.

  “Doctor Svenson—” she whispered.

  “My dear Celeste—are we dead?”

  “We are not, Doctor—”

  “Excellent—is Chang?”

  “No, Doctor—he is right here—”

  “Are we still at Harschmort?”

  “Yes, locked in a room.”

  “And your mind remains your own?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Capital … I am with you in a moment … beg pardon.”

  He turned away from her and spat, took a deep breath, groaned, and heaved himself to a full sitting position, his eyes screwed tightly shut.

  “My suffering Christ …” he muttered.

  “I have just been with our enemies!” she said. “Absolutely everything is going on.”

  “Imagine it must be … pray forgive my momentary lapse …”

  Miss Temple had scuttled to the other side of Cardinal Chang, doing her best not to cry at the spectacle he presented. If anything, the noxious smell was even more intense, and the dried crusts of blood around his nose and mouth and his collar, and the deathly paleness of his face, made clear the extremity of his health. She began to wipe his face with her robe, her other hand holding his head, when she realized that his dark glasses had come off as she’d rolled him over. She stared at the truly vicious scars across each eye and bit her lip at the poor man’s torment. Chang’s breath rattled in his chest like a shaken box of jumbled nails. Was he dying? Miss Temple pulled his head to her bosom and cradled it, whispering gently.

  “Cardinal Chang, … you must come back to us … it is Celeste … I am with the Doctor … we cannot survive without you …”

  Svenson heaved himself from his place and took hold of Chang’s wrist, placing his other hand upon the man’s forehead. A moment later his fingers were probing Chang’s throat and then Svenson had placed his ear against Chang’s chest, to gauge his ragged breath. He raised himself, sighed, and gently disengaged Miss Temple and searched with deliberate fingers along the back of Chang’s skull, where he’d been struck by the Colonel’s truncheon.

  She stared helplessly at his probing fingers, stalking pale through Chang’s black hair.

  “I thought you’d undergone their Process,” he observed mildly.

  “No. I was able to counterfeit the scars,” she said. “I’m sorry if—well, I did not mean to disappoint you—”

  “Hush, it sounds an excellent plan.”

  “The Contessa found me out nevertheless.”

  “That is no shame, I’m sure … I am happy to find you whole. May I ask—I am almost afraid to say it—”

  “Elöise and I became separated. She bore the same false scars—I do not think she has been taken, but do not know where she is. Of course I am not entirely sure I know who she is.”

  The Doctor smiled at her, rather lost and wan, his eyes achingly clear. “Nor am I … that is the strangest part of it.” He looked pointedly at Miss Temple with the same troubling open gaze. “Of course, when does one ever know?”

  He pulled his eyes from hers and cleared his throat.

  “Indeed,” sniffed Miss Temple, moved by this unexpected glimpse into the Doctor’s heart, “still, I am terribly sorry to have lost her.”

  “We have each done our best … that we are alive is a marvel … these things are equal between us.”

  She nodded, wanting to say more but having no idea what those words might be. The Doctor sighed, thinking, and then with an impulsive gesture reached out to pinch tight Chang’s nose with one hand and cover his mouth with the other. Miss Temple gasped.

  “But what—”

  “A moment …”

  A moment was all it took. Like a man brought back to life Chang’s eyes snapped open and his shoulders tensed, his arms groped at Svenson and the rattle in his lungs redoubled in strength. The Doctor removed his hands with a flourish and the Cardinal erupted with his own fit of coughing, dauntingly moist and accompanied by sprays of bloody saliva. Svenson and Miss Temple each took one of the Cardinal’s arms and raised him to his knees where he could more easily vent his body’s distress and its attendant discharge.

  Chang wiped his mouth with his fingers and smeared them on the floor—there was no point in wiping them on his coat or trousers, Miss Temple saw. He turned to them, blinked, and then groped quickly at his face. Miss Temple held out his glasses with a smile.

  “It is so very good to see you both,” she whispered.

  They sat for a moment, giving each other time to gather their strength and wits, and in Miss Temple’s case to wipe away her tears and regain control over her tremulous voice. There was so much to say and so many things to do, she scoffed at her own indulgence, even if the scoff was half-heartedly blown through a sniffling nose.

  “You have the advantage, Celeste,” muttered Chang hoarsely. “From the blood in the Doctor’s hair, I assume we both lack any knowledge of where we are, who guards us … even the damned time of day.”

  “How long since we were taken?” asked Svenson.

  Miss Temple sniffed again.

  “Not long at all. But so much has happened since we spoke, since I left you—I am so sorry—I was childish and a fool—”

  Svenson waved away her concerns.

  “Celeste, I doubt there is time—nor does it matter—”

  “It matters to me.”

  “Celeste—” Thi
s was Chang, struggling to rise.

  “Be quiet, the both of you,” she said, and stood up so she was taller than either of them. “I will be brief, but I must first apologize for leaving you at Plum Court. It was a foolish thing to do and one that nearly ended my life—and nearly finished both of yours as well.” She held up a hand to stop Doctor Svenson from speaking. “There are two Macklenburg soldiers outside the door, and down the corridor at least ten Dragoons with their officer and their Colonel. The door is locked, and—as you both can see—our room is without windows. I assume we have no weapons.”

  Chang and Svenson patted their pockets somewhat absently, not finding a thing.

  “We will acquire them, it does not signify,” she said quickly, not wanting to lose her place.

  “If we get out the door,” said Svenson.

  “Yes, of course—the important thing is stopping our enemies’ plan.”

  “And what exact plan is that?” asked Chang.

  “That is the issue—I only know a portion of it. But I trust you’ve each seen a portion of your own.”

  Keeping her promise to be brief, Miss Temple breathlessly launched into her tale: the St. Royale, Miss Vandaariff’s potion, the painting in the Contessa’s room, her battle with the book, her battle—in a strictly abbreviated version—with the Comte and Contessa in the coach, her train ride to Harschmort, and her journey to the theatre. Both Chang and Svenson opened their mouths to add details but she hushed them and went on—the secret room, the Contessa and the Prince, the killing of Blenheim, Elöise’s discovery in the blue card, Trapping, Vandaariff, Lydia, Veilandt, the ballroom, and, finally, the vicious argument between the Contessa and her allies not ten minutes before. The entire narrative took perhaps two hurriedly whispered minutes.

  When she was finished, Miss Temple took a deep breath, hoping she hadn’t forgotten anything vital, though of course she had—simply too much had happened.

  “So …” The Doctor pushed himself up from the floor onto the settee. “They have taken control of this government with the Duke—who I promise you was killed—and are on their way to taking over that of Macklenburg—”