Glass Books of the Dream Eaters mtccads-1

by Gordon Dahlquist

  “A very full day.”

  “Indeed. And did you do what I asked you?” She shook her head with a mocking gravity.

  “What was that?”

  “Why, find Isobel Hastings, of course.”

  “That I did.”

  “And bring her to me?”

  “That I did not.”

  “What a disappointment. Is she so beautiful?” She laughed, as if she could not keep the pretense of it being a serious question. “Seriously, Cardinal—what is it that prevents you?”

  “Now? I do not know where she is.”

  “Ah…but if you did?”

  He had not remembered the color of her eyes correctly, like petals of the palest purple iris flower. She wore a silk jacket of the precise same color. Dangling from her ears were beads of Venetian amber, fitted with silver. Her exquisite throat was bare.

  “I still could not.”

  “Is she so remarkable? Bascombe did not think so—but then, I would not ask a man like Bascombe for the truth about a woman. He is too…well, ‘practical’ is a kind word.”

  “I agree.”

  “So will you not describe her?”

  “I believe you have met her yourself, Rosamonde. I believe you consigned her to rape and murder.”

  “Did I?” Her eyes widened somewhat coyly.

  “So she says.”

  “Then I’m sure I must have.”

  “So perhaps you should describe her.”

  “But you see, Cardinal, that is exactly the trouble. For—and perhaps this is obvious—in my own interaction with the lady I judged her to be an insignificant insolent chit of no value whatsoever. Is there any more tea?”

  “The pot is on the floor,” Chang said. He glanced to the table. Gray was still bent over Flaüss.

  “Dommage,” Rosamonde smiled. “You have not answered me.”

  “Perhaps I’m unsure of the question.”

  “I would think it evident. Why have you insisted on choosing her over me?”

  If it was possible her smile became even more engaging, adding a tinge of sensuality to her lips, teasingly revealed as the first hint of explicit temptations to follow.

  “I did not know it was my choice.”

  “Really, Cardinal,…you will disappoint me.”

  It was an odd conversation to have in the midst of toppled bodies, crouching princelings, and the trappings of scientific brutality—all in a secret room in the maze of the Foreign Ministry. He wondered what time it was. He wondered if Celeste was in another room nearby. This woman was the most dangerous of anyone in the Cabal. Why was he behaving like her suitor?

  “Perhaps it had to do with your associates trying to kill me,” he replied.

  She dismissed this with a wave. “But did they kill you?”

  “Did you kill Miss Temple?”

  “Touché.” She studied him. “Is it merely that? That she survived?”

  “Perhaps it is. What else am I, but survival?”

  “A provocative question—I shall inscribe it in my diary, I assure you.”

  “Xonck knows, by the way,” he said, desperate to shift the conversation.

  “Knows what?”

  “That there are diverging interests.”

  “It’s very charming of you to get ahead of yourself like this, but—and please do not take this as in any way a criticism—you were best to concentrate on mayhem and rooftops. What Mr. Xonck knows is my affair. Ah, Herr Flaüss, I see you are with us.”

  Chang turned to see the man on his feet next to the table, Gray at his side, his face livid with looping burns, the skin around them drawn and slick, his collar moist with sweat and drool. His eyes were disturbingly, utterly, vacant.

  “I do admire you, Cardinal,” said Rosamonde.

  He turned to her. “I’m flattered.”

  “Are you?” She smiled. “I admire very few people, you know…and tell even fewer.”

  “Then why are you telling me?”

  “I do not know.” Her voice dropped to a provocatively intimate whisper. “Perhaps what has happened to your eyes. I can glimpse the scars, and I can only imagine how terrible they are without your glasses. I expect they would repulse me, and yet at the same time I have imagined myself running my tongue across them with pleasure.” She gazed at him closely, then seemed to restore her composure. “But there it is, you see, now I am ahead of my own self. I do apologize. Mr. Gray?”

  She turned to Gray, who had walked Flaüss quite near to them. Chang was sickened by the man’s dead eyes, as if he were an example of ambulatory taxidermy. He turned away with discomfort, wishing he had been able to intervene more quickly—what had happened to Flaüss was somehow worse than if he had been killed. A rattling choking snapped Chang’s gaze back—Gray’s hands were around Flaüss’s neck from behind, throttling him. Chang half-rose from his chair, turning to Rosamonde. Hadn’t they done enough?

  “What is he—”

  The words died on his lips. Both of Flaüss’s hands had shot forward and wrapped around Chang’s windpipe, squeezing horribly. He pulled at Flaüss’s arms, tried to pry apart his grip. It was like steel, the man’s face still expressionless, the fingers digging into his neck. Chang could not breathe. He drove his knee into Flaüss’s stomach, but there was still no reaction. The vise of his hands tightened. Black spots swam before Chang’s eyes. He wrenched apart his stick. Gray’s face was staring at him, over Flaüss’s shoulder, Gray’s hands were still squeezing Flaüss…Flaüss was reacting to Gray! Chang drove the dagger into Gray’s forearm. The old man screamed and flung himself away, blood pouring from his wound. Released, Flaüss immediately relaxed, his hands still in place around Chang’s neck but loosened. Chang thrashed free of his grip, sucking in air. He did not understand what had happened. He turned to Rosamonde. There was something in her gloved hand. She blew on it. A puff of blue smoke burst into Chang’s face.

  The sensation was instantaneous. His throat clenched and then felt bitterly cold, as if he was swallowing ice. The bitter feeling flowed into his lungs and up through his head, wherever he had breathed in the powder. His stick and dagger fell from his hands. He could not speak. He could not move.

  “Do not be alarmed,” said Rosamonde. “You are not dead.” She looked past Chang to the Prince, still on the floor. “Highness, if you would assist Mr. Gray with his bleeding?” She turned her violet gaze back to Chang. “What you are, Cardinal Chang,…is my own.” She reached out to take hold of Karl-Horst’s arm, stopping him on his way to Gray. “Actually, why doesn’t the Cardinal help Mr. Gray? I’m sure he has more experience staunching wounds than the Crown Prince of Macklenburg.”

  He helped them with everything, his body answering her commands without question, his mind watching from within, as if from a terrible distance, through a frost-covered window. First he effectively bound Gray’s wound, then lifted Blach onto the table so Gray could examine his head. How long had this taken? Bascombe returned with several red-coated Dragoons and spoke to the Contessa. Bascombe nodded and whispered earnestly in the Prince’s ear. He then called to the others—the Dragoons lifted Blach, Gray took Flaüss by the arm—and led them all from the circular room. Chang was alone with Rosamonde. She crossed to the door and locked it. She returned to him and pulled up a chair. He could not move. Her face bore an expression he had never seen, as if deliberately purged of the barest trace of kindness.

  “You will find that you can hear me, and that you can respond in a rudimentary way—the powder in your lungs makes it impossible to speak. The effects will fade—unless I desire them to be permanent. For now I will be satisfied with a yes or no answer—a simple nod will suffice. I had hoped to sway you with conversation, or barring that give you over to the Process, but now there is no time and no one to properly assist—and I should be very annoyed to lose all of your information in a mishap.”

  It was as if she was asking someone else. He felt himself nod in agreement, that he understood. Resistance was impossible—he could
barely follow her words, and by the time he made sense of them his body had already answered.

  “You have been with the Temple girl, and the Prince’s Doctor.”

  Chang nodded.

  “Do you know where they are now?”

  He shook his head.

  “Are they coming here?”

  He shook his head.

  “Do you have plans to meet them?”

  Chang nodded. Rosamonde sighed.

  “Well, I’m not going to spend all my time guessing where…you spoke to Xonck. He is suspicious—of me in particular?”

  Chang nodded.

  “Did Bascombe hear you speak?”

  Chang shook his head. She smiled.

  “Then there is ample time…it is true that Francis Xonck carries some of his older brother’s great power, but only a very little, for he is so rebellious and rakish that there is no intimacy of friendship between them, and little prospect of inheritance. But of course I am a friend to Francis no matter what—so he truly has nowhere else to go. So, enough of that—imagine, you trying to scare me—what about what you know, from your investigations…do you know who killed Colonel Trapping?”

  Chang shook his head.

  “Do you know why we have chosen Macklenburg?”

  Chang shook his head.

  “Do you know of Oskar Veilandt?”

  Chang nodded.

  “Really? Good for you. Do you know of the blue glass?”

  Chang nodded.

  “Ah…not so good—for your survival, I mean. What have you seen…wait, were you at the Institute?”

  Chang nodded.

  “Breaking in—that was you, when that idiot dropped the book—or did you perhaps cause him to drop the book?”

  Chang nodded.

  “Incredible—you’re an unstoppable force. He’s dead, you know—and then of course what happened to the Comte’s girl because of it—but I don’t suppose that would bother you?”

  In the prison of his mind Chang was wrenched by the confirmation that his actions had doomed Angelique. He nodded. Rosamonde cocked her head.

  “Really? Not for the man. Wait—wait, the girl…she was from the brothel—I did not think you so chivalrous—but wait, could you know her?”

  Chang nodded. Rosamonde laughed.

  “It is the coincidence of a novel for ladies. Let me guess…did you love her terribly?”

  Chang nodded. Rosamonde laughed even louder.

  “Oh, that is priceless! Dear, dear Cardinal Chang…I believe you have just given me the nugget of information I require to make friends again with Mr. Xonck—an unintended prize.” She attempted to compose her face but was still grinning. “Have you seen any glass other than the broken book?”

  Chang nodded.

  “I am sorry, for your sake. Was it—yes of course, the Prince had one of the Comte’s novelty cards, didn’t he? Has there ever been a man who likes more to watch himself? Did the Doctor find it?”

  Chang nodded.

  “So the Doctor and Miss Temple know of the blue glass as well?”

  Chang nodded.

  “And they know of the Process—never mind, of course they do—she saw it for herself, and the Doctor examined the Prince…do you know the significance of Lydia Vandaariff’s marriage?”

  Chang shook his head.

  “Have you been to Tarr Manor?”

  Chang shook his head. Her eyes narrowed.

  “Miss Temple has been there, I expect, with Roger…but so long ago it would not signify. All right. One last question for the moment…am I the most exquisite woman you’ve ever known?”

  Chang nodded. She smiled. Then, slowly, like a sunset slipping over the horizon, her smile faded and she sighed. “It is a sweet thought to end on, perhaps for both of us. The end itself is regrettable. You are an exotic dish for me…quite raw…and I would have preferred to linger over you. I am sorry.” She reached into the tiny pocket of her fitted silk jacket and came up with another dose of fine blue powder on the tip of her gloved finger. “Think of it as a way to join your lost love…”

  She blew the powder into his face. Chang’s mouth was closed but he could feel it enter through his nose. His head felt as if it was freezing then and there, his blood stiffening, splitting the veins within his skull. He was in agony but could not move. His ears echoed with an audible crack. His eyes swam. He was staring at the floor tiles. He had fallen. He was blind. He was dead.

  The chandelier was formed of three concentric large iron rings, each ring set with forged-metal sockets to hold candles…in all three rings perhaps a hundred sockets. Chang looked up to the high ceiling above him and saw perhaps eight of them still lit. How much time had passed? He had no idea. He could barely think. He rolled over to be sick and found that he had already done so, perhaps many times. The discharge was blue and—even to him—stinking. He rolled in the other direction. He felt as if someone had cut off his head and packed it in ice and straw.

  It was his nose that had saved him, he was sure. The damage inside, the scars, the blockages—somehow the powder, or enough of the powder to kill, had not fully penetrated. He wiped his face—blue smears of mucus ran from his mouth and each nostril. She had intended to kill him with an overdose but his scarred passages had prevented the fatal concentration from taking effect, absorbing the vile chemicals more slowly and allowing him the time to survive. How long had it taken? He looked up at the round windows. It was after nightfall. The room was cold, with wax spattered on the floor in a sloppy ring where it had dripped to the floor. He tried to sit up. He could not. He curled up away from the vomit and shut his eyes.

  He woke feeling distinctly better, if still only slightly more spry than a slaughtered pig on a hook. He rolled to his knees, working his tongue in his mouth with revulsion. He dug for a handkerchief and wiped his face. There did not seem to be any water in the room. Chang stood, shutting his eyes. The darkness weaved about him, but he did not fall. He saw the teapot, on its side on the floor. He picked it up and shook it gently—the dregs were still there sloshing. Taking care not to cut himself on the broken spout, he poured the bitter tea into his mouth, worked it around and then spat it on the floor. He took another sip and swallowed, then set the broken pot on the tea tray. With no small feeling of wonder, he saw his stick underneath the table. He understood that leaving it was a gesture of contempt—mainly so his body would be found with a weapon. As weak and sick as he felt, Chang was more than willing to make them regret it.

  The room had a lantern and, after some minutes of search, matches to light it. The door opened into darkness as before, but now Chang was able to navigate clearly, if not with any knowledge of where he should go. He wandered for some minutes, finding no other person, nor hearing any noise, through various storage rooms, meeting rooms, and hallways. He did not see any of the rooms he remembered passing through with Bascombe and Xonck, and instead simply forged ahead, alternating left and right turns in an attempt to keep a straight line. This eventually brought him to a dead end: a large door without lock or knob. It would not budge. It was either sealed or barred from the other side. Chang shut his eyes. He felt sick again, his weakened body overtaxed by the walking. In frustration, he pounded on the door.

  A muffled voice answered him from the other side. “Mr. Bascombe?”

  Instead of calling out, Chang pounded again on the door. He heard the bar being shifted. He did not know what to prepare for—whether he should fling the lantern, ready his stick, or retreat. He was without the energy for any of them. The door was pulled back. Chang was faced with a red-coated Dragoon private.

  He took in Chang. “You’re not Mr. Bascombe.”

  “Bascombe’s gone,” said Chang. “Hours ago—you didn’t see him?”

  “I’ve just been on watch since six.” The trooper frowned. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Chang. I was part of Bascombe’s party. I became sick. Would you…” Chang shut his eyes for a moment and strained to finish the sentence. “Wo
uld you have some water?”

  The trooper relieved Chang of the lantern and took his arm, leading him to a small guardroom. This, like the hallway, was fitted with gaslight fixtures and had a warm, hazy glow to it. Chang could see that they were near a large staircase—perhaps the main access for this floor, as opposed to Bascombe’s secret lair where he had been taken. He was too tired to think. He sat on a simple wooden chair and was given a metal mug of tea with milk. The trooper, who offered that his name was Reeves, put a metal plate of bread and cheese on Chang’s lap, and nodded that he should eat something.

  The hot tea stung his throat as it went down, but he could feel it restoring him all the same. He pulled off a hunk of the white loaf with his teeth and forced himself to chew, if only to stabilize his stomach. After the first few bites however he realized how hungry he was and began to steadily devour everything the man had given him. Reeves refilled his mug and sat back with one of his own.

  “I am much obliged to you,” said Chang.

  “Not at all.” Reeves smiled. “You looked like death, if you don’t mind me saying. Now you just look like hell.” He laughed.

  Chang smiled and drank more tea. He could feel the rawness of his throat and the roof of his mouth, where the powder had burned him. Each breath came with a twinge of pain, as if he’d broken his ribs. He could only speculate about the true state of his lungs.

  “So you said they all left?” asked Reeves.

  Chang nodded. “There was an accident with a lantern. One of the other men, Francis Xonck—do you know him?” Reeves shook his head. “He spilled oil on his arm and it caught fire. Mr. Bascombe went with him for a surgeon. I was left, and unaccountably became ill. I thought he might return, but find I have been asleep, with no idea of the time.”

  “Near nine o’clock,” said Reeves. He eyed the door a bit nervously. “I need to finish rounds—”

  Chang put out his hand. “Do not let me disturb you. I will leave—just point me the way. The last thing I would want is to be more of a bother—”

  “No bother to help a friend of Mr. Bascombe.” Reeves smiled. They stood, and Chang awkwardly put his mug and plate on the sideboard.