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.
He looked up to see a man in the doorway, a polished brass helmet under his arm and a saber at his side. Reeves snapped to attention. The man stepped in. The rank of captain was in gold on the collar and the epaulettes of his red uniform.
“Reeves…,” he said, keeping his gaze on Chang.
“Mr. Chang, Sir. An associate of Mr. Bascombe’s.”
The Captain did not reply.
“He was inside, Sir. When I was on my rounds, I heard him knocking on the door—”
“Which door?”
“Door five, Sir, Mr. Bascombe’s area. Mr. Chang’s been sick—”
“Yes. All right, off with you. You’re overdue to relieve Hicks.”
“Sir!”
The Captain stepped fully into the room and motioned for Chang to sit. Behind them, Reeves snatched up his helmet and dashed from the room, pausing at the door to nod to Chang behind the Captain’s back. His hurried steps clattered down the hallway, and then down the stairs. The Captain filled a mug with tea and sat. Only then did Chang sit with him.
“‘Chang’, you say?”
Chang nodded. “It’s what I am called.”
“Smythe, Captain, 4th Dragoons. Reeves says you were unwell?”
“I was. He was most kind.”
“Here.” Smythe had reached into his coat and removed a small flask. He unscrewed the cap and handed it to Chang. “Plum brandy,” he said, smiling. “I have a sweet tooth.”
Chang took a sip, feeling reckless and very much wanting a drink. He felt a sharp spasm of pain in his throat, but the brandy seemed to burn through the blue dust’s residue. He returned the flask.
“I am obliged.”
“You’re one of Bascombe’s men?” asked the Captain.
“I would not go so far. I was calling upon him at his request. Another man of the party had an accident involving lantern oil—”
“Yes, Francis Xonck.” Captain Smythe nodded. “I hear he was quite badly burned.”
“It does not surprise me. As I told your man, I became ill waiting for their return. I must have slept, perhaps there was fever…it was some hours ago—and I woke to find myself alone. I expected Bascombe to return. Our business was hardly finished.”
“Undoubtedly the trials of Mr. Xonck demanded his attention.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Chang. “He is an…important figure.”
He took the liberty of pouring more tea for himself. Smythe did not seem to notice. Instead, he stood and crossed to the door, pulled it shut, and turned the key. He smiled somewhat ruefully at Chang.
“One can never be too careful in a government building.”
“The 4th Dragoons are newly posted to the Foreign Ministry,” observed Chang. “I believe it was in the newspaper. Or was it to the Palace?”
Smythe drifted back to his chair and studied Chang for a moment before answering. He took a sip of tea and leaned back, cradling the mug in both hands. “I believe you are acquainted with our Colonel.”
“Why would you say that?”
Smythe was silent. Chang sighed—there was always a cost to idiocy.
“You saw me yesterday morning,” he said. “At the dockside, with Aspiche.”
Smythe nodded.
“It was a stupid place to meet.”
“Will you tell me the reason for it?”
“Perhaps…” Chang shrugged. He could sense Captain Smythe’s suspicion and defensiveness, but decided to test him further. “If you tell me something first.”
Smythe’s mouth tightened. “What is that?”
Chang smiled. “Were you with Aspiche and Trapping in Africa?”
Smythe frowned—it was not the question he expected. He nodded.
“I ask,” Chang went on, “because Colonel Aspiche made much of the moral and professional differences between Trapping and himself. I have no illusions about the character of Colonel Trapping. But—if you will forgive me—the insistence on our meeting place was just one example, in our dealings together, of Aspiche’s thoughtless arrogance.”
Chang wondered if he’d gone too far—one never knew how to read loyalty, especially with an experienced soldier. Smythe studied him closely before speaking.
“Many officers have purchased their commissions—to serve with men who are not soldiers save by money paid is not unusual.” Chang was aware that Smythe was picking his words with exceptional caution. “The Adjutant-Colonel was not one of those…but…”
“He is no longer the man he once was?” suggested Chang.
Smythe studied him for a moment, measuring him with a hard professional acuity that was not entirely comfortable. After a moment he sighed heavily, as if he had come to a decision he did not like but could not for some reason avoid.
“Are you acquainted with opium eating?” he asked.
It was all Chang could do not to smile, instead offering a disinterested, knowing nod. Smythe went on.
“Then you will know the pattern whereby the first taste can corrupt, can drive a man to sacrifice every other part of his life for a narcotic dream. So it is with Noland Aspiche, save the opium is the example of Arthur Trapping’s position and success. I am not his enemy. I have served him with loyalty and respect. Yet his envy for this man’s undeserved advancement is consuming—or has consumed—all that was dutiful and fair in his character.”
“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 fo
r 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 Crabbé—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 silver coin. The man saw it, nodded, and then in one movement Chang pocketed the coin and pulled the man out of the room. He’d get it once they were there.
It was on the third floor, in the rear, which made sense to a suspicious mind like Chang’s—too high to climb to or jump from, and away from the crowds on the avenue. The porter knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked again. There was no answer. Chang pulled him away from the door, and gave him the coin. He took out a second piece of silver. “We have not met,” he said, and flipped the coin into the porter’s hand, doubling his fee. The porter nodded, and backed away. After a few steps—Chang staring at him fiercely—he turned and ran from sight. Chang took out his ring of keys. The bolt snapped clear and he turned the knob. He was in.
The suite was everything that Celeste’s suite at the Boniface had not been—exuding the excess that defined the St. Royale, from the carpets to the crystal, the monstrously over-carved furniture, the profusion of flowers, the luxurious draperies, the painfully delicate pattern of the wallpaper, to the truly expansive size of the suite itself. Chang shut the door behind him and stood in the main parlor. The suite seemed empty of life. The gaslight had been lowered, but the dim glow was enough for him to see. He smiled wryly at another difference. Clothes—admi
ttedly, laces and silks—were strewn haphazardly over the arms of the chairs and sofas, even on the floor. It was impossible for him to imagine such a thing under the tight scrutiny of Aunt Agathe, but here, the occupant’s decadent experience extended a casual disregard for so naïve a sense of order. He stepped to a lovingly fashioned writing desk cluttered with empty bottles and took its equally elegant wooden chair back to the front door, wedging it under the handle. He did not want to be interrupted as he searched.
He turned up the gaslight and returned to the main parlor. There were open doorways to either side and a closed door at the far end. He quickly glanced to each side—maids’ rooms and second parlor, equally strewn with clothing and in the case of the parlor, glasses and plates. He stepped to the closed door, and pushed it open. It was dark. He fumbled for the gaslight sconce and illuminated another elegant sitting room, this with a handsome pair of chaise longues and a mirror-topped tray full of bottles. Chang stopped where he stood, a twinge of dread at his heart. Under one chaise was a tumbled pair of green ankle boots.
His gaze swept the room for any other signs. The drinks tray held four glasses, some half-empty and smeared with lipstick, and there were two more glasses on the floor beneath the other chaise. High on the wall across from him was a large mirror in a heavy frame pointing to his doorway at a looming angle. Chang looked into it with distaste—he disliked seeing himself at any time—but his eye was caught by something else in the reflection—on the wall next to him, a small painting that could only have been executed by the hand of Oskar Veilandt. He reached up and took it from the wall, and flipped it over to examine the rear of the canvas. In what he assumed was the artist’s own hand, in blue paint, he read “Annunciation Fragment, 3/13”, and then beneath it a series of symbols—like a mathematical formula incorporating Greek letters—which were in turn followed by the words, “And so they shall be Reborn.”
He turned the canvas to the painted image and found himself astonished by its bluntly lurid nature. Perhaps it was the contrast between the image and its luxurious gold frame, the subsequent isolation—the fragmentary nature, its containment—of the subject matter that made the whole seem such a transgression, but Chang could not turn his eyes away. It was not so much pornographic—indeed it was not precisely explicit—as it was, somehow, palpably monstrous. He could not even say why, but the stark tremor of revulsion was as undeniable and as simultaneous as the stirring in his groin. This portion of the painting did not seem to be adjacent to the one they had seen in the gallery, of the woman’s—the very idea of thinking of her as “Mary” was appalling—rapturous scarred face. This section showed her naked pelvis from the side, her splendid thighs wrapped around the hips of a figure in blue who had quite obviously mounted her. On a second glance however, Chang saw the hands of the blue figure clutching the woman’s hips…the hands were blue as well, and decorated with many rings, as the wrists glittered with many bracelets of different metals—gold, silver, copper, iron—the man was not wearing a blue garment, the blue was his skin. Perhaps he was an angel—blasphemy enough—but the work’s unnatural quality was compounded by the perfectly realized corporeality of the bodies, the sensual immediacy of the weight of the woman’s haunches in the man’s grip, the twisting angle of their conjoinment, fixed for a moment, but directly evocative of the writhing exquisite union that would continue—in the mind of the viewer if nowhere else.
Glass Books of the Dream Eaters Page 37