The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters (101 page)

“In Mr. Blenheim’s absence, your instructive volumes can be collected from
me
in the chamberlain’s offices, directly after this gathering adjourns.”

He glanced quickly to the dais, and then whispered into Lord Robert’s ear. Roger returned to his place. Lord Robert resumed his speech.

“I am
gratified
to be able to aid this enterprise, as I am
thankful
to those who have most imagined its success. I beg you all to enjoy the hospitality of my home.”

Roger gently took the paper from his hands. The crowd erupted into applause for the two great men, who stood without any particular expression whatsoever, as if it were the rain and they insensible statues.

Miss Temple was astonished. There was no struggle between Vandaariff and the Comte at all—Lord Robert had been utterly overcome. Trapping’s news had never reached him, and Lydia’s fate—whatever hideous design had been in motion—was sealed. It did not matter if Oskar Veilandt was prisoner in the house, just as it no longer mattered who had killed Trapping—but then Miss Temple frowned. If Vandaariff was their creature, then why had Crabbé stopped the examinations? If the members of the Cabal themselves did not know Trapping’s killer, could things be so settled? Could the struggle for Lydia’s fate be just one fissure between her enemies? Could there be others?

At the same time, Miss Temple wondered who this performance by the Duke and Lord Robert was expected to fool—she had heard more elevating and persuasive words from half-drunken fishwives on the pier. Taking her cue from Caroline Stearne, she lowered her head as the two luminaries and their assistants—or should she say puppet-masters?—advanced across the ballroom. As they passed she looked up and met the eyes of Roger Bascombe, who frowned with a typically veiled curiosity at the scars across her face. As they reached the far side she was surprised to see the Comte hand Mrs. Marchmoor’s leash to Roger and that of Miss Poole to the shorter sharp-faced man. As the doors were opened by the Dragoons—for she could only with difficulty shift her eyes from Roger for any length of time—she saw her fiancé step close to Colonel Aspiche and snatch—there was no gentler word for it—a leather satchel from the Colonel’s grasp. A satchel, she realized, that had arrived in the possession of Doctor Svenson…

Behind her, the Contessa called out to the crowd, just before either Xonck or Crabbé could do the same, for each man’s mouth was poised for speech, their expressions giving out just a flicker of frustration before they were agreeably nodding along with her words.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you have heard the words of our host. You know the preparations you must make. Once these duties are satisfied you are released. The pleasures of Harschmort House this night are yours, and after this…for every night…the pleasures of the world. I give you all good night…I give you all our victory.”

The Contessa stepped forward and, beaming at her listeners, began to applaud them all. She was joined by every person on the dais, and then by the entirety of the crowd, each person eager to register delight at the Contessa’s favor and to bestow—from that enhanced position—their own approval upon each other. Miss Temple clapped along, feeling like a trained monkey, watching the Contessa speak quietly to Xonck and Crabbé. At some silent agreement, the members of the Cabal swept off the dais and toward the doors. Before Miss Temple could react Caroline Stearne’s voice was in her ear.

“We are to follow,” she whispered. “Something is wrong.”

As they walked toward the open doors, attracting inquisitive glances from the guests who were all gaily exiting in the opposite direction in the wake of Vandaariff and the Duke, Miss Temple felt someone behind her aside from Caroline. Though she dared not look—curiosity of that sort did not become the staid confidence born of the Process—the sound of clicking steps told her it was the Comte and the last remaining of the three glass Graces, the woman she did not know. This was some blessing at least—a fresh slate was better than the knowing sneers and penetrating disbelief she could expect from Marchmoor and Poole—but in her heart she knew it did not matter which of them ransacked her mind, her pose would be revealed. Her only hope was that the same instinct that had led Crabbé to prevent the examination of the Duke or Lord Vandaariff would prevent them from risking the woman’s talents in such close quarters—for surely the rest of the Cabal would not choose to deliver their open minds to the Comte…at least not if they were betraying one another…

She entered the open foyer where she had waited with Captain Smythe, who had withdrawn some yards away so as not to intrude on the deliberations of his betters, betters who in turn waited in impatient silence for the last of their number to arrive, at which point the doors in every direction were closed, shielding their words from the tender ears of any passing
adherent.
As the latches caught and bolts were shot, Miss Temple wondered wistfully what had happened to Elöise, and whether Chang or Svenson might be alive, thoughts brusquely smothered by the figure of the Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza lighting a cigarette in her shining black holder, puffing on the thing three times in succession before she spoke, as if each ascending inhalation stoked the fires of her rage. Perhaps even more disturbingly, not one of the powerful men around her presumed to interrupt this openly menacing ritual.

“What was that?”
she finally snarled, fixing her gaze on Harald Crabbé.

“I do beg your pardon, Contessa—”

“Why did you interfere with the examinations? You saw yourself how at least five interlopers were revealed—any one of whom might have undone our plans while we are in Macklenburg. You know this—you know this work is not
finished
.”

“My dear, if you felt so strongly—”

“I did not say anything because Mr. Xonck
did
say something, only to be overruled—in front of
everyone
—by you. For any of us to disagree further would have presented the exact lack of unity we have—with some
great effort,
Deputy Minister—managed to avoid.”

“I see.”

“I don’t believe you
do
.”

She spat out another mouthful of smoke, her eyes burning into the man like a basilisk. Crabbé did his best to clear his throat and start fresh, but before he spoke a single word she’d cut him off.

“We are not fools, Harald. You stopped the examinations so certain people would not be revealed to the Comte.”

Crabbé made a feeble gesture toward Miss Temple, but again whatever words he might have said were halted by the Contessa’s condescending scoff.

“Do not insult me—we’ll get to Miss Temple in time—I am speaking of the Duke and Lord Vandaariff. Both of whom should have presented no difficulty at all, unless of course, we are misled as to their true status. Enough of us have seen the Duke’s corpse that I am willing to say that Doctor Lorenz has done his work fairly—work that perforce was done in cooperation with the Comte. This leaves us with Lord Robert, whose transformation I believe was your
own
responsibility.”

“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.