The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters (109 page)

“It would be easier to believe you, Sir,” she said, “if you did not so blatantly
lie
. You ask us to talk to prevent our torture, yet what happens when we reveal some morsel of deduction that points to one among you—do you expect that person to accept our open word? Of course not—whoever is denounced will demand that your cruelties be brought to bear in
any
case, to confirm or disprove our accusations!”

The Deputy Minister’s eyes twinkled as he shook his head, chuckling, and took another sip of brandy.

“My goodness—Roger, I do believe she
is
more than you’d perceived—Miss Temple, you have caught me out. Indeed, it is the case—so much for my attempts to save the woodwork! All right then—you will, all four, be killed at length, quite badly. If any of you have something to say, all the better—if not, well, we’re rid of your damned stinking disruptions at last.”

Xonck stepped forward, the saber dancing menacingly in the air before him. Miss Temple retreated, but a single step brought her flat against the wall. Once more the Doctor squeezed her hand, and then cried out in as hearty a voice as he could.

“Excellent, Minister—and perhaps Mr. Xonck will kill us
before
we talk—would that suit you even better?”

Crabbé stood up, impatient and angry. “Ah—here it comes! The vain attempt to turn us against one another—Francis—”

“By all means,
Francis
—kill us quickly! Serve the Minister as you always have! Just as when you sank Trapping in the river!”

Xonck paused, the tip of his blade within lunging range of Svenson’s chest. “I serve
myself
.”

Svenson looked down at the saber tip and snorted—even as Miss Temple could feel the trembling of his hand. “Of course you do—just pardon my asking—what has happened to Herr Flaüss?”

For a moment, no one answered, and Crabbé was glaring at Xonck to
keep going
when the Contessa spoke aloud, picking her words carefully.

“Herr Flaüss was found to be…disloyal.”

“The gunshot!” exclaimed Miss Temple. “You shot
him
!”

“It proved necessary,” said Crabbé.

“How could he be disloyal?” croaked Chang. “He was your creature!”

“Why do you
ask
?” the Contessa pointedly demanded of the Doctor.

“Why do you
care
?” hissed Crabbé to her, behind Xonck’s back. “Francis,
please
—”

“I just wonder if it had to do with Lord Vandaariff’s missing
book,
” said Svenson. “You know—the one where his memory was—what is the word?—
distilled
?”

There was a pause. Miss Temple’s heart was in her mouth—and then she knew the momentum toward their destruction had been stalled.

“That book was broken,” rasped the Comte. “By Cardinal Chang in the tower—it killed Major Blach—”

“Is that what his
ledger
says?” Svenson nodded contemptuously to Roger. “Then I think you will find
two
books missing—one with the Lady Mélantes, Mrs. Marchmoor, among others—and another—”

“What are you waiting for?” cried Crabbé. “Francis! Kill him!”

“Or you
would,
” crowed Svenson, “if there was a second book at all! For to distill Robert Vandaariff’s mind into a book—a mind holding the keys to a continent—to the future itself!—would have opened those riches to any one of you who owned it, who possessed a
key
! Instead, the man given the task to do just that did
not
create a book—so yes, there is one book broken, and another never made
at all
!”

The Contessa called out firmly to Xonck—“Francis, keep watching them!”—before turning to Crabbé. “Harald, can you answer this?”

“
Answer?
Answer
what?
Answer the—the desperate—the—”

Before the Minister could stop sputtering Chang called out again, a challenge to Roger. “I saw it myself, in Vandaariff’s study—he wrote it all down on parchment! If I hadn’t smashed a book they would have had to do it themselves—convincing you all that Vandaariff’s memories were gone, when
they
held the only copy!”

“A copy I took from the Minister himself,” cried Svenson, “in a leather satchel—and which Bascombe took from me in the ballroom. I’m sure he still has it with him—or is that what Flaüss noticed when he joined you at Lord Vandaariff’s study…and why he had to die?”

In the silence Miss Temple realized she had been holding her breath. The words had flown so quickly back and forth, while in between stood Francis Xonck, eyes shifting warily, his blade an easy thrust from them all. She could feel the fearful state of Svenson’s nerves, and knew Chang was tensed to futilely spring at Xonck—but she could also sense the changing tension in the room, as the Minister and Roger groped to refute their own prisoners.

“Aspiche took the satchel from Svenson in the ballroom,” announced Xonck, not turning to the others. “And Bascombe took it from him…but I did not see it when we met up in the study.”

“It was packed away,” said Caroline Stearne, speaking quietly from her place. “When all was being readied for the journey—”

“Is the satchel here or isn’t it?” snapped Xonck.

“I have its contents with me,” said Roger smoothly. “As Caroline says, safely stowed. Doctor Svenson is wrong. They are Lord Vandaariff’s planning papers—notes to himself for each stage of this enterprise. I do not know where this idea of Lady Mélantes’s book comes from—
two
books—
no
books—”

“Doctor Lorenz identified the missing book as Lady Mélantes’s,” spat Svenson.

“Doctor Lorenz is
wrong
. Lady Mélantes’s book—also containing Mrs. Marchmoor and Lord Acton—is safely stowed. The only book missing—the one broken in the tower—is that of Lord Vandaariff. You can check my ledger, but anyone is more than welcome to look in the books themselves.”

It was an effective speech, with just the right amount of protest at being accused and an equally moving touch of professional superciliousness—a Bascombe specialty. And it seemed as if his upset superiors, perhaps persuaded by his own subservience via the Process, were convinced. But Miss Temple knew, from the way Roger’s thumb restlessly rubbed against his leg, that it was a lie.

She laughed at him.

He glared at her, furiously willing her to silence.

“O
Roger
…” She chuckled and shook her head.

“Be quiet, Celeste!” he hissed. “You have no place here!”

“And you have surely convinced everyone,” she said. “But you forget how well I know your ways. Even then you might have convinced me—for it
was
a fine speech—if it wasn’t you who actually shot Herr Flaüss, after
convincing
everyone of his disloyalty, I am sure…or was it to keep him quiet? But it
was
you who shot him, Roger,…wasn’t it?”

At her words the cabin went silent, save for the low buzz of the rotors outside. Xonck’s saber did not waver, but his mouth tightened and his eyes flicked more quickly back and forth between them. The Contessa stood.

“Rosamonde,” began Crabbé, “this is ridiculous—they are coming between us—it is their only hope—”

But the Contessa ignored him and crossed the cabin slowly toward Roger. He shrank away from her, first striking the wall and then seeming to retreat within his own body, meeting her gaze but flinching, for her eyes were empty of affection.

“Rosamonde,” rasped the Comte. “If we question him together—”

But then the Contessa darted forward, sharp as a striking cobra, to whisper in Roger’s ear. Miss Temple could only catch the odd word, but when she heard the first—“blue”—she knew the Contessa was whispering Roger’s own control phrase, and that by speaking it before any of the others, the woman had made sure Roger must answer her questions alone. The Contessa stepped away and Roger sank down to sit on the floor, his expression empty and his eyes dulled.

“Rosamonde—” Crabbé tried again, but again the Contessa ignored him, speaking crisply down to Roger, his head at the level of her thighs.

“Roger…is what Doctor Svenson tells us true?”

“Yes.”

Before Crabbé could speak the Contessa pressed Roger again.

“Were Lord Robert’s memories distilled into a book?”

“No.”

“They were written down.”

“Yes.”

“And those papers are on board?”

“Yes. I transferred them to the Prince’s bag to hide them. Flaüss insisted on managing the Prince’s bag and realized what they were.”

“So you shot him.”

“Yes.”

“And in all of this, Roger,…who did you serve? Who gave the orders?”

“Deputy Minister Crabbé.”

Crabbé said nothing, his mouth open in shock, his face drained of any color. He looked helplessly to the Comte, to Xonck, but could not speak. Still facing Roger, the Contessa called behind her.

“Caroline, would you be kind enough to ask Doctor Lorenz exactly where we are on our route?”

Caroline, whose gaze had been fixed on Roger Bascombe’s slumped form, looked up with surprise, stood at once, and left the cabin.

“I say,” muttered the Prince, aggrieved. “He put those papers in
my
bag? And shot my man because of it? Damn you, Crabbé! Damn your damned insolence!” Lydia Vandaariff patted her fiancé’s knee.

“Your Highness,” hissed Crabbé urgently, “Bascombe is not telling the truth—I do not know how—it could be any of you! Anyone with his control phrase! Anyone could order him to answer these questions—to implicate me—”

“And how would that person know what these questions were to be?” snarled the Contessa, and then pointed toward the captives. “At least one of them has been provided by Doctor Svenson!”

“For all any of us know, whoever has tampered with Bascombe’s mind could be in league with these three!” cried Crabbé. “It would certainly explain their persistent survival!”

The Contessa’s eyes went wide at the Deputy Minister’s words.

“Bascombe’s mind! Of course—of course, you sneaking little man! You did not halt the examinations in the ballroom for Lord Robert or the Duke—you did it because Roger was suddenly forced to accompany Vandaariff! Because otherwise the Comte would have seen inside his mind—and seen all of your plotting against us plain as day!” She wheeled to the Comte, and gestured to Bascombe on the floor. “Do not believe
me,
Oskar—ask your own questions, by all means—some questions I will not have
anticipated
! Or you, Francis—help yourself! For myself I am satisfied, but do go on! Roger—you will answer all questions put to you!”

The Comte’s face betrayed no particular expression, but Miss Temple knew he was already suspicious of the Contessa and so perhaps was genuinely curious, unsure which—or was it both? Or all?—of his confederates had betrayed him.

“Francis?” he rasped.

“Be my guest.” Xonck smiled, not even moving his eyes as he spoke.

The Comte d’Orkancz leaned forward. “Mr. Bascombe,…to your knowledge, did Deputy Minister Crabbé have anything to do with the murder of Colonel Arthur Trapping?”

The Contessa spun to the Comte, her expression wary and her violet eyes dauntingly sharp.

“Oskar, why—”

“No,” said Roger.

The Comte’s next question was interrupted by Caroline Stearne, whose return had brought Doctor Lorenz into the doorway.

“Contessa,” she whispered.

“Thank you, Caroline—would you be so good as to fetch the Prince’s bag?” Caroline took in the tension of the room, her face pale, bobbed her head once and darted from the cabin. The Contessa turned to Lorenz.

“Doctor, how good of you to come—though I do trust
someone
remains at the wheel?”

“Do not trouble yourself, Madame—I have two good men
aloft,
” he answered, smiling at his nautical reference. The Doctor’s smile faded as he took in that it was Bascombe on the floor being questioned, and not the prisoners.

“Our position?” the Contessa asked him crisply.

“We are just over the sea,” Lorenz replied. “From here, as you know, there are different routes available—remaining over water, where there is less chance of being seen, or crossing straight to shadow the coast. In this fog it may not matter—”

“And how long until we reach Macklenburg proper?” asked the Comte.

“With either route it will be ten hours at the least. More if the wind is against us…as it presently is…” Lorenz licked his thin lips. “May I ask what is going on?”

“Merely a disagreement between partners,” called Xonck, over his shoulder.

“Ah. And may I ask why
they
are still alive?”

The Contessa turned to look at them, her eyes settling at last upon Miss Temple. Her expression was not kind.

“We were waiting for
you,
Doctor. I would not have any bodies found on land. The sea will take them—and if one does happen to wash up on a beach, it will only be after days in the water. By that time even the lovely Miss Temple will be as grey and shapeless as a spoiled milk pudding.”

Caroline appeared again, the bag in one hand and a sheaf of papers in the other.

“Madame—”

“Excellent as always, Caroline,” said the Contessa. “I am so glad you retain your flesh. Can you read them?”

“Yes, Madame. They are Lord Vandaariff’s writings. I recognize his hand.”

“And what does he write
about
?”

“I cannot begin—the account is
exhaustive
—”

“I suppose it would be.”

“Madame—would it not be better—”

“Thank you, Caroline.”

Caroline bobbed her head and remained in the doorway with Lorenz, both of them watching the room with nervous fascination. The Comte frowned darkly, beads of sweat had broken out on Xonck’s forehead, and Crabbé’s face had gone so pale as to seem bloodless. Only the Contessa smiled, but it was a smile that frightened Miss Temple more than all the others rolled to one, for above her scarlet lips and sharp white teeth the woman’s eyes glittered like violet knife-points. She realized that the Contessa was
pleased,
that she looked forward to what would come with the bodily hunger of a mother embracing her child.