The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters (42 page)

About the Ministry at least, Xonck had been telling the truth. They walked down a twisting narrow hallway in the dark—Bascombe in the front with a lantern, Xonck behind. The rooms they passed—the flickering light giving Chang brief, flaring glimpses before they fell back into shadow—had been constructed without any logic he could see. Some were crammed with boxes, with maps, with tables and chairs, day beds, desks, while others—both large and small—were empty, or contained but a single chair. The only point of unity was the complete absence of windows, indeed of any light at all. With his poor eyesight, Chang soon lost any sense of direction as Bascombe led him this way and that, up short sets of stairs and then down odd curving ramps. They had allowed him to keep his stick, but he was deeper in their power with each step he took.

“This Process of yours,” he said, ostensibly to Bascombe though hoping for a reply from Xonck. “Do you really think it will alter my desire to ruin you both?”

Bascombe stopped, and turned to face him, his gaze flicking briefly to Xonck before he spoke.

“Once you have experienced it yourself, you will be ashamed of your doubts and mockery, as well as the purposeless life you have so far pursued.”

“Purposeless?”

“Pathetically so. Are you ready?”

“I suppose I am.”

Chang heard a slight rustle from the darkness behind him. He was sure Xonck held a weapon.

“Keep walking,” muttered Xonck.

“You swayed Colonel Aspiche to your cause, didn’t you? The 4th Dragoons are a fine regiment—so helpful to the Foreign Ministry. Good of him to step into the breach.” He clucked his tongue and called back to Xonck. “You’re not wearing black. Trapping
was
your brother-in-law.”

“And I am devastated, I do assure you.”

“Then why did he have to die?”

He received no answer. Chang would have to do better than this to provoke them. They walked on in shuffling silence, the lantern light catching on what seemed to be chandeliers in the air above them. Their passageway had opened into some much larger room. Xonck called ahead to Bascombe.

“Roger, put the lantern on the floor.”

Bascombe turned, looked at Xonck as if he didn’t fully comprehend, and then placed the lantern on the wooden floor, well out of Chang’s reach.

“Thank you. Now go ahead—you can find your way. Give word to prepare the machines.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“I am.”

Bascombe glanced once, rather searchingly, at Chang, who took the opportunity to sneer, and then disappeared into the dark. Chang heard his footsteps well after the man had passed from the light, but soon the room was silent once more. Xonck took a few steps into the shadow and returned with two wooden chairs. He placed them on the floor and kicked one over to Chang, who stopped its momentum with his foot. Xonck sat, and after a moment Chang followed his example.

“I thought it worthwhile to attempt a frank discussion. After all, in half an hour’s time you will either be my ally or you will be dead—there seems little point in mincing words.”

“Is it that simple?” asked Chang.

“It is.”

“I don’t believe you. I don’t mean my decision to submit or die—that
is
simple—but your own reasons…your desire to speak without Bascombe…not simple in the slightest.”

Xonck studied him, but did not speak. Chang decided to take a chance, and do exactly what Xonck asked—speak frankly.

“There are two levels to your
enterprise.
There are those who have undergone this Process, like Margaret Hooke…and then there are those—like you, or the Contessa—who remain free. And in competition, despite your
rhetoric
.”

“Competition for what?”

“I do not know,” Chang admitted. “The stakes are different for each of you—I imagine that’s the problem. It always is.”

Xonck chuckled. “But my colleagues and I are in complete agreement.”

Chang scoffed. He was aware that he could not see Xonck’s right hand, that the man held it casually to the side of his chair behind his crossed leg.

“Why should that surprise you?” Xonck asked. Chang scoffed again.

“Then why was Tarr’s death so poorly managed? Why was Trapping killed? What of the dead painter, Oskar Veilandt? Why did the Contessa allow the Prince to be rescued? Where is the Prince now?”

“A lot of questions,” Xonck observed dryly.

“I’m sorry if they bore you. But if I were you, and
I
didn’t have those answers—”

“As I explained, either you’ll be dead—”

“Don’t you think it’s amusing? You’re trying to decide whether to kill me before I join you—so I won’t tell your colleagues about your independent plans. And I’m trying to decide whether to kill you—or to try and learn more about your Process.”

“Except I don’t have any independent plans.”

“But the Contessa does,” said Chang. “And you know it. The others
don’t
.”

“We’re going to disappoint Bascombe if you don’t show up. He’s a keen one for
order
.” Xonck stood, his right hand still behind his body. “Leave the lantern.”

Chang rose with him, his stick held loosely in his left hand. “Have you met the young woman, Miss Temple? She was Bascombe’s fiancée.”

“So I understand. Quite a shock to poor Roger, I’m sure—quite a good thing his mind is so
stable.
So much fuss for nothing.”

“Fuss?”

“The search for Isobel Hastings,” Xonck scoffed, “mysterious killer whore.”

Xonck’s eyes were full of intelligence and cunning, and his body possessed the easy, lithe athleticism of a hunting wolf—but running through it all, like a vein of rot through a tree, was the arrogance of money. Chang knew enough to see the man was dangerous, perhaps even his better if it came to a fight—one never knew—but all of this was still atop a foundation of privilege, an unearned superiority imposed by force, fear, disdain, by purchased experience and unexamined arrogance. Chang found it odd that his estimation of Xonck was crystallized by the man’s dismissal of Celeste—not because she wasn’t in part a silly rich girl, but because she was that and still managed to survive, and—more important than anything—accept that the ordeal had changed her. Chang did not believe Francis Xonck ever changed—in fact change was the exact quality he held himself above.

“I take it you haven’t made her acquaintance then,” Chang said.

Xonck shrugged and nodded at the door in the shadows behind Chang. “I will bear the loss. If you would…”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. I’ve found what I meant to. I’ll be going.”

Xonck swung his hand forward and aimed a shining silver-plated pistol at Chang’s chest. “To hell?”

“At some point, certainly. Why invite me to join you—your
Process
? Whose idea was that?”

“Bascombe told you. Hers.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You needn’t be.” Xonck stared at him, the lines of his face deeply etched in the flickering lantern light. His sharp nose and pointed chin looked positively devilish. Chang knew it was a matter of moments—either Xonck would shoot him or drive him along to Bascombe. He was confident that his guesses about the fissures within the Cabal were correct, and that Xonck was smart enough to see them too. Was Xonck arrogant enough to think they didn’t matter, that he was immune? Of course he was. Then why had he wanted to talk? To see if Chang was still working for Rosamonde? And if he thought Chang was…did that mean he would kill him, or try to satisfy the Contessa and let him escape—thus the need to get rid of Bascombe…

Chang shook his head ruefully, as if he had been caught out. “She did say you were the smartest of them all, even smarter than d’Orkancz.”

For a moment Xonck didn’t respond. Then he said, “I don’t believe you.”

“She hired me to find Isobel Hastings. I did. Before I could contact her, I was waylaid by that idiot German Major—”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Ask her yourself.” He suddenly dropped his voice, hissing with annoyance. “Is that Bascombe coming back?”

Chang turned behind him as if he’d heard footsteps, so naturally that Xonck would have been inhuman not to look, even for a moment. In that moment Chang, whose hand was on the back of the wooden chair, swept it up with all his strength and hurled it at Xonck. The pistol went off once, splintering the wood, and then once more, but by that time Xonck was flinching against the chair’s impact and the shot went high. The chair hit his shoulder with a solid cracking sound, causing him to swear and stumble back against the possibility that Chang would rush him with his stick. The chair rebounded away and, his face a mask of fury, Xonck brought the pistol back to bear. His third shot coincided exactly with a scream of surprise. Chang had scooped up the oil lantern and flung it at him, the contents soaking Xonck’s extended arm. When he fired, the spark from the gun set his arm ablaze. The shot missed Chang by a good yard. His last image of Xonck, screaming with rage, was the man’s desperate attempt to rip off his morning coat, his fingers—the pistol dropped—roiling with flame and clutching in agony against the sizzling rush of the fire that swallowed his entire arm. Xonck thrashed like a madman. Chang dove forward into the darkness.

Within moments he was blind. He slowed to deliberate steps, hands held out to prevent walking into walls or furniture. He needed to put distance between himself and Xonck, but he needed to do it quietly. His hand found a wall to his left and he moved along it in what seemed to be another direction—had he entered a corridor? He paused to listen. He could no longer hear Xonck…could the man have put out the fire so quickly? Could he be dead? Chang didn’t think so. His one comfort was that Xonck was now forced to shoot with his left hand. He crept along, pawing at a curtain in front of him until he found an opening. Behind it—he nearly twisted his ankle missing the first step—was an extremely narrow staircase—he could easily touch the walls on either side. He silently made his way down. At the landing, some twenty steps below, he heard noises above him. It had to be Bascombe. There would be lights, a search. He groped ahead of himself for the far wall, found a door, then the knob. It was locked. Chang very carefully dug in his pockets for his ring of keys and, clutching them hard to stop them jingling into one another, tried the lock. It opened with the second key, and he stepped through, easing the door closed behind him.

The new room, whatever it was, was still pitch black. Chang wondered how long before these corridors were full of soldiers. He felt his way forward, his hands finding a stack of wooden crates, and then a dusty bookcase. He worked his way past it, and to his great relief felt a pane of glass, a window undoubtedly painted black. Chang pulled the dagger from his cane and smartly rapped the butt into the glass, punching it clear. Light poured into the room, transforming it from formless dark to an unthreatening vestibule full of dusty unused furniture. He peered out through the broken pane. The window overlooked one of the wheel-spoke pathways, and was—he craned his neck—at least two floors below the roof. To his dismay he saw the outer wall was sheer, with no ledges or molding or pipes to cling to, going up or down. There was no exit this way.

Chang wheeled around at a sudden draft of cool air behind him—as if the door had been opened. The breeze came from a metal vent in the floor, the cool air—which with a sense of smell might well have made him nauseous—flowing out to the open window. Chang knelt at the vent. He could hear voices. He sighed with frustration—he could not make out the words for the echoing effect of the vent. The opening was wide enough for a man to crawl through. He felt inside and was gratified to find it was not moist. Keeping as quiet as possible, he pried apart the housing until it was wide enough for him to get at the hole. It was pitch black. He set his stick inside and wormed his way after it. There was just room for him to move on his hands and knees. He crawled forward as quietly as he could.

He’d gone perhaps five yards when the vent split three ways, to either side and angling upwards. He listened carefully. The voices were coming from above—from the floor he’d just escaped. He peered up, and saw a dim light. He climbed upwards, pressing his legs against both sides to keep himself from sliding back. As he rose, the vent leveled off again—where the light bled in. He kept climbing, finding it more and more difficult, for the surface of the vent was covered with a fine powder that prevented him from getting any solid purchase. Was it soot? He couldn’t see in the dark—he cursed the fact that he was probably filthy—and kept struggling to reach the light. He reached up, his fingers finding a ledge and just beyond it, a metal grate over the opening. He laced his fingers over the grating and pulled his body up until he could see out the hole, but the only view was a slate-covered floor and a tattered dark curtain. He listened…and heard a voice he did not recognize.

“He is a protégé of my uncle’s. Of course, I do not approve of my uncle, so this is not the highest recommendation. Is he quite secured? Excellent. You will understand that I am not—given these recent events—inclined toward the risks of
politesse
.”

A woman chuckled politely in response. Chang frowned. The voice spoke with an accent quite like the Doctor’s, but with an indolent drawl that announced its words one at a time without regard to conversational sense or momentum, so draining them of any possible wit.

“Excuse the interruption, but perhaps I should assist—”

“You will not.”

“Highness.” The word was followed by the clicking of heels. The second voice was also German.

The first voice went on, and obviously not to the second voice, but to the woman. “What people do not understand—who have not known it—is the great burden of obligation.”

“Responsibility,” she agreed. “Only a few of us can bear it well. Tea?”

“
Danke
. Is he able to breathe?”

It was a question from curiosity, not from concern, and it was answered—to Chang’s ears—with a swift meaty impact followed by a violent expulsion of coughing discomfort.