The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters (53 page)

“Captain Blach!”

It was the man from the train, Elöise’s ostensible partner, the lawyer’s clerk. He stood in the open rear door of the church, in one hand a lit cigarette and in the other—incongruously—a heavy cast iron wrench, for use on only the most unwieldy of machines. Before Svenson could speak, the man stuck the cigarette between his lips and offered the Doctor his hand.

“You arrived after all—I was worried you would not. Did you ever find your lady friend?”

“I’m afraid I did not—”

“Not to worry—I’m sure she went ahead to the house with the others.”

“The light.” Svenson gestured behind him to the windows. “A blue flash, just moments ago—”

“Yes!” The man’s eyes lit up. “Isn’t it splendid? You really are just in time!”

He took another drag on his cigarette, dropped it to the stone porch and ground it beneath his shoe. Svenson’s gaze went to the wrench—it was perhaps as long as the man’s forearm. The man noticed his look and chuckled, hefting the hunk of iron as if it were a prize. “They are letting us help with the works, you see—it really is just as engaging as I hoped! Come, everyone will be delighted to see you!”

He turned and went into the church, holding the door open for Svenson to follow. The blue flash made him think of d’Orkancz and the Institute. He’d given this man a false name—but any member of the Cabal, if present, would know him instantly. Further—his mind raced, gesturing for the man to go first, and closing the door behind them—were the women at Tarr Manor? What other house could be meant? If that was so, there was no hiding the connection of this group—the black books, the Puritan brimstone—with Bascombe and his Cabal. But—he must decide, he must do something (even then the man was leading him into a dressing vestibule hung with church robes). Lord Tarr had been killed to gain control of the quarry and the deposits of indigo clay. What did that have to do with this religious nonsense? And what religious ceremony involved that size of…wrench?

The man abruptly stopped, one hand on Doctor Svenson’s chest, the other—with the wrench, which could not but look foolish—held over his mouth to indicate silence. He nodded ahead of them at an open door, and then stepped quietly ahead until they could see into the next room. Svenson followed, apprehensive and curious in equal measure, craning his head over the man’s shoulder.

They were to the side of the altar, looking past it into the nave of the church, where the pews had been pushed away and stacked against either side wall. In the center of the open floor was an impromptu table made of stacked wooden boxes…boxes like those Chang described from the Institute, or that Colonel Aspiche’s men had taken away in carts that morning. Atop the table was a…machine—an interlocking conglomeration of metal parts sticking out of a central casket not unlike a visored medieval helmet, and trailing bright twists of copper wire that ran into an open box on the floor (which Svenson could not see into). The air was sharp with that same mechanical smell—ozone, cordite, burnt rubber, oil—that he’d known on the bodies of Trapping and Angelique and the man in Crabbé’s kitchen, only now so intense that his nostrils wrinkled in protest, even from this far away. Around the machine, in a circle, was a collection of men—the same mix of classes and types he’d seen on the train, including the tall horse-ish fellow from his first compartment. Most had taken off their coats and rolled up their sleeves, some held tools, some oily rags, some merely rested their hands on their hips with satisfaction, and all of them gazed lovingly at the machine between them. At the circle’s head was another man, in an unkempt but elegantly cut black coat, his streaked hair pushed back behind his ears, his sharp face dominated by a pair of dark goggles, and his hands magnified—like a giant’s—by a pair of padded leather gauntlets that went up to his elbows. It was Doctor Lorenz.

Svenson stepped away from the door. His companion felt him move and turned with a look of concern. Svenson held up his hand and began to silently gag, motioning that there was some trouble with his breathing, with his throat—he took another step back and waved the man forward, as if this would only take a moment, he would be right with him. Instead of going ahead, the man stepped after him—forcing Svenson to gag still more theatrically—and then to the Doctor’s dismay turned to the room, as if to call for help. Svenson took hold of the man’s arm and tugged him along back toward the rear door of the church. They reached the far side of the dressing room before Svenson allowed himself to audibly cough and gag.

“Captain Blach, are you all right? Are you unwell? I’m sure Doctor Lorenz—”

Svenson charged through the rear door and bent over on the paved portico, hands on his knees, sucking in great gasps of air. The man followed him outside, clucking with concern. Svenson could not go in. Lorenz would know him. And now, whatever else happened, this man was sure to mention him—perhaps he had already?—in such a way that would leave little mystery to those who already marked him as an enemy. He felt a comforting hand on his back and tilted up his head.

“I hope we are not disturbing them,” Svenson rasped.

“O no,” the man answered. “I’m sure they did not even know we were there—”

As he had hoped, the man instinctively turned his head toward the door as he spoke. Svenson stood up swiftly, the butt of the pistol in his right hand, and brought it down hard behind the man’s ear. The man grunted with surprise and staggered into the doorframe. Svenson hesitated—he did not want to hit him again. He was no judge on giving blows to the head, though he knew well enough they could kill. The man groaned and tried to stand, wobbling. Svenson cursed and struck him once more, feeling the sickening thud of impact through his entire arm. The man went down in a heap. Svenson quickly stowed the pistol and dragged him into the church. He listened—he heard nothing from within—and quietly snatched several of the robes from the inner room. He spread these over the body, leaving him in a sitting position behind the propped-open door, so he was quite hidden to any casual eye. Doctor Svenson felt the back of the man’s head. It was swollen, pulpy, but he did not think there was a fracture—though he could hardly tell for sure, leaning over the fellow in the dark. The man was alive—he told himself perhaps that was enough, though it did not ease his guilt. Svenson picked up the wrench. He then rolled his eyes at his own forgetfulness and knelt again, digging through the layers of robe, and came up with the man’s black book. He stuffed this into his greatcoat and crept again to the inner doorway. The buzzing sound had returned.

The machine vibrated on the table top with an escalating whine that seemed—by the reactions of the men around it—to indicate that it was nearing the successful achievement of whatever process it performed. Lorenz held a pocket watch in his hand, his other hand raised, with the men around him alertly poised for his signal. To Svenson, it looked like nothing more than a group of overgrown boys waiting for their schoolmaster’s permission to start a scrimmage. The machine kicked, shaking the boxes beneath it with a dangerous rattle. Was it going to explode? Lorenz had not moved. The men were still clustered close around. At once the scientist dropped his arm and the men leapt to the machine, holding it firmly in place. The restraint seemed to drive the machine’s energy inward, and Svenson could detect first thin plumes of smoke and then a rising glow. He saw that the men had all screwed their eyes shut and faced away from the machine and, realizing what this meant just before it happened, Svenson spun from the door, his back to the wall, eyes shut. A bright blue flash erupted from the other room that he could feel through his eyelids, seeing a floating after-flash in the air without even having opened them. He placed a hand over his mouth and nose—the smell was intolerable. He could hear the men in the other room choking and laughing in equal measure, congratulating themselves. He rolled his head back to the door, risking a peek.

Lorenz bent over the machine. He’d pulled back a metal plate on a hinge, like the cover of a stove, and was reaching inside with his heavily gloved hand, into a bright blue light that washed all color from his already pallid face. The attention of the men was fixed on Lorenz’s hand as it penetrated the open chamber and then returned with a ball of pulsing blue (stone? glass?) in his palm. He held it up for them all to see and the men erupted with a ragged, exuberant cheer. The faces of the men were flushed and crazed. The chemical smell had Svenson feeling light-headed already, he could just imagine what it was doing to all of them. Lorenz flipped back his cloak. Slung across his chest he bore a heavy leather bandolier, from which hung many capped metal flasks, like the powder charges of an old musketeer. He carefully unscrewed one of the flasks and then squeezed—as if it was glowing, malleable clay—the ball in his hand into the narrow flask opening. When it was completely in, he replaced the cap and with a small flourish flipped his cloak back into place.

Doctor Lorenz looked up at the men around him and asked, with an even-toned curiosity, “Where is Mr. Coates?”

Svenson wheeled from sight, his back against the wall. In two long silent strides he was through the dressing room and then, now running, out of the church entirely. He crossed the empty lot and ducked behind the next building, back to the cobbled road and across it onto the common. He did not stop until he had reached the trunk of the oak tree, running low and as quietly as he could, where he knelt and finally looked back, his heart pounding. There were men standing in the grassy lot, and one who had walked as far as the front of the church, looking across its steps and onto the common. Svenson ducked back. Had they seen him running? With any luck, their discovery of the unfortunate Coates slowed any pursuit long enough for him to make his way. Of course, given the high spirits of the group, it could just as well fire them up for immediate vengeance. Would Coates revive? What could he tell them? Svenson dared not risk running across the open ground to the King Crow. He glanced above him. Any other man might cleverly climb the tree and rest undetected. Svenson shuddered. He was not Cardinal Chang.

The man in front of the church gave another long look to the grassy common and then retreated back to the rear door, collecting the men in the lot on his way. Svenson heard the rear door close. Now was the time for him to dash to cover, but he remained behind his tree, watching. It was another fifteen minutes of gnawing cold before the door opened again, and a line of men emerged, carrying the boxes between them. Last of all came Lorenz, no longer with the gauntlets and goggles, holding his cloak closely about him. The line vanished from Svenson’s view, along the same road the coach had followed earlier. He could only assume it went to Tarr Manor.

Svenson gave them another two minutes before leaving the oak tree and walking back to the church. He had no idea what he thought to find, but anything was better than another ignorant walk in the dark. Coates was no longer in the corner where he placed him—hopefully he’d been able to walk away upon being revived—and Svenson picked his way through the dressing room into the darkened church. Moonlight still poured in through the windows, but without the machine’s blue glow the room had a different feel, more mournful and abandoned—though the pews had been hastily restored to their places. Svenson glanced over to the altar, which had acquired a peculiar shadow beneath it. He looked at the windows but did not see what could be blocking the light—some kind of smudge or deposit on the glass—soot from the machine? He crossed to the altar itself and saw his mistake. The shadow was a pool. Svenson pulled back the white cloth and saw, beneath it, the crumpled figure of Mr. Coates, whose throat had been quite cleanly cut.

Svenson bit his lip. He dropped the cloth and turned, reaching into his pocket for the service revolver. He checked the cartridges and the hammer, spun the chamber, and stuffed it away. He looked around him with a rising urge to kick over the pews and forced himself to breathe evenly. He could do nothing for Coates except remember him as affable and attentive. He walked out of the church and made for the road.

Because the line of men carried the boxes of machinery, Svenson half-thought he might overtake them—or at least come within sight—on the way, but he had walked a mile on the country road, briar hedges to his left and barren winter fields to his right, without doing so. At the mile marker the road forked, and he stood under the moonlight trying to decide. There was no delineating sign, and each road seemed equally traveled. Looking ahead, the left fork sloped up a gentle rise, which made him recall Coates’s reference to a climb. With nothing else to go on, Svenson turned his steps that way.

At the top, he saw that the road dipped and then continued to rise in a gentle winding path around an escalating series of scrubbish hills. As he crested each new height, the Doctor saw his destination more clearly, and by the time he faced it directly—still without trace of the men—he could see an estate house of such size that it must be Tarr Manor: orchards in the surrounding fields, a tall windbreak of leafless poplars, and fronted by an old-fashioned stone fence and high iron gate. The out-buildings were few and small, and the house itself, though nothing compared to a monstrosity like Harschmort, was a great, crenellated cube bristling with gables and pipes and brickwork, more than half smothered in ivy whose leaves looked to Svenson, under the insidious moonlight, like the scales of a reptile’s skin.

The ground-floor windows of the house were blazing with light. With a prick to his curiosity, the Doctor saw that the only other so lit was a gable window in the highest attic, which made, as he counted the windows, four completely dark stories in between. He approached the gate with caution—being shot for trespassing would be a particularly stupid way to die—and found it chained. He called out to the small guard’s hut on the other side of the wall, but received no answer. He looked up—the gate was very high—and shuddered at the prospect of climbing. He preferred to find another, less egregious point of entry, and remembered from Bascombe’s blue glass card an image near an orchard, of a crumbled wall that, could he find it, would be simple to scramble over. He set off around the side, tramping through the high, dry grass drifting—from the wind, he supposed—up against the stone—like sand.