The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters (45 page)

It was his nose that had saved him, he was sure. The damage inside, the scars, the blockages—somehow the powder, or enough of the powder to kill, had not fully penetrated. He wiped his face—blue smears of mucus ran from his mouth and each nostril. She had intended to kill him with an overdose but his scarred passages had prevented the fatal concentration from taking effect, absorbing the vile chemicals more slowly and allowing him the time to survive. How long had it taken? He looked up at the round windows. It was after nightfall. The room was cold, with wax spattered on the floor in a sloppy ring where it had dripped to the floor. He tried to sit up. He could not. He curled up away from the vomit and shut his eyes.

He woke feeling distinctly better, if still only slightly more spry than a slaughtered pig on a hook. He rolled to his knees, working his tongue in his mouth with revulsion. He dug for a handkerchief and wiped his face. There did not seem to be any water in the room. Chang stood, shutting his eyes. The darkness weaved about him, but he did not fall. He saw the teapot, on its side on the floor. He picked it up and shook it gently—the dregs were still there sloshing. Taking care not to cut himself on the broken spout, he poured the bitter tea into his mouth, worked it around and then spat it on the floor. He took another sip and swallowed, then set the broken pot on the tea tray. With no small feeling of wonder, he saw his stick underneath the table. He understood that leaving it was a gesture of contempt—mainly so his body would be found with a weapon. As weak and sick as he felt, Chang was more than willing to make them regret it.

The room had a lantern and, after some minutes of search, matches to light it. The door opened into darkness as before, but now Chang was able to navigate clearly, if not with any knowledge of where he should go. He wandered for some minutes, finding no other person, nor hearing any noise, through various storage rooms, meeting rooms, and hallways. He did not see any of the rooms he remembered passing through with Bascombe and Xonck, and instead simply forged ahead, alternating left and right turns in an attempt to keep a straight line. This eventually brought him to a dead end: a large door without lock or knob. It would not budge. It was either sealed or barred from the other side. Chang shut his eyes. He felt sick again, his weakened body overtaxed by the walking. In frustration, he pounded on the door.

A muffled voice answered him from the other side. “Mr. Bascombe?”

Instead of calling out, Chang pounded again on the door. He heard the bar being shifted. He did not know what to prepare for—whether he should fling the lantern, ready his stick, or retreat. He was without the energy for any of them. The door was pulled back. Chang was faced with a red-coated Dragoon private.

He took in Chang. “You’re not Mr. Bascombe.”

“Bascombe’s gone,” said Chang. “Hours ago—you didn’t see him?”

“I’ve just been on watch since six.” The trooper frowned. “Who are you?”

“My name is Chang. I was part of Bascombe’s party. I became sick. Would you…” Chang shut his eyes for a moment and strained to finish the sentence. “Would you have some water?”

The trooper relieved Chang of the lantern and took his arm, leading him to a small guardroom. This, like the hallway, was fitted with gaslight fixtures and had a warm, hazy glow to it. Chang could see that they were near a large staircase—perhaps the main access for this floor, as opposed to Bascombe’s secret lair where he had been taken. He was too tired to think. He sat on a simple wooden chair and was given a metal mug of tea with milk. The trooper, who offered that his name was Reeves, put a metal plate of bread and cheese on Chang’s lap, and nodded that he should eat something.

The hot tea stung his throat as it went down, but he could feel it restoring him all the same. He pulled off a hunk of the white loaf with his teeth and forced himself to chew, if only to stabilize his stomach. After the first few bites however he realized how hungry he was and began to steadily devour everything the man had given him. Reeves refilled his mug and sat back with one of his own.

“I am much obliged to you,” said Chang.

“Not at all.” Reeves smiled. “You looked like death, if you don’t mind me saying. Now you just look like hell.” He laughed.

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 for 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.”