The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters (58 page)

“Go ahead.”

The tarp was whipped away and the men stepped to either side, each pair picking up a body between them. Svenson staggered back. On top of the pile were the two women from the attic room, their flesh still glowing blue. Beneath them were Coates and Starck and another man who he recalled but vaguely from the train, his skin also aglow (apparently the men had been shown the book as well). He watched in horror as the first two bodies were taken to the kiln and the wider stoking panel kicked open, revealing a white-hot blaze within. Svenson turned away. At the smell of burning hair his stomach heaved. Aspiche grabbed his shoulder and shoved him back across the quarry to Crabbé. He was dimly aware of Phelps stumbling along behind. At least Elöise had not been there…at least she’d been spared that…

As they again passed Miss Poole and her charges, he saw her amongst the benches, handing out books—these with a red leather cover instead of black, whispering something to each person. He assumed it was a new code, and the key for new messages. She saw him looking and smiled. To either side of Miss Poole were the man and woman he’d first sat with on the train. He barely recognized them. Though their garments had changed—his were smeared with grease and soot, and hers were noticeably loosened—it was more for the transformation of their faces. Where before had been tension and suspicion, now Svenson saw ease and confidence—it truly was as if they were different people entirely. They nodded to him as well, smiling brightly. He wondered who they were in the world, who in their lives they had just betrayed, and what they had found in the glass book to be so altered.

Svenson tried to make sense of it all, to force his tired brain to think. He ought to be drawing one conclusion after another, but nothing followed in his dulled condition. What was the difference between the glass book and the Process? The book could obviously kill—though this seemed almost cruelly arbitrary, like a toxic reaction to shellfish, as he doubted the deaths were intentional or planned. But what did the book
do
? Elöise spoke of falling into it, of visions. He thought of the compelling nature of the blue glass card, and then extrapolated that to the experience of a
book
…but what else…he felt near to something…
writing
…a book must be written in, the thoughts must be recorded…was that what they were doing? He recalled Chang’s description of the Institute, the man dropping the book as it was being made—made somehow
from
Angelique—the same man from Crabbé’s kitchen. What was the difference between using a person to
make
the book, and then using these people here to
write
in it…or be drawn into its clutches like a spider’s web? And what of the Process? That was simple conversion, he felt—a chemical-electric process using the properties of the refined indigo clay—indigo clay melted somehow into glass—to affect the character: to lower inhibitions and shift loyalties. Did it merely erase moral objections? Or did it re-write them? He thought how much a person could accomplish in life without scruples, or one hundred such people working together, their numbers growing by the day. Svenson rubbed his eyes as he walked—he was getting confused again, which merely returned him to the first question: what was the difference between the Process and the book? He looked back at Miss Poole and her little schoolroom in the slag heaps. It was a question of direction, he realized. In the Process, the energy went
into
the subject, erasing inhibitions and converting them to the cause. With the glass book, the energy was sucked
out
of the subject—along with (or in the form of—was memory energy?) specific experiences in their lives. Undoubtedly this was the blackmail: the secrets these bitter underlings had to tell were now
secreted
within Miss Poole’s book, and that book—like the cards—would allow anyone else to
experience
those shameful episodes. There would be no denial, and no end to the Cabal’s power over those so implicated.

It was making more sense to him now—the books were tools and could, like any other book, be used for a variety of purposes, depending on what was in them. Furthermore, it might be that they were constructed in different ways, for different reasons, some written whole and some with a different number of empty pages. He could not but recall the vivid, disturbing paintings of Oskar Veilandt—the compositions explicitly depicting the Process, the reverse of each canvas scrawled with alchemical symbols. Did that man’s work lie at the root of the books as well? If only he was still alive! Was it possible that the Comte—clearly the master within the Cabal of this twisted science—had pillaged Veilandt’s secrets and then had him killed? As he thought of books and purposes, Svenson suddenly wondered if d’Orkancz had been intending to make a book of Angelique alone—the vast adventures of a lady of pleasure. It would be a most persuasive enticement for his cause, offering the detailed experience of a thousand nights in the brothel without ever leaving one’s room. Yet that would be but one example…the limit was sensation itself—what adventures or travels or thrills that one person had known could not be imprinted onto one of these books for anyone to consume, which was to say, to experience
bodily
for themselves? What sumptuous banquets? What quantities of wine? What battles, caresses, what witty conversations…there truly was no end…and no end to what people would pay for such oblivion.

He looked back to Miss Poole and the smiling couple. What had changed them? What had killed the others, but spared these two? It was somehow important to know—for this was a wrinkle, something that did not flow cleanly. If there was only a way to find out—yet any idea of who those people were or what might have killed them was even now disappearing into ash. Svenson snorted with anger—perhaps there was enough after all. Their skin had been infused with blue—this hadn’t happened to the ones who had survived. He thought of the couple, changed from suspicious resentment to open amity…Svenson stumbled with the sudden impact of his thoughts. Aspiche took hold of his shoulder and shoved him forward.

“Get along there! You’ll be resting soon enough!”

Doctor Svenson barely heard him. He was recalling Elöise—how she could not remember what scandals she might have revealed about the Trappings or Henry Xonck. She had said it in a way to mean there had been nothing to reveal…but Svenson knew the memories had been
taken
from her, just as the memories of spite and injustice and envy had been taken from the venal young couple—all to be inscribed in the book. And the ones who had died…what had d’Orkancz said about Angelique? That the energy had “regrettably” gone the other direction…this must have happened here too…the book’s energy must have entered deeper into the people who died, leaving its mark as it drained them utterly. But why them and not the others? He looked back at the smiling people around Miss Poole. None of them could remember exactly what they had revealed—indeed, did they even know why they were here? He shook his head at the beauty of it, for each could be safely sent back to their life, lacking any knowledge of what had been done, aside from a trip to the country and a few strange deaths. But when was there not a way to explain deaths of those considered to be insignificant? Who would protest—who would even remember those killed?

For a moment Svenson’s thoughts stabbed toward Corinna—the degree to which her true memory was retained in his breast alone—and he felt within him a sharpening rage. The death of Starck weighed heavily, but he took the words of the simpleton Aspiche (why must such men always reduce the complexity of the world to single-syllable thinking—an empire of grunts?) as a reminder of who his enemies truly were. He was not Chang—he could not feel good about killing, nor kill well enough to preserve his life—but he was Abelard Svenson. He knew what these villains were doing, and which of them were truly doing it: above him on the platform balcony, Harald Crabbé and the Duke of Stäelmaere. If he could kill them, then Lorenz and Aspiche and Miss Poole did not matter—whatever mischief they made in the world would be limited to the reach of their own two arms and would land them in the same undoubted discontent they knew before their glorious redemption in the Process. The Process depended on the organization of the Cabal—on these two, on d’Orkancz, Lacquer-Sforza, and Xonck. And Robert Vandaariff…he must be the leader. Doctor Svenson suddenly knew that even if he did escape he would not be meeting Chang or Miss Temple at Stropping Station. Either they were dead, or they would be at Harschmort.

But what could he hope to do? Aspiche was tall, strong, armed, and vicious—perhaps even a match for Chang. Doctor Svenson was unarmed and spent. He looked back to the kiln. Lorenz walked toward them, shucking his gauntlets as he came. Above, Crabbé and the Duke chatted quietly—or Crabbé was chatting and the Duke nodding at what he heard, his face glacially impassive. Svenson counted fifteen wooden steps to their platform. If he could make a dash for it, reach them ahead of Aspiche—Crabbé would again throw himself in front of the Duke…Svenson thought of his pockets—was there any kind of weapon? He scoffed—a pencil stub, a cigarette case, the glass card…the card, perhaps if he could snap it in his hands as he ran, and use the jagged edge, one sharp cut into Crabbé’s throat, and then to take the Duke hostage—to drag him up the steps, somehow—would he have his coach above?—making it back to the train, or all the way to the city. Lorenz was nearing them. It was the perfect distraction. He casually slipped a hand into his pocket and groped for the card. He shifted his feet, ready to run.

“Colonel Aspiche,” called Doctor Lorenz, “we are nearly—”

Aspiche swung his forearm savagely across the back of Svenson’s head, knocking him to his knees, his skull near to bursting with pain, his stomach heaving, tasting the vomit in his throat, blinking tears from his eyes. Somewhere behind him—it seemed miles away—he could hear Lorenz’s thin laughter and then the dark hiss of Aspiche at his ear.

“Don’t even
think
of it.”

Svenson knew he would probably die, but he also knew that if he did not get off his knees he would lose whatever infinitesimal chance he had. He spat and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, noticing with vague surprise that his hand held the blue card still. With a terrible effort he braced his other arm on the grimy clay and raised one knee. He pushed off, wobbled, and then felt Aspiche take hold of his greatcoat collar and yank him up to his feet. He let go and Svenson staggered, nearly falling again. Again he heard Lorenz laugh, and then Crabbé call out from above.

“Doctor Svenson! Any new thoughts about the location of your comrades?”

“I am told they are dead,” he called back, his voice hoarse and weak.

“Perhaps they are,” responded Crabbé. “Perhaps we have taken enough of your time.”

Behind him he heard the metal swish of Colonel Aspiche drawing his saber. He must turn and face him. He must snap the card and drive the sharp edge into his neck, or his eyes, or…he could not turn. He could only look up at Crabbé’s satisfied face, leaning over the railing. Svenson pointed to the quarry walls and called up to the Deputy Minister.

“Macklenburg.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Macklenburg. This quarry. I understand the connection, your indigo clay. This can only be a small deposit. The Macklenburg mountains must be full of it. If you control its Duke, there is no end to your power…is that your plan?”

“
Plan,
Doctor Svenson? I’m afraid that is already the
case
. The
plan
is what to do with the power we’ve managed to achieve. With the help of wise men like the Duke here—”

Svenson spat. Crabbé stopped mid-sentence.

“Such
vulgarity
—”

“You’ve insulted my country,” called Svenson. “You’ve insulted this one. You’re going to pay, each arrogant one of you—”

Crabbé looked past Svenson’s shoulder to Colonel Aspiche. “Kill him.”

The shot took him by surprise, as he was expecting a blow from a saber—and it took him another moment to realize that it wasn’t he who had been hit by the bullet. He heard the scream—again, wondering that it wasn’t coming from his own mouth—and then saw the Duke of Stäelmaere reel into the railing, clutching his right shoulder, quite cleanly punctured, blood pouring through his long white fingers clutching the wound. Crabbé wheeled, his mouth working, as the Duke dropped to his knees, his head slipping through the rails. Above and behind them, both hands tightly gripping the smoking service revolver, stood Elöise.

“God be damned, Madame!” shouted Crabbé. “Do you know who you have shot? It is a capital offense! It is treason!” She fired again, and this time Svenson saw the shot blow out through the Duke’s chest, a thick quick fountain of blood. Stäelmaere’s mouth opened with surprise at the impact, at the shocking scope of his agony, and he collapsed to the planking.

Svenson whirled, drawing new energy from his rescue, and—recalling something he’d once seen in a wharf-side bar—stomped on Colonel Aspiche’s boot in the same moment he shoved the man straight back sharply with both hands. As the Colonel fell back, Svenson’s weight fixed his foot to the ground so that he was both unable to rebalance himself and to prevent his own weight from being thrown against his pinned ankle. Svenson heard the cracking bones as the Colonel landed with a cry of rage and pain. He leapt away—Aspiche, even so down, was swinging the saber, face reddened, tears at the corners of his eyes—and dashed to the stairs. Elöise fired again—apparently missing Crabbé, who had retreated into the corner of the landing, arms over his face, hunched away from the gun. Svenson charged and struck him in his exposed stomach. Crabbé doubled forward with a grunt, his hands clutching his belly. Svenson swung again at the Deputy Minister’s now-exposed face, and the man went down in a heap. Svenson gasped—he had no idea how such a blow would hurt his hand—and staggered toward his rescuer.

“Bless you, my dear,” he breathed, “for you have saved my life. Let us climb—”