The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters (59 page)

“They are coming!” she said, her voice rising with fear. He looked back down to see Lorenz’s assistants and the gang of men from the benches all running. Lorenz had helped Aspiche to his feet and the limping, hopping Colonel was waving his saber and bawling orders.

“Kill them! Kill them! They have murdered the Duke!”

“The Duke?” whispered Elöise.

“You did right,” Svenson assured her. “If I may, for there are many of them—”

He reached for the pistol and took it, pulling back the hammer, and jumped down to the cowering Crabbé. The men charged up the stairs as Svenson took the Minister by his collar and raised him to his knees, grinding the gun barrel against Crabbé’s ear. They surged to the very edge of the platform, eyeing Svenson and Elöise with hatred. Svenson looked over the rail to the quarry floor to where Lorenz stood supporting Aspiche. He shouted down to them.

“I will kill him! You know I will do it! Call your fellows off!”

He looked back to the crowd and saw it part to allow Miss Poole to pass through. She stepped onto the platform, smiling icily.

“Are you quite all right, Minister?” she asked.

“I am alive,” muttered Crabbé. “Has Doctor Lorenz finished his work?”

“He has.”

“And your charges?”

“As you can see, quite well—enthusiastic to protect you and avenge the Duke.”

Crabbé sighed. “Perhaps it is best this way, perhaps it can be better worked. You will need to prepare his body.”

Miss Poole nodded, and then looked up beyond Svenson to Elöise. “It seems we have underestimated you, Mrs. Dujong!”

“You left me to die!” shouted Elöise.

“Of course she did,” called Crabbé, rubbing his jaw. “You failed your test—it seemed as if you
would
die, like the others. It cannot be helped—you are wrong to place blame with Elspeth. Besides, look at you now—so bold!”

“Do you think we were hasty with our decision, Minister?” asked Miss Poole.

“Indeed I do. Perhaps Mrs. Dujong will be joining our efforts after all.”

“Join you?” cried Elöise. “
Join
you? After—after all—”

“You forget,” called Miss Poole. “Even if you do not remember why you came,
I
remember it quite well—every noisome little secret you offered up in exchange for your
advancement.
”

Elöise stood, her mouth open, looking to Svenson, then back at Miss Poole. “I did not—I cannot—”

“You wanted it before,” said Miss Poole. “And you want it still. You’ve proven yourself quite bold.”

“There’s barely a choice, my dear,” observed Crabbé with a sigh.

Svenson saw the confusion on Elöise’s face and jabbed the gun hard into Crabbé’s ear, stopping the man’s speech. “Did you not hear what I said? We will be going at once!”

“O yes, Doctor Svenson, you were heard quite clearly,” Crabbé muttered, wincing. He looked up at Miss Poole. “Elspeth?”

The woman retained her icy smile. “Such
chivalry,
Doctor. First it is Miss Temple, and now Mrs. Dujong—a veritable collector of hearts you seem, I never would have thought it.”

Svenson ignored her, and yanked Crabbé back toward the stairs.

“We will be taking our leave—”

“Elspeth!” the Deputy Minister croaked.

“You will not,” Miss Poole announced.

“I beg your pardon?” asked Svenson.

“You will not. How many shots remain in your gun?”

Aspiche called back to her from below, a disembodied voice. “She fired three times, and it is a six-shot cylinder.”

“So there you are,” continued Miss Poole, indicating the crowd of men around her. “Three shots. We are at least ten, and you at the very most can shoot three. We will take you.”

“But the first I shoot shall be Minister Crabbé.”

“It is more important that our work proceed, and your escape may endanger it. Do you agree, Minister?”

“Unfortunately, Svenson, the woman is correct—”

Svenson cracked him sharply on the head with the gun butt. “Stop talking!”

Miss Poole spoke to the gang of men behind her. “Doctor Svenson is a
German
agent. He has succeeded in causing the death of the Queen’s own noble brother—”

Doctor Svenson looked up at Elöise, whose eyes were wide with fear. “Run now,” he told her. “Escape—I will hold them off—”

“Do not bother, Mrs. Dujong,” called Miss Poole. “We cannot allow either of you to leave—really we can’t. And I do promise, Doctor, however much time your bravery does buy your ally, she will not in that dress outrun these gentlemen across three miles of open road.”

Svenson was at a loss. He did not believe they would sacrifice Crabbé so easily—yet could he risk Elöise’s life on the chance? But, if he were to surrender—impossible, surely—what hope would they have of surviving? None! They’d be ash in Lorenz’s oven—it was an appalling thought, unconscionable—

“Doctor…Abelard…” Elöise whispered to him from above. He looked up at her, helpless, sputtering.

“You will not join them—you will not stay—”

“What if she wants to stay?” asked Miss Poole, wickedly.

“She does not—she cannot—be quiet!”

“Doctor Svenson!” It was Lorenz, shouting from below. Svenson edged closer to the rail—pulling his hostage with him—and looked down. The man had walked over to the large conglomeration of tarps, covering the hidden train car. “Perhaps this will convince you of our great purpose!”

Lorenz pulled on a rope line and the tarps were released. At once the great shape beneath them rose some twenty feet in a lurch, thrusting up clear of the covering. It was an enormous cylindrical gasbag, an airship, a dirigible. As it ascended to the limits of its tethering cables, he could see propellers, engines, and the large cabin underneath. The entire thing was even larger than he’d thought, expanding like an insect coming out of its cocoon, an iron skeleton of supporting struts snapping into place as it rose—and the whole painted to perfectly match the deepest midnight sky. Traveling at night the craft would be near invisible.

Before Svenson could say a word, Elöise screamed. He wheeled to see her off balance, a man’s hand incongruously holding onto her leg through the gap in the stairs—an arm in a red sleeve, Aspiche, reaching up from below while he’d been distracted by Lorenz’s spectacle like a gullible fool. Svenson watched helplessly as she tried to pull herself free, to step on his wrist with her other foot—it was all that was needed for the spell to be broken. The men around Miss Poole surged forward, cutting Svenson off from Elöise. Crabbé dropped into a ball on the planking, pulling Svenson off balance. Before he could re-position the pistol the men were upon him—a fist across his jaw, a forearm clubbing him across the head and he staggered back into the rail. Elöise screamed again—they were all around her—he had failed her completely. The men scooped him up bodily and threw him over the rail.

He came to his senses with the cloudless black night sky in motion above him and the steady bumping of gravel and dirt beneath his skull. He was being dragged by his feet. It took the Doctor a moment to realize that his arms were over his head and his greatcoat tangled up behind, scooping up loose earth like a rake as he was pulled along. Toward the oven, he knew. He craned his head and saw a man at each leg, two of Lorenz’s fellows. Where was Elöise? He felt the pain in his neck and aches everywhere, but nowhere the sharp jarring agony that must mean a broken bone—and the way they carried his legs and his arms dragged, he would certainly know. His hands were empty—what had happened to his revolver? He cursed his pathetic attempts at heroism. Rescued by a woman only to betray her trust with incompetence. As soon as the men saw he was awake they would simply dash his brains out with a brick. And what could he possibly do, unarmed, against both of them? He thought of everyone he had failed…how would this be any different?

The men dropped his legs without ceremony. Svenson blinked, still groggy, as one of them looked back at him with a knowing smile, and the other stepped to the oven.

“He’s awake,” said the smiling one.

“Hit him with the shovel,” called the other.

“I will at that,” said the first, and began to look around him for it.

Svenson tried to sit up, to run, but his body—awkward, aching, stiff—did not respond. He rolled onto his side and forced his knees up beneath him, pushing off and then up into a stumbling tottering attempt to walk away.

“Where do you think you’re going, then?” called the laughing voice behind him. Svenson flinched, fearing any moment to feel the shovel slicing across the back of his skull. His eyes searched for some answer, some idea—but only saw the dirigible hovering across the quarry and above it a pitiless black sky. Could this be the finish? So pedestrian and brutal, cut down like a beast in a farmyard? With a sudden impulse Svenson spun around to face the man, extending his open hand.

“A moment, I beg of you.”

The man had indeed picked up the shovel and held it ready to swing. His companion stood some feet behind him, with a metal hook he’d clearly just used to pry open the oven hatch—even this far from the glowing furnace Svenson could feel the increase in heat. They smiled at him.

“Will he offer us money, do you reckon?” said the one with the hook.

“I will not,” said the Doctor. “First, because I have none, and second, because whatever money I have will be yours in any case, once you knock me on the head.”

At this the men nodded, grinning that he had guessed their unstoppable plan.

“I cannot offer you anything. But I can ask you—while I have breath—for I know you will be curious, and it would pain me to leave such honest fellows—for I know you merely do what you must—in such very, very grave danger.”

They stared at him for just a moment. Svenson swallowed.

“What danger’s that?” asked the man with the shovel, shifting his grip in anticipation of swinging it rather hard into Svenson’s face.

“Of course—of course, no one has told you. Never mind—I’m not one to interfere—but if you would, for the sake of my conscience—promise to throw this, this
article
straight into the oven after—well, after
me
—” His hand reached into a pocket and pulled forth his remaining blue card—he’d no idea which—and held it out for them to see. “It seems a mere bit of glass, I know—but you must, for your own safety, put it straight into the fire. Do it now—or let me do it—”

Before he could say another word the one with the shovel stepped forward and snatched the card from Svenson’s hand. He took two steps back, eyeing the Doctor with a sullen suspicion, and then looked down into the card. The man went still. His companion looked at him, then at Svenson, and then lunged over the other man’s shoulder to look at the card, reaching for it with a large calloused hand. Then he stopped as well, his own attention hooked into place.

Svenson watched with disbelief. Could it be so simple? He took a gentle step forward, but as he extended his hands to take the shovel the card came to the end of its cycle and both men emitted a small sigh that stopped his movement cold. Then they sank into the next repetition, jaws slack, eyes dull. With a brutal determination, Svenson snatched the shovel cleanly away and swept it down twice, slamming the flat blade across each man’s head, one after the other, as they looked up at him, still dazed. He dropped the shovel, collected the blue glass card, and turned away as quickly as he could. He had not used the edge—with luck each man would live.

A chopping roar echoed off the stone walls—such an encompassing din that he’d barely noticed it, assuming it was inside his battered skull. It must be the dirigible—its engine and propellers! What would drive such a thing, he wondered—coal? steam? The iron-framed cabin had looked woefully fragile. Had anyone heard his conversation with the men? Had anyone seen? He looked up, squinting—what had happened to his monocle?—at the demonic airship. It had risen to the height of the iron-red stone walls, tethered to the quarry bed only by a few small cables. There were figures in the window of the gondola, too far away to see clearly. He didn’t care about them—what had happened to Elöise? If she had not been taken to the oven with him—if she was not dead—then what had they done with her?

The tall staircase seemed empty save at the very top, where a cluster of figures had gathered on a level equal to the suspended dirigible’s cabin. On the quarry floor he saw only three men minding the last ropes, their attention focused upwards. Doctor Svenson limped toward the stairs, his right leg dragging, his neck and shoulders and head feeling as if they’d been wrapped in plaster and then set aflame. He wiped his mouth on his filthy sleeve and spat, having put more dust into his mouth than he’d wiped away. There was blood on his face—his own? He’d no idea. The figures on the giant staircase had to be the men and women from the train. Would Miss Poole be with them? No, he reasoned—no one would be with them. They’d served their purpose. Miss Poole would be waving from the gondola, off to Harschmort with the others. Where was Elöise?

Svenson walked more quickly, pushing against the objections of his body. His fingers dug into his coat and came out with his cigarette case. There were three left, and he stuffed one into his bloody face as he hobbled forward, and then exclaimed with pain when he tried to strike a match on a split thumbnail. He changed hands, lit the cigarette, and drew in an exquisitely taxing lungful of smoke, shaking the pain out of his hand, dragging his right foot forward, and finally heaving a thick bolus of phlegm and blood and dust from the back of his throat. His eyes were watering but the smoke pleased him nevertheless, somehow recalling himself to his task. He was becoming relentless, unstoppable, an adversary of legend. He spat again and in another stroke of luck happened to glance down at where he was spitting—to see if there was any visible blood—and saw something in the dirt catching the light. It was glass—it was his monocle! The chain had snapped when he was being dragged, but the glass was whole! He wiped it off as best he could, smiling stupidly, then pulled out his shirt-tail to wipe it again, his sleeve having hopelessly smeared things. He screwed it in place.