The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters (108 page)

“Go on—go on!” shouted Chang, and Miss Temple did, realizing the airship held their only possible refuge. Again she was bundled up by stronger arms, this time it was Svenson, as she plunged into the cabin. He thrust her forward and wheeled to pull up Chang—bullets sending splinters of woodwork through the air. She raced ahead through one doorway and another, and then a third which was a dead end. She turned with a cry, the others colliding into her, and was knocked off her feet into a cabinet. With a desperate coordination Chang slammed the door and Svenson shot the bolt.

Somehow they had survived the battle, only to be imprisoned.

Miss Temple, on the floor, out of breath, face streaked with sweat and tears, gazed up at Svenson and Chang. It was hard to say which of them looked worse, for though his exertions had brought fresh blood to Chang’s mouth and nose, the Doctor’s glistening pallor was abetted by the utterly stricken cast of his eyes.

“We have left Elöise,” he whispered. “She will be killed—”

“Is anyone injured?” asked Chang, cutting the Doctor off. “Celeste?”

Miss Temple shook her head, unable to speak, her thoughts seared by the savage acts she’d just witnessed. Could war possibly be worse? She squeezed shut her eyes as, unbidden, her mind recalled the grinding gasping crush of Francis Xonck bringing down his boot. She sobbed aloud and, ashamed, stuffed a fist in her mouth and turned away, her tears flowing openly.

“Get away from the door,” muttered Chang hoarsely, shifting Svenson to the side. “They may shoot out the lock.”

“We are trapped like rats,” said Svenson. He looked at the dagger in his hand, useless and small. “Captain Smythe—all his men—
all
of them—”

“And Elspeth Poole,” replied Chang, doing his best to speak clearly. “And their lackeys, and the two Germans—our position could be worse—”

“Worse?”
barked Svenson.

“We are not yet dead, Doctor,” said Chang, though his drawn, bloody face would not have seemed out of place in a graveyard.

“Neither is the Prince! Nor the Comte, nor the Contessa, nor that animal Xonck—”

“I did not cut the ropes,” sniffed Miss Temple.

“Be
quiet
—the pair of you!” hissed Chang.

Miss Temple’s eyes flashed—for even in these straits she did not appreciate his tone—but the Cardinal was not angry. Instead, his mouth was grim.

“You did not cut the ropes, Celeste. But you did your best. Did I kill Xonck? No—as pathetic as it sounds, it was all I could do to bring down one Macklenburg farmboy swinging an oversized cabbage-cutter. Did the Doctor save Elöise? No—but he preserved all of our lives—and hers—by destroying Miss Poole. Our enemies on the other side of this door—and we must assume they all are here—are less in number than they would have been, less confident, and just as unhappy—for
we
are not dead either.”

That he followed this speech with a wrenching, racking cough, bent with his head between his knees, did not prevent Miss Temple from wiping her nose on her sleeve and brushing the loosened curls from her eyes. She sniffed and whispered to Doctor Svenson.

“We will save her—we have done it before.”

He had no answer, but wiped his own eyes with his thumb and forefinger—any lack of outright scoffing she read as agreement. She pushed herself to her feet and sighed briskly.

“Well, then—”

Miss Temple grabbed at the cabinet to avoid falling back to the floor, squeaking with surprise as the entire cabin swung to the left and then back again with a dizzying swiftness.

“We are going up…,” said Svenson.

Miss Temple pushed herself to the one window, round like the porthole of a ship, and peered down, but already the roof of Harschmort House receded below her. Within seconds they were in dark fog, the rooftop and the brightly lit house swallowed up in the gloom below. With a brusque sputtering series of bangs the propellers sparked into life and the craft’s motion changed again, pushing forward and steadying the side to side rocking, the low hum of the motors creating a vibration Miss Temple could feel through her hands on the cabinet and the soles of her boots on the floor.

“Well,” she said, “it looks as if we shall visit Macklenburg after all.”

“Unless they throw us into the sea on the way,” observed the Doctor.

“Ah,”
said Miss Temple.

“Still wanting your breakfast?” muttered Chang.

She turned to glare at him—it not being a fair thing to say at all—when they were interrupted by a gentle knock at the door. She looked at both men, but neither spoke. She sighed, and called out as casually as she could.

“Yes?”

“Miss Temple? It is Minister Crabbé. I am wondering if you might open this door and join our conversation.”

“What conversation is that?” she answered.

“Why, it is the one where we decide your lives, my dear. It would be better had not through a door.”

“I am afraid we find the door
convenient,
” replied Miss Temple.

“Perhaps…yet I am forced to point out that Mrs. Dujong does not share your
partition
. Further, while I would prefer to avoid unpleasantness, the door
is
made of wood, and its lock must be subject to the force of bullets—it is in fact an
illusory
convenience. Surely there is much to discuss between us all—need this excellent oak panel be ruined for a conclusion you cannot dispute?”

Miss Temple turned to her companions. Svenson looked past her to the cabinet she leaned against. He stepped across and forced it open with a quick prying thrust of his dagger under its lock, but inside was merely a collection of blankets, ropes, candles, woolen coats, and a box of hats and gloves. He turned back to Chang, who leaned against the doorframe and shrugged.

“We cannot go out the window,” Svenson said.

“You have the only weapon,” said Chang, nodding to the Doctor’s dagger, for he had dropped his own to throw Miss Temple on the gangway, “perhaps it were best stowed away.”

“I agree, but surely by you.”

Svenson passed the blade to Chang, who stuffed it in his coat. The Doctor reached for Miss Temple’s hand, squeezed it once, and nodded to Chang, who unlocked the door.

The next room was the largest of the three in the dirigible’s cabin, and was ringed with cabinets and inset settees, now occupied by the various members of the Cabal, all watching their entrance quite closely. On one side sat the Prince, Harald Crabbé, and Roger Bascombe, on the other the Comte, the Contessa, and in the far doorway, a saber in his hand, blood spoiling his once-white shirt, stood Francis Xonck. Beyond him lurked other figures and movement, and Miss Temple tried to deduce who was missing. Had more of them been brought down in the final struggle? Her questions were answered a moment later by the appearance of Lydia Vandaariff, changed from her robes to a brilliant blue silk dress, bobbing under Xonck’s arm and stepping—still unsteadily—toward the Prince, prompting Roger to leave his place to make room. Emerging directly after Lydia—no doubt helping with her stays—was the ever-attentive Caroline Stearne, who slipped to an empty seat next to the Comte.

“I assume Doctor Lorenz pilots our craft?” asked Chang.

“He does,” answered Harald Crabbé.

“Where is Mrs. Dujong?” asked Doctor Svenson.

Xonck nodded vaguely to the room behind him. “She is quite secure…something of a return to form, I’m told.”

Svenson did not reply. Aside from Xonck, no one brandished any weapon—though, given Xonck’s prowess and the small size of the room, Miss Temple doubted whether anyone else
needed
one. Yet if their immediate dispatch was not their enemies’ intent, Miss Temple was mystified as to what their plan then was.

At the same time, simply where they sat revealed divisions among them: on one side Crabbé and Roger, and under their arm the Prince (though the Prince would go with whoever was ascendant), and on the other the Comte and Contessa, with Caroline under their sway (though how much she counted, Miss Temple had no clue—did she, Lorenz, and Roger make up a second tier of the Cabal, or were they simply three more drones of the Process?)—and then in the middle and unallied to either, Francis Xonck, his capacity for slaughter quite balancing, especially in these close quarters, the cunning of Crabbé, the knowledge of the Comte, and the provocative charm of the Contessa.

Crabbé looked across to the Contessa and raised his eyebrows in question. She nodded in agreement—or did she grant permission?—and Crabbé cleared his throat. He indicated a cabinet next to Mrs. Stearne.

“Before we start, would any of you care for some refreshment? You must be tired—I know
I
am tired, and the mere sight of you three—well, it amazes that you can
stand
. Caroline can get it—there is whisky, brandy, water—”

“If
you
are drinking,” said Chang, “by all means.”

“Excellent—of course, drinks all round—and my apologies, Caroline, for turning you into a barmaid—Roger, perhaps you will assist. Perhaps for simplicity it can be brandy for everyone.”

There followed an awkward near silence where by tacit agreement all conversation paused until the business of pouring and handing out glasses was accomplished. Miss Temple watched Roger step to Chang and Svenson with a glass in each hand, his face a mask of professional diffidence that never once glanced her way. Her study was broken by Caroline’s touch on her arm, as she was offered her own glass. Miss Temple shook her head, but Caroline pressed the glass hard into her hand, leaving Miss Temple the choice to hold on or let it drop. She looked down at the amber liquid and sniffed, detecting the familiar biting scent she associated with so much that was tiresome and foul.

The entire scene was strange—especially following the rooftop carnage, for she had braced herself for a second deadly struggle, yet here they stood, as sociably arrayed as any dinner party—save the men and women were drinking together—and all of it so patently false that Miss Temple narrowed her eyes. With an audible snort she set her glass on a nearby shelf and wiped her hands.

“Miss Temple?” asked Crabbé. “Would you prefer something else?”

“I would prefer you state your business. If Mr. Xonck will kill us, then let him try.”

“Such
impatience
.” Crabbé smiled, unctuous and knowing. “We will do our best to satisfy. But first, I give you all the Prince of Macklenburg and his bride!”

He raised his glass and tossed off the contents, as the others followed suit amidst mutters of “the Prince!” and “Lydia!” The Prince smiled heartily and Lydia grinned, her small white teeth showing over her glass as she too drank, but then erupted into a fit of coughing to rival Cardinal Chang. The Prince patted her shoulder as she strove to breathe, her stomach now heaving unpleasantly with the stress. Roger stepped forward and offered a handkerchief which the young lady hurriedly snatched and held before her mouth, spitting into it wetly. The fit finally subsided and, face pale and out of breath, Lydia returned the cloth to Roger with an attempt at a smile. Roger deftly refolded the handkerchief before returning it to his pocket…but not before Miss Temple noticed the fresh, brilliant blue stain.

“Are you quite well, my dear?” asked the Prince.

Before Lydia could speak, Chang threw back his glass and gargled loudly before swallowing the brandy. Doctor Svenson poured his glass on the floor. Crabbé took all this in and exhaled sadly.

“Ah well…one cannot always please. Caroline?” Mrs. Stearne collected their glasses. Crabbé cleared his throat and gestured vaguely at the room around them.

“So we begin.”

“Through your determined efforts at
destruction,
we are no longer able to easily determine what you know of our plans, or in whom you might have confided. Mrs. Marchmoor is well on her way to the city, Angelique and poor Elspeth are no more.” He held up his hand. “Please know that
I
am speaking to you as the one most able to control my rage—if it were any of my associates, a recitation of even these facts would result in your immediate deaths. While it is true we could subject you to the Process, or distill your memories within a book, both of these endeavors demand time we do not have, and facilities beyond this craft. It is also true we could do both these things upon arrival in Macklenburg, yet our need for your knowledge cannot wait. Upon arrival we must know where we stand, and if…within our ranks…there is a Judas.”

He held out his glass to Roger for more brandy, and continued speaking as it was poured.

“This latest confrontation on the rooftop—wasteful and distressing, I trust, to
all
—only reinforces our earlier decision that we would have been best served with your talents incorporated to our cause—via the Process. Thank you, Roger.” Crabbé drank. “Do not bother to protest—we no longer expect any such conversions, nor—given the grief you have inflicted—would they now be accepted. The situation could not be clearer. We hold Mrs. Dujong. You will answer our questions or she will die—and I’m sure you can imagine the sort of death I mean, the time it will take, and how distressing such prolonged screams will be in such an enclosed place as this. And if she does manage to expire, then we shall merely move on to one of you—Miss Temple, perhaps—and on and on. It is inevitable as the dawn. As you have opened that door to avoid its being needlessly broken, I offer you the chance to avoid that same breaking of your comrades’ bodies—and, indeed, their souls.”

Miss Temple looked at the faces opposite her—Crabbé’s smug smirk, the Prince’s bemused disdain, Lydia’s fox-faced hunger, Roger’s earnest frown, Xonck’s leer, the Comte’s iron glare, the Contessa’s glacial smile, and Caroline’s sad patience—and found nowhere a suggestion that the Minister’s words were anything but true. Yet she still saw the factions between them and knew their deeper interest lay no longer in what she and the others had discovered, but only in how those discoveries spelled out betrayals within the Cabal’s circle.