The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

toward the end of the table. “Please…will you sit?”
    “I would prefer to stand,” said Chang.
    “As you wish. I prefer a seat, if it is all the same to you…”
    Bascombe sat back at the table, and took a moment to rearrange the papers in front of him. “So…,” he began, “you are acquainted with Miss Temple?”
    “Apparently,” said Chang.
    “Yes, apparently.” Bascombe nodded. “She is—well—she is herself. I have no cause to speak of her beyond those terms.”
    It seemed to Chang that Bascombe was choosing his words very carefully, almost as if he were afraid of being caught out somehow…or being overheard.
    “What terms exactly?” asked Chang.
    “The terms she has set down by her own choices,” answered Bascombe. “As you have done.”
    “And you?”
    “Of course—no one is immune to the consequences of their own actions. Are you sure you will not sit?”
    Chang ignored the question. He stared intently at the slim, well-dressed man at the table, trying to discern where in all the competing spheres of his enemies he might fit in. He could not help seeing Bascombe as he thought a woman must—his respectability, his refinement, his odd assumption of both rank and deference—and not any woman, but Miss Temple in particular. This man had been the object of her love—almost certainly was still, women being what they were. Looking at him, Chang had to admit that Bascombe possessed any number of attractive qualities, and was thus equally quite certain that he disliked the young man intensely, and so he smiled.
    “Ambition…it does strange things to a fellow, would you not agree?”
    Bascombe’s gaze measured him with all the dry, serious purpose of an undertaker. “How so?”
    “I mean to say…it often seems that until a man is given what he assumes he wants…he has no real idea of the cost.”
    “And why would you say that?”
    “Why would I indeed?” Chang smiled. “Such an opinion would have to be derived from actual achievement. So how
could
I possibly know?” When Bascombe did not immediately respond, Chang gestured with his stick to the large desk. “Where are your confederates? Where is Mr. Crabbé? Why are you meeting me alone—don’t you know who I am? Haven’t you spoken to poor Major Blach? Aren’t you just the slightest bit worried?”
    “I am not,” replied Bascombe, with an easy self-assurance that made Chang want to bloody his nose. “You have been
allowed
into this office for the specific purpose of being presented with a proposition. As I assume you are no idiot, as I assure you
I
am no idiot, I am in no danger until that proposition has been made.”
    “And what proposition is that?”

    But instead of answering, Bascombe stared at him, running his gaze over Chang’s person and costume, very much as if he were an odd kind of livestock or someone from a circus. Chang had the presence of mind to realize that the gesture was deliberate and designed to anger—though he did not understand why Bascombe would take the risk, being so obviously vulnerable. The entire situation was strange—for all that Bascombe spoke of plans and propositions, Chang knew his appearance at the Ministry must be a surprise. Bascombe was delaying him at personal risk so something else could happen—the arrival of reinforcements? But
that
made no sense, for the soldiers could have stopped him at any time on the way up. Instead, what they had accomplished was to divert Chang from the entrance. Was this all a performance—was Bascombe somehow demonstrating his loyalty, or was it possible that Bascombe played a double game? Or was the delay not to bring anyone
to
the room, but to get someone away
from
it?
    In a swift movement Chang raised his stick and strode to Bascombe. Before the man could half-rise from his chair the end landed viciously against his ear. Bascombe slumped down with a cry, holding the side of his head. Chang took the opportunity to press the stick roughly across his neck. Bascombe choked, his face abruptly reddening. Chang leaned forward and spoke slowly.
    “Where is she?”
    Bascombe did not immediately answer. Chang shoved the stick sharply into his windpipe.
    “Where is she?”
    “Who?” Bascombe’s voice was a rasp.
    “Where is she?”
    “I don’t think he knows who you mean.”
    Chang whirled around and with a smooth motion pulled apart his stick. Behind the desk, leaning indolently against the bookcases, stood Francis Xonck, in a mustard yellow