The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

perhaps eight of them still lit. How much time had passed? He had no idea. He could barely think. He rolled over to be sick and found that he had already done so, perhaps many times. The discharge was blue and—even to him—stinking. He rolled in the other direction. He felt as if someone had cut off his head and packed it in ice and straw.
    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