The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

hungry he was and began to steadily devour everything the man had given him. Reeves refilled his mug and sat back with one of his own.
    “I am much obliged to you,” said Chang.
    “Not at all.” Reeves smiled. “You looked like death, if you don’t mind me saying. Now you just look like hell.” He laughed.
    Chang smiled and drank more tea. He could feel the rawness of his throat and the roof of his mouth, where the powder had burned him. Each breath came with a twinge of pain, as if he’d broken his ribs. He could only speculate about the true state of his lungs.
    “So you said they all left?” asked Reeves.
    Chang nodded. “There was an accident with a lantern. One of the other men, Francis Xonck—do you know him?” Reeves shook his head. “He spilled oil on his arm and it caught fire. Mr. Bascombe went with him for a surgeon. I was left, and unaccountably became ill. I thought he might return, but find I have been asleep, with no idea of the time.”
    “Near nine o’clock,” said Reeves. He eyed the door a bit nervously. “I need to finish rounds—”
    Chang put out his hand. “Do not let me disturb you. I will leave—just point me the way. The last thing I would want is to be more of a bother—”
    “No bother to help a friend of Mr. Bascombe.” Reeves smiled. They stood, and Chang awkwardly put his mug and plate on the sideboard.
    He looked up to see a man in the doorway, a polished brass helmet under his arm and a saber at his side. Reeves snapped to attention. The man stepped in. The rank of captain was in gold on the collar and the epaulettes of his red uniform.
    “Reeves…,” he said, keeping his gaze on Chang.
    “Mr. Chang, Sir. An associate of Mr. Bascombe’s.”
    The Captain did not reply.
    “He was inside, Sir. When I was on my rounds, I heard him knocking on the door—”
    “Which door?”
    “Door five, Sir, Mr. Bascombe’s area. Mr. Chang’s been sick—”
    “Yes. All right, off with you. You’re overdue to relieve Hicks.”
    “Sir!”
    The Captain stepped fully into the room and motioned for Chang to sit. Behind them, Reeves snatched up his helmet and dashed from the room, pausing at the door to nod to Chang behind the Captain’s back. His hurried steps clattered down the hallway, and then down the stairs. The Captain filled a mug with tea and sat. Only then did Chang sit with him.
    “‘Chang’, you say?”
    Chang nodded. “It’s what I am called.”
    “Smythe, Captain, 4th Dragoons. Reeves says you were unwell?”
    “I was. He was most kind.”
    “Here.” Smythe had reached into his coat and removed a small flask. He unscrewed the cap and handed it to Chang. “Plum brandy,” he said, smiling. “I have a sweet tooth.”
    Chang took a sip, feeling reckless and very much wanting a drink. He felt a sharp spasm of pain in his throat, but the brandy seemed to burn through the blue dust’s residue. He returned the flask.
    “I am obliged.”
    “You’re one of Bascombe’s men?” asked the Captain.
    “I would not go so far. I was calling upon him at his request. Another man of the party had an accident involving lantern oil—”
    “Yes, Francis Xonck.” Captain Smythe nodded. “I hear he was quite badly burned.”
    “It does not surprise me. As I told your man, I became ill waiting for their return. I must have slept, perhaps there was fever…it was some hours ago—and I woke to find myself alone. I expected Bascombe to return. Our business was hardly finished.”
    “Undoubtedly the trials of Mr. Xonck demanded his attention.”
    “Undoubtedly,” said Chang. “He is an…important figure.”
    He took the liberty of pouring more tea for himself. Smythe did not seem to notice. Instead, he stood and crossed to the door, pulled it shut, and turned the key. He smiled somewhat ruefully at Chang.
    “One can never be too careful in a government building.”

    “The 4th Dragoons are newly posted to the Foreign Ministry,” observed Chang. “I believe it was in the newspaper. Or was it to the Palace?”
    Smythe drifted back to his chair and studied Chang for a moment before answering. He took a sip of tea and leaned back, cradling the mug in both hands. “I believe you are acquainted with our Colonel.”
    “Why would you say that?”
    Smythe was silent. Chang sighed—there was always a cost to idiocy.
    “You saw me yesterday morning,” he said. “At the dockside, with Aspiche.”
    Smythe nodded.
    “It was a stupid place to meet.”
    “Will