The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

you tell me the reason for it?”
    “Perhaps…” Chang shrugged. He could sense Captain Smythe’s suspicion and defensiveness, but decided to test him further. “If you tell me something first.”
    Smythe’s mouth tightened. “What is that?”
    Chang smiled. “Were you with Aspiche and Trapping in Africa?”
    Smythe frowned—it was not the question he expected. He nodded.
    “I ask,” Chang went on, “because Colonel Aspiche made much of the moral and professional differences between Trapping and himself. I have no illusions about the character of Colonel Trapping. But—if you will forgive me—the insistence on our meeting place was just one example, in our dealings together, of Aspiche’s thoughtless
arrogance
.”
    Chang wondered if he’d gone too far—one never knew how to read loyalty, especially with an experienced soldier. Smythe studied him closely before speaking.
    “Many officers have purchased their commissions—to serve with men who are not soldiers save by money paid is not unusual.” Chang was aware that Smythe was picking his words with exceptional caution. “The Adjutant-Colonel was not one of those…but…”
    “He is no longer the man he once was?” suggested Chang.
    Smythe studied him for a moment, measuring him with a hard professional acuity that was not entirely comfortable. After a moment he sighed heavily, as if he had come to a decision he did not like but could not for some reason avoid.
    “Are you acquainted with opium eating?” he asked.
    It was all Chang could do not to smile, instead offering a disinterested, knowing nod. Smythe went on.
    “Then you will know the pattern whereby the first taste can corrupt, can drive a man to sacrifice every other part of his life for a narcotic dream. So it is with Noland Aspiche, save the opium is the example of Arthur Trapping’s position and success. I am not his enemy. I have served him with loyalty and respect. Yet his envy for this man’s undeserved advancement is consuming—or has consumed—all that was dutiful and fair in his character.”
    “He
does
now command the regiment.”
    Smythe nodded in brusque agreement. His face hardened. “I’ve said enough. What was your meeting?”
    “I am a man who
does
things,” said Chang. “Adjutant-Colonel Aspiche engaged me to find Arthur Trapping, who had disappeared.”
    “Why?”
    “Not for love, if that’s what you mean. Trapping represented powerful men, and their power—their interest—was why the regiment had been transferred from the colonies to the Palace. Now he was gone. Aspiche wanted to take command, but was worried about the other forces at work.”
    Smythe winced with disgust. Chang was happy with his decision to withhold the whole truth.
    “I see. Did you find him?”
    Chang hesitated, and then shrugged—the Captain seemed plain enough. “I did. He is dead, murdered. I do not know how, or by whom. The body has been sunk in the river.”
    Smythe was taken aback. “But why?” he asked.
    “I truly don’t know.”
    “Is that why you were here—reporting this to Bascombe?”
    “Not…exactly.”
    Smythe stiffened with wariness. Chang raised his hand.
    “Do not be alarmed—or rather, be alarmed, but not by me. I came here to speak to Bascombe—what is your impression of the man?”
    Smythe shrugged. “He is a Ministry official. No fool—and without the superior airs of many here. Why?”
    “No reason—his is a minor role, for my errand truly lay with Xonck, and with the Contessa Lacquer-Sforza, because
they
were in league with Colonel Trapping—Xonck especially—and for reasons I do not understand, one of them—I don’t know which, nor, perhaps, do they—arranged for him to die. You know as well as I that Aspiche is now in their pocket. Your operations today, taking the boxes of machinery from the Royal Institute—”
    “To Harschmort, yes.”
    “Exactly,” said Chang, not missing a beat but elated at what Smythe had revealed. “Robert Vandaariff is part of their plan, likely its architect, along with the Crown Prince of Macklenburg—”
    Smythe held up his hand to stop him. He dug out his flask, unscrewed it with a frown and took a deep drink. He held it to Chang, who did not refuse. The swig of brandy set off another fire in his throat, but in some determined self-punishing way he was sure it was for the better. He returned the flask.
    “All of this…” Smythe spoke almost too low to hear. “So much has felt wrong—and yet,