The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

train of Puritans?
    “Blach—Captain Blach. You will know from my accent that I am not from this land, but indeed, the Duchy of Macklenburg. You may have read of the Macklenburg Crown Prince’s engagement to Miss Lydia Vandaariff—I am attached to Prince Karl-Horst’s party.”
    The man nodded in understanding—the woman did not seem to Svenson to react at all, her face maintaining its friendly cast while her mind seemed to work behind it. What could
that
mean? What might either of them know? Doctor Svenson decided to investigate. He leaned forward conspiratorially and dropped his voice.
    “And what draws me are dire events…dire events in the world—I’m sure I have no need to elaborate. The cities of the world…well, they are realms of living sin. Who indeed shall be redeemed?”
    “Who indeed?” echoed the woman quietly, with a certain deliberate care.
    “I was traveling with a woman,” Svenson went on. “I was prevented—perhaps I should say no more about her—from meeting this lady. I believe she may have been forced to take an earlier train. In the process, I was deprived of my”—he nodded to the book in the woman’s lap—“that is, my
guide
.”
    Was this too thick? Doctor Svenson felt ridiculous, but was met by the man shifting his position to face him fully, leaning forward in earnest concern.
    “Prevented how? And by whom?”
    This type of intrigue—play-acting and lies—was still awkward for Doctor Svenson. Even in his work for Baron von Hoern, he preferred discretion and leverage and tact over any outright dissembling. Yet, faced with the man’s open desire for more information, he had—as a doctor—enough experience with conjuring credible authority when he felt helpless and ignorant (how many doomed men had asked him if they were going to die? To how many had he lied?) to frame his immediate hesitation—trying to think of
something
—as the troubled moment of choice where he
decided
to trust them with his tale. He glanced at the corridor and then leaned forward in his turn, as if to imply that perhaps their compartment alone was safe, and spoke just above a whisper.
    “You must know that several men have died, and perhaps a woman. A league has been organized, working in the shadows, led by a strange man in red, a half-blind Chinaman, deadly with a blade. The Prince was attacked at the Royal Institute, the powerful work there disrupted…the glass…do you know…have you seen…the blue glass?”
    They shook their heads. Svenson’s heart sank. Had he completely misjudged them?
    “You do know of Lord Tarr…that he—”
    The man nodded vigorously. “Has been redeemed, yes.”
    “Exactly.” Svenson nodded, more confident again—but was the man insane? “There will be a new Lord Tarr within days. The nephew. He is a friend of the Prince…a friend to us all—”
    “Who prevented you from meeting your lady?” the woman asked, somewhat insistently. The nagging sense he had seen her persisted…something about the slight tilt of her head when she asked a question.
    “Agents of the Chinaman,” Svenson answered, feeling an idiot even as he said the words. “We were forced to take separate coaches. I pray she is safe. These men have no decency. We were—as you well know—to travel together—as arranged…”
    “To Tarr Village?” asked the man.
    “Exactly.”
    “Could any of these agents have boarded the train?” the woman asked.
    “I do not believe so. I did not see them—I believe I was the last to board.”
    “That is good at least.” She sighed with a certain small relief, but did not relax her shoulders, nor her cautious gaze.
    “How should we know these agents?” asked the man.
    “That is just the thing—they have no uniform, save duplicity and cunning. They have penetrated even to the Prince’s party and turned one of our number to their cause—Doctor Svenson, the Prince’s own physician!”
    The man inhaled through his teeth, a disapproving hiss.
    “I am telling you,” Svenson went on, “but I fear no one else should know—it may be all is fine, and I should hesitate to agitate—or, that is, make public—”
    “Of course not,” she agreed.
    “Not even to…?” the man began.
    “Who?” asked Svenson.
    The man shook his head. “No, you are right. We have been invited—we are guests, after all, guests to a
banquet
.” With this he smiled again, shaking off the Doctor’s tale of dread. His hand went to the book in his pocket