The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

step—Svenson saw the man in the middle take hold of her jaw and bend her head so she must face him. Her eyes were screwed shut and her wig dislodged, revealing the poignantly thin, lank, dull hair beneath. The man was tall, with iron grey hair worn down to his collar—and Svenson saw with alarm the medals on the chest of his tailcoat and the scarlet sash that crossed his shoulder, signs of the highest levels of nobility. If he were a native he felt sure he would have known the man…could he be
Royal
? To his left were the two men from the tavern. To his right was Harald Crabbé, who—pricked by some presentiment—looked up, eyes widening, at Svenson’s grim-faced approach.
    “Get away from her,” Svenson called coldly. No one moved.
    “It is Doctor Svenson,” said Crabbé, for the benefit of his superior.
    Svenson saw that the Royal’s other gloved hand held a lozenge of blue glass above the struggling woman’s mouth. At Svenson’s call she had opened her eyes. She saw the lozenge and her throat gurgled in protest.
    “Like this?” the man idly asked Crabbé, taking the lozenge between two fingers.
    “Indeed, Highness,” replied the Deputy Minister, with all deference, his widening eyes on Svenson’s approach.
    “Get away from her!” Svenson cried again. He was perhaps ten feet away and approaching fast.
    “Doctor Svenson is the Macklenburg
rebel
…,” intoned Crabbé.
    The man shrugged with indifference and stuffed the glass into her mouth, snapping the woman’s jaw between his two hands, holding it tight, her voice rising to a muted scream as the effects within intensified. He met Svenson’s hot gaze with disdain and did not move. Svenson raised the candlestick—for the first time the others saw it—fully intending to dash the fellow’s brains out, no matter who he was, never breaking stride.
    “Phelps!” Crabbé snapped, a sudden, desperate imperative in his voice. The shorter of the two men—with the Empire hairstyle—rushed forward, a hand out toward Svenson in reasonable supplication, but the Doctor was already swinging and the candlestick caught the man across the forearm, snapping both bones. He screamed and dropped to the side with the momentum of the blow. Svenson kept coming and now Crabbé was between him and the Royal—who still had not moved.
    “Starck! Stop it! Stop him!
Starck!
” Crabbé barked, backing up, exerting his full authority. Over his shoulder dove the other man from the tavern—Mr. Starck—reaching for Svenson with both hands. Svenson met him with his own outstretched left arm. For a moment they grappled at such arm’s length, which left Svenson’s other hand, with the candlestick, free to swing. The blow caught Starck squarely on the ear with a sickening, pumpkin-thwacking thud, dropping him like a stone. Crabbé stumbled into the Royal personage, who was finally taking note of the mayhem around him. He had released the woman’s jaw—the bubbles at her mouth a foaming mix of blue and pink. Svenson prepared to strike over the shorter diplomat’s head directly at the offending aristocrat—Prince, Duke, whoever—and realized, somewhere in the periphery of his mind, that he was acting just like Chang. He was astonished at how
good
it felt, and how much
better
it would feel as soon as he’d broken the face of this monster into pulp…but it was just then that the ceiling of the room—he did not know, as he fell, what else could have been so heavy—collapsed without warning on the back of Doctor Svenson’s head.

    He opened his eyes with the distinct memory of having been in this exact lamentable situation before, only this time he was not in a moving horse-cart. The back of his head throbbed mercilessly and the muscles of his neck and right shoulder felt as if they’d been set aflame. His right arm was numb. Svenson looked over to see it shackled above his head to a wooden post. He was sitting in the dirt, leaning against the side of a wooden staircase. He squinted his eyes, trying to focus through the pain in his head. The staircase wound back and forth many times above him, climbing close to a hundred feet. Finally the truth dawned on his dimmed intelligence. He was in the quarry.
    He struggled to his feet, desperately craving a cigarette despite the bitter dryness of his throat. Doctor Svenson squinted and shaded his eyes against the glaring torchlight and the quite oppressive heat. He had awoken into a very hive of activity. He fished for