The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

felt within him a sharpening rage. The death of Starck weighed heavily, but he took the words of the simpleton Aspiche (why must such men always reduce the complexity of the world to single-syllable thinking—an empire of grunts?) as a reminder of who his enemies truly were. He was not Chang—he could not feel good about killing, nor kill well enough to preserve his life—but he was Abelard Svenson. He knew what these villains were doing, and which of them were truly doing it: above him on the platform balcony, Harald Crabbé and the Duke of Stäelmaere. If he could kill them, then Lorenz and Aspiche and Miss Poole did not matter—whatever mischief they made in the world would be limited to the reach of their own two arms and would land them in the same undoubted discontent they knew before their glorious redemption in the Process. The Process depended on the organization of the Cabal—on these two, on d’Orkancz, Lacquer-Sforza, and Xonck. And Robert Vandaariff…he must be the leader. Doctor Svenson suddenly knew that even if he did escape he would not be meeting Chang or Miss Temple at Stropping Station. Either they were dead, or they would be at Harschmort.
    But what could he hope to do? Aspiche was tall, strong, armed, and vicious—perhaps even a match for Chang. Doctor Svenson was unarmed and spent. He looked back to the kiln. Lorenz walked toward them, shucking his gauntlets as he came. Above, Crabbé and the Duke chatted quietly—or Crabbé was chatting and the Duke nodding at what he heard, his face glacially impassive. Svenson counted fifteen wooden steps to their platform. If he could make a dash for it, reach them ahead of Aspiche—Crabbé would again throw himself in front of the Duke…Svenson thought of his pockets—was there any kind of weapon? He scoffed—a pencil stub, a cigarette case, the glass card…the card, perhaps if he could snap it in his hands as he ran, and use the jagged edge, one sharp cut into Crabbé’s throat, and then to take the Duke hostage—to drag him up the steps, somehow—would he have his coach above?—making it back to the train, or all the way to the city. Lorenz was nearing them. It was the perfect distraction. He casually slipped a hand into his pocket and groped for the card. He shifted his feet, ready to run.
    “Colonel Aspiche,” called Doctor Lorenz, “we are nearly—”
    Aspiche swung his forearm savagely across the back of Svenson’s head, knocking him to his knees, his skull near to bursting with pain, his stomach heaving, tasting the vomit in his throat, blinking tears from his eyes. Somewhere behind him—it seemed miles away—he could hear Lorenz’s thin laughter and then the dark hiss of Aspiche at his ear.
    “Don’t even
think
of it.”
    Svenson knew he would probably die, but he also knew that if he did not get off his knees he would lose whatever infinitesimal chance he had. He spat and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, noticing with vague surprise that his hand held the blue card still. With a terrible effort he braced his other arm on the grimy clay and raised one knee. He pushed off, wobbled, and then felt Aspiche take hold of his greatcoat collar and yank him up to his feet. He let go and Svenson staggered, nearly falling again. Again he heard Lorenz laugh, and then Crabbé call out from above.
    “Doctor Svenson! Any new thoughts about the location of your comrades?”
    “I am told they are dead,” he called back, his voice hoarse and weak.
    “Perhaps they are,” responded Crabbé. “Perhaps we have taken enough of your time.”
    Behind him he heard the metal swish of Colonel Aspiche drawing his saber. He must turn and face him. He must snap the card and drive the sharp edge into his neck, or his eyes, or…he could not turn. He could only look up at Crabbé’s satisfied face, leaning over the railing. Svenson pointed to the quarry walls and called up to the Deputy Minister.
    “Macklenburg.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Macklenburg. This quarry. I understand the connection, your indigo clay. This can only be a small deposit. The Macklenburg mountains must be full of it. If you control its Duke, there is no end to your power…is that your plan?”
    “
Plan,
Doctor Svenson? I’m afraid that is already the
case
. The
plan
is what to do with the power we’ve managed to achieve. With the help of wise men like the Duke here—”
    Svenson spat. Crabbé stopped mid-sentence.
    “Such
vulgarity
—”
    “You’ve insulted my