The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

country,” called Svenson. “You’ve insulted this one. You’re going to pay, each arrogant one of you—”
    Crabbé looked past Svenson’s shoulder to Colonel Aspiche. “Kill him.”

    The shot took him by surprise, as he was expecting a blow from a saber—and it took him another moment to realize that it wasn’t he who had been hit by the bullet. He heard the scream—again, wondering that it wasn’t coming from his own mouth—and then saw the Duke of Stäelmaere reel into the railing, clutching his right shoulder, quite cleanly punctured, blood pouring through his long white fingers clutching the wound. Crabbé wheeled, his mouth working, as the Duke dropped to his knees, his head slipping through the rails. Above and behind them, both hands tightly gripping the smoking service revolver, stood Elöise.
    “God be damned, Madame!” shouted Crabbé. “Do you know who you have shot? It is a capital offense! It is treason!” She fired again, and this time Svenson saw the shot blow out through the Duke’s chest, a thick quick fountain of blood. Stäelmaere’s mouth opened with surprise at the impact, at the shocking scope of his agony, and he collapsed to the planking.
    Svenson whirled, drawing new energy from his rescue, and—recalling something he’d once seen in a wharf-side bar—stomped on Colonel Aspiche’s boot in the same moment he shoved the man straight back sharply with both hands. As the Colonel fell back, Svenson’s weight fixed his foot to the ground so that he was both unable to rebalance himself and to prevent his own weight from being thrown against his pinned ankle. Svenson heard the cracking bones as the Colonel landed with a cry of rage and pain. He leapt away—Aspiche, even so down, was swinging the saber, face reddened, tears at the corners of his eyes—and dashed to the stairs. Elöise fired again—apparently missing Crabbé, who had retreated into the corner of the landing, arms over his face, hunched away from the gun. Svenson charged and struck him in his exposed stomach. Crabbé doubled forward with a grunt, his hands clutching his belly. Svenson swung again at the Deputy Minister’s now-exposed face, and the man went down in a heap. Svenson gasped—he had no idea how such a blow would hurt his hand—and staggered toward his rescuer.
    “Bless you, my dear,” he breathed, “for you have saved my life. Let us climb—”
    “They are coming!” she said, her voice rising with fear. He looked back down to see Lorenz’s assistants and the gang of men from the benches all running. Lorenz had helped Aspiche to his feet and the limping, hopping Colonel was waving his saber and bawling orders.
    “Kill them! Kill them! They have murdered the Duke!”
    “The Duke?” whispered Elöise.
    “You did right,” Svenson assured her. “If I may, for there are many of them—”
    He reached for the pistol and took it, pulling back the hammer, and jumped down to the cowering Crabbé. The men charged up the stairs as Svenson took the Minister by his collar and raised him to his knees, grinding the gun barrel against Crabbé’s ear. They surged to the very edge of the platform, eyeing Svenson and Elöise with hatred. Svenson looked over the rail to the quarry floor to where Lorenz stood supporting Aspiche. He shouted down to them.
    “I will kill him! You know I will do it! Call your fellows off!”
    He looked back to the crowd and saw it part to allow Miss Poole to pass through. She stepped onto the platform, smiling icily.
    “Are you quite all right, Minister?” she asked.
    “I am alive,” muttered Crabbé. “Has Doctor Lorenz finished his work?”
    “He has.”
    “And your charges?”
    “As you can see, quite well—enthusiastic to protect you and avenge the Duke.”
    Crabbé sighed. “Perhaps it is best this way, perhaps it can be better worked. You will need to prepare his body.”
    Miss Poole nodded, and then looked up beyond Svenson to Elöise. “It seems we have underestimated you, Mrs. Dujong!”
    “You left me to die!” shouted Elöise.
    “Of course she did,” called Crabbé, rubbing his jaw. “You failed your test—it seemed as if you
would
die, like the others. It cannot be helped—you are wrong to place blame with Elspeth. Besides, look at you now—so bold!”
    “Do you think we were hasty with our decision, Minister?” asked Miss Poole.
    “Indeed I do. Perhaps Mrs. Dujong will be joining our efforts after all.”
    “Join you?” cried Elöise.