The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

that very minute.

    As he ran his lungs met each breath with a crest of small sharp pains. Chang spat—more blood this time—and again cursed his stupidity for not killing the Contessa outright when he had the chance. He drove himself forward—looking for a staircase, some way up to the main level, it had to be near—and saw it at the same time as he heard the sound of steps descending straight toward him. He could not get away quickly enough. He pulled apart his stick and waited, breathing deeply, lips flecked with red.
    He did not really know who he expected to see, but it was definitely not Captain Smythe. The officer saw Chang and stopped dead on the stairs. He glanced once above him and then stepped quickly forward.
    “Good Lord,” he whispered.
    “What’s happening?” hissed Chang. “Something’s happening upstairs—”
    “They think you are dead—
I
thought you were dead—but no one could find a body. I took it upon myself to make sure.”
    Smythe drew his saber and strode forward from the stairs, the blade floating easily in his hand.
    Chang called to him. “Captain—the great chamber—”
    “I trusted you like a fool and you’ve killed my man,” Smythe snarled, “the very man who saved your treacherous life!”
    He lunged forward and Chang leapt away, stumbling into the corridor wall. The Captain slashed at his head—Chang just ducking down and rolling free. The blade bit into the plaster with a pale puff of dust.
    Smythe readied his blade for another lunge. In answer—there was no way he could possibly fight him with any hope of survival—Chang stood tall and stepped into the center of the corridor, snapping his arms open wide, cruciform, in open invitation for Smythe to run him through. He hissed at Smythe with fury and frustration.
    “If you think that is so—do what you will! But I tell you I did not kill Reeves!”
    Smythe paused, the tip of his blade a pace or so from Chang’s chest, but within easy range.
    “Ask your own damned men! They were there!” snapped Chang. “He was shot with a carbine—he was shot by—by—what’s his name—the overseer—
Blenheim
—the chamberlain! Don’t be a bloody idiot!”
    Captain Smythe was silent. Chang watched him closely. They were close enough that he might conceivably deflect the saber with his stick and get to the Captain with the dagger. If the man persisted in being stupid, there was nothing else for it.
    “That was not what I was told…” said Smythe, speaking very slowly. “You used him as a shield.”
    “And who told you that? Blenheim?”
    The Captain was silent, still glaring. Chang scoffed.
    “We were speaking—Reeves and I. Blenheim saw us. Did you even look at the body? Reeves was shot in the
back
.”
    The words landed like a blow, and Chang could see Smythe thinking, restraining his anger by force of will, his thoughts at odds. After another moment the Captain lowered his sword.
    “I will go examine the body myself.” He looked back at the stairs and then again to Chang, his expression changing, as if he were seeing him freshly without the intervening veil of rage.
    “You’re injured,” said Smythe, fishing out a handkerchief and tossing it to Chang. Chang snatched it from the air and wiped his mouth and face, seeing the dire nature of his wounds reflected in the officer’s concern. Once again the notion that he was truly dying pressed at his resolve to keep on—what was the point, what had ever been the point? He looked at Smythe, a good man, no doubt, bitter himself, but bolstered by his uniform, his admiring men—who knew, a wife and children. Chang wanted to suddenly snarl that he desired none of those things, loathed the very idea of such a prison, loathed the kindness of Smythe himself. Just as he loathed himself for loving Angelique or having come to care for Celeste? He looked quickly away from the Captain’s troubled gaze and saw everywhere around him the luxurious, mocking fittings of Harschmort. He was going to die at Harschmort.
    “I am, but nothing can be done. I am sorry about Reeves—but you must listen. A woman has been taken—the woman I spoke of, Celeste Temple. They are about to
do
something to her—an infernal ceremony, I have seen it—it is beyond deadly—I assure you she would rather die.”
    Smythe nodded, but Chang could see that the man was still goggling at his appearance.
    “I look worse than I am—I have come through the pipes—the smell cannot be helped,” he