The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

possibly reached Harschmort from Tarr Manor? Chang crab-walked another few steps, face close against the iron. There
was
a descending trail of blood, but the trail was smeared…not made by a wounded man walking, but a wounded—or dead—man dragged.
    Chang threw the coat aside—if the Doctor had dropped it, he hardly needed to carry it himself—and clattered down as quickly as he could. He knew the distance was roughly what he’d previously climbed—two hundred steps, perhaps? What in the world would he find at the base? Svenson’s corpse? What was d’Orkancz possibly doing? And why were there no guards?
    Chang’s foot slipped on a splash of blood and he clutched at the rail. It would be all too simple for one mistake to land him at the bottom with a broken neck. He forced himself to concentrate—the voices still soared in song, though he had descended past the tiers of viewing cells and the chorus was above him. But when had Svenson arrived? It had to be with Aspiche! Could the Doctor be the cause of Smythe’s disturbance? Chang smiled to think of it, even as he winced at the likely retribution the Colonel would have delivered to anyone crossing his path. He did not relish the image of the Doctor standing alone against these men—he was no soldier, nor was he an unflinching killer. That was Chang’s place—and he knew he must reach Svenson’s side.
    And if Svenson
was
dead? Then perhaps Chang’s place was to die with him…and with Miss Temple.

    He raced down another thirty steps and stopped at a small landing. His lungs were laced with stabbing pains and he knew it was better not to reach the bottom in a state of collapse. One of the viewing slots was near him on the wall and he pulled it aside, grinning with sinister appreciation. The slot was covered with a plate of smoked glass. From the inside, he could see through it, but to any prisoner the glass would mask whether the metal slat had been opened at all. Chang pulled off his spectacles and pressed his face to the glass at the very moment the singing stopped.
    Above and opposite him were the viewing cells, full of finely dressed people, all masked, faces pressed to the bars, for all the world like inmates in an asylum. He shifted his gaze down, but could not see the tables. He was still too high.
    As he stepped away a voice echoed up from below—unnatural, strangely amplified, deepened, and unquestionably mighty. He did not recognize it immediately…he’d only heard the man speaking a very few words, and those in a rasping whisper to Harald Crabbé, an enormous fur-clad arm enfolding Angelique. But Chang knew…it was the Comte d’Orkancz. Damning his lungs, he began to run, recklessly, his feet flying two and even three steps at a time, hand on the rail with his stick, the other hand holding the wrapped book safely free of collision, his soiled coat flapping behind him, its heavy pockets knocking against his legs. All around him the chamber rang with the Comte’s inhuman voice.
    “You are here because you believe…in yourselves…in giving yourselves over to a different dream…of the future…of possibility…transformation…revelation…redemption. Perhaps there are those among you who will be deemed worthy…truly worthy and truly willing to sacrifice their illusions…sacrifice the entirety of their world…
which is a world of illusion
…for this final degree of wisdom. Beyond redemption is
designation
…as Mary was made apart from every other woman…as Sarah was made pregnant after a barren lifetime…as Leda was implanted with twin seeds of beauty and destruction…so these vessels before you all have been chosen…
designated
to a higher destiny…a transformation you will witness. You will feel the higher energies…you will taste this greatness…this ethereal ambrosia…before known only to those creatures who were named gods by shepherds…and by the children we all once were…”

    Chang toppled off balance into the rail and was forced to stop, clutching with both hands to prevent a fall. He spat against the wall and groped, gasping, for the viewing slat, ripping off his glasses to look. Below him he saw it all, like an iron cathedral from hell laid out for an infernal mass. At the base of the tower was a raised platform—seemingly suspended on a raft of the silver tubing—holding three large surgical tables, each surrounded by racks and trays and brass boxes of machinery. The tables each bore a woman, held with