The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

is an idiot, Xonck I’ve already beaten, and Deputy Minister Crabbé is a coward.”
    “How very bold you are,” she replied, unable to prevent the slightest smile. “What of the Comte d’Orkancz?”
    “He works his art, but you determine that art’s path—he is finally your creature. You even weave your plots against your fellows—do any of them know the work assigned to Mr. Gray?”
    “Mr….who?” The Contessa’s smile was suddenly fixed.
    “Oh, come now—why be shy? Mr.
Gray
. From the Institute—he was with you in the Ministry—when Herr Flaüss was given the gift of the Process.” He nodded to the portly Macklenburger who, despite the doubting look on his face, nodded back. Before the Contessa could reply Chang called out again. “Mr. Gray’s work was assigned by you, I assume. Why else would I have found him in the depths of the prison tunnels, tampering with the Comte’s furnaces? I have no idea whether he did what you wanted him to do or not. I killed him before we had a chance to exchange our news.”

    He had to give her credit. The words were not two seconds from his mouth before she turned to Crabbé and Xonck with a deadly serious hiss, barely audible beyond the dais.
    “Did you know about this? Did
you
send Gray on some errand?”
    “Of course not,” whispered Crabbé, “Gray answered to
you
—”
    “Was it the Comte?” she hissed again, even more angrily.
    “Gray answered to
you,
” repeated Xonck, his mind clearly working behind his measured tone.
    “Then why was he in the
tunnels
?” asked the Contessa.
    “I’m sure he was not,” said Xonck. “I’m sure the Cardinal is
lying.
”
    They turned to him. Before she could open her mouth Chang pulled his hand from his coat pocket.
    “I believe this is his key,” Chang called out, and he tossed the heavy metal key to clatter on the floor in front of the dais.

    Of course, the key could have been anyone’s—and he doubted any of them knew Gray’s enough to recognize it—but the palpable artifact had the desired effect of seeming to prove his words. He smiled with a grim pleasure, finally feeling a welcoming coldness enter his heart with this final charade of baiting conversation—for Chang knew there was little more dangerous than a man beyond care, and welcomed the chance to sow what dissension he could in these final, doomed moments. The figures on the dais were silent, as was the crowd—though he was sure the crowd lacked the barest idea of what this might mean, seeing only that its leaders were unpleasantly at a loss.
    “What
was
he doing there—” began Crabbé.
    “Open the doors!”
shouted the Contessa, glaring at Chang but raising her voice so it cut like a razor to the rear of the room. Behind him Chang heard the sound of bolts being drawn. At once the crowd began to whisper, looking back and then shifting away. Someone else was entering the ballroom. Chang glanced at the dais—they all seemed as fixed on the new entry as the crowd—and then back, as the whispering became punctuated by gasps and even cries of alarm.
    The crowd made way at last, clearing the floor between Cardinal Chang and, walking slowly toward him, the Comte d’Orkancz. In his left hand was a black leather leash, attached by a metal clasp to the leather collar around the neck of the woman who walked behind him. Despite everything, the breath clutched in Chang’s throat.
    She was naked, her hair still hanging black in lustrous curls, walking pace by deliberate pace behind d’Orkancz, her eyes roving across the room without seeming to fix on any one thing in particular, as if she were seeing it all for the very first time. She moved slowly, but without modesty, as natural as an animal, each footfall carefully placed, feeling the floor deliberately as she looked at their faces. Her body was gleaming blue, shimmering from its indigo depths, its surface slick as water, pliant but still somehow stiff as she walked, giving Chang the impression that each movement required her conscious thought and preparation. She was beautiful and unearthly—Chang could not look away—the weight of her breasts, the perfect proportion of her ribs and her hips, the luscious sweep of her legs. He saw that, apart from her head, there was now no hair on Angelique’s face or body—the lack of eyebrows somehow opening the expression on her face like a blankly beatific medieval Madonna’s, at the same time her bare sex was both impossibly innocent and