The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

Crabbé, and their Macklenburg contact—of
course,
Svenson rolled his eyes—the Duke’s dyspeptic younger brother, Konrad, Bishop of Warnemünde.
    With these agents in motion and his money behind them, Vandaariff’s plans moved ahead seamlessly, using the Institute to locate the deposits, Crabbé to negotiate for the land with Konrad, who acted as an agent for the cash-poor aristocratic property holders. But in a twist he saw there was more to it, for instead of gold, Konrad was selling the land in exchange for contraband munitions supplied by Francis Xonck. The Duke’s brother was amassing an arsenal—to assert control of Karl-Horst upon his inheritance. Svenson smiled at the irony. Unbeknownst to Konrad the Cabal had used him, enabling him to essentially import a secret army that, once
they
ruled by proxy through the Prince’s soon-to-arrive infant son (and necessarily managed Konrad’s death), they could use themselves to defend their investment—whereas bringing in foreign troops would have provoked an uprising. It was exactly the sort of stratagem that made Vandaariff’s reputation. And moving between them all were the Comte and the Contessa. For Svenson could see what Vandaariff had not, that as much as the financier imagined himself the architect of this scheme, in fact he was merely its engine. The Doctor had no doubt the Contessa and the Comte had set it all in motion from the start, manipulating the great man. The exact point where they joined forces with the others—whether they had been in league before or after Vandaariff had recruited them—was unclear, but he sensed immediately why they had all agreed to turn on their benefactor. Vandaariff uncontrolled could dictate the profit to them all…with him in thrall, the whole of his wealth lay at their disposal.
    There was much Svenson didn’t understand—still no mention of Veilandt, for one, and how exactly had the Cabal managed to overcome Vandaariff, who was fully his powerful self the night of the engagement party? Could that have been why Trapping had been killed—that he had threatened to tell Vandaariff what was in store for him? But then why did at least some of the Cabal seem ignorant of Trapping’s killer? Or did Trapping threaten to tell Vandaariff about the Comte’s plans for Lydia, if Lord Robert had not known already? But no, what did Vandaariff’s feelings matter if the man was going to be made their slave in any case? Or had Trapping discovered something else—something that implicated one member of the Cabal against the others? But which one—and what was their secret?
    Svenson’s head was already swimming with too many names and dates and places and figures. He returned to the pages of tightly scrawled text. So much had happened within Macklenburg itself that he’d never even glimpsed. The roots of the conspiracy had worked their way deeper and deeper, amassing property and influence and, he shook his head to read it, doing whatever they needed to acquire more. There were fires, blackmail, threats, even murder…even…how long had this been going on? It seemed like
years
…he read of experiments—“usefully serving both scientific and practical purposes”—where disease had been introduced into districts where the tenants would not sell.
    Doctor Svenson’s blood went cold. Before him were the words “blood fever.” Corinna…could it be that these people had killed her…killed
hundreds
…infected his cousin…in order to drive down the price of
land
?

    He heard steps outside his door. Quickly and quietly he stuffed the pages back into the satchel and blew out the light. He listened…more steps…was that speaking? Music? If only he knew where exactly he was in the house! He scoffed—if only he had a loaded weapon, if only his body was not a painful wreck—he might as well wish for wings! Doctor Svenson covered his eyes with his palm. His hand trembled…his own immediate danger…the need to find the others…the Prince—but it was all thrown to pieces with the idea—no, the
truth,
he had no doubt at all—that this same business, these same people, had—casually, offhandedly, uncaringly—murdered his Corinna. It was as if he could no longer feel his own body, but was somehow suspended above it, commanding his limbs but not inhabiting them. All this time spent wrestling and railing against cruel destiny and a heartless world—and now to find these forces embodied not in the dispassionate course of