The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

unwanted complication—to see Doctor Svenson, spear tucked under his arm, holding the doorknob fast by force.
    “They are below us,” he whispered.

    “Who have we here?” called Doctor Lorenz, in a mocking tone. “Such a persistent strain of vermin. Captain—if you wouldn’t mind?”
    “Captain Smythe!” shouted Miss Temple. “You know who we are! You know what’s been done tonight—you heard them speaking! Your city—your Queen!”
    Smythe had not moved, still next to Lorenz on the gangway.
    “What are you waiting for?” snapped Lorenz, and he turned to the Dragoons on the rooftop—a band of perhaps a dozen men. “Kill these criminals at once!”
    “Captain Smythe,” cried Miss Temple, “you have helped us before!”
    “What?”
Lorenz rounded on Smythe and the Captain, without hesitation, shot out his arm and shoved Doctor Lorenz cleanly off the gangplank to fall with a grinding thud on the graveled rooftop, some ten feet below.
    At once Chang whipped back the blades and pulled Miss Temple free. The Dragoons leapt the other way and drew their sabers, facing Chang but glancing at their officer, unsure of what to do. Smythe descended the rest of the way, one hand on his saber hilt.
    “I suppose this had to happen,” he said.
    Doctor Svenson grunted aloud as the door was pulled, testing his grip. He held it closed, but looked anxiously at Chang, who turned to Smythe. Smythe glanced at the top of the ramp, where two confused Macklenburg troopers stood watching. Satisfied they were not going to attack, Smythe called sharply to his men.
    “Arms!”
    As one the rest of the 4th Dragoons drew their sabers, Svenson let go of the door and leapt to join Miss Temple and Chang.
    The door shot open to reveal Francis Xonck, a dagger in his hand. He stepped onto the rooftop, took in the drawn blades and the unguarded status of his enemies.
    “Why, Captain Smythe,” he drawled, “is something the matter?”

    Smythe stepped forward, still not drawing his own blade.
    “Who else is with you?” he called. “Bring them out now.”
    “I would be delighted.” Xonck smiled.
    He stepped aside to usher through the other members of the Cabal—the Contessa, the Comte, and Crabbé—and after them the Prince, Roger Bascombe (notebooks tucked under his arm), and then, helping the unsteady Lydia Vandaariff, Caroline Stearne. After Caroline came the six functionaries in black, the first four manhandling a heavy trunk, the last two dragging Elöise Dujong between them. Miss Temple breathed a sigh of relief—for she was sure the shot they heard had meant the woman’s death. As this crowd spread from the door the Dragoons withdrew, maintaining a strict cushion of space between the two groups. Xonck glanced toward Miss Temple and then stepped out into this borderland to address Smythe.
    “Not to repeat myself…but is something
wrong
?”
    “This can’t go on,” said Smythe. He nodded to Elöise and Lydia Vandaariff. “Release those women.”
    “I beg your pardon?” said Xonck, grinning as if he could not quite believe what he heard, yet found the possibility deeply amusing.
    “Release those
women
.”
    “Well,” Xonck said, smiling at Lydia, “
that
woman does not wish to be released—for she would fall down. She’s feeling poorly, you see. Excuse me—have you spoken to your Colonel?”
    “Colonel Aspiche is a traitor,” announced Smythe.
    “To my eyes, the traitor here is
you
.”
    “Your eyes are flawed. You are a villain.”
    “A villain who knows all about your family’s debts, Captain,” sneered Xonck, “all secured against a salary you may not live to collect—the price of disloyalty, you know, or is it idiocy?”
    “If you want to die, Mr. Xonck, say one more word.”
    Smythe drew his saber and stepped toward Xonck, who retreated, his fixed smile now radiating malice.
    Miss Temple groped for her dagger but did not pull it out—the air felt heavy and thick. Surely the Cabal would retreat in the face of Smythe and his men—how could they hope to withstand professional troops? It was clear that Captain Smythe was of the same opinion, for rather than pursuing Xonck, he pointed generally at the crowd around the doorway with his saber.
    “Throw down your weapons and return to the house. We will settle this inside.”
    “That will not happen,” answered Xonck.
    “I am not looking for bloodshed, but I am not afraid of it,” called Smythe, pitching his voice to the others around