The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

completely blue, starred, and broken—as if the hands below them had
shattered.

    The footsteps returned below. Svenson whipped the cloth into place and retreated to the dining room, carefully stilling the swinging door, his mind reeling at what he’d just seen. Within moments he heard the men in the hall and then entering the kitchen.
    “Another glass there, Bascombe,” called Xonck, and then to a third man, “I’m assuming you will join us—or me, at least—Bascombe doesn’t quite share my thirst. Always watching from a distance, aren’t you, Roger?”
    “If you insist,” muttered the new voice. Svenson stopped breathing. It was Major Blach. Svenson slowly slipped his right hand around the butt of the revolver.
    “Excellent.” Xonck extracted the cork from the new bottle with a pop and poured. He drank, and Svenson could hear him emit little noises of pleasure as he did. “It’s very good—isn’t it? Damn—my cigar seems to have gone out.” Svenson saw the light of a match flare. While it burned, Xonck chatted on. “Why don’t we give him a peek—get the cloth, Bascombe. There you go—in all his glory. Well, Major, what do you say?”
    There was no response. After a moment the match went out. Xonck chuckled. “That’s more or less what we said too. I think old Crabbé said ‘bloody hell!’ Except of course it’s not
bloody
at all.” Xonck cackled. “Find relief where you can, that’s what I say.”
    “What has happened to him?” asked Blach.
    “What do you think? He’s dead. He was rather valuable, don’t you know—rather skilled in the technical mechanics. It’s a good thing there’s still Lorenz—if there is still Lorenz—because, Major, I’m not quite certain you understand exactly who’s responsible for this damned outright
catastrophe
. It is
you,
Major. It is
you
because
you
could not locate one disreputable ruffian who was thus free to disrupt our work at its most delicate moment. Just as
you
could not control the members of your own diplomatic mission—I assume you know the man who took back the Prince, waving a pistol in our faces—which would be laughable if it didn’t create problems for everyone
else
to solve!”
    “Mr. Xonck—” began Major Blach.
    “Shut your foul foreign mouth,” snarled Xonck coldly. “I don’t want excuses. I want thoughts. Think about your problems. Then tell us what you’re going to do about them.”
    Except for the clink of Xonck’s glass, there was silence. Svenson was astonished. He’d never heard Blach spoken to in such a way, nor could he have imagined Blach reacting with anything but rage.
    Blach cleared his throat. “To begin—”
    “First, Major,” and it was Bascombe speaking, not Xonck, “there is the man from your compound, the Prince’s Doctor, I believe?”
    “Yes,” hissed Blach. “He is not a factor. I will go back tonight and have him smothered in his bed—blame it on anything—no one will care—”
    “Second,” interrupted Bascombe, “the disruptive man in red.”
    “Chang—he is called Cardinal Chang,” said Blach.
    “He is Chinese?” asked Bascombe.
    “No,” snarled Blach—Svenson could hear Xonck snickering. “He has been—he is called that because of scars—apparently—I have not seen them. He escaped from us. He has killed one of my men and seriously injured two more. He is nothing but a vicious criminal without imagination or understanding. I have men posted across his usual haunts as they have been described to us—he will be taken soon, and—”
    “Brought to me,” said Xonck.
    “As you wish.”
    “Third,” continued Bascombe, “the female spy, Isobel Hastings.”
    “We have not found her. No one has found her.”
    “She must be somewhere, Major,” said Bascombe.
    “She is unknown at the brothels I was directed to—”
    “Then try a hotel!” cried Xonck. “Try the rooming houses!”
    “I do not know the city as you do—”
    “Next!” barked Xonck.
    “And fourth,” continued Bascombe smoothly—Svenson had to admire the man’s coolness of manner, “we must arrange for the return of your Prince.”
    Svenson listened—this would be what he was waiting for—but there was only silence…and then Blach’s sputtering rage.
    “What are you talking about?” he fumed.
    “It is quite simple—there is a great deal of work yet to be done. Before the marriage, before anyone may return to Macklenburg—”
    “No, no—why are you saying this? You have