The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

back into cover when guests or servants happened by. With a scoff Chang thought of how nearly everyone in the pyramid of Harschmort’s inhabitants was some sort of servant—by occupation, by marriage, by money, by fear, by desire. He thought of Svenson’s servitude to duty—duty to
what
, Chang could not understand—and his own doomed notions of obligation and, even if he disdained the word, honor. Now he wanted to spit on them all, just as he was spitting blood on these white marble floors. And what of Celeste—had she been a servant to Bascombe? Her family? Her wealth? Chang realized he did not know. For a moment he saw her, wrestling to reload his pistol at the Boniface … a remarkable little beast. He wondered if she had shot someone after all.
    * * *
    The guests, he saw, were once again masked and in formal dress, and their snatches of conversation all carried a buzzing current of anticipation and mystery.
    “Do you know—it is said they will be married—tonight!”
    “The man in the cape—with the red lining—it is Lord Carfax, back from the Baltic!”
    “Did you notice the servants with the iron-bound chests?”
    “They will give us a signal to come forward—I had it myself from Elspeth Poole!”
    “I’m sure of it—a shocking vigor—”
    “Such dreams—and afterwards such peace of mind—”
    “They will come like trusting puppies—”
    “Did you see it? In the air? Such a machine!”
    “Fades in a matter of days—I have it on the highest authority—”
    “I have heard it from one who has been before—a particular
disclosure—
”
    “No one has seen him—Henry Xonck himself was refused!”
    “I’ve never heard such screaming—nor right after, witnessed such ecstasy—”
    “Such an unsurpassed collection of
quality
!”
    “Spoken in front of everyone, ‘is not history best written with a whip mark?’ The Lady is superb!”
    “No one has spoken to him for days—apparently he will reveal all tonight, his secret plans—”
    “He’s going to speak! The Comte as much as promised it—”
    “And then … the work will be revealed!”
    “Indeed … the work will be revealed!”
    This last was from a pair of thin rakish men in tailcoats and masks of black satin. Chang had penetrated well into the maze of private apartments and presently stood behind a marble pillar upon whichwas balanced an ancient and delicate amphora of malachite and gold. The chuckling men walked past—he was in a middling-sized sitting room—toward a sideboard laid with bottles and glasses. The men poured themselves whiskies and sipped them happily, leaning against the furniture and smiling at one another, for all the world like children waiting for permission to unwrap birthday presents.
    One of them frowned. He wrinkled his nose.
    “What is it?” asked the other.
    “That smell,” said the first.
    “My goodness,” agreed the other, sniffing too. “What could it be?”
    “I’ve no idea.”
    “It’s really quite horrid …”
    Chang shrank as best he could behind the pillar. If they continued toward him he would have no choice but to attack them both. One of them would surely have a chance to scream. He would be found. The first man had taken an exploratory step in his direction. The other hissed at him.
    “Wait!”
    “What?”
    “Do you think they might be
starting
?”
    “I don’t understand—”
    “The smell! Do you think they’re
starting
? The alchemical fires!”
    “O my goodness! Is that what they smell like?”
    “I don’t know—do you?”
    “I don’t know! We could be late!”
    “Hurry—hurry—”
    Each tossed back his whisky and slammed down his glass. They rushed unheedingly past Chang, straightening their masks and smoothing their hair.
    “What will they make us do?” asked one as they opened the door to leave.
    “It does not matter,” the other barked urgently, “you must do it!”
    “I will!”
    “We will be redeemed!” one called with a giddy chuckle as the door closed. “And then
nothing
shall stop us!”
    Chang stepped from his spot. With a shake of his head, he wondered if their reaction would have been any different had he not traveled through the furnace pipes, but merely arrived at a Harschmort drawing room bearing the normal odors of his rooming house.
That
smell they would have recognized, he knew—it had been settled into their social understanding. The hideous smells of Harschmort and the Process carried the possibility of advancement,