The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

proper escort! We will continue at once. If there is any more nonsense, I will not be responsible for what happens to
any
of you!”
    Chang nodded to her and took another careful step away from the Colonel. He had grown so accustomed to Mrs. Stearne’s calm manner that her genuine authority had surprised him. It was as if she had somehow
invoked
it from within, like something learned, like a soldier’s automatic response from training—only this was emotion, a force of character that allowed a woman who knew nothing of command to assert control over twenty hardened soldiers—and in the direct place of their officer. Once more, the true impact of the Process left Chang amazed and unsettled.
    They continued in silence, turning into another back corridor, skirting the kitchens. Chang looked through every open door or archway they passed, searching for any sign of Svenson or Miss Temple, or any hope of escape. The momentary pleasure at baiting Aspiche had gone, and his mind was once more plagued with doubt. If he could smash the book in the direction of one line of soldiers and then dash through the gap it created, he knew he had a chance—but it was useless if he didn’t know where he was going. A blind rush was likely to lead straight into another band of soldiers or a malevolent crowd of adherents. He’d be cut to pieces without a qualm.
    Chang turned at the sound of running steps behind them. It was one of the Dragoons Aspiche had sent to find Blenheim. The trooper made his way through the rear line of soldiers and saluted the Colonel, reporting that Blenheim was still missing, and that the other groups were fanning out through the interior rooms. Aspiche nodded curtly.
    “Where is Captain Smythe?”
    The trooper had no answer.
    “Find him!” snapped Aspiche, as if he had asked for Smythe inthe first place, and the trooper was impossibly stupid. “He should be outside—arranging the sentries—bring him to me at once!”
    The Dragoon saluted again and dashed off. Aspiche said nothing more and they continued on.
    More than once they were forced to wait while a group of guests crossed their corridor, moving on a different path toward—he assumed—the ballroom. The guests were formally dressed and masked, usually all smiles and eagerness—much like the two men he’d overheard in the drawing room earlier, and they tended to stare at the soldiers and the three in their midst—Chang, Aspiche, and Mrs. Stearne—as if they made some strange allegorical puzzle to be read: the soldier, the lady, the demon. He made a point of leering wickedly at anyone who looked for too long, but with each such meeting Chang felt more his isolation, and saw the extreme degree of his presumption to come to Harschmort at all … and the imminence of his doom.
    They walked for perhaps another forty yards before they approached a short figure in a heavy cloak and dark spectacles, with an odd sort of bandolier slung across his chest from which hung perhaps two dozen metal flasks. He held up his hand for them to stop. Aspiche shook himself free of Mrs. Stearne and limped forward, speaking low, but not low enough that Chang could not hear.
    “Doctor Lorenz!” the Colonel whispered. “Is something amiss?”
    Doctor Lorenz did not share the Colonel’s need for discretion. He spoke in a needle-sharp tone directed equally to Aspiche and the woman.
    “I require some number of your men. Six will do, I am sure. There is not a minute to spare.”
    “Require?” snapped Aspiche. “Why should you
require
my men?”
    “Because something has
happened
to the fellows detailed to help me,” barked Lorenz. “Surely that is not too much to grasp!”
    Lorenz gestured behind him to an open doorway. Changnoticed for the first time a bloody handprint on the wooden frame, and a split in the wood clearly ripped by a bullet.
    Aspiche turned and with a finger snap detailed six men from the first line, limping with them through the doorway. Lorenz looked after them but did not follow, one hand idly tapping one of the dangling flasks. His attention wandered to Chang and Mrs. Stearne, and then pointedly settled on the book under Chang’s arm. Doctor Lorenz licked his lips.
    “Do you know which one that
is
?” The question was put to Mrs. Stearne but his gaze did not shift from the glass book.
    “I do not. The Cardinal tells me he took it from a lady.”
    “Ah,” replied Lorenz. He thought for a moment. “Beaded mask?”
    Chang did not answer.