The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

again and looked once more at Cardinal Chang before walking quickly away through the crowd. He stood alone before his judges.
    “Cardinal Chang—” began the Contessa.
    Cardinal Chang cleared his throat and spat, the scarlet mass flying perhaps half the distance to the dais. An outraged whisper ran throughout the crowd. Chang saw the Dragoons nervously glancing at one another as the guests behind them inched forward.
    “Contessa,” said Chang, returning her greeting, his voice nowunpleasantly hoarse. His gaze fell across the rest of the dais. “Minister … Mr. Xonck … Highness …”
    “We require that book,” stated Crabbé. “Place it on the floor and walk away from it.”
    “And then what?” sneered Chang.
    “Then you will be killed,” answered Xonck. “But killed
kindly
.”
    “And if I do not?”
    “Then what you have already seen,” said the Contessa, “will be a trivial prologue to your pain.”
    Chang looked at the crowd around him, and the Dragoons—still no sign of Smythe, Svenson, or Celeste. He was acutely aware of the luxurious fittings of the ballroom—the crystal fixtures, the gleaming floor, the walls of mirror and glass—and the finery of the masked spectators, all in contrast to his own filthy appearance. He knew that for these people the state of his garments and his body were definitive indicators of his inferior caste. It was also what pained him about Angelique—in this place as much a piece of chattel as he, as much a specimen of livestock. Why else had she been first to undergo the hideous transformation—why had she been taken to the Institute to begin with? Because it did not matter if she died. And yet she could not see their contempt—just as she could not see him (but this was wrong, for of course she did—she merely rejected what she saw), nor beyond her own desperate ambition to the truth of how she had been used. But then Chang recalled the great figures of the city he’d found, one after another, slumped over the glass books in the string of private rooms, and Robert Vandaariff, now a parchment-scratching automaton. The contempt of the Cabal was not limited to those of lower birth or insufficient station.
    He had to admit a certain equity of abuse.
    Yet Chang sneered at the expressions of disdain and fury that pressed at him through the ring of uncertain Dragoons. Each guest had been offered the chance to lick the Cabal’s boots, and nowthey clamored for the privilege. Who
were
these people to so easily blind so many?
    He thought bitterly that half of the Cabal’s work was done for it already—the fevered ambition that ran through their adherents had always lurked in the shadows of those lives, hungrily awaiting the chance to come forward. That the chance was only as honest as a baited hook never occurred to anyone—they were too busy congratulating themselves on swallowing it.
    He held the gleaming glass book in front of him for all to see. For some reason the act of raising his arm exerted pressure on his seething lungs and Cardinal Chang erupted into a fit of agonized coughing. He spat again and wiped his bloody mouth.
    “You
will
make us clean the floor,” observed the Contessa.
    “I suppose it’s inconvenient of me not to have died at the Ministry,” Chang hoarsely replied.
    “Terribly so, but you’ve established yourself as quite a worthy opponent, Cardinal.” She smiled at Chang. “Would you not agree, Mr. Xonck?” she called, and at least Chang knew she was mocking Xonck’s injury.
    “Indeed! The Cardinal illustrates the difficult task that is before us all—the determined struggle we must prepare ourselves to undergo,” answered Francis Xonck, his voice pitched to reach the far corners of the room. “The vision we embrace will be resisted with all the tenacity of the man you see before you. Do not underestimate him—nor underestimate your own unique qualities of wisdom and courage.”
    Chang scoffed at this blatant flattery of the crowd, and wondered why it was Crabbé in politics making speeches and not the unctuously eloquent Xonck. He recalled the prostrate form of Henry Xonck—it might not be long before Francis Xonck was more powerful than five Harald Crabbés put together. Crabbé must have sensed this, for he stepped forward, also addressing the whole of the audience.
    “Such a man has even this night committed murders—too many to name!—in his quest to destroy our mission. He has killed our soldiers, he has defiled