The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

them. He would name Svenson and that would be the end of it. Could he run back through the servants? But where after that—up the stairs?
    His thoughts were broken by the sound of a large party entering from the far doors, near the others—many footsteps … or more accurately bootsteps. Lorenz called out a greeting in his flat, mocking voice.
    “Excellent, how kind of you to finally arrive. You see our burden—I will require two of your fellows to collect a supply of ice, I am told there is an ice
house
somewhere on the premises—”
    “Captain,” this was Bascombe cutting smoothly through the Doctor’s words, “could you make sure we are not troubled by any unwanted visitors from the servants’ passage?”
    “As soon as you send two men for more ice,” insisted Lorenz.
    “Indeed,” said Bascombe, “two men for ice, four men for the tub, one man to respectfully ask the Minister if there is further word, and one to check the passage. Does that satisfy us all?”
    Svenson slipped back to the door and pushed gently against it, straining for silence. It held fast. The door had been bolted from the inner side—the servants making sure he’d not again trespass upon their meal. He shoved again, harder, to no avail. He quickly fished out the pistol—for within the noises of scraping metal and scuffling feet from his enemies across the room came the rapping of deliberate bootsteps advancing directly toward him.
    Before he was prepared the man was looking right at him, not two yards away: a tall fellow with hanging lank brown hair, Captain of Dragoons, red coat immaculate, brass helmet under one arm, drawn saber in the other. Svenson met his sharp gaze and tightened his grip on the revolver, but did not fire. The idea of killing a soldier went against the grain—who knew what these fellows had been told, or what they’d been ordered to do, especially by a government figure like Crabbé or even Bascombe? Svenson imagined Chang’s lack of hesitation and raised the revolver to fire.
    The man’s eyes flicked up and down, taking in Svenson’s uniform, his rank, his unkempt person. Without any comment heturned to look in the other direction and then casually took a step toward Svenson, ostensibly—for the purpose of anyone watching from the room—to examine the door behind him. Svenson flinched—but still could not pull the trigger. Instead, the Captain leaned near to Svenson, reaching past him to the door and confirming it was locked. Svenson’s revolver was nearly pressed against the Captain’s chest, but the Captain’s saber had been deliberately dropped to his side.
    “Doctor Svenson?” he whispered.
    Svenson nodded, unprepared to form actual words.
    “I have seen Chang. I will take these people to the center of the house—please go in the opposite direction.”
    Svenson nodded again.
    “Captain Smythe?” called Bascombe.
    Smythe stepped back. “Nothing unusual, Sir.”
    “Were you
speaking
to someone?”
    Smythe gestured vaguely toward the door as he walked back, out of Svenson’s sight.
    “There are servants in the next room. They’ve seen no one—perhaps their movement was what the Envoy heard. The door is now locked.”
    “Undoubtedly,” agreed Lorenz, impatiently. “May we?”
    “If you will follow me, gentlemen?” called Smythe. Svenson heard the doors opening, the scuffle and creak of the men lifting the fallen Duke, the
thwop
of water slopping out of the tub, the scuffle of footsteps and finally the closing of the door. He waited. There was no sound. He sighed and stepped around the corner, shoving the revolver back into his coat pocket.
    Herr Flaüss stood just inside the far doorway, grinning smugly. Svenson dragged out the revolver. Flaüss snorted.
    “What will you do, Doctor, shoot me and announce yourself to every soldier in the house?”
    Svenson began to walk deliberately across the wide roomtoward the Envoy, his aim never wavering from the man’s chest. After all the torments he had passed through, it was bitter to imagine his downfall at the hands of
this
petty and puling creature.
    “I knew what I had heard,” smiled Flaüss, “just as I knew Captain Smythe was not telling the truth. I’ve no idea why—and I am indeed curious what power you might have over an officer of Dragoons, especially in your present wholly decrepit state.”
    “You’re a traitor, Flaüss,” answered Svenson. “You always have been.”
    He was within two yards of the Envoy, the