The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

runner of carpeting! Svenson stepped out, revolver extended, and rapidly advanced, his padded footfalls mixing with theirs—ten feet away, then five, and then he was right behind them. Somehow they sensed his presence,turning just as Svenson reached out and took rough hold of Vandaariff’s collar with his left hand, and pressed the revolver barrel against the side of the Lord’s temple with his right.
    “Do not move!” he hissed. “Do not cry out—or this man will die, and then each of you in turn. I am a crack shot with a pistol, and few things would give me more pleasure!”
    They did not cry out, and once again Svenson felt the disquieting capacity for savagery creeping up his spine—though he was no particular shot at all even when his gun was loaded. What he didn’t know was the value they placed on Vandaariff. With a sudden chill he wondered if they might actually
want
him killed—something they desired but shrank from doing themselves—especially now that Crabbé had the satchel of vital information.
    The satchel. He must have it.
    “That satchel!” he barked at the Deputy Minister. “Drop it at once, and step away!”
    “I will not!” snapped Crabbé shrilly, his face gone pale.
    “You
will
!” snarled Svenson, pulling back the hammer and pressing the barrel hard into Vandaariff’s skull.
    Crabbé’s fingers fidgeted over the leather handle. But he did not throw it down. Svenson whipped the gun away from Vandaariff and extended his arm directly at Crabbé’s chest.
    “Doctor Svenson!”
    This was Bascombe, raising his own hands in a desperate conciliatory gesture that was still for Svenson too much like an attempt to grab his weapon. He turned the barrel toward the younger man, who flinched visibly, then back toward Crabbé who now hugged the satchel to his body, then again to Bascombe, pulling Vandaariff a step away to give himself more room. Why did he not get
better
at this sort of confrontation?
    Bascombe swallowed and took a step forward. “Doctor Svenson,” he began in a hesitant voice, “this cannot stand—you are inside the hornets’ nest, you will be taken—”
    “I require my Prince,” said Svenson, “and I require that satchel.”
    “Impossible,” piped Crabbé, and to the Doctor’s great exasperation the Deputy Minister turned and spun the satchel like a discus down the length of the corridor. It bounced to a stop against the wall some twenty feet beyond them. Svenson’s heart sank—God damn the man! If he’d possessed a single bullet he would have put it straight between Harald Crabbé’s ears.
    “So much for
that
,” Crabbé bleated, babbling fearfully. “How did you survive the quarry? Who helped you? Where were you hidden on the airship? How are you still tormenting my
every plan
?”
    The Minister’s voice rose to a high-pitched shout. Svenson took another step back, dragging Vandaariff with him. Bascombe—though frightened the man had courage—again stepped forward in response. Svenson put the gun back against Vandaariff’s ear.
    “Stay where you are! You will answer me—the whereabouts of Karl-Horst—the Prince—I insist …”
    His words faltered. From somewhere below them in the house Svenson heard a screaming high-pitched whine, like the brakes of a train slamming down at high speed … and within it, like the silver thread run through a damask coat made for a king, a desperate woman’s shriek. What had Crabbé said about the Comte’s activity … “the cathedral”? All three stood fixed as the noise rose to an unbearable peak and then just as suddenly cut away. He dragged Vandaariff back another step.
    “Release him!” hissed Crabbé. “You only make it worse for yourself!”
    “
Worse
?” Svenson sputtered at the man’s arrogance—O for one bullet! He gestured at the floor, at the hideous noise. “What horrors are these? What horrors have I already seen?” He tugged Vandaariff. “You will not have this man!”
    “We have him already,” sneered Crabbé.
    “I know how he is afflicted,” stammered Svenson. “I can restore him! His word will be believed and damn you all!”
    “You know nothing.” Despite his fear, Crabbé was tenacious—no doubt a valuable quality in negotiating treaties, but to Svenson galling as all hell.
    “Your infernal Process may be irreversible,” announced Svenson, “I have had no leisure to study it—but I know Lord Vandaariff has not undergone that ritual. He bears no scars—he was