It was making more sense to him now—the books were tools and could, like any other book, be used for a variety of purposes, depending on what was in them. Furthermore, it might be that they were constructed in different ways, for different reasons, some written whole and some with a different number of empty pages. He could not but recall the vivid, disturbing paintings of Oskar Veilandt—the compositions explicitly depicting the Process, the reverse of each canvas scrawled with alchemical symbols. Did that man’s work lie at the root of the books as well? If only he was still alive! Was it possible that the Comte—clearly the master within the Cabal of this twisted science—had pillaged Veilandt’s secrets and then had him killed? As he thought of books and purposes, Svenson suddenly wondered if d’Orkancz had been intending to make a book of Angelique alone—the vast adventures of a lady of pleasure. It would be a most persuasive enticement for his cause, offering the detailed experience of a thousand nights in the brothel without ever leaving one’s room. Yet that would be but one example…the limit was sensation itself—what adventures or travels or thrills that one person had known could not be imprinted onto one of these books for anyone to consume, which was to say, to experience bodily for themselves? What sumptuous banquets? What quantities of wine? What battles, caresses, what witty conversations…there truly was no end…and no end to what people would pay for such oblivion.
He looked back to Miss Poole and the smiling couple. What had changed them? What had killed the others, but spared these two? It was somehow important to know—for this was a wrinkle, something that did not flow cleanly. If there was only a way to find out—yet any idea of who those people were or what might have killed them was even now disappearing into ash. Svenson snorted with anger—perhaps there was enough after all. Their skin had been infused with blue—this hadn’t happened to the ones who had survived. He thought of the couple, changed from suspicious resentment to open amity…Svenson stumbled with the sudden impact of his thoughts. Aspiche took hold of his shoulder and shoved him forward.
“Get along there! You’ll be resting soon enough!”
Doctor Svenson barely heard him. He was recalling Elöise—how she could not remember what scandals she might have revealed about the Trappings or Henry Xonck. She had said it in a way to mean there had been nothing to reveal…but Svenson knew the memories had been taken from her, just as the memories of spite and injustice and envy had been taken from the venal young couple—all to be inscribed in the book. And the ones who had died…what had d’Orkancz said about Angelique? That the energy had “regrettably” gone the other direction…this must have happened here too…the book’s energy must have entered deeper into the people who died, leaving its mark as it drained them utterly. But why them and not the others? He looked back at the smiling people around Miss Poole. None of them could remember exactly what they had revealed—indeed, did they even know why they were here? He shook his head at the beauty of it, for each could be safely sent back to their life, lacking any knowledge of what had been done, aside from a trip to the country and a few strange deaths. But when was there not a way to explain deaths of those considered to be insignificant? Who would protest—who would even remember those killed?
For a moment Svenson’s thoughts stabbed toward Corinna—the degree to which her true memory was retained in his breast alone—and he felt within him a sharpening rage. The death of Starck weighed heavily, but he took the words of the simpleton Aspiche (why must such men always reduce the complexity of the world to single-syllable thinking—an empire of grunts?) as a reminder of who his enemies truly were. He was not Chang—he could not feel good about killing, nor kill well enough to preserve his life—but he was Abelard Svenson. He knew what these villains were doing, and which of them were truly doing it: above him on the platform balcony, Harald Crabbé and the Duke of Stäelmaere. If he could kill them, then Lorenz and Aspiche and Miss Poole did not matter—whatever mischief they made in the world would be limited to the reach of their own two arms and would land them in the same undoubted discontent they knew before their glorious redemption in the Process. The Process depended on the organization of the Cabal—on these two, on d’Orkancz, Lacquer-Sforza, and Xonck. And Robert Vandaariff…he must be the leader. Doctor Svenson suddenly knew that even if he did escape he would not be meeting Chang or Miss Temple at Stropping Station. Either they were dead, or they would be at Harschmort.
But what could he hope to do? Aspiche was tall, strong, armed, and vicious—perhaps even a match for Chang. Doctor Svenson was unarmed and spent. He looked back to the kiln. Lorenz walked toward them, shucking his gauntlets as he came. Above, Crabbé and the Duke chatted quietly—or Crabbé was chatting and the Duke nodding at what he heard, his face glacially impassive. Svenson counted fifteen wooden steps to their platform. If he could make a dash for it, reach them ahead of Aspiche—Crabbé would again throw himself in front of the Duke…Svenson thought of his pockets—was there any kind of weapon? He scoffed—a pencil stub, a cigarette case, the glass card…the card, perhaps if he could snap it in his hands as he ran, and use the jagged edge, one sharp cut into Crabbé’s throat, and then to take the Duke hostage—to drag him up the steps, somehow—would he have his coach above?—making it back to the train, or all the way to the city. Lorenz was nearing them. It was the perfect distraction. He casually slipped a hand into his pocket and groped for the card. He shifted his feet, ready to run.
“Colonel Aspiche,” called Doctor Lorenz, “we are nearly—”
Aspiche swung his forearm savagely across the back of Svenson’s head, knocking him to his knees, his skull near to bursting with pain, his stomach heaving, tasting the vomit in his throat, blinking tears from his eyes. Somewhere behind him—it seemed miles away—he could hear Lorenz’s thin laughter and then the dark hiss of Aspiche at his ear.
“Don’t even think of it.”
Svenson knew he would probably die, but he also knew that if he did not get off his knees he would lose whatever infinitesimal chance he had. He spat and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, noticing with vague surprise that his hand held the blue card still. With a terrible effort he braced his other arm on the grimy clay and raised one knee. He pushed off, wobbled, and then felt Aspiche take hold of his greatcoat collar and yank him up to his feet. He let go and Svenson staggered, nearly falling again. Again he heard Lorenz laugh, and then Crabbé call out from above.
“Doctor Svenson! Any new thoughts about the location of your comrades?”
“I am told they are dead,” he called back, his voice hoarse and weak.
“Perhaps they are,” responded Crabbé. “Perhaps we have taken enough of your time.”
Behind him he heard the metal swish of Colonel Aspiche drawing his saber. He must turn and face him. He must snap the card and drive the sharp edge into his neck, or his eyes, or…he could not turn. He could only look up at Crabbé’s satisfied face, leaning over the railing. Svenson pointed to the quarry walls and called up to the Deputy Minister.
“Macklenburg.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Macklenburg. This quarry. I understand the connection, your indigo clay. This can only be a small deposit. The Macklenburg mountains must be full of it. If you control its Duke, there is no end to your power…is that your plan?”
“Plan, Doctor Svenson? I’m afraid that is already the case. The plan is what to do with the power we’ve managed to achieve. With the help of wise men like the Duke here—”
Svenson spat. Crabbé stopped mid-sentence.
“Such vulgarity—”
“You’ve insulted my country,” called Svenson. “You’ve insulted this one. You’re going to pay, each arrogant one of you—”
Crabbé looked past Svenson’s shoulder to Colonel Aspiche. “Kill him.”
The shot took him by surprise, as he was expecting a blow from a saber—and it took him another moment to realize that it wasn’t he who had been hit by the bullet. He heard the scream—again, wondering that it wasn’
t coming from his own mouth—and then saw the Duke of Stäelmaere reel into the railing, clutching his right shoulder, quite cleanly punctured, blood pouring through his long white fingers clutching the wound. Crabbé wheeled, his mouth working, as the Duke dropped to his knees, his head slipping through the rails. Above and behind them, both hands tightly gripping the smoking service revolver, stood Elöise.
“God be damned, Madame!” shouted Crabbé. “Do you know who you have shot? It is a capital offense! It is treason!” She fired again, and this time Svenson saw the shot blow out through the Duke’s chest, a thick quick fountain of blood. Stäelmaere’s mouth opened with surprise at the impact, at the shocking scope of his agony, and he collapsed to the planking.
Svenson whirled, drawing new energy from his rescue, and—recalling something he’d once seen in a wharf-side bar—stomped on Colonel Aspiche’s boot in the same moment he shoved the man straight back sharply with both hands. As the Colonel fell back, Svenson’s weight fixed his foot to the ground so that he was both unable to rebalance himself and to prevent his own weight from being thrown against his pinned ankle. Svenson heard the cracking bones as the Colonel landed with a cry of rage and pain. He leapt away—Aspiche, even so down, was swinging the saber, face reddened, tears at the corners of his eyes—and dashed to the stairs. Elöise fired again—apparently missing Crabbé, who had retreated into the corner of the landing, arms over his face, hunched away from the gun. Svenson charged and struck him in his exposed stomach. Crabbé doubled forward with a grunt, his hands clutching his belly. Svenson swung again at the Deputy Minister’s now-exposed face, and the man went down in a heap. Svenson gasped—he had no idea how such a blow would hurt his hand—and staggered toward his rescuer.
“Bless you, my dear,” he breathed, “for you have saved my life. Let us climb—”
“They are coming!” she said, her voice rising with fear. He looked back down to see Lorenz’s assistants and the gang of men from the benches all running. Lorenz had helped Aspiche to his feet and the limping, hopping Colonel was waving his saber and bawling orders.
“Kill them! Kill them! They have murdered the Duke!”
“The Duke?” whispered Elöise.
“You did right,” Svenson assured her. “If I may, for there are many of them—”
He reached for the pistol and took it, pulling back the hammer, and jumped down to the cowering Crabbé. The men charged up the stairs as Svenson took the Minister by his collar and raised him to his knees, grinding the gun barrel against Crabbé’s ear. They surged to the very edge of the platform, eyeing Svenson and Elöise with hatred. Svenson looked over the rail to the quarry floor to where Lorenz stood supporting Aspiche. He shouted down to them.
“I will kill him! You know I will do it! Call your fellows off!”
He looked back to the crowd and saw it part to allow Miss Poole to pass through. She stepped onto the platform, smiling icily.
“Are you quite all right, Minister?” she asked.
“I am alive,” muttered Crabbé. “Has Doctor Lorenz finished his work?”
“He has.”
“And your charges?”
“As you can see, quite well—enthusiastic to protect you and avenge the Duke.”
Crabbé sighed. “Perhaps it is best this way, perhaps it can be better worked. You will need to prepare his body.”
Miss Poole nodded, and then looked up beyond Svenson to Elöise. “It seems we have underestimated you, Mrs. Dujong!”
“You left me to die!” shouted Elöise.
“Of course she did,” called Crabbé, rubbing his jaw. “You failed your test—it seemed as if you would die, like the others. It cannot be helped—you are wrong to place blame with Elspeth. Besides, look at you now—so bold!”
“Do you think we were hasty with our decision, Minister?” asked Miss Poole.
“Indeed I do. Perhaps Mrs. Dujong will be joining our efforts after all.”
“Join you?” cried Elöise. “Join you? After—after all—”
“You forget,” called Miss Poole. “Even if you do not remember why you came, I remember it quite well—every noisome little secret you offered up in exchange for your advancement.”
Elöise stood, her mouth open, looking to Svenson, then back at Miss Poole. “I did not—I cannot—”
“You wanted it before,” said Miss Poole. “And you want it still. You’ve proven yourself quite bold.”
“There’s barely a choice, my dear,” observed Crabbé with a sigh.
Svenson saw the confusion on Elöise’s face and jabbed the gun hard into Crabbé’s ear, stopping the man’s speech. “Did you not hear what I said? We will be going at once!”
“O yes, Doctor Svenson, you were heard quite clearly,” Crabbé muttered, wincing. He looked up at Miss Poole. “Elspeth?”
The woman retained her icy smile. “Such chivalry, Doctor. First it is Miss Temple, and now Mrs. Dujong—a veritable collector of hearts you seem, I never would have thought it.”
Svenson ignored her, and yanked Crabbé back toward the stairs.
“We will be taking our leave—”
“Elspeth!” the Deputy Minister croaked.
“You will not,” Miss Poole announced.
“I beg your pardon?” asked Svenson.
“You will not. How many shots remain in your gun?”
Aspiche called back to her from below, a disembodied voice. “She fired three times, and it is a six-shot cylinder.”
“So there you are,” continued Miss Poole, indicating the crowd of men around her. “Three shots. We are at least ten, and you at the very most can shoot three. We will take you.”
“But the first I shoot shall be Minister Crabbé.”
“It is more important that our work proceed, and your escape may endanger it. Do you agree, Minister?”
“Unfortunately, Svenson, the woman is correct—”
Svenson cracked him sharply on the head with the gun butt. “Stop talking!”
Miss Poole spoke to the gang of men behind her. “Doctor Svenson is a German agent. He has succeeded in causing the death of the Queen’s own noble brother—”
Doctor Svenson looked up at Elöise, whose eyes were wide with fear. “Run now,” he told her. “Escape—I will hold them off—”
“Do not bother, Mrs. Dujong,” called Miss Poole. “We cannot allow either of you to leave—really we can’t. And I do promise, Doctor, however much time your bravery does buy your ally, she will not in that dress outrun these gentlemen across three miles of open road.”
Svenson was at a loss. He did not believe they would sacrifice Crabbé so easily—yet could he risk Elöise’s life on the chance? But, if he were to surrender—impossible, surely—what hope would they have of surviving? None! They’d be ash in Lorenz’s oven—it was an appalling thought, unconscionable—
“Doctor…Abelard…” Elöise whispered to him from above. He looked up at her, helpless, sputtering.
“You will not join them—you will not stay—”
“What if she wants to stay?” asked Miss Poole, wickedly.
“She does not—she cannot—be quiet!”
“Doctor Svenson!” It was Lorenz, shouting from below. Svenson edged closer to the rail—pulling his hostage with him—and looked down. The man had walked over to the large conglomeration of tarps, covering the hidden train car. “Perhaps this will convince you of our great purpose!”
Lorenz pulled on a rope line and the tarps were released. At once the great shape beneath them rose some twenty feet in a lurch, thrusting up clear of the covering. It was an enormous cylindrical gasbag, an airship, a dirigible. As it ascended to the limits of its tethering cables, he could see propellers, engines, and the large cabin underneath. The entire thing was even larger than he’d thought, expanding like an insect coming out of its cocoon, an iron skeleton of supporting struts snapping into place as it rose—and the whole painted to perfectly match the deepest midnight sky. Traveling at night the craft wo
uld be near invisible.
Before Svenson could say a word, Elöise screamed. He wheeled to see her off balance, a man’s hand incongruously holding onto her leg through the gap in the stairs—an arm in a red sleeve, Aspiche, reaching up from below while he’d been distracted by Lorenz’s spectacle like a gullible fool. Svenson watched helplessly as she tried to pull herself free, to step on his wrist with her other foot—it was all that was needed for the spell to be broken. The men around Miss Poole surged forward, cutting Svenson off from Elöise. Crabbé dropped into a ball on the planking, pulling Svenson off balance. Before he could re-position the pistol the men were upon him—a fist across his jaw, a forearm clubbing him across the head and he staggered back into the rail. Elöise screamed again—they were all around her—he had failed her completely. The men scooped him up bodily and threw him over the rail.