Gordon Dahlquist - Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

“It seems we divide the future in ever expanding portions,” observed the Contessa. “Equal thirds, gentlemen?”

“Equal thirds,” whispered the Comte.

“I am agreeable,” said Xonck, a bit tightly.

“Then it’s settled,” she announced. The Contessa reached out to Xonck’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Finish them.”

The dagger was in Chang’s hand and he slashed toward Xonck, catching the saber on the dagger hilt and pushing Xonck’s weapon aside as he rushed forward. But Xonck spun on his heels and chopped his bandaged arm across Chang’s throat, knocking him backwards to the ground, both men crying with pain at the impact. Doctor Svenson darted for Xonck, a half-step too late, and Xonck whipped the saber hilt up and into Svenson’s stomach, dropping the Doctor choking to his knees. Xonck retreated a step and wheeled to Miss Temple, his blade once more extended toward her face. Miss Temple could not move. She looked at Xonck, his chest heaving, wincing at the pain in his arm…hesitating.

“Francis?” said the Contessa, her voice glazed with amusement.

“What?” he hissed.

“Are you waiting for something?”

Xonck swallowed. “I was wondering if you’d prefer to do this one yourself.”

“That’s very sweet of you…but I am quite content to watch.”

“I was merely asking.”

“And I assure you, I appreciate the thought, as I appreciate that you might also wish to retain Miss Temple for intimate scrutiny…but I would appreciate it even more if you would get on with it and stick her like the vicious little pig she is.”

Xonck’s fingers flexed around the saber hilt, shifting his grip. Miss Temple saw its merciless tip not two feet from her chest, light rippling along the silver blade as it rose and fell with Xonck’s breathing. Then Xonck leered at her. She was going to die.

“First it was the Minister wanting people to get on with it…now it’s the Contessa,” she said. “Of course, he had his reasons—”

“Must I do this myself?” asked the Contessa.

“Do not hound me, Rosamonde,” snapped Xonck.

“But the Comte never finished his questions!” cried Miss Temple.

Xonck did not lunge. She shouted again, her voice rising up to a shriek.

“He asked if the Minister killed Colonel Trapping! He did not ask who else might have killed him! If Roger killed him! Or if he was killed by the Contessa !”

“What?” asked Xonck.

“Francis!” cried the Contessa. She snorted with rage and strode past Xonck to silence Miss Temple herself, the spike raised high. Miss Temple flinched, trembling at whether her throat would be cut or her skull perforated, unable to otherwise move.

Before any of these could occur, Xonck wheeled and hooked the Contessa about the waist with his bandaged arm and swept the woman off her feet and with a shriek of protest onto the nearest settee—exactly the spot where Harald Crabbé had just died.

The Contessa glared with an outrage Miss Temple had never seen in life—a ferocity to peel paint or buckle steel.

“Rosamonde—” began Xonck, and—too late again—Miss Temple darted for Chang’s fallen dagger. Xonck slapped the flat of the saber blade hard across her head, sprawling her atop Doctor Svenson, who groaned.

She shook her head, the whole right side stinging. The Contessa still sat on the settee, next to the Prince and Lydia, miserable as children marooned in the midst of their parents’ row.

“Rosamonde,” said Xonck again, “what does she mean?”

“She means nothing!” the Contessa spat. “Colonel Trapping is no longer important—the Judas was Crabbé!”

“The Comte knows all about it,” managed Miss Temple, her voice thick.

“All about what?” asked Xonck, for the first time allowing the saber to drift toward the Comte d’Orkancz, who sat opposite the Contessa.

“He won’t say,” whispered Miss Temple, “because he no longer knows who to trust. You have to ask Roger .”

The Comte stood up.

“Sit down, Oskar,” said Xonck.

“This has gone far enough,” the Comte replied.

“Sit down or I will have your God damned head!” shouted Xonck. The Comte deigned to show actual surprise, and sat, his face now quite as grave as the Contessa’s was livid.

“I will not be made a fool,” hissed Xonck. “Trapping was my man—mine to discard! Whoever killed him—even if I would prefer not to believe—it follows they are my enemy—”

“Roger Bascombe!” shouted Miss Temple. “Do you know who killed Colonel Trapping?”

With a snarl and three iron-hard fingers of his sword hand Xonck took hold of Miss Temple’s robes behind her neck, yanked her to her knees and then, with a roar of frustration, tossed her down the length of the cabin through the doorway to land with a cry at the feet of Caroline Stearne. The breath was driven from her body and she lay there blinking with pain, dimly aware that she was somehow even colder. She looked back to see her shredded robes hanging from Xonck’s hand. He met her gaze, still furious, and Miss Temple whimpered aloud, convinced he was about to march over and step on her throat just like he’d done to the Dragoon…but then in the panting silence, Roger Bascombe answered her question.

“Yes,” he said simply. “I know.”

Xonck stopped where he stood, staring at Roger. “Was it the Contessa?”

“No.”

“Wait—before that,” broke in the Comte, “ why was he killed?”

“He was serving Vandaariff instead of us?” asked Xonck.

“He was,” said Roger. “But that is not why he was killed. The Contessa already knew Colonel Trapping’s true allegiance.”

Xonck and the Comte turned to her. The Contessa scoffed at their naïve credulity.

“Of course I knew,” she sneered, looking up at Xonck. “You are arrogant, Francis, so you assume that everyone wants what you do—your brother’s power—and Trapping especially. You hide your cunning behind the mask of a libertine, but Trapping had no such depth—he was happy to deliver every secret of your brother’s—and yours—to whoever best indulged his appetite!”

“Then why?” asked Xonck. “To preserve the Comte’s Annunciation project?”

“No,” said Roger. “Trapping hadn’t yet agreed on a price to save Lydia—he’d only given Vandaariff hints.”

“Then it was Crabbé—Trapping must have learned his plans for distilling Vandaariff—”

“No,” repeated Roger. “The Deputy Minister would have killed him, to be sure…just as the Comte would have…given time and opportunity.”

Xonck turned to the Contessa. “So you did kill him!”

The Contessa huffed again with impatience.

“Have you paid any attention at all, Francis? Do you not remember what Elspeth Poole—stupid, insolent, and barely regretted—displayed for us all in the ballroom? Her vision ?”

“It was Elspeth and Mrs. Stearne,” said Xonck, looking through the doorway to Caroline.

“With Trapping,” said the Comte. “The night of the engagement.”

“We were sent to him,” protested Caroline. “The Contessa ordered us—to—to—”

“Exactly,” said the Contessa. “I was doing my best to indulge him where the other guests would not intrude!”

“Because you knew he could not be trusted,” said the Comte.

“Though he could be distracted —until we had time to deal with Vandaariff ourselves,” observed the Contessa, “which we then did!”

“If Colonel Trapping alerted Vandaariff then our entire enterprise could have been compromised!” cried Caroline.