around the corner—knowing that anyone looking would be lesslikely to notice an eye at a less-than-normal eye height. The party was some ten yards away, standing in front of a locked, metal- bound door. The man in the rear still stood with his back toChang, the closer view revealing him to be younger with thin, oak- colored hair plastered flat to his skull. Beyond him Chang couldsee parts of three other people: a small man in an ash-grey coatbent over the door, attempting to find the right key, a tall, broad- shouldered man in a thick fur, impatiently tapping a walking stick on the floor and leaning down—he was the one muttering—to thefourth person, tucked under his arm like a flower in a grenadier’sbearskin: Angelique. Her dress was deep blue, and she did not re-act to whatever the man was saying, gazing without expression atthe elegant grey man’s hands as he sorted through keys. The lock turned—he’d found the right one at last—and he opened the door,looking back at the others with a trim twitch of a smile. It wasHarald Crabbé. At this the man in the fur snapped open a pocket watch andfrowned. “Where in hell is he?” he said, his voice an iron rasp. Heturned to the third man and hissed balefully, “Collect him.”Chang darted back around the corner, desperately lookingaround him for a place to hide. He was fortunate in that, being ina crouch, his eyes naturally looked upwards, and saw a pair of ironpipes, as wide as his arm, running the length of the passage just be-low the high ceiling. Behind him he heard another voice—Crabbé—interrupt the nearing footsteps of the third man, just atthe corner, a step away from discovering Chang.“
Bascombe
.”“Sir?”“Wait a moment.” Crabbé’s tone changed—clearly now he was addressing the man in the fur. “Another minute. I should rathernot givehim any insight into our growing displeasure, nor the sat-
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isfaction such knowledge would undoubtedly bring. Besides”—and here his voice changed again, to an awkward sugarish tone—“his
prize
is with us.”“I am no one’s prize,” replied Angelique, her voice quiet butfirm.“Of course you aren’t,” assured Crabbé, “but he needn’t know that until we’re ready.”Chang looked up in horror. At the far end of the passage, abovethe staircase, the door was opened. Someone was coming. He wascaught between them. In a surge of strength he took three stepsand jumped, bracing one foot against the wall and thrusting off,catching the other foot on the opposite side and thrusting again,higher, so that his outstretched arms could reach the pipes. A pairof legs were visible descending the stairs. The group around thecorner would hear any second. He pulled himself up, wrapping hislegs around the pipes, and then through sheer force rolled overabove them, so he faced the floor, quickly tucking the ends of hiscoat so they didn’t hang. He looked down with despair. His stick was still on the floor, close to the wall, where he’d set it when he’dpeeked around the corner. There was nothing he could do. They were coming. How long had he taken? Had he been seen? Heard? A moment later—holding his breath despite his heaving chest—Chang saw the third man, Bascombe, step around the corner—standing bare inches from his stick. The footsteps neared fromtheother end—louder than he’d thought. It was more than one person.“Mr. Bascombe!” one of them shouted, a kind of exuberantgreeting made all the more hearty (or fatuous) by the fact that themen had most likely been apart for all of five minutes. But thetone served to announce that they were on an adventure together,an
evening
—and declare as well who was that evening’s guide.Chang’s skin prickled with loathing. He exhaled silently throughhis nose. He could not believe they had not seen him—and pre-pared to drop onto Bascombe, attack the newcomers, then run for
the glass books of the dream eaters
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the steps. The pair passed directly beneath. He froze, again hold-ing his breath. One man, a sharp fellow in a crisp black tailcoat,bristling red side whiskers, and long, thick, curled red hair (obvi-ously the man who had called out), supported the shambling stepsof another taller, thinner man in a steel blue uniform, capped witha squat, blue-plumed shako, with medals across his chest and tallboots that unmercifully hampered his alcoholic gait. Once they were close enough, Bascombe stepped forward and took the uni-formed man’s other side, and the three of them vanished aroundthe corner.Chang stayed above the pipes until he heard the iron door closebehind them, then swung himself down to hang by his arms anddrop to the floor. He brushed himself off—the pipes were filthy—and picked up his stick. He exhaled, berating himself for beingtrapped so foolishly. He had only been saved by the uniformedman, he knew, whose stumbling drunken state had diverted atten-tion away from anything else. He thought back to the conversa-tion between the man in fur and Crabbé: which of the two menhad they been waiting for—the drunken officer or the hearty fop? And though he resisted the thought—for it led to naught but slow disintegration of his peace—as he walked around the corner andstared at the iron door they’d closed behind them...which amongthem all had laid claim to Angelique?She’d come from Macao as a child, orphaned when her father, aPortuguese sailor, had died in a knife fight his second day off theship. Her mother had been Chinese, and her appearance hadtransfixed Chang from the moment he’d seen her in the mainroom of the South Quays—where she had found a kind of homeafter the cruelty of the public orphanage. Exotic beauty and astrangely compelling reserve had elevated her first from thatsqualid lair to the Second Bench and finally this last year, at theripe age of seventeen, to the perfumed heights of the Old Palace,
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