The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters (21 page)

The Doctor took this moment to quickly bow to his betters and escape, allowing himself one brief glance at the Prince to gauge his level of intoxication, and another for the woman who had whispered in Charlotte Xonck’s ear, who he saw was now studying Francis Xonck rather closely. It was only upon walking from their parlor that Svenson realized that he’d been deftly prevented from examining the body. By the time he returned to the garden, the men and the body were gone. All he saw, from a distance, were three of Major Blach’s soldiers, spaced several yards apart, walking across the grounds with their sabers drawn.

He’d been unable to interrogate the Prince further, and neither Flaüss nor Blach would answer his questions. They’d heard nothing of Trapping, and indeed openly doubted that such an important figure—or indeed, anyone—had been dead in the garden at all. When he demanded in turn to know why Blach’s soldiers had been searching the grounds, the Major merely snapped that he was responding prudently to Svenson’s own exaggerated claims of danger, murder, mystery, and sneered that he would hardly waste time with the Doctor’s fears again. For his part, Flaüss had dropped the matter completely, saying that even if anything untoward had occurred, it was hardly their affair—out of respect to the Prince’s new father-in-law, they must remain disinterested and apart. Svenson had no answer to either (save a silent growing contempt) but wanted very much to know what the Prince had been doing alone with the body in the first place.

But time alone with Karl-Horst had not been possible. Between the Prince’s schedule, as arranged by Flaüss, and the Prince’s own wish to remain undisturbed, he had managed to keep clear of Svenson all the next morning, and then to leave the compound with the Envoy and Blach while Svenson was tending to the suppurated tooth of one of Blach’s soldiers. When they had not returned by nightfall, he had been forced into the city to find them….

He exhaled and looked up at Flaüss, whose hands were tightened into fists above his desk top. “We have spoken of the vanished Colonel Trapping—” he began. Flaüss snorted, but Svenson ignored him and kept on, “of whom you will believe what you want. What you cannot avoid is that tonight your Prince has been attacked. What I am going to tell you is that I have seen the marks on his face before—on the face of that missing man.”

“Indeed? You said yourself you did not examine him—”

“I saw his face.”

Flaüss was silent. He picked up his pen, then peevishly threw it down. “Even if what you claim is true—in the garden, in the dark, from a distance…”

“Where were you, Herr Flaüss?”

“It is none of your affair.”

“You were with Robert Vandaariff.”

Flaüss smiled primly. “If I was, I could hardly tell you about it. As you imply, there is a delicacy about the whole affair—the need to preserve the reputation of the Prince, of the engagement, of the principals involved.
Lord
Vandaariff has been kind enough to make time to discuss possible
strategies
—”

“Is he paying you?”

“I will not answer insolence—”

“I will no longer suffer idiocy.”

Flaüss opened his mouth to reply but said nothing, affronted into silence. Svenson was worried he’d gone too far. Flaüss dug out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead.

“Doctor Svenson—you are a military man, I do forget it, and your way is to be frank. I will overlook your tone this time, for we must indeed
depend
upon one another to protect our Prince. For all your questions, I confess I am most curious to know how
you
came to find the Prince tonight, and how you came to ‘rescue’ him—and from whom.”

Svenson pulled the monocle from his left eye and held it up to the light. He frowned, brought it near his mouth and breathed on it until the surface fogged. He rubbed the moisture off on his sleeve and replaced it, peering at Flaüss with undisguised dislike.

“I’m afraid I must get back to my patient.”

Flaüss snapped to his feet behind the desk. Svenson had not yet moved from the chair.

“I have decided,” declared the Envoy, “that from now on the Prince will be accompanied by an armed guard at all times.”

“An excellent suggestion. Has Blach agreed to this?”

“He agreed it was an excellent suggestion.”

Svenson shook his head. “The Prince will never accept it.”

“The Prince will have no choice—nor will you, Doctor. Whatever claim to care for the Prince you may have had before this, your failure to prevent this evening’s incident has convinced both myself and Major Blach that
he
will from this point be managing the Prince’s needs. Any medical matters will be attended to in the company of Major Blach or his men.”

Flaüss swallowed and extended his hand. “I will require that you give me the key to the Prince’s room. I know you have locked it. As Envoy, I will have it from you.”

Svenson stood carefully, replacing the ashtray on the table, not moving his gaze from Flaüss, and walked to the door. Flaüss stood, his hand still open. Svenson opened the door and walked into the hallway. Behind he heard rushing steps and then Flaüss was beside him, his face red, his jaw working.

“This will not do. I have given an order.”

“Where is Major Blach?” asked Svenson.

“Major Blach is under my command,” answered Flaüss.

“You consistently refuse to answer my questions.”

“That is my privilege!”

“You are quite in error,” Svenson said gravely and looked at the Envoy. He saw that instead of any fear or reproach, Flaüss was smirking with ill-concealed triumph.

“You have been distracted, Doctor Svenson. Things have changed. So many, many things have changed.”

Svenson turned to Flaüss and shifted his grip on his coat, slinging it from his right arm to his left, which had the effect of moving the pocket with the pistol-butt sticking out of it into the Envoy’s view. Flaüss’s face whitened and he took a step back, sputtering. “W-when M-Major Blach returns—”

“I will be happy to see him,” Svenson said.

He was certain that Baron von Hoern was dead.

He walked back to the landing and turned to the stairs, startled to see Major Blach leaning against the wall, just out of sight from the corridor. Svenson stopped.

“You heard? The Envoy would like to see you.”

Major Blach shrugged. “It is of no importance.”

“You’ve been told of the Prince’s condition?”

“That is of course serious, yet I require your services elsewhere immediately.” Without waiting for an answer he walked down the stairs. Svenson followed, intimidated as always by the Major’s haughty manner, but also curious as to what might be more important than the Prince’s
crise
.

Blach led him across the courtyard to the mess room in the soldiers’ barracks. Three of the large white tables had been cleared, and on each lay a black-uniformed soldier, with another two soldiers standing at each table’s head. The first two soldiers were alive; the third’s upper body was covered by a white cloth. Blach indicated the tables and stepped to the side, saying no more. Svenson draped his coat over a chair and saw that his medical kit had already been fetched and laid out on a metal tray. He glanced at the first man, grimacing in pain, his left leg probably broken, and absently prepared an injection of morphine. The other man was in more serious distress, bleeding from his chest, his breath shallow, his face like wax. Svenson opened the man’s uniform coat and peeled back the bloody shirt beneath. A narrow puncture through the ribs—perhaps through the lungs, perhaps not. He turned to Blach.

“How long ago did this happen?”

“Perhaps an hour…perhaps more.”

“He may die from the delay,” observed Svenson. He turned to the soldiers. “Bind him to the table.” As they did, he went to the man with the injured leg, pulled up his sleeve, and gave him the injection. He spoke softly as he pushed on the syringe. “You will be fine. We will do our best to straighten your leg—but you must wait until we work on your fellow. This will make you sleep.” The soldier, a boy really, nodded, his face slick with sweat. Svenson gave him a quick smile and turned back to Blach, speaking as he peeled off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “It’s very simple. If the blade touched his lungs, they’re full of blood by now and he’ll be dead in minutes. If it didn’t, he may die in any case—from the blood loss, from rot. I will do my best. Where will I find you?”

“I will remain here,” Major Blach answered.

“Very well.”

Svenson glanced over to the third table.

“My Lieutenant,” said Major Blach. “He has been dead for some hours.”

Svenson stood in the open doorway, smoking a cigarette and looking out into the courtyard. He wiped his hands with a rag. It had taken two hours. The man was still alive—apparently the lungs had been spared—though there was fever. If he lasted the night he would recover. The other man’s knee had been broken. While he had done what he could, it was unlikely the man would walk without a limp. Throughout his work, Major Blach had remained silent. Svenson inhaled the last of the cigarette and tossed the butt into the gravel. The two men had been moved to the barracks—they could at least sleep in their own beds. The Major leaned against a table, near the remaining body. Svenson let the smoke out of his lungs and turned back into the room.

For all the savage nature of the Lieutenant’s wounds, it was obvious the death had been quick. Svenson looked up at the Major. “I’m not sure what I can tell you that you cannot see yourself. Four punctures—the first, I would say, here: into the ribs from the victim’s left side, a stabbing across…it would have been painful, but not a mortal blow. The next three, within an inch of each other, driving under the ribs and into the lungs, perhaps even touching the heart—I cannot say without opening the chest. Heavy blows—you can see the force of impact around the wound, the indentation—a knife or dagger driven to the hilt, repeatedly, to kill.”

Blach nodded. Svenson waited for him to speak, but the Major remained silent. Svenson sighed and began to unroll and button his sleeves. “Do you wish to tell me how these injuries occurred?”

“I do not,” muttered the Major.

“Very well. Will you at least tell me if it had to do with the attack on the Prince?”

“What attack?”

“Prince Karl-Horst was burned about the face. It is entirely possible he was a willing participant, nevertheless, I consider it an attack.”

“This is when you escorted him home?”

“Exactly.”

“I assumed he was drunk.”

“He was drunk, though not, I believe, from alcohol. But what do you mean, you ‘assumed’?”

“You were observed, Doctor.”

“Indeed.”

“We observe many people.”

“But apparently not the Prince.”

“Was he not with reputable figures of his new acquaintance?”

“Yes, Major, he was. And—I’ll say this again if you did not understand it—in such company, indeed, at the behest of such company, he was scarred about the eyes.”

“So you have said, Doctor.”

“You may see for yourself.”

“I look forward to it.”

Svenson gathered his medical kit together. He looked up. Major Blach was still watching him. Svenson dropped his catling into the bag with an exasperated sigh. “How many men do you presently have under your command, Major?”

“Twenty men and two officers.”

“Now you have eighteen men and one officer. And I assure you that whoever did this—whatever man or gang of men—had nothing to do with observing me, for my business was entirely occupied with preventing an idiot from disgracing himself.”

Major Blach did not answer.

Doctor Svenson snapped his bag shut and scooped his coat from the chair. “I can only hope you observed the Envoy as well, Major—he was quite absent through all of this, and refuses to explain himself.” He turned on his heels and strode to the door where he turned and called back, “Will you be telling him about the bodies or shall I?”

“We are not finished, Doctor,” hissed Blach. He flipped the sheet back over his Lieutenant’s face and walked toward Svenson. “I believe we must visit the Prince.”

They walked up the stairs to the third floor, where they found Flaüss waiting with two guards. The Envoy and the Major exchanged meaningful looks, but Svenson had no idea what they meant—the men obviously hated each other, but could nevertheless be cooperating for any number of reasons. Flaüss sneered at Svenson and indicated the door.

“Doctor? I believe you have the key.”

“Have you tried knocking?” This was from Blach, and Svenson suppressed a smile.

“Of course I have tried,” answered Flaüss, unconvincingly, “but I am happy to try again.” He turned and banged savagely on the door with the heel of his fist, after a moment calling sweetly, “Your Highness? Prince Karl-Horst? It is Herr Flaüss, here with the Major and Doctor Svenson.”

They waited. Flaüss turned to Svenson and nearly spit, “Open it! I insist you open it at once!”

Svenson smiled affably and dug the key from his pocket. He handed it to Flaüss. “You may do it yourself, Herr Envoy.”

Flaüss snatched the key and shoved it into the lock. He turned the key and the handle, but the door would not open. He turned the handle again and shoved the door with his shoulder. He turned back to them. “It will not open—something is against it.”

Major Blach stepped forward and jostled Flaüss away, placing his hand over the handle and driving his weight against the door. It gave perhaps half an inch. Blach signaled to the two troopers and together all three pushed as one—the door lurched another inch or so, and then slowly ground open enough for them to see that the large bureau had been moved against the door. The three pushed again and the gap widened so a man could fit through. Blach immediately did so, followed by Flaüss, shoving his way past the troopers. With a resigned smile, Svenson followed them through, dragging his medical kit after him.

The Prince was gone. The bureau had been dragged across the room to block the doorway, and the window was open.