Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

THREE Surgeon

Doctor Abelard Svenson stood at an open window overlooking the small courtyard of the Macklenburg diplomatic compound, gazing at the thickening fog and the few sickly gaseous lights of the city bright enough to penetrate its fell curtain. He sucked on a hard ginger candy, clacking it against his teeth, aware that a lengthy brood about his current situation was a luxury he could not indulge. With a shove from his tongue he pushed the candy between his left molars and smashed it to sharp pieces, smashed these pieces again, and then swallowed them. He turned from the window and reached for a porcelain cup of tepid black coffee, gulping it, finding a certain pleasure in the mix of sweet ginger syrup coating his mouth and the bitter beverage. Did they drink coffee with ginger in India, he wondered, or Siam? He finished the cup, set it down and dug for a cigarette. He looked over his shoulder at the bed, and the still figure upon it. He sighed, opened his cigarette case, stuck one of the dark, foul Russian cigarettes in his mouth, and took a match from the bureau near the lamp, striking it off of his thumbnail. He lit the cigarette, inhaled, felt the telltale catch in his lungs, shook out the match, and exhaled longingly. He couldn’t put it off anymore. He would have to speak to Flaüss.

He crossed the room to the bolted door, skirting the bed, and—sticking the cigarette into his mouth to free both hands to pull the iron bolt clear—glanced back at the pale young man breathing moistly underneath the woolen blankets. Karl-Horst von Maasmärck was twenty-three, though pervasive indulgence and a weak constitution had added ten years to his appearance. His honey-colored curls receded from his forehead (the thinness especially visible with the hair so clumped together by sweat), his pallid skin sagged below his eyes and around his family’s weak mouth and sunken jaw, and his teeth were already beginning to go. Svenson stepped over to the insensible man—overgrown boy, really—and felt the pulse at his jugular, antic despite the laudanum, and once more cursed his own failure. The strange looping pattern seared into the Prince’s skin around the eyes and across his temples—not quite a burn, not exactly even raw, more of a deep discoloration and with luck temporary—mocked Doctor Svenson’s every previous effort to control his willful charge.

As he looked down, he resisted the impulse to grind the cigarette into the Prince’s skin and chided himself for his own mistaken tactics, his foolish trust, his ill-afforded deference. He’d focused on the Prince himself and paid far too little attention to those new figures around him—the woman’s family, the diplomats, the soldiers, the high-placed hangers-on—never thinking he’d be tearing the Prince away from them at pistol-point. He barely even knew who they were—far less what part in their plans had been laid aside for the easily dazzled Karl-Horst. All that had been the business of Flaüss, the Envoy—which had either gone horribly wrong or…hadn’t. Svenson needed to report to Flaüss on the Prince’s health, but he knew that he must use the interview with the Envoy to determine whether he was truly without allies in the diplomatic compound. He noticed his overcoat slung across the bedpost and folded it over his arm—heavier than it ought to be from the pistol tucked into the pocket. He looked around the room—nothing particularly dangerous should the Prince wake up in his absence. He pulled the bolt on the door and stepped into the hall. Next to the door stood a soldier in black, carbine at his side, stiffly at attention. Doctor Svenson locked the door with a large iron key and returned the key to his jacket pocket. The soldier’s attention did not waver as the Doctor walked past and down the hallway, nor did the Doctor think twice about the guard. He was used enough to these soldiers and their iron discipline—any question he had would be aimed at their officer, who was unaccountably still absent from the compound.

Svenson reached the end of the hall and stood on the landing, his gaze edging over the rail to the lobby three floors below. From above he could see the black and white checkerboard pattern of the marble floor—an optical illusion of staircases impossibly leading ever upwards and downwards to one another at the same time—with the crystal chandelier hovering above it. For Svenson, who did not like heights, just seeing the chandelier’s heavy chain suspended in the air before him gave him a whiff of vertigo. Looking up to the high top of the stairwell, where the chain was anchored above the fourth floor landing—which he could not help but do, like an ass—made him palpably dizzy. He stepped away from the rail and climbed to the third floor, walking close to the wall, his eyes on the floor. He was still staring at his feet as he walked past the guards at the landing and outside the Envoy’s door. With a quick grimace he squared his shoulders and knocked. Without waiting for an answer, he went in.

When Svenson had returned from the Institute with the Prince, Flaüss had not been present—nor could anyone say where he’d gone. The Envoy had burst into the Prince’s room some forty minutes later—in the midst of the Doctor’s squalid efforts to purge his patient of any poison or narcotic—and imperiously demanded what Doctor Svenson thought he was doing. Before he could reply, Flaüss had seen the revolver on the side table and then the marks on Karl-Horst’s face and began screaming. Svenson turned to see the Envoy’s face was white—with rage or fear he wasn’t sure—but the sight had snapped the last of his patience and he’d savagely driven Flaüss from the room. Now, as he entered the office, he was keenly aware that of Conrad Flaüss he actually knew precious little. A provincial aristocrat with pretensions toward the cosmopolitan, schooled for the law, an acquaintance of a royal uncle at university—all the qualifications required to meet the diplomatic needs of the Prince’s betrothal visit, and if a permanent embassy were to result from the marriage, as everyone hoped it would, to take over as the Duchy’s first full ambassador. To Flaüss—to everyone—Svenson was a family retainer, a nurse-maid, essentially dismissible. Such perceptions generally suited the Doctor as well, creating that much less bother in his day. Now, however, he would be forced to make himself heard.

Flaüss was behind his desk, writing, an aide standing patiently next to him, and looked up as Svenson entered. The Doctor ignored him and sat in one of the plush chairs opposite the desk, plucking a green glass ashtray from a side table as he went past and cradling it on his lap as he smoked. Flaüss stared at him. Svenson stared back and flicked his eyes toward the aide. Flaüss snorted, scrawled his name at the base of the page, blotted it, and shoved it into the aide’s hands. “That will be all,” he barked. The aide clicked his heels smartly and left the room, casting a discreet glance at the Doctor. The door closed softly behind him. The two men glared at each other. Svenson saw the Envoy gathering himself to speak, and sighed in advance with fatigue.

“Doctor Svenson, I will tell you that I am not…accustomed…to such treatment, such brutal treatment, by a member of the mission staff. As the mission Envoy—”

“I am not part of the mission staff,” said Svenson, cutting him off in an even tone.

Flaüss sputtered. “I beg your pardon?”

“I am not part of the mission staff. I am part of the Prince’s household. I answer to that house.”

“To the Prince?” Flaüss scoffed. “Between us, Doctor, the poor young man—”

“To the Duke.”

“I beg your pardon—I am the Duke’s Envoy. I answer to the Duke.”

“Then we have something in common after all,” Svenson muttered dryly.

“Are you insolent?” Flaüss hissed.

Svenson didn’t answer for a moment, in order to increase what powers of intimidation he could muster. The fact was, whatever authority he claimed, he had no strength beyond his own body to back it up—all that rested with Flaüss and Blach. If either were truly against him—and realized his weakness—he was extremely vulnerable. His only real hope was that they were not outright villains, but merely incompetent. He met the Envoy’s gaze and tapped his ash into the glass bowl.

“Do you know, Herr Flaüss, why a young man in the prime of his life would need a doctor to accompany him to celebrate his engagement?”

Flaüss snorted. “Of course I know. The Prince is unreliable and indulgent—I speak as one who cares for him deeply—and often unable to see the larger diplomatic implications of his actions. I believe it is a common condition among—”

“Where were you this evening?”

The Envoy’s mouth snapped shut, then worked for a moment in silence. He could not believe what he had just heard. He forced a wicked, condescending smile. “I beg your pardon—”

“The Prince was in grave danger. You were not here. You were not in any position to protect him.”

“Yes, and you will report to me concerning Karl-Horst’s medical condition—his—his face—the strange burns—”

“You have not answered my question…but you are going to.”

Flaüss gaped at him.

“I am here on the direct instructions of his father,” continued Svenson.

“If we fail further in our duties—and I do include you in this, Herr Flaüss—we will be held most strictly accountable. I have served the Duke directly for some years, and understand what that means. Do you?”

Doctor Svenson was more or less lying. The Prince’s father, the Duke, was an obese feather-headed man fixated on military uniforms and hunting. Doctor Svenson had met him twice at court, observing what he could with a general sense of dismay. His instructions truly came from the Duke’s Chief Minister, Baron von Hoern, who had become acquainted with the Doctor five years before, when Svenson was an officer-surgeon of the Macklenburg Navy and known primarily—if he was known at all—for treating the effects of frostbite among sailors of the Baltic fleet. A series of murders in port had caused a scandal—a cousin of Karl-Horst had been responsible—and Svenson had shown both acuity in tracing the deeds to their source and then tact in conveying this information to the Minister. Soon after he had been reassigned to von Hoern’s household and asked to observe or investigate various circumstances—diseases, pregnancy, murder, abortion—as they might arise at court, always without any reference to his master’s interest. To Svenson, for whom the sea was almost wholly associated with sorrow and exile, the opportunity to devote himself to such work—indeed, to the rigorous distractions of patriotism—had become a welcome sort of self-annihilation. His presence in Karl-Horst’s party had been attributed to the Duke easily enough, and Svenson had until this day remained in the background, reporting back as he could through cryptic letters stuffed into the diplomatic mail and from subtly insinuating cards sent through the city post, just in case his official letters were tampered with. He had done this before—brief sojourns in Finland, Denmark, and along the Rhine—but was really no kind of spy, merely an educated man likely, because of his position, both to gain access where he ought not and to be underestimated by those he observed. Such was the case here, and the tennis match of pettiness between Flaüss and Blach had livened what otherwise seemed to be trivial child-minding. What troubled him, however, was that in the three weeks since their arrival—and despite regular dispatches to Flaüss from court—Svenson had received no word whatsoever in return. It was as if Baron von Hoern had disappeared.

The idea of marriage had been considered after a continental tour by Lord Vandaariff, where the search for a sympathetic Baltic port had brought him to Macklenburg. His daughter had been a part of the entourage—her first time abroad—and as is so often the case when elders speak business, the children had been thrown together. Svenson had no illusions that any woman smitten to any degree by Karl-Horst retained her innocence—unless she was blindingly stupid or blindingly ugly—but he still could not understand the match. Lydia Vandaariff was certainly pretty, she was extremely wealthy, her father had just been given a title—though his financial empire spanned well beyond the borders of mere nations. Karl-Horst was but one of many such princelings in search of a larger fortune, growing less attractive by the day and never anyone’s idea of a wit. The unlikely nature of it all made actual love a more real possibility, he had to admit—and he had dismissed this part of the affair with a shrug, a foolish mistake, for his attention had been set on preventing Karl-Horst from misbehaving. He now saw that his enemies were elsewhere.

In the first week he had indeed tended to the Prince’s excessive drinking, his excessive eating, his gambling, his whoring, intervening on occasion but more generally tending to him once he had returned from each night’s pursuit of pleasure. When the Prince’s time had gradually become less occupied with the brothel and the gaming table—at dinners with Lydia, diplomatic salons with Flaüss and people from the Foreign Ministry, riding with foreign soldiers, shooting with his future father-in-law—Svenson had allowed himself to pass more time with his reading, with music, with his own small jaunts of tourism, content with looking in on the Prince when he returned in the evenings. He had suddenly realized his folly at the engagement party—could it be only last night?—when he’d found the Prince alone in Vandaariff’s great garden, kneeling over the disfigured body of Colonel Trapping. At first he’d no idea what the Prince was doing—Karl-Horst on his knees usually meant Svenson digging out a moist cloth to wipe away the vomit. Instead, the Prince had been staring down, quite transfixed, his eyes strangely placid, even peaceful. Svenson had pulled him away and back into the house, despite the idiot’s protests. He’d been able to find Flaüss—now he wondered how coincidentally nearby the Envoy was—gave the Prince over to his care and rushed back to the body. He found a crowd around it—Harald Crabbé, the Comte d’Orkancz, Francis Xonck, others he didn’t know, and finally Robert Vandaariff himself arriving with a crowd of servants. He noticed Svenson and took him aside, questioning him in a low voice, rapidly, about the safety of the Prince, and his condition. When Svenson informed him that the Prince was perfectly well, Vandaariff had sighed with evident relief and wondered if Svenson might be so kind as to inform his daughter—she had guessed some awkward event had happened, but not its exact nature—that the Prince was unscathed and, if it were possible, allow her to see him. Svenson of course obliged the great man, but found Lydia Vandaariff in the company of Arthur Trapping’s wife, Charlotte Xonck, and the woman’s older brother, Henry Xonck, a man whose wealth and influence were surpassed only by Vandaariff and—perhaps, Svenson was dubious—the aging Queen. As Svenson stood stammering out some sort of veiled explanation—an incident in the garden, the Prince’s lack of involvement, no clear explanation—both Xonck siblings began questioning him, openly competing with each other to expose his obvious avoidance of some truth. Svenson fell by habit into the pose of a foreigner who only poorly understood their language, requiring them to repeat as he fruitlessly strove for some story that might satisfy their strangely suspicious reaction, but this only increased their irritation. Henry Xonck had just imperiously stabbed Svenson’s chest with his forefinger when a modestly dressed woman standing behind them—whom he had assumed to be a companion of the mutely smiling Lydia—leaned forward to whisper into Charlotte Xonck’s ear. At once the heiress looked past Svenson’s shoulder, her eyes widening—through her feathered mask—with a sudden glare of dislike. Svenson turned to see the Prince himself, escorted by the smiling Francis Xonck, who ignored his siblings and called gaily for Lydia to rejoin her intended.

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.

“He’s escaped! For a second time!” Flaüss whispered. He wheeled upon Svenson. “You helped him! You had the key!”

“Don’t be an idiot,” muttered Major Blach. “Look at the room. The bureau is solid mahogany—it took the three of us to shift it. It’s impossible that the Prince himself moved it alone and impossible for the Doctor to have helped him—the Doctor would have had to leave the room before the bureau was blocking the doorway.”

Flaüss was silent. Svenson met the gaze of Blach, who was glaring at him. The Major barked out to the men in the hall, “One of you to the gate—find out if the Prince has left the compound, and if he was alone!”

Svenson stepped to the bureau and opened it up, glancing at the contents. “The Prince is wearing his infantry uniform—I do not see it—dark green, a colonel of grenadiers. He fancies it because the badge is of a flaming bomb. I believe it has a sexual significance for him.” They stared at him as if he were speaking French. Svenson stepped to the window and leaned out. Below the window, three stories down, was a raked bed of gravel. “Major Blach, if you’ll send a trusted man to examine the gravel below this window—it will tell us whether a ladder was used—there will be heavy indentations. Of course, a three-story ladder should have attracted attention. Tell me, Herr Flaüss, does the compound possess such a ladder?”

“How should I know?”

“By asking the staff, I expect.”

“And if there is no such ladder?” asked Major Blach.

“Then either one was brought—which should have excited notice at the gate—or some other means were used—a grappling hook. Of course”—he stepped back and examined the plaster around the window frame—“I see no identations, nor any rope remaining by which they may have climbed down.”

“Then how did they get down?” asked Flaüss. Svenson stepped back to the window, leaning out. There was no balcony, no wall of ivy, no nearby tree—indeed, the room had been chosen for this very reason. He turned and looked upwards—it was but two stories to the roof.

As they climbed the stairwell word came to Blach from the gate—the Prince had not been seen, nor had anyone passed in either direction in the last three hours, since the arrival of the Major. Svenson barely took in the trooper’s report, so much was he dreading the inevitable trip to the building’s rooftop. He walked on the inside wall, clutching the rail as casually as possible, his guts positively seething. Ahead of them another trooper was unfolding a staircase from the ceiling of the sixth-floor hallway. Above it was a narrow attic and within the attic a hatchway to the roof. Major Blach strode forward—somewhere a pistol had appeared in his hand—and climbed rapidly, disappearing in the darkness above, followed quickly by Flaüss, more nimble than his stout frame would suggest. Svenson swallowed and climbed deliberately after them, one hand gripping each side of the ladder, choking a heave of nausea as the hinges of the ladder bounced with the shifting weight of each footfall. Feeling like a child, he crawled on his hands and knees onto the rough timbers of the attic floor and looked around him. Flaüss was just pulling himself through the narrow hatchway, his body framed against the sickly glow of the city lights within the fog. With a barely suppressed groan, Doctor Svenson forced himself after them.

When he reached the roof, first on his knees and then, swaying, onto his feet, he saw Major Blach crouching near the edge that must be above the Prince’s bedroom. The Major turned back and called, “The moss on the stone is worn away in several places—the rubbing of a rope or a rope ladder!” He stood and crossed to Flaüss and Svenson, looking around them as he did. He pointed to the nearby rooftops. “What I don’t understand is that none of these seem close enough. I don’t deny the Prince was pulled to the rooftop—but this building rises at least a story above any neighbor. Beyond this, it is a full street’s width in distance in every direction. Unless they employed a circus, I do not see how anyone might have traversed from this rooftop to escape.”

“Perhaps they didn’t,” suggested the Envoy. “Perhaps they merely reentered the building from above.”

“Impossible. The stair to the attic is bolted from inside.”

“Unless someone helped them,” offered the Envoy, slightly peevishly, “from inside.”

“Indeed,” admitted Blach. “In which case, they have still not passed through the gate. My men will search the entire compound at once. Doctor?”

“Mmn?”

“Any thoughts?”

Svenson swallowed, and inhaled the cool night air through his nose, trying to relax. He forced his gaze away from the sky and the open spaces around him, down to the black tarred surface of the roof. “Only…what is that?” he asked.

Flaüss followed his pointing finger and stepped to a small white object. He picked it up and brought his find over to the others.

“That is the butt of a cigarette,” said Major Blach.

Thirty minutes had passed. They had returned to the Prince’s room, where the Major was systematically rooting through each drawer and closet. Flaüss sat in the armchair, brooding, while Svenson stood near the open window, smoking. A complete search of the compound had produced nothing, nor were there any footprints or indentations to be seen in the gravel below the window. Blach had gone back to the rooftop with lanterns, but had found no footprints other than their own—though there were several marks on the side of the building, near where the ropes had worn into the slippery grime along the gutters.

“Perhaps he has merely escaped for an evening of pleasure,” offered the Envoy. He looked darkly at Svenson. “Because of your hounding him earlier—he does not trust us—”

“Do not be a fool,” snapped Major Blach. “This was planned, with or without the Prince’s help—most likely without, if he was insensible as the Doctor describes. At least two men entered the room from above, possibly more—the guard did not hear the bureau being moved, which makes it more likely to be four men—and took the Prince with them. We must assume he has been taken, and must decide how to recover him.”

Major Blach slammed the last drawer closed and turned his gaze to Svenson.

“Yes?” the Doctor asked.

“You found him earlier.”

“I did.”

“So, you will tell me where and how.”

“I applaud your eventual concern,” replied Svenson, his voice tight with disdain. “Do you think it is the same collection of people? Because if so you know who they are—you both know. Will you challenge them? Will you go to Robert Vandaariff in force? To Deputy Minister Crabbé? To the Comte d’Orkancz? To the Xonck ironworks? Or does one of you already know where he is—so we may end this ridiculous charade?”

Svenson was gratified to see that at this both he and the Major were looking at Flaüss.

“I do not know anything!” the Envoy cried. “If we must ask for the help of these august people you name—if they are able to help us—” Doctor Svenson scoffed. Flaüss turned to Major Blach for aid. “The Doctor still has not told us how he located the Prince before. Perhaps he can find him again.”

“There is no mystery to it,” lied Svenson. “I sought out the brothel. Someone in the brothel was able to assist me. The Prince was right around the corner. Apparently Henry Xonck’s generous donations to the Institute provide a certain level of access for his younger brother’s friends.”

“How did you know the brothel?” asked Flaüss.

“Because I know the Prince at least that well—that is not the point! I have told you who he was with. If anyone knows what has happened, it will be they. I cannot confront these figures. It must be you—Herr Flaüss supported by the Major’s men—that is the only way.”

Svenson ground his cigarette into the china cup that had held his coffee so long ago. “This gets us nowhere,” he told them. He picked up his coat and strode from the room.

With no other thought than that he had not eaten in hours, Svenson walked down the stairs to the great kitchen, which was unoccupied. He dug through the cupboards to find a hard cheese, dry sausage, and a loaf of that morning’s bread. He poured himself a glass of pale yellow wine and sat alone at the large work table to think, methodically slicing off a hunk of cheese, a matching thickness of sausage, and piling them onto a piece of bread. After the first bite, realizing the bread was too dry, he got up and found a pot of mustard. He opened it and spooned more than he would normally favor onto the bread and re-stacked the sausage and cheese. He swallowed, and took a sip of wine. A routine established, he ate—the sounds of activity brewing about him in the compound—and tried to decide what to do. The Prince had been taken once, rescued, then taken again—it only followed it was by the same people, for the same reasons. Yet in the front of the Doctor’s mind was the cigarette butt.

Flaüss had given it to him and, after the barest glance, he had handed it back and turned to climb off of the roof with what dignity he could muster—but the glance confirmed the idea that had already formed in his mind. The tip of the butt was crimped in a specific way he’d seen the night before—by a woman’s lacquered cigarette holder—at the St. Royale Hotel. The woman—he took another sip of wine, slipped the monocle from his eye into his breast pocket and rubbed his face—was shockingly, derangingly lovely. She was also dangerous—obviously so—but in such a complete way as to almost be beside notice, as if one were discussing a particular cobra—a description that might include length or color or markings, but never the possession of deadly venom, which was an a priori feature that one could not, he found, take exception to…on the contrary. He sighed and pushed his tired mind to focus, to connect that woman at the hotel to her possible presence on the rooftop. He could not make sense of it, but knew that doing so would lead him to the Prince, and began to meticulously recomb his memory.

Much earlier in the day, when he had realized the Prince had not returned, and then that Flaüss and Blach were gone as well, Svenson had let himself into the Prince’s room and searched it for any possible clue to the Prince’s plans for the evening. In general Karl-Horst was about as cunning as a fairly clever cat or small child. If things were hidden, they were hidden under the mattress or in a shoe, but more likely to be simply tucked into the pocket of the coat he had been wearing and forgotten. Svenson had found embossed books of matches, theatre programs, calling cards, but nothing of any particular, striking nature. He sat on the bed and lit a cigarette, looking around the room, for the moment out of ideas. On the side table next to the bed was a blue glass vase with perhaps ten white lilies stuffed inside, drooping with various degrees of health over the rim. Svenson stared at it. He’d never seen flowers in the Prince’s room before, nor were any similar touches of feminine decoration present in the diplomatic compound. He was unaware of any woman’s presence in the compound at all, now that he thought of it, nor had Karl-Horst ever shown a preference for flowers or, for that matter, beauty. Perhaps they were a gift from Lydia Vandaariff. Perhaps some shred of affection had actually penetrated Karl-Horst’s pageant of appetite.

Svenson frowned and scooted closer to the side table, peering at the vase. He wiped his monocle and looked closer—the glass was somewhat artistic, with a slightly irregular surface and occasional deliberate flaws, whorls, or bubbles. He frowned again—was there something in it? He snatched a towel from the Prince’s shaving table and laid it on the bed, and then gathered the lilies with both hands and placed them dripping on the towel. He picked up the vase and held it to the light. There was something in it, another piece of glass perhaps, deflecting the light passing through, though it itself seemed invisible. Svenson put the vase down and pushed up his sleeve. He reached in, groped for a moment—the thing was quite slippery—and extracted a small rectangle of blue glass, approximately the size of a calling card. He wiped it and his hand on the towel and studied it. Within seconds, as if he had been struck with a hammer, Svenson was on his knees—shaking his head, dizzy, having nearly dropped the glass card in surprise.

He looked again.

It was like entering someone else’s dream. After a moment the blue cast of the glass vanished as if he had pierced a veil…he was staring into a room—a dark, comfortable room with a great red sofa and hanging chandeliers and luxurious carpets—and then, which was why he had nearly dropped it the first time—the image moved, as if he was walking, or standing and turning his gaze about the salon—and he saw people, people who were looking right at him. He could hear nothing save the sound of his own breath, but his mind had otherwise fully entered the space of these images—moving images—like photographs but not like them also, at once more vivid and less sharp, more fully dimensional and incomprehensibly infused with sensation, with the feel of a silken dress, petticoats bunched up around a woman’s legs, her satin flesh beneath the petticoats and then of a man stepping between her legs, sensing her smile somehow as his body fumblingly found its position. Her head leaned back over the top of the sofa—for he saw the ceiling and felt her hair hanging around her face and throat—a face that was masked, he realized—and then the sensation in her loins—luscious, exquisite—as, quite clearly—from the liquid sensations shuddering through Svenson’s own body—the man was penetrating her. Then the image turned slightly, as the woman’s head turned, and just visible against the wall behind her was part of a large wall mirror. For a sharp second, Svenson saw the reflection of the man’s face and the back of the room beyond him. The man, perfectly plainly, was Karl-Horst von Maasmärck.

The woman was not Lydia Vandaariff, but someone with brown hair. In the glimpse of the room beyond the Prince, Svenson had been shocked to see other people—spectators?—and something else beyond them—an open door? a window?—but he let it be and with more effort than he expected wrenched his gaze from the card. What was he looking at? He looked down at himself with a spasm of shame—he had become quite aroused. What’s more—he forced his mind to think clearly—he had been aware of moments within the interaction that he had not actually seen…the woman touching herself, both for pleasure and to gauge her lubrication, Karl-Horst fumbling with his trousers, and the moment of penetration itself…all of these, he realized, came from the point of view, the experiential point of view, of the woman—though the moments themselves had not been seen at all. With a breath of preparation he fixed his eyes again on the glass card, sinking into it as if he was entering a deep pool: first the bare sofa, then the woman pulling up her dress, then the Prince stepping between her legs, the coupling itself, the woman turning her head, the mirror, the reflection, and then, a moment later, the view was again the bare sofa—and then the entire scene was repeated…and then repeated again.

Svenson put down the card. His breath was rapid. What was he holding? It was as if the essence of this woman’s feeling had been captured and somehow infused into this tiny window. And who was the woman? Who were the spectators? When had this happened? And who had instructed the Prince on where and how to hide it? He watched it again and found that he was able, with intense concentration, to slow the progress of movement, to dwell in a particular instant, with almost unbearably delicious results. With a firm resolve he pushed himself on to the moment with the mirror, studying the reflection closely. He was able to discern that the figures—perhaps ten men and women—were also masked, but he recognized none of them. He nudged himself onward and saw, in the last instants, an open doorway—someone must have been leaving the room—and through it a window, perhaps distant, with something written on it, in reverse, the letters E-L-A. At first, this made him think he was looking out from a tavern—the word “ale” being an advertisement—but the more he thought of the luxury of the room, and the elegance of the party, and the distance between the door and the lettered window the less a tavern or even restaurant seemed likely.

His thinking stalled for a moment and then he suddenly had it. A hotel. The St. Royale.

Within five minutes Svenson was in a coach, wheeling toward what was perhaps the most esteemed hotel in the city, in the heart of the Circus Garden, the card and his revolver in separate pockets of his coat. He was no creature of luxury or privilege—he could only adopt the haughty manner of those he knew from the Macklenburg court and hope he found people able to help, either through natural sympathy or by intimidation. His initial intention was merely to locate the Prince and assure himself of the fool’s safety. Beyond this, if he could gain any insight into the origin and construction of the glass card, he would be very interested, for it confirmed how yet again Karl-Horst was mixing with figures whose ambitions he did not comprehend. While Svenson had an immediate carnal appreciation for the lurid possibilities of such an invention, he knew the true import was more far-reaching, well beyond his own too deliberate imagination.

He entered the St. Royale’s bright lobby and casually glanced at the front windows, locating the letters he had seen reflected. They were to his left, and as he walked toward them he attempted to place the doorway through which the window had been seen. He could not. The wall where it ought to have been was flush and apparently seamless. He crossed to it, leaned against the wall, and took his time digging out a cigarette and lighting it, looking closely but to no avail. Hanging on the wall near him was a large mirror in a heavy gold frame. He stood in front of it, seeing his own frustration. The mirror itself was large, but it did not reach closer than three feet to the floor—it could hardly conceal an entrance. Svenson sighed and looked around him in the lobby—guests walked in and out or sat on the various leather banquettes. Not knowing what else to do, he crossed toward the main desk. As he passed the large stairwell to the upper stories he stepped out of his way to allow two women to more easily descend, nodding to them politely. As he did so his mind suddenly reeled with the fragrance of sandalwood. He looked up in shock, taking in one woman’s light brown hair, the delicate nape of her neck as she passed. It was the woman from the glass card—he was sure of it—so strong was the resonance of her perfume, despite the fact that Svenson knew he had never smelled it before, and certainly did not smell it within the card. Nevertheless, the precise interaction of that perfume and this woman’s body was something he was as intimately familiar with—he could not say how—as the woman must be herself.

The two women had continued toward the hotel’s restaurant. Doctor Svenson darted after them, catching up just before they reached the entrance, and cleared his throat. They turned. He was taken aback to see the woman with brown hair’s face was disfigured by a thin looping burn that wrapped around both of her eyes and onto each temple. She wore an elegant dress of pale blue, her skin was quite fair and otherwise unblemished, her lips were painted red. Her companion was shorter than she, hair a darker brown, face a trifle more round; in her own way equally appealing, yet bearing the same distressing scars. She wore a striped dress of imperial yellow and pale green, with a high lace collar. Under the full beam of their attention, Svenson abruptly began to grope for his words. He had never been married, he had never lived around women at all—it was a sad fact that Doctor Svenson was more comfortable at the side of a corpse than a living female.

“I beg your pardon, ladies—if I might intrude upon a moment of your time?”

They stared at him without speaking. He plunged on. “My name is Abelard Svenson—I am hoping you may assist me. I am a doctor. I am presently searching for a person under my care—a very important person, about whom, you will understand, all inquiries must be discreet.”

They persisted in staring. The woman from the card smiled slightly, a brief flicker of interest at the corner of her mouth. Her gaze dropped to his greatcoat, the epaulettes and high collar.

“Are you a soldier?” she asked.

“I am a doctor, as I say, though I am an officer in the Macklenburg Navy—Captain-Surgeon Svenson, if you insist—detailed to special duties for”—his voice lowered—“diplomatic reasons.”

“Macklenburg?” asked the other woman.

“Indeed. It is a German principality on the Baltic coast.”

“You do have an accent,” she said, and then giggled. “Is there not such a thing as Macklenburg Pudding?”

“Is there?” asked the Doctor.

“Of course there is,” the first woman said. “It has raisins, and cream, and a particular blend of spice—aniseed and cloves—”

“And ground-up hazelnuts,” said the other. “Sprinkled on the top.”

The Doctor nodded at them, at a loss. “I’m afraid I do not know it.”

“I should not worry,” said the first woman, indulgently patting his arm. “Doesn’t your eye get tired?”

They were looking at his monocle. He smiled quickly and adjusted it. “I suppose it must,” he said. “I am so used to the thing, I no longer notice.” They were still smiling, though Lord knows he had not been witty or charming—for some reason they had decided to accept him—he did his best to seize the opportunity. He nodded to the restaurant. “I presume you were about to dine. If I might share a glass of wine with you, it would be more than enough time to aid me on my quest.”

“A quest?” said the woman from the card. “How diverting. I am Mrs. Marchmoor, my companion is Miss Poole.”

Svenson offered an arm to each of the ladies and stepped between them—despite himself enjoying the feelings of physical contact, shifting his step slightly so the pistol in his pocket did not grind against Miss Poole. “I am most grateful for your kindness,” he said, and led them forward.

Once inside, however, the women guided him past several available tables to the far side of the restaurant, where a line of discreet doors concealed private dining rooms. A waiter opened a door for them, the women disengaging themselves from Svenson’s arms and entering one after the other. Svenson nodded to the waiter and followed. As the door clicked shut behind him he realized that the room was already occupied. At the far end of a table elegantly laid with linen, china, silver, crystal, and flowers sat—or more accurately presided—a tall woman with black hair and piercing violet eyes. She wore a small black jacket over a red silk dress, subtly embroidered in yellow thread with Chinese scenes. She looked up at Svenson with a smile he recognized as neutrally polite but which nevertheless caused his breath to catch. He met her gaze and nodded respectfully. She took a sip of wine, still gazing at him. The two others had moved to either side of the table to sit adjacent to the woman in red. Svenson stood awkwardly at his end—the table was large enough for at least three people on each side—until Mrs. Marchmoor leaned forward to whisper into the woman in red’s ear. The woman nodded and smiled at him more broadly. Svenson felt himself blushing.

“Doctor Svenson, please sit, and avail yourself of a glass of wine. It is very good, I find. I am Madame Lacquer-Sforza. Mrs. Marchmoor tells me you are on a quest.”

Miss Poole passed a bottle of wine on a silver dish to Svenson. He took the bottle and poured for himself and the other ladies.

“I am very sorry to intrude—as I was about to explain to these two ladies—”

“It is very strange,” wondered Madame Lacquer-Sforza, “that you should choose to ask them. Was there a reason? Are you acquainted?”

The ladies giggled at the thought. Svenson was quick to speak. “Of course not—you will understand that in asking them for help I am revealing the desperate nature of my search. In brief—as I have said—I am in the diplomatic service of the Duchy of Macklenburg, specifically to my Duke’s son and heir, Prince Karl-Horst von Maasmärck. He is known to have patronized this hotel. I am looking for him. It is perhaps foolish, but if any of you ladies—for I know the Prince has a great appreciation for such beauty—had perhaps seen him, or heard of his passage, and could direct me toward his present location, I should be very much obliged.”

They smiled at him, sipping their wine. His face was flushed, he felt hot, and took a drink himself, gulping too much at once and coughing. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and cleared his throat, feeling like a twelve-year-old.

“Doctor, please, sit down.” He’d no idea he was still standing. Madame Lacquer-Sforza smiled at him as he did, stopping half-way to stand again and remove his coat, laying it over the chair to his right. He raised his glass again. “Thank you once more for your kindness. I have no wish to intrude any more than necessary into your evening—”

“Tell me, Doctor,” asked Mrs. Marchmoor, “is it often that you lose the Prince? Or is he such a man who needs…minding? And is such an office fitting for an officer and a surgeon?”

The women chuckled. Svenson waved his hand, drinking more wine to steady himself—his palms were slick, his collar hot against his neck. “No, no, it is an extraordinary circumstance, we have received a particular communication from the Duke himself, and at this moment neither the Mission Envoy nor our military attaché happens to be present—nor, of course, is the Prince. With no other knowledge of his agenda, I have taken it upon myself to search—as the message requires swift reply.” He wanted urgently to mop his face but did not. “May I ask if you know of the Prince? He has spoken often of dining at the St. Royale, so you may have seen him—or you may have become acquainted with him yourselves; indeed, he is—if I may be so bold—a man for—excuse me—lovely women.”

He took another drink. They did not answer. Miss Poole had leaned over and was whispering into Madame Lacquer-Sforza’s ear. She nodded. Miss Poole sat back and took another sip of wine. Mrs. Marchmoor was watching him. He could not help it—as he looked into her eyes he felt a flicker of pleasure, recalling—from his own memory!—the inside of her thighs. He swallowed and cleared his throat. “Mrs. Marchmoor, do you know the Prince?”

Before she could answer, the door behind them opened and two men entered. Svenson shot to his feet, turning to face them, though neither spared him a glance. The first was a tall, lean man with a high forehead and close-cropped hair in a red uniform with yellow facing and black boots, the rank of a colonel marked by his epaulettes sewn into his collar. He had handed the waiter his coat and brass helmet and crossed directly to Madame Lacquer-Sforza, taking her hand and bending over to kiss it. He nodded to each of the other women and took a seat next to Mrs. Marchmoor, who was already pouring him a glass of wine. The second man walked to the other side of the table, past Svenson, to sit next to Miss Poole. He took Madame Lacquer-Sforza’s hand after the Colonel, but with less self-importance, and sat. He poured his own glass and took a healthy swig without ceremony. His hair was pale but streaked with grey, long and greasy, combed back behind his ears. His coat was fine enough but unkempt—in fact the man’s whole appearance gave the impression of a once-cherished article—a sofa, for example—that had been left in the rain and partially ruined. Svenson had seen men like him at his university, and wondered if this man was some kind of scholar, and if so what he was possibly doing among this party.

Madame Lacquer-Sforza spoke. “Colonel Aspiche and Doctor Lorenz, I am pleased to introduce you to Doctor Svenson, from the Duchy of Macklenburg, part of Prince Karl-Horst von Maasmärck’s diplomatic party. Doctor Svenson, Colonel Aspiche is the new commander of the 4th regiment of Dragoons, recently made the Prince’s Own—it is quite a promotion—and Doctor Lorenz is an august member of the Royal Institute of Science and Exploration.”

Svenson nodded to them both and raised his glass. Lorenz took it as another opportunity to drink deeply, finishing his glass and pouring another. Aspiche fixed Svenson with a particularly searching eye. Svenson knew he was looking at Trapping’s replacement—he had recognized the uniform at once—and knew the man must feel self-conscious for the circumstances of his promotion—if not, considering the missing body, for other more telling reasons as well. Svenson decided to probe the wound.

“I have had the honor of meeting Colonel Aspiche’s unfortunate predecessor, Colonel Trapping, in the company of my Prince—on the very evening the Colonel seems to have vanished. I do hope for the sake of his family—if not a grateful nation as well—that the mystery of his disappearance will soon be solved.”

“We are all quite grieved by the loss,” muttered Aspiche.

“It must be difficult assuming command in such circumstances.”

Aspiche glared at him. “A soldier does what is necessary.”

“Doctor Lorenz,” interrupted Madame Lacquer-Sforza easily, “I believe you have visited Macklenburg.”

“I have,” he answered—his voice was sullen and proud, like a once-whipped dog caught between rebellion and fear of another lashing. “It was winter. Cold and dark is all I can say for it.”

“What brought you there?” asked Svenson, politely.

“I’m sure I don’t remember,” answered Lorenz, speaking into his glass.

“They have excellent puddings,” giggled Miss Poole, her laugh echoed across the table by Mrs. Marchmoor. Svenson took the moment to study that woman’s face. What had seemed at first to be burns struck him now as something else—the skin was not taut like a scar, but instead strangely discolored, as if eaten by a delicate acid perhaps, or scorched by a particularly harsh sunburn, or even a kind of impermanent tattoo—something with diluted henna? But it could not have been intentional—it was quite disfiguring—and he immediately pulled his eyes away, not wishing to stare. He met the gaze of Madame Lacquer-Sforza, who had been watching him.

“Doctor Svenson,” she called. “Are you a man who likes games?”

“That would depend entirely on the game, Madame. I am not one for gambling, if that is what you mean.”

“Perhaps it is. What of you others—Colonel Aspiche?”

Aspiche looked up, he had not been listening. With shock, Svenson realized that Mrs. Marchmoor’s right hand was not visible, but that the angle of her arm placed it squarely in the Colonel’s lap. Aspiche cleared his throat and frowned with concentration. Mrs. Marchmoor—and for that matter, Madame Lacquer-Sforza—watched him with a blithely innocent interest.

“Gambling is part of a man’s true blood,” he announced. “Or at least a soldier’s. Nothing can be gained without the willingness to lose—all or part. Even in the greatest victory lives will be spent. At a certain level of practice, refusal to gamble becomes one with cowardice.” He took a sip of wine, shifted in his seat—pointedly not looking at Mrs. Marchmoor, whose hand had not returned above the table top—and turned to Svenson. “I do not cast aspersions on you, Doctor, for your point of emphasis must be the saving of life—on preservation.”

Madame Lacquer-Sforza nodded gravely and turned to the other man. “Doctor Lorenz?”

Lorenz was attempting to see through the table top, staring at the point above Aspiche’s lap, as if by concentration he might remove the barrier. Without averting his gaze the savant took another drink—Svenson was impressed by the man’s self-absorption—and muttered, “In truth, games are an illusion, for there are only percentages of chance, quite predictable if one has the patience, the mathematics. Indeed there may be risk, for possibility allows for different results, but the probabilities are easily known, and over time the intelligent game player will accrue winnings exactly to the degree that he—or indeed, she”—and here he cast a glance at Madame Lacquer-Sforza—“acts in conjunction with rational knowledge.”

He took another drink. As he did, Miss Poole blew into his ear. Doctor Lorenz choked with surprise and spat wine across the table top. The others burst into laughter. Miss Poole picked up a napkin and wiped Lorenz’s blushing face. Madame Lacquer-Sforza poured more wine into his glass. Svenson saw that Colonel Aspiche’s left hand was no longer visible, and then noted Mrs. Marchmoor shifting slightly in her seat. Svenson swallowed—what was he doing here? Again he met the eyes of Madame Lacquer-Sforza, watching him take in the table with a smile.

“And you, Madame?” he said. “We have not heard your opinion. I assume you raised the topic for a reason.”

“Such a German, Doctor—so direct and ‘to zee business.’” She took a sip of wine and smiled. “For my part, it is very simple. I never gamble with anything I care for, but will gamble to fierce extremes with everything that I don’t. Of course, I am fortunate in that I care for very little, and thus the by far greater part of the world becomes for me infused with a sense of…for lack of a better word, play. But serious play, I do assure you.”

Her gaze was fixed on Svenson, her expression placid, amused. He did not understand what was happening in the room. To his left, Colonel Aspiche and Mrs. Marchmoor were openly groping each other beneath the table. To his right, Miss Poole was licking Doctor Lorenz’s ear, the Doctor breathing heavily and sucking on his lower lip, both hands clutching his wineglass so hard it threatened to crack. Svenson looked back at Madame Lacquer-Sforza. She was ignoring the others. He realized that they had already been dealt with—they had been dealt with before they’d even arrived. Her attention was on him. He had been allowed to enter for a reason.

“You know me, Madame,…as you know my Prince.”

“Perhaps I do.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“I know where he might be.”

“Will you tell me?”

“Perhaps. Do you care for him?”

“Such is my duty.”

She smiled. “Doctor, I’m afraid I require you to be honest.”

Svenson swallowed. Aspiche had his eyes shut, breathing heavily. Miss Poole had two of her fingers in Lorenz’s mouth.

“He’s an embarrassment,” he said rapidly. “I would pay money to thrash him raw.”

Madame Lacquer-Sforza beamed. “Much better.”

“Madame, I do not know what your intent is—”

“I merely propose an exchange. I am looking for someone—so are you.”

“I must find my Prince at once.”

“Yes, and if—afterwards—you are in a position to help me, I will take it very kindly.”

Svenson’s mind rebelled against the entire situation—the others seemed nearly insensible—but could find no immediate reason to refuse. He searched her open violet eyes, found them perfectly impenetrable, and swallowed.

“Who is it you wish to find?”

The air in the Institute laboratory had been pungent with ozone, burning rubber, and a particular odor Svenson did not recognize—a cross between sulfur, sodium, and the iron smell of scorched blood. The Prince had been slumped in a large chair, Crabbé to one side of him, Francis Xonck to the other. Across the room stood the Comte d’Orkancz, wearing a leather apron and leather gauntlets that covered his arms to the elbow, a half-open metal door beyond him—had they just carried Karl-Horst from there? Svenson had brandished the pistol and removed the Prince, who was conscious enough to stand and stumble, but apparently unable to talk or—to Svenson’s good fortune—protest. At the base of the stairs he had seen the strange figure in red, who had motioned him on his way. This man had seemed to be intruding as much as Svenson—he had been armed—but there had been no time to spare. The guards had followed to the courtyard, even to the street where he’d been lucky enough to find a coach. It was only back at the compound, in the bright gaslight of the Prince’s room—away from the dim corridors and the dark coach—that he’d seen the circular burns. At the time he’d been too occupied with determining the Prince’s condition, then with Flaüss’s interruption, to work through the connections between the private room at the St. Royale and the Institute laboratory—much less to Trapping’s disappearance at the Vandaariff mansion. Now, sitting at the kitchen table, hearing around him the preparations for an expedition into the city, he knew it could no longer wait.

He had said nothing more to Blach or Flaüss—he didn’t trust them, and was only happy they were leaving together, as they didn’t trust each other either. Obviously Madame Lacquer-Sforza was connected to Mrs. Marchmoor, who had undergone the same process of scarring as the Prince. Then why had Svenson been allowed to break up the procedure? And if Madame Lacquer-Sforza was not in league with the men at the Institute, then what of the blue glass card—depicting a scene clearly taking place at the St. Royale, which must tie her to the plot. Svenson rubbed his eyes, forcing himself back to the immediate point. Which of these two—Crabbé’s cabal or Madame Lacquer-Sforza—had the reason or the means to extract the Prince immaculately from the compound rooftop?

He finished the wine in a swallow and pushed his chair from the table. Above him the compound seemed quiet. Without thinking he returned the food to its locker and placed the glass and knife on the counter to be cleaned. He took out another cigarette, lit it with a kitchen match, and threw the match into the stove. Svenson inhaled, then frowned as he picked a bit of tobacco off of his tongue. The name she had given him, Isobel Hastings, was unknown to him. He knew nothing of the habits of this city’s whores—aside from those met in the process of fetching the incapacitated Prince—but he didn’t think that mattered. If she was choosing to enlist a man like him it must be in addition to others searching who knew the city and its people. This also meant these searchers had failed, and her information was wrong. He pushed the matter aside—it was hardly something she could expect him to waste time on at the moment—no matter what he had bargained.

Svenson walked up into the courtyard, slipping on his coat as he walked, transferring his medical bag from hand to hand as he inserted his arms. He stood in the open air and buttoned it with one hand, looking up. The compound was quiet. They had left without a word to him. He knew he must search on his own, but could not decide where to go. The Prince would not be at the St. Royale—if only because Svenson had openly searched there the night before—nor would he be at the Institute for the same reason. He shook his head, knowing that equally the St. Royale or the Institute might indeed be the perfect place to hide him—both were enormous—precisely because they had been searched. Further, if the cabal had taken him, the Prince could be anywhere—between them Crabbé and Xonck must have hundreds of places a man could be housed unseen. Svenson could not search for the Prince himself and hope to find him. He must find one of these people and force them to speak.

He walked to the gate, nodded to the guard and stood in the street, waiting to flag an empty coach, running the options through his mind. He rejected Vandaariff—Blach and Flaüss were already seeing him—as he rejected Madame Lacquer-Sforza. He frankly could not trust himself to confront her with the violence he worried would be necessary. This left Crabbé, Xonck, and the Comte d’Orkancz. He dismissed others on the periphery—the other women, Aspiche, Lorenz, Crabbé’s aide. Any attempt with these would take more time, and he had no idea where to find them. The Prince, however, had dined at the homes of Crabbé, the Comte, and Xonck, and Svenson had scrupulously memorized his calendar and thus their addresses. The Doctor sighed and fastened his topmost button around the collar. It was well after midnight, cold, and the road was empty. If he had to walk it would be to the nearest of the three: Harald Crabbé’s house at Hadrian Square.

It took him half an hour, walking quickly to keep warm. The fog was thick, the surface of the city cold and moist, but Svenson found it comforting, for this was the weather of his home. When he reached Hadrian Square the house was dark. Svenson climbed the steps and rapped on the door knocker, number 14. He stuck his right hand into his coat pocket, closing his fingers around the revolver. No one answered. He knocked again. Nothing. He walked back to the street and then around the nearest corner. There was an alley providing service access to the square’s back entrances, fronted by a barred, locked gate. The lock was undone. Svenson stepped through and crept down the narrow lane.

Crabbé’s house was the middle of three. The fog forced Svenson to walk slowly and approach ridiculously close to the buildings before he could tell where one stopped and the other started, much less locate the rear door. There were no lights. Gazing up at the windows, Svenson nearly tripped over an abandoned wheelbarrow, biting back a cry of surprise. He rubbed his knee. Beyond the wheelbarrow was a set of stone steps leading down to a cellar, or perhaps to a kitchen. He looked up—it ought to be Crabbé’s house. He gripped the revolver in his pocket and crept down to the door, which was ajar. He silently pulled out the gun and lowered himself to a crouch. He swallowed, and pushed the door open. No one shot him, which he considered a good start to a new career of house-breaking.

The room beyond was dark and silent. Svenson crept in, leaving the door open. He replaced the pistol in his pocket and reached into another for matches. He struck one off his thumb—the flaring match head extremely loud in the quiet night—and quickly looked around him. He stood in a storage room. On the walls were jars and boxes and tins and bales, around his feet were crates, casks, barrels—on the far side of the room was another set of stairs. Svenson blew out the match, dropped it, and padded toward them. He once more removed the revolver from his coat, and climbed the stairs, one painful step at a time. They did not creak. At the top of the stairs was another door, wide open. As his head rose on the steps he looked through it, but saw nothing—the match had destroyed his night vision. He listened, and took a moment to assess what he was doing—how foolish and perilous it seemed. If he could have thought of another path, he would have taken it. As it was, he dearly hoped he would not be forced to shoot any heroic servants, or cause Mrs. Crabbé—was there a Mrs. Crabbé?—to scream. He stepped from the staircase into a hallway, walking forward slowly, debating whether or not to risk another match. He sighed and once more stuffed away the pistol—the last thing he wanted to do was blunder into some porcelain lamp or display of china—and fished out another match.

He heard voices, below him in the storage room.

Moving quickly, Svenson struck the match, shielding it as well as he could with his other hand—which held the medical bag—and strode quietly and directly down the hall to the nearest door and through it. He was in the kitchen, and on the table in front of him was a dead man he did not recognize, covered save for his livid face by a cloth. Svenson spun behind him—footsteps coming up the stairs—and saw on the other side of the kitchen another door. The match was burning his fingers. He dodged around the table and through a swinging doorway. He just saw a quick glimpse of a dining table before he shook out the match. He dropped it, stuck the burned finger into his mouth, stilled the door, and crept to the far side of the table, sinking to the floor. He pulled out the pistol. The footsteps reached the kitchen. He heard the voices of two men, and then the distinct pop of a bottle being uncorked.

“There we are,” said the first voice, one that seemed eminently pleased with itself. “I told you he’d have something worthwhile—where are glasses?” In answer there was clinking, more clinking, and then the dook dook sounds of wine being poured—a substantial amount of wine. The first man spoke again. “Do you think we can risk a light?”

“The Deputy Minister—” began the second voice.

“Yes, I know—all right—and it’s just as well. I don’t want to look at this fellow any more than I already have. What a waste of time. When is he supposed to be here?”

“The messenger said he had a prior errand before he could meet us.”

The first man sighed. Svenson heard the sound of a match—an orange glow flickering under the door—and then the puffing of a man lighting a cigar.

“Do you want one, Bascombe?” the first man asked. Svenson searched his memory. He’d met or overheard the introductions of so many people in the last weeks—had there been a Bascombe? Perhaps, but he couldn’t place him—if he could just see the man…

“No, thank you, Sir,” replied Bascombe.

“I’m not ‘Sir’,” the first man laughed. “Leave that for Crabbé, or the Comte, though I daresay you’ll be one of them soon enough. How does that feel?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. It’s happening very quickly.”

“The best temptations always do, eh?”

Bascombe did not respond, and they were silent for a time, drinking. Svenson could smell the cigar. It was an excellent cigar. Svenson licked his lips. He wanted a cigarette desperately. He did not recognize either of the voices.

“Have you had much experience with corpses?” asked the first voice, with a trace of amusement.

“This is actually my first, in such close quarters,” answered the second, with an air that told Svenson the man knew he was being goaded, but must make the best of it. “My father died when I was much younger—”

“And your uncle of course. Did you see his body?”

“I did not. I have not yet—I will of course—at the funeral.”

“You grow used to it like anything. Ask any doctor, or soldier.” Svenson heard more sounds of pouring. “All right, what’s after corpses…what about women?”

“Beg pardon?”

The man chuckled. “Oh, don’t be such a boiled trout—no wonder Crabbé favors you. You’re not married?”

“No.”

“Engaged?”

“No.” The voice hesitated. “There was—but no, never so significant an attachment. As I say, all of these changes have come quickly—”

“Brothels, then, I assume? Or schoolgirls?”

“No, no,” Bascombe said, with a professionally patient tone that Svenson recognized as the hallmark of a skilled courtier, “as I say, my own feelings have always, well, always been in service to obligation—”

“My goodness—so it’s boys?”

“Mr. Xonck!” snapped the voice, perhaps less appalled than exasperated.

“I am merely asking. Besides, when you’ve traveled as much as I have, things stop surprising you. In Vienna for example, there is a prison you may visit for a small fee, as one would visit a zoo, you know—but for only a few more silver pfennigs—”

“But, Mr. Xonck, surely—I beg your pardon—our present business—”

“Didn’t the Process teach you anything?”

Here the younger man paused, taking in that this might be a more serious question than the bantering tone implied.

“Of course,” he said, “it was transforming—”

“Then have some more wine.”

Had this been the right answer? Svenson heard the gurgling bottle as Francis Xonck began to hold forth. “Moral perspective is what we carry around with us—it exists nowhere else, I can promise you. Do you see? There is liberation and responsibility—for what is natural depends on where you are, Bascombe. Moreover, vices are like genitals—most are ugly to behold, and yet we find that our own are dear to us.” He sniggered at his own wit, drank deeply, exhaled. “But I suppose you have no vices, do you? Well, once you’ve changed your hat and become Lord Tarr, sitting on the only deposit of indigo clay within five hundred miles, I daresay you’ll find they appear soon enough—I speak from experience. Find yourself some tuppable tea cozy to marry and keep your house and then do what you want elsewhere. My brother, for example…”

Bascombe laughed once, somewhat bitterly.

“What is it?” asked Xonck.

“Nothing.”

“I do insist.”

Bascombe sighed. “It is nothing—merely that, only last week, I was still—as I said, not significant—you see, one can only smile at how easy it is to believe—believe so deeply—”

“Wait, wait—if you’re going to tell a story, then we need another bottle. Come on.”

Their footsteps moved out of the kitchen, to the hall, and soon Svenson heard them descending the cellar stairs. He didn’t feel he could risk slipping past—he had no idea where the wine cellar actually was, or how long they would be. He could try to find the front door—but knew he was in the perfect position to learn more where he was, as long as he wasn’t discovered. Suddenly Svenson had it. Bascombe! He was Crabbé’s aide—a thin, youngish fellow, never spoke, always paying attention—he was about to be a Lord? Chiding himself Svenson realized he was wasting the most immediate source of information of all. He dug out another match and pushed silently through the swinging door. He listened—they were well out of hearing—struck the match and looked down at the dead man on the table.

He was perhaps forty years old, hair thin, clean-shaven, with a sharp pointed nose. His face was covered with red blotches, vivid despite the pallor of death, lips stretched back in a grimace, revealing a mouth half-full of tobacco-stained teeth. Working quickly as the match burned, Svenson pulled back the sheet and could not help but gasp. The man’s arms, from the elbows down, were riven with veins of lurid, jagged, gleaming blue, bulging out from the skin, cutting through it. At first glance the veins looked wet, but Svenson was shocked to realize that they were in fact glass—and that they ran down through the man’s forearms, thickening, seething into and stiffening the flesh around them. He pulled the cloth farther and dropped the match with surprise. The man had no hands. His wrists were completely blue, starred, and broken—as if the hands below them had shattered.

The footsteps returned below. Svenson whipped the cloth into place and retreated to the dining room, carefully stilling the swinging door, his mind reeling at what he’d just seen. Within moments he heard the men in the hall and then entering the kitchen.

“Another glass there, Bascombe,” called Xonck, and then to a third man, “I’m assuming you will join us—or me, at least—Bascombe doesn’t quite share my thirst. Always watching from a distance, aren’t you, Roger?”

“If you insist,” muttered the new voice. Svenson stopped breathing. It was Major Blach. Svenson slowly slipped his right hand around the butt of the revolver.

“Excellent.” Xonck extracted the cork from the new bottle with a pop and poured. He drank, and Svenson could hear him emit little noises of pleasure as he did. “It’s very good—isn’t it? Damn—my cigar seems to have gone out.” Svenson saw the light of a match flare. While it burned, Xonck chatted on. “Why don’t we give him a peek—get the cloth, Bascombe. There you go—in all his glory. Well, Major, what do you say?”

There was no response. After a moment the match went out. Xonck chuckled. “That’s more or less what we said too. I think old Crabbé said ‘bloody hell!’ Except of course it’s not bloody at all.” Xonck cackled. “Find relief where you can, that’s what I say.”

“What has happened to him?” asked Blach.

“What do you think? He’s dead. He was rather valuable, don’t you know—rather skilled in the technical mechanics. It’s a good thing there’s still Lorenz—if there is still Lorenz—because, Major, I’m not quite certain you understand exactly who’s responsible for this damned outright catastrophe. It is you, Major. It is you because you could not locate one disreputable ruffian who was thus free to disrupt our work at its most delicate moment. Just as you could not control the members of your own diplomatic mission—I assume you know the man who took back the Prince, waving a pistol in our faces—which would be laughable if it didn’t create problems for everyone else to solve!”

“Mr. Xonck—” began Major Blach.

“Shut your foul foreign mouth,” snarled Xonck coldly. “I don’t want excuses. I want thoughts. Think about your problems. Then tell us what you’re going to do about them.”

Except for the clink of Xonck’s glass, there was silence. Svenson was astonished. He’d never heard Blach spoken to in such a way, nor could he have imagined Blach reacting with anything but rage.

Blach cleared his throat. “To begin—”

“First, Major,” and it was Bascombe speaking, not Xonck, “there is the man from your compound, the Prince’s Doctor, I believe?”

“Yes,” hissed Blach. “He is not a factor. I will go back tonight and have him smothered in his bed—blame it on anything—no one will care—”

“Second,” interrupted Bascombe, “the disruptive man in red.”

“Chang—he is called Cardinal Chang,” said Blach.

“He is Chinese?” asked Bascombe.

“No,” snarled Blach—Svenson could hear Xonck snickering. “He has been—he is called that because of scars—apparently—I have not seen them. He escaped from us. He has killed one of my men and seriously injured two more. He is nothing but a vicious criminal without imagination or understanding. I have men posted across his usual haunts as they have been described to us—he will be taken soon, and—”

“Brought to me,” said Xonck.

“As you wish.”

“Third,” continued Bascombe, “the female spy, Isobel Hastings.”

“We have not found her. No one has found her.”

“She must be somewhere, Major,” said Bascombe.

“She is unknown at the brothels I was directed to—”

“Then try a hotel!” cried Xonck. “Try the rooming houses!”

“I do not know the city as you do—”

“Next!” barked Xonck.

“And fourth,” continued Bascombe smoothly—Svenson had to admire the man’s coolness of manner, “we must arrange for the return of your Prince.”

Svenson listened—this would be what he was waiting for—but there was only silence…and then Blach’s sputtering rage.

“What are you talking about?” he fumed.

“It is quite simple—there is a great deal of work yet to be done. Before the marriage, before anyone may return to Macklenburg—”

“No, no—why are you saying this? You have already taken him—without notifying me! You have taken him hours ago!”

No one spoke. Blach rapidly explained what had happened at the compound—the escape to the roof, the furniture against the door—then how he and Flaüss had just now left complaints and a request for aid with Lord Vandaariff, who had promised to do what he could. “Of course, all the time I assumed he had been taken by you,” said Blach, “though I have no idea how it was done.”

Once more there was silence.

“We do not have your Prince,” said Xonck, in a quiet, calm voice. “All right—fifth, Blach, you will continue in your efforts to find this Chang and this Hastings woman. We will find the Prince. Bascombe will be in touch. Sixth…yes, and sixth…” He took a moment to toss off the last of his wine. “You can help us get poor Crooner out of Mrs. Crabbé’s kitchen. They should have something ready by now at the river. We will take your coach.”

Twenty minutes later Svenson stood in the kitchen alone, looking down at the now empty table, smoking a cigarette. He opened his medical kit and rummaged inside for an empty glass jar and pulled out the cork. He lit a match and leaned over the table, looking closely. It took several matches until he found what he wanted, a small flaking of what looked like blue glass. Using a tiny swab he brushed the glass bits into the jar, inserted the cork and stowed it back into his bag. He had no idea what it was, but was certain that a comparison with the Prince’s glass card would be useful. He snapped the medical kit shut. He could not return to the compound. He did not know how long he could stay where he was—he should probably be gone already. At least he knew who his enemies were, or some of them—neither Xonck nor Bascombe had mentioned Madame Lacquer-Sforza. Svenson wondered if she could be responsible for taking the Prince. Yet she had been searching for the Hastings woman as well—the different figures overlapped maliciously. Indeed, for these men had mentioned Doctor Lorenz as if he were one of their own, while Svenson had seen with his own eyes the man’s attendance to Madame Lacquer-Sforza. Perhaps they were all intent on betraying each other, but up to this point had been in league. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed three. Svenson picked up his bag and walked out.

The alley gate was now locked, and he climbed over it with the stiffness of a man not used to this kind of exertion at such an hour. The fog was still thick, the street still dark, and Svenson still had no firm destination in mind. He walked away from the compound—generally toward the Circus Garden and the heart of the city—keeping to the shadows and forcing his increasingly tired mind to work. While the Prince was certainly in danger, Svenson doubted it was immediately mortal. At the same time, he’d felt a chill when Xonck had referred to “the Process.” Could this be related to the facial burns? It almost sounded like a pagan ritual, like a tribal marking ceremony, or—he thought darkly—like branding one’s cattle. The dead man, Crooner, had obviously been involved—there was science behind it, which was why it was taking place at the Institute, and why Lorenz was part of it as well. Who wasn’t part of it, aside from Svenson himself? The answer came quickly enough: Isobel Hastings and the menacing man in red, this “Chang.” He had to find them before Major Blach. They might even know how to locate the Prince.

Svenson kept walking, his boots grinding on the wet cobblestones. His thoughts began to wander, the wet chill of the fog taking him back to his time in Warnemünde, the cold rail of the pier, the snow falling silently into the sea. He remembered, as a boy, walking into the winter forest—wanting to be alone, in despair once again—and sitting in his thick coat under a pine tree, pressing the snow around him into a soft burrow, laying back and looking up into the high branches. He didn’t know how long he’d lain there, his mind drifting, perhaps even close to dangerous sleep, when he became aware that he was cold, that the heat from his body had been steadily leeched away by the snow and frosted air. His face was numb. It had happened so gradually, his mind had been elsewhere—he could no longer remember the girl’s name—but as he forced his frozen limbs to work, rolling first to his knees and then to a shambling walk, he had a moment of insight, that he had just seen in miniature his own life—and every human life—a process where heat slowly, relentlessly dissipated in the face of unfeeling and beautiful ice.

He stopped and looked around him. The great park entrance of the Circus Garden was just to his right, and to his left the marble pools. He had to make a decision. If he looked for the man in red, Chang, and was lucky enough to locate his haunts, he would in all likelihood only find one of Major Blach’s troopers. To look for Isobel Hastings would require knowledge of the city’s hotels and rooming houses that he simply didn’t possess. The cabal of Crabbé, Xonck, and d’Orkancz did not, by their own words, have the Prince. As much as he dreaded it, as much as his nerves fluttered at the idea, as little as he trusted himself, the best choice that came to mind was Madame Lacquer-Sforza and the St. Royale Hotel. He was only minutes away—perhaps brandishing his doctor’s bag would get them to open the door at such an hour.

The windows of the hotel still streamed light, but the street outside was still and empty. Svenson walked to the door. It was locked. Before he could knock on the glass he saw a uniformed clerk walking toward him with a ring of keys, alerted by his pulling on the handle. The man unlocked the door and opened it a few narrow inches.

“May I help you?”

“Yes, excuse me—I realize the hour is late—or early—I am looking for—I am a doctor—it is very necessary that I speak with one of your guests, a Madame Lacquer-Sforza.”

“Ah. The Contessa.”

“Contessa?”

“That is not possible. You are a doctor?”

“Yes—my name is Svenson—I’m sure she will see me—”

“Doctor Svenson, yes. No, I am afraid it is not possible.”

The clerk looked past Svenson to the street and called out with a brisk clicking of his tongue—the sound one makes to move a horse. Svenson wheeled to see who he was addressing. From the shadows across the street, in answer, stepped four men. Svenson recognized them by their cloaks—they were the guards from the Institute. He turned back to the door—the clerk had pulled it closed and was locking it. Svenson knocked his fist on the glass. The clerk ignored him. Svenson spun to face the men in the street. They stood in a loose semi-circle in the middle of the road, blocking his escape. His hand dug for his coat pocket, feeling for the revolver.

“No need for that, Doctor,” hissed a low rasping voice to his right. He looked up to see the broad daunting figure of the Comte d’Orkancz standing in the shadows beyond the window front. He wore a top hat and a heavy fur coat, and held his silver-topped stick in his right hand. He looked at Svenson with a cold appraising eye.

“It may serve you later…for the moment there are more pressing matters to discuss, I assure you. I had hoped you might arrive, and you did not disappoint—such agreement is a good way to start our conversation. Will you walk with me?”

Without waiting for an answer, the Comte turned and strode into the fog. Svenson glanced at the men, swallowed uncomfortably, and hurried after him.

“Why would you be waiting for me?” he asked, once he had caught up.

“Why would you be calling on the Contessa at such an improper hour?”

Svenson’s mouth worked to find a response. He glanced back to see the four men following some yards behind them.

“You need not answer,” d’Orkancz whispered. “We each have our mysteries—I do not doubt that your reasons are real. No, when it came to my attention that you were of the Prince’s party, I remembered your name—you are the author of a valuable pamphlet on the effects of frostbite?”

“I am the author of such a pamphlet—whether or not it has value…”

“A chief point of interest, if I recall, was the ironic similarity between the damage inflicted by certain types of extreme cold, and certain kinds of burns.”

“Indeed.”

The Comte nodded gravely. “And that is why I was waiting for you.”

He led Svenson down an elegant side lane, bordered on the east by a walled garden. They stopped at a wooden door, set into an alcove vaulted as if it was part of a church, which d’Orkancz unlocked and led him through. They stepped into the garden, walking across thick, springing turf—behind them Svenson heard the guards enter and close the door. Around him he saw great empty urns and beds, and hanging leafless trees. Above was the fog-shrouded sky. He hurried to keep up with the Comte, who was striding toward a large glowing greenhouse, the smeared windows diffusing the lantern light within. The Comte unlocked a glass-paned door and entered, holding it open for Svenson. Svenson walked through and into a wave of moistly cloying hot air. D’Orkancz shut the door behind, leaving the four guards in the garden. He nodded to a nearby hat stand.

“You will want to take off your coat.”

The Comte pulled off his fur as he crossed the greenhouse—which Svenson realized was carpeted—to a large canopied bed, the curtains drawn tight around it. He placed the coat, his hat, and his stick on a small wooden work table and delicately peeked through a gap in the curtains. He stared in for perhaps two minutes, his face impassive. Already Svenson could feel the sweat prickling over his body. He put his medical kit down and peeled off his greatcoat, feeling the weight of the pistol in the pocket, and hung it on the rack. He disliked being apart from the weapon, but he didn’t expect he could shoot his way past d’Orkancz and all of the guards in any case. With a glance, d’Orkancz gestured him to the bed. He held the curtain aside as Svenson drew near.

On the bed lay a shivering woman, wrapped in heavy blankets, her eyes closed, her skin pale, her breathing shallow. Svenson glanced at the Comte.

“Is she sleeping?” he whispered.

“I don’t believe so. If she were not cold, I should say it is a fever. As she is cold, I cannot say—perhaps you can. Please…” He stepped away from the bed, pulling apart the curtains as he did.

Svenson leaned forward to study the woman’s face. Her features struck Svenson as slightly Asiatic. He pulled up her eyelid, felt the pulse in her throat, noted with unease the cobalt cast of her lips and tongue, and with an even greater distress the impressions across her face and throat—similar to the kind of marks a corset (or an octopus) might imprint on a woman’s skin. He reached under the blankets for her hand, felt the cold of it, and listened to her pulse there as well. He saw that on the tip of each finger the skin had been worn away. He reached across the bed to find the other hand, where the fingers were identical. Svenson pulled the blankets back to her waist. The woman was nude, and the bluish impressions on her skin ran the length of her torso. He felt a movement at his side. The Comte had brought over the medical kit. Svenson fished out his stethoscope, and listened to the woman’s lungs. He turned to the Comte. “Has she been in water?”

“She has not,” rasped the Comte.

Svenson frowned, listening to her labored breathing. It sounded exactly like a person half-drowned. He reached back into the bag for a lancet and a thermometer. He would need to know her temperature, and then he was going to need some of her blood.

Some forty minutes later, Svenson had washed his hands and was rubbing his eyes. He looked out to see if the sun was coming up, but the sky was still dark. He yawned, trying to remember when he had last been up through an entire night—when he was more resilient, in any case. The Comte appeared at his side with a white china cup.

“Coffee with brandy,” he said, handing the cup to Svenson and walking back to the table to pick up his own. The coffee was hot and black, almost burned, but perfect. Along with the brandy—a rather large amount of brandy for so small a cup—it was exactly what he needed. He took another deep drink, finishing the cup, and set it down.

“Thank you,” he said.

The Comte d’Orkancz nodded, then turned his gaze to the bed. “What is your opinion, Doctor? Is it possible she will recover?”

“It would help if I had more information.”

“Perhaps. I will tell you that her condition is the result of an accident, that she was not in water—I can only assure you of this, not explain it convincingly—yet water was permeating her person. Nor was this mere water, Doctor, but a liquid of special properties, an energetically charged liquid. The woman had laid her person open to this procedure. To my great regret the procedure was interrupted. The direction of the liquid was reversed and she was—how to say this—both depleted and flooded at the same time.”

“Is this—I have heard—I have seen, on the Prince—the scarring—the Process—”

“Process?” d’Orkancz snapped in alarm, but then as quickly his voice became calm. “Of course, the Prince…you would have spoken to him, he would have been in a state to hold back nothing. It is regrettable.”

“You must understand that my interests here are my duty to protect him, and my duty as a doctor—in good faith—and if this”—Svenson gestured to the woman, her pale flesh almost luminous in the lantern glow—“is the danger you have exposed Karl-Horst to—”

“I have not.”

“But—”

“You do not know. The woman, if you please, Doctor Svenson.”

The sharpness of his tone stopped further protest in Svenson’s throat. He wiped the sweat from his face.

“If you’ve read my pamphlet enough to remember my name you know yourself already. She bears all the evidence of having been rescued after prolonged immersion in freezing water—the winter Baltic, for example. At certain temperatures the bodily functions slow precipitously—this can be both deadly and a preservative. She is alive, she breathes. Whether this has irreparably damaged her mind, I cannot say. Whether she will ever awake from this—this winter sleep—I cannot say either. Yet, I—I must ask about the marks across her body—whatever has been done to her—”

D’Orkancz held up his hand. Svenson stopped talking.

“Is there anything to be done now, Doctor—that is the question.”

“Keep her warm. Force her to drink warm fluids. I would suggest some kind of massage to encourage circulation—all peripheral—either the damage has been done or it hasn’t.”

The Comte d’Orkancz was silent. His cup of coffee lay untouched beside him. “One more question, Doctor Svenson,…perhaps the most crucial of all.”

“Yes?”

“Do you think she’s dreaming?”

Svenson was taken aback, for the Comte’s tone was not entirely one of sympathy—within the body of his concern ran a vein of iron inquiry. He answered carefully, glancing back to the now-curtained bed.

“There is inconstant movement of the eyes…it might be ascribed to some kind of fugue state…it is not catatonia…she is not aware, but perhaps…within her own mind…perhaps dreams…perhaps delirium…perhaps peace.”

The Comte d’Orkancz did not reply, his eyes lost for a moment in thought. He came back to the present, looked up. “And now…what shall I do with you, Doctor Svenson?”

Svenson’s eyes flicked over to his coat, hanging on the stand, the pistol buried in the pocket. “I will take my leave—”

“You’ll stay where you are, Doctor,” he whispered sharply, “until I say otherwise. You have assisted me—I would prefer to reward such cooperation—and yet you stand quite clearly opposed to other interests that I must preserve.”

“I must recover my Prince.”

The Comte d’Orkancz sighed heavily.

Svenson groped for something to say, but was unsure what to reveal—he could mention Aspiche or Lorenz, or Madame Lacquer-Sforza or Major Blach, he could mention the blue glass card, but would this make him more valuable in the Comte’s mind, or more dangerous? Was he more likely to be spared the more ignorantly loyal to the Prince he appeared? He could not see clearly out of the greenhouse due to the glaring lantern light reflecting on the glass—he could not place any of the guards. Even if he were able to reach his pistol and somehow overcome d’Orkancz—by his size an extremely powerful man—how could he elude the others? He didn’t know where he was—he was exhausted—he had no safe place to hide—he still knew nothing about the Prince’s location.

He looked up at the Comte. “Would you mind if I had a cigarette?”

“I would.”

“Ah.”

“Your cigarettes are in your coat, are they not?”

“They are—”

“Most likely quite near to the service revolver you brandished earlier this evening. Does it not seem like a great deal has happened since then? I have grappled with death and disruption, with intrigue and retribution—and you have done the same. And you have lost your Prince again. We would both be nearly comic, were not these consequences so steeped in blood. Have you ever killed anyone, Doctor?”

“I’m afraid many men have died under my hands…”

“On the table, yes, but that is different—however you may rack yourself with accusation, it is entirely different—as you well know. You do know exactly what I am asking.”

“I do. I have.”

“When?”

“In the city of Bremen. A man who had—it seemed—corrupted a young niece of the Duke—he was intractable, my instructions…I—I forced him to drink poison, at pistol-point. I am not proud of the incident. Only an idiot would be.”

“Did he know what he was drinking?”

“No.”

“I’m sure he had his suspicions.”

“Perhaps.”

Svenson remembered the fellow’s red face, the hacking rattle in his throat, his rolling eyes, and then recovering the incriminating letters from his pocket as he lay on the floor, the sharp smell of the man’s bile. The memory haunted him. Svenson rubbed his eyes. He was hot—even more hot than he had been—the room was truly stifling. His mouth was so dry. He felt a sudden prickle of adrenaline. He looked at the Comte, then at the empty cup of coffee, then—how long did it take him to turn his head—at the Comte’s untouched cup on the table. The table was above him. He had dropped to his knees, realizing dimly that he did not feel the impact. His head swam. The fibers of the carpet pressed into his face. Dark warm water closed over him, and he vanished within it.

He opened his eyes in shadow, goaded by a nagging shapeless urgency, through a warm woolen veil of sleep. He blinked. His eyelids were extremely heavy—impossibly heavy—he closed them. He was jolted awake again, his entire body jarred, and now he took in more of what his senses told him: the rough grain of wood against his skin, the smell of dust and oil, the sound of wheels and hoofbeats. He was in the back of a cart, staring up at a cloth canopy in the near dark. The wagon rattled along—they were traveling across uneven cobbles, the jolts waking him before he otherwise would have. He reached with his right hand and touched the canvas cover, some two feet above him. His mouth and throat were parched. His temples throbbed. He realized with a certain distant pleasure that he was not dead, that for some reason—or so far—the Comte had spared his life. He felt carefully around him, his limbs aching but responsive. Crumpled near his head was his coat—the revolver no longer in the pocket, though he still possessed the glass card. He groped farther, at his arm’s length, and flinched as his hand found a booted foot. Svenson swallowed and rolled his eyes. How many corpses—or near-corpses, if he counted the woman and the soldiers—had been thrown Svenson’s way this day alone? It would be ridiculous if it were not also sickening. With a grim determination the Doctor felt farther—the body was oppositely laid in the cart, the feet near his head—moving down the boots to the trousers, which had a heavy side seam, braid or frogging—a uniform. He followed the leg until he came to, next to it, a hand. A man’s hand, and icy cold.

The cart lurched again and Svenson pushed his exhausted mind to determine in which direction they moved—was his head at the front of the cart or the rear? He couldn’t tell—the vehicle was moving so slowly and over such an uneven surface that all he felt were the shakes up and down. He reached above his head and touched a wooden barrier. He felt along the corner, where this piece joined the side of the cart, and found no brackets, no bolts…could it be the rear? If so, it was bolted closed on the outside—to get out he would have to climb over it, perhaps even cutting through the canvas cover—if he had anything to cut it with. He felt for his medical kit, but it was nowhere to be found. With a grimace, he reached again toward the body and groped for the pockets in the man’s uniform coat, and then his trousers—all had been emptied. With distaste his fingers found the man’s collar, and felt his badge of rank. A colonel. Svenson forced himself to touch the man’s face: the heavy neck, the moustache, and then, ever so faintly, the curved ridge of flesh around the eyes. He was next to Arthur Trapping.

Doctor Svenson rolled onto his back, facing up, his eyes squeezed shut, his hand over his mouth. He inhaled through his nose and exhaled, slowly, against his hand. He needed to think. He had been drugged and was en route—undoubtedly for disposal—with a deliberately hidden corpse. He was without weapons or allies, in a foreign country, with no knowledge of where he was—though from the cobblestones he was still in the city at least. He tried to think clearly—his mind was fogged, he was still so very tired—and forced his hands to go through his own pockets: a handkerchief, banknotes, coins, a pencil stub, a folded-over scrap of paper, his monocle. He rolled over toward Trapping and searched the man again, this time more thoroughly. In the jacket, between the layers of fabric over the left breast where it would be covered by dangling medals, he felt something hard. He crawled closer to the body and awkwardly pulled himself up onto his elbows, gripping the seam of Trapping’s coat with both hands. He yanked at the fabric and felt it give. Another jolt knocked him off balance. He got a better grip and pulled with all his strength. The seam split open. Svenson inserted a finger into the gap and felt a hard, slick surface. He wedged his thumb into the hole and pulled the object free. He didn’t need any light to know it was another glass card. He stuffed it into his coat pocket next to the first. He was suddenly still. The cart had stopped moving.

He felt it jostle as the drivers jumped off, and then heard footsteps on either side of him. He gathered up his coat and shut his eyes—he could at least feign sleep. If the opportunity came to run or knock someone on the head, all the better if they thought him asleep or incapable—though he was far from his best, and even at his best no great fighter. At his feet he heard the sharp metallic clanks of the bolts being shot, and then the back panel was lowered. The canvas cover was flung back and Svenson felt the cooler, damp air of the morning—for the glow through his closed eyelids told him there was light. Before he could fully decide whether or not to open his eyes, he felt a shocking blow in his stomach—a sharp poke from a wooden pole—that doubled him over with gasping pain. His eyes popped open, his mouth strained to take in breath, his hands clutched feebly at his abdomen, the pain lancing the full length of his body. Above he heard the laughter of several men, pitiless and shrill.

With a great effort, to prevent another blow, Doctor Svenson hauled himself up with his arms, rolled to his side and forced his legs underneath him one at a time, so he could kneel. His lank blond hair had fallen into his eyes and he brushed it away stiffly. He pulled his monocle from its pocket and screwed it into position, taking in the scene around him. The cart was stopped in a closed cobbled yard, morning fog clinging to the rooftops around it. The yard was littered with barrels and crates bristling with jagged, rusted pieces of metal. To his other side was an open double doorway, and beyond it a forge. He was at a blacksmith’s. Two of the Comte d’Orkancz’s ruffians stood at the end of the cart, one with a long pole with a sharp grapple on the end. The other, more practically, held Svenson’s own pistol. Svenson looked down at Trapping’s body in the light. The grey face was marked with the now-purpled scarring around the eyes. There was no obvious cause of death—no wound, no evidence of trauma, no particular discoloration. Svenson noticed that Trapping’s other hand was gloved, and that the tip of the index finger was torn. He leaned down and wrestled the glove off. The tip of the finger was a striking indigo, the skin punctured by some kind of needle or thin blade, the flesh around the incision crusted with a blue-white powder. At a noise from the forge, Svenson looked up to see Francis Xonck and Major Blach walking into the courtyard. He dropped the glove back over the hand.

“At last, at last,” called Francis Xonck. “We are ready down at the portage.” He smiled at Svenson. “We were, however, only prepared for two. We must innovate. This way—use the barrow.” He nodded at a wheelbarrow, and walked over to a wooden wall, which slid to the side on a track at his push. Beyond was a slanted, paved path. Xonck marched down it. Blach fixed Svenson with a glare of hatred and snapped his fingers. From the forge behind him emerged two of his black-coated troopers. Svenson did not recognize them, but he was bad at faces. Major Blach barked at them, “Escort the Doctor!” and followed Xonck. Svenson hobbled off the cart, clutching his coat, and with a trooper on either side walked from the yard. He glanced back once to see the Comte’s men lugging Trapping to the barrow.

As they walked, Svenson struggled into his coat, for it was very cold. The path was lined on either side by rough, gapped, plank fencing, and wound between decaying buildings and heaps of refuse. He knew they were walking to the river. The pain in his stomach had eased and his immediate fear was edging into cold, reckless implacability. He called ahead to Major Blach, with as much of a sneer as he could muster.

“Did you find the Prince, Major? Or have you spent the night drinking other men’s wine…and licking other men’s…boots?”

Blach stopped where he was and turned. Svenson did his best with a dry mouth and launched a gob of spit in the Major’s direction. It traveled only a few feet but still made its point. Major Blach flushed and took a stride toward Svenson. Behind Blach, Francis Xonck called out to him sharply. “Major!” Blach stopped, gave Svenson another murderous look and continued down the path. Xonck looked over the Major’s shoulder for a moment, meeting Svenson’s gaze, and chuckled. He waited for Blach to reach him, took hold of his arm and shoved him forward, so Xonck was now between them and Major Blach in the lead. Svenson looked back. The Comte’s men were bringing down the body, covered by a tarp—one holding the barrow, one in the rear with the pistol. There was no clear way for him to run, should he be foolish enough to try. Instead he called ahead to Blach in an even louder voice.

“Is it an easy thing to betray your country, Major? I am curious—what was your price? Gold? New uniform? Women? Athletic young men? A sheep farm?”

Major Blach wheeled, his hand digging for his pistol. Xonck took hold of his uniform with both hands and with difficulty—Xonck was stronger than he seemed—restrained Blach where he was. Once the Major had stopped his charge, Xonck again turned him around—whispering into his ear—and shoved him forward. When the Major had advanced a few paces, Xonck turned to Svenson, nodding to the troopers. Svenson felt a shove and began again to walk, now with Xonck right ahead of him. Xonck looked back at him with a smile.

“I should have said suckling pigs instead of sheep, but I believe he took your point. I am Francis Xonck.”

“Captain-Surgeon Abelard Svenson.”

“Rather more than that, I think.” Xonck smiled. “You have the distinction of actually impressing the Comte d’Orkancz, which is a rare enough event that there really ought to be a parade.” He smiled again and took in the troopers and the men behind them with the wheelbarrow. “Perhaps it is a parade after all.”

“I should have preferred more bunting,” said Svenson, “and some trumpets.”

“Another time, I am sure.” Xonck chuckled.

They walked on. Ahead Svenson could see the river. They were actually quite close to it, the fog and the buildings around them having obscured the view.

“Did you locate the Prince?” asked Svenson, as airily as possible.

“Why, did you?” answered Xonck.

“I’m afraid I did not,” admitted Svenson. “Though I do know who has taken him.”

“Indeed?” Xonck studied him for a moment, his eyes twinkling. “How satisfying for you.”

“I am not sure you know those responsible. Though I believe you—or your companions—have tried to apprehend them.”

Xonck did not reply, but Svenson thought his smile had become that much more fixed on his lips, and disconnected from his searching eyes. Xonck turned his gaze ahead, and saw that they approached the end of the path. “Ah—the splendid waterfront. We are arrived.”

The path opened onto a slippery portage way, sloping under the grey surface of the river. To either side was a raised stone pier, where cargo or passengers might more easily be lowered. Tied to the left-hand pier was a flat, featureless barge with one high oar in the rear like a gondola’s. In its bow was a latched section that could be let down as a gangplank, as it presently was. In the center of the narrow barge was a closed metal coffin. Another, unsealed, lay on the pier. Svenson realized that once on the water, the ramp could be lowered again and the coffins slipped into the river to sink. If they had tried to push the coffins over the side the entire craft would be dangerously unbalanced. Two more of the Comte’s men were in the barge, and they stepped forward to help the others bundle Arthur Trapping into the waiting coffin. As Svenson stood to the side between the troopers, he watched them install the body and secure the lid with a series of clamps and screws. With a small surge of something vaguely like hope he noticed that, under Trapping’s body in the wheelbarrow, one of the men had thrown his medical kit. He looked up to see Major Blach on the pier, glaring at him. The Major snarled to Xonck, who had crossed to stand near him.

“What of him?” He nodded toward Svenson. “There are only two coffins.”

“What would you suggest?” asked Xonck.

“Send back to the forge—weight him down with scrap metal and chain.”

Xonck nodded and turned to the Comte’s men who’d brought down the body. “You heard. Metal and chain, quickly.” To Svenson’s relief they tossed the medical kit on the ground before turning the barrow around and jogging back up the path. Major Blach removed his pistol from his holster and—staring at Svenson—barked at his men. “Help with the loading. I will watch him.”

Xonck gestured to Blach’s pistol with a smile, and then took in the riverside around them with a wave of his arm. “You will notice how peaceful the morning is, Doctor Svenson. And as a thinking man you will understand how the Major’s pistol might shatter that peace and draw unwelcome attention to our efforts. In fact, since such a thinking man might also assume a well-placed cry for help might accomplish the same, I am obliged to point out that, were such a cry to occur, preserving this lovely silence would no longer matter—which is to say that if you make any noise you will be shot with less hesitation than if you were a foam-spitting cur.”

“It is of course kind of you to explain things so nicely,” muttered Svenson.

“Kindness costs very little, I find.” Xonck smiled.

The troopers crossed to the coffin, but one of them glanced back at the Doctor with an expression of curiosity, if not doubt. Svenson watched as they manhandled the coffin onto the barge. When they were at the exact moment of balance—two of them knee-deep in water on the sides, one in the barge, one shoving from the rear—he called up to Major Blach.

“Tell me, Major, is Herr Flaüss a traitor like you, or merely incompetent?”

Blach cocked his pistol. Xonck sighed audibly and placed his hand on the Major’s arm.

“Really, Doctor, you must desist.”

“If I’m going to be murdered, I am at least curious whether I leave my Prince in the hands of two traitors or one.”

“But presently he is in no one’s hands.”

“None of their hands.”

“Yes yes,” snapped Xonck. “As you have already told me. Careful there!”

The men had shoved the coffin too far, to the side of the barge, and the entire craft tilted perilously. One man flung himself onto the barge to balance the weight while the other three dragged the coffin back into position. The Comte’s two men carefully took up their places on the barge—one at the rear oar, the other readying shorter paddling oars for each side.

“Why go to the bother of transporting the Colonel here?” asked Svenson. “Why not just sink him in a canal near Harschmort?”

Xonck cast a side glance at the Major. “Call it Germanic thoroughness,” he said.

“The Comte examined his body,” replied Svenson, suddenly knowing it was true. “In his greenhouse.” They didn’t know something…or had something to hide—but hidden from someone at Harschmort? Hidden from Vandaariff? Were they not all allies?

“We need to kill him,” snarled Blach.

“Not with that,” answered Xonck, nodding at Blach’s pistol.

Svenson knew he should act before the others came back with the wheelbarrow, when there were that many fewer of them. He pointed to his medical kit.

“Mr. Xonck, I see there my own medical kit. I know I am to die, and I know that you may not shoot me for making too loud a noise. This leaves any number of more hideous options—strangling, stabbing, drowning, all of them slow and painful. If you will allow, I can quite easily prepare an injection for myself that will be swift, silent, and painless—it will perform a service to us all.”

“Afraid, are you?” taunted Major Blach.

“Indeed, I admit it freely,” answered Svenson, “I am a coward. If I must die—as it seems I must, for the credulous Prince you have abused and kidnapped—then I would prefer oblivion to agony.”

Xonck studied him and called to one of the troopers. “Hand me the bag.”

The nearest trooper did so. Xonck snapped it open, rummaged inside, and fixed Svenson with a searching, skeptical eye. He snapped the bag shut and threw it back to the trooper. “No needles,” he said to Svenson, “and no attempt to throw acid or anything else you may have on hand. You will drink your medicine, and do it quietly. If there is the slightest trouble, I will merely gag you and let the Major do his worst—I assure you no one will hear the difference.” He nodded to the trooper. The trooper clicked his heels by instinct and brought the medical kit to Svenson.

“I am grateful to you, I’m sure,” he said, snapping the kit open.

“Hurry up,” answered Xonck.

Svenson’s mind was racing. He had said anything he could think of to try and muddle the loyalty of the two troopers, to cast Blach as a traitor—it hadn’t worked. For a moment he wondered at his own loyalty—how far he had come, what desperate straits he had braved—all so beyond his normal character, and for what? He knew then it was not the Prince—a source of constant frustration and disappointment—nor his father, unthinking and proud. Was it for von Hoern? Was it for Corinna? Was it because he must dedicate his life to something, to stay true, no matter what that was, in the face of her loss? Svenson stared into his medical kit, not needing to counterfeit his shaking hands. The fact was, the oblivion of poison was a damned sight better than trying some foolhardy escape and failing—as he was bound to do. He had no illusions of the brutal lengths to which Blach would go—especially to quell any doubts in the minds of his men—to render Svenson a gibbering, pleading mess. Such an exit was tempting, and for a brief moment his searching logic was overtaken by an impulsive reverie of his lost past—the high meadows in flower, coffee in an autumn café, the opera box in Paris, Corinna as a girl, her uncle’s farm. It was impossible, overwhelming—he could not surrender in such a rush. He plunged his hand into the case, brought out a flask, then deliberately bobbled it out of his grasp so it shattered on the pier. He looked up at Xonck pleadingly.

“No matter—no matter—there are other things to use—let me just find it—a moment, I beg you…” He set the kit on the pier and knelt over it, rummaging. He glanced quickly at the trooper to his right. The man carried a saber in a scabbard but no other weapon. Svenson was sane enough to realize that he could not hope to seize the hilt by surprise and draw it cleanly—the angle was all wrong. He was at best likely to have it half-out and be grappling with the trooper when Major Blach shot him cleanly in the back. Xonck was watching him. He selected a flask, looked at it in the light, shook his head, and replaced it, digging for another.

“What was wrong with that one?” called Blach impatiently.

“It was not quick enough,” answered Svenson. “Here—this one will do.”

He stood, a second glass flask in his hand. The troopers were on either side of him, and together they stood at the corner of one of the piers and the portage. Across from them on the other pier, some five yards away, were Xonck and Blach. Between them was the portage itself and the barge with the two coffins and the Comte’s two men.

“What did you select?” called Xonck.

“Arsenic,” answered Svenson. “Useful in small doses for psoriasis, tuberculosis, and—most pertinently for princes—syphilis. In larger doses, immediately fatal.” He removed the stopper and looked around him, gauging the distances as closely as possible. The men were not yet back from the forge. The men on the barge were watching him with undisguised curiosity. He knew he had no choice. He nodded to Xonck. “I thank you for the courtesy.” He turned to Major Blach, and smiled.

“Burn in hell.”

Doctor Svenson tossed back the contents of the flask in a gulp. He swallowed, choked hideously, his throat constricting, his face turning crimson. He dropped the flask, clutching at his throat, and staggered back into the trooper to his right, pawing for balance. An unearthly rattle rose out of his chest, his mouth worked, his tongue protruded horribly over his lips, his eyes rolled, his knees wobbled—all eyes were upon him. His entire body tensed, as if suspended over a precipice, poised at the very passage into death. In that moment, Svenson became strangely aware of the quiet of the city, that so many people could be so near to them and the only sound the dull lap of the river against the barge and somewhere far away the cry of gulls.

Svenson heaved his weight into the trooper. With a sudden pivot he took hold of the soldier’s jacket with both hands and hurled him off the pier toward the barge. The momentum carried the trooper over the gap so he landed with a crash exactly on the side of the barge, causing it to lurch horribly. A sickening moment later, his arms flailing above, his legs thrashing in the water, the coffins slid toward the helpless man. He raised his arms as the first crashed into him, sweeping him viciously from the barge and into the water. Then the second coffin crashed into the first, tipping the entire barge at such a sudden angle that both of the Comte’s men were thrown off their feet and into the coffins. Their extra weight tipped the angle even farther, and the shallow barge rolled up and then fully over, all three men and the coffins disappearing below the upended craft.

Svenson ran for the path. The remaining trooper took hold of Svenson’s coat with both hands as he went past. Svenson turned, grappling with the trooper, furiously trying to wrench himself free. He could hear the splashes from the water, cries from Blach. The soldier was younger, stronger—they struggled, twisting each other in a circle. For a moment the soldier held Svenson in place and took hold of his throat. In the corner of his eye Svenson saw Blach raise the pistol. Svenson lurched desperately away, pulling the trooper into Blach’s line of sight. A loud flat crack erupted into his ear and his face was wet, warm. The trooper fell at his feet—the side of his head a seething mess. Svenson swept the blood from his eyes to see Francis Xonck slap Major Blach savagely across the face. Blach’s pistol was smoking.

“You idiot! The noise! You infernal fool!”

Svenson looked down—his feet tangled in the trooper’s legs. He seized the fallen man’s saber and swept it clear, causing Xonck to hastily step back. Svenson turned at the sound of Blach cocking the pistol.

“If the damage is done,” he snarled, “it’s no matter to do more…”

“Major! Major—there is no need,” Xonck hissed in a fury.

Svenson could see Blach was going to fire. With a yell he heaved the saber like an awkward knife—end over end, directly toward them—and ran. He heard both men cry out and the loud clang of the blade striking the stone—he’d no idea whether they’d thrown themselves aside or not. His only thought was to charge up the path. He ran on—the uneven stones slick from the morning, his own footsteps obscuring the sound of any pursuit—and was perhaps half-way to the top when he saw the two men with the wheelbarrow coming toward him from the top. The barrow was piled with metal and the men each held one of the handles, balancing it between them. He didn’t dare slow his pace, but his heart sank as they saw him and instantly began to trot forward, each man with a broad smile breaking over his face. As they picked up speed scraps of metal bounced out of the pile, clanging on the ground and against the fence. They were perhaps five yards away when they let it go. Svenson flung himself toward the top of the fence to his left, raising his legs. The barrow smashed beneath him, bounced off the wall, and continued recklessly down the slope. With a bestial surge of effort he hauled himself over the fence and dropped into a tangle of boxes and debris.

He had not hurt himself in the fall, though he was on his back and thrashing to rise. On the other side of the fence he could hear the crash of the barrow tipping over and more cries—could it have run into Xonck or Blach? Svenson rolled to his knees as, above him, the fence wobbled back and forth and one of the two barrow men vaulted over it. As the man landed—the drop causing him to double over for just a moment—Svenson snatched a thick wooden board from the mud with both hands and swung. The blow caught the man’s near hand—holding a pistol—and hammered it cruelly—Svenson could feel the cracking small bones. The man screamed and the pistol flew across the ground. Svenson swung again, rising up, across the man’s face. The man grunted at the impact and crumpled, curled and moaning, at the base of the fence. The fence wobbled again—another man was coming over. Svenson leapt at the pistol—it was his own—and still on his knees turned to the fence above him. The second barrow man was balanced on the fence top, an arm and a leg hooked over, looking down with alarm. Svenson snapped off a shot—missing the man but splintering the wood—and the fellow dropped from sight. A moment later the gleaming length of a saber shot through the fence at the level of Svenson’s head, missing him by a matter of inches. He scrabbled away on his back like a crab as the blade scissored back and forth through the slats, probing for him. He could just see the shadows of bodies through the gaps between fence slats and fired again. In reply someone fired back, three shots in rapid succession that tore up the mud around him. Svenson returned fire twice, blindly, and hurled himself away, doing his best to run.

For the first time he saw that the yard was the back of a ruined house, the windows broken and the roof gone, the rear door off its frame and lying broken in the mud. The doorway and the open window frames were lined with faces. Svenson careened toward them even as he tried to take in who they were—children, an older man, women—their skin the color of milky tea, hair black, clothes colorful but worn. He raised the pistol, not at them but toward the sky. “Excuse me—I beg your pardon—please—look out!” He rushed through the door, the bodies around him skittering clear, and glanced back just long enough to see the fence in movement, bodies coming over. He dove ahead into the darkened rooms, leaping cooking pots, pallets, piles of clothing, doing his best not to step on anything or anyone, his senses assailed by the smell of so many persons in such a tangled space, by the open fire, and by pungent spices—he could not even name what they were. Behind him a shot rang out and a splinter of wood whipped into his face. He winced, knew he was bleeding, and nearly ran down a small child—where the hell was the door to the street? He stepped through doorway after doorway—as close as he could come to a dead run—dodging all the occupants—a room of goats?—jumping over an open cooking fire. He heard screams—the other men were in the house—just as he entered what had to be the main hallway, and directly in front of it a ruined set of double doors. He rushed to them, only to find they had been thoroughly nailed shut—of course, the house was condemned. He rushed back, looking for a window to the street. Another shot rang out—he didn’t know from where—and he felt a hideous snip of air as the bullet traced past his ear. He kicked through a hanging curtain and into someone’s occupied bed—a screaming woman, an outraged man—his feet caught up in their sheets but his gaze fixed on another carpet nailed to the wall, hanging down. Svenson threw himself to it and whipped the carpet aside. The window beyond was blessedly clear of glass. He hurdled the frame, tucking his hands around his head, and landed in an awkward sprawl that ended with him facedown on the paving, his pistol bouncing away on the stones.

Svenson thrust himself to his feet—his hands felt raw, his knee bruised, ankle complaining. As he bent to recover the pistol another shot rang out from the window. He turned to see Blach, one hand holding a bloody handkerchief to his face, the other with his smoking pistol, fixing Svenson in his sights. Svenson could not move fast enough. Blach squeezed the trigger, his eyes ablaze with hatred. The hammer landed on an empty chamber. Blach swore viciously and broke open the gun, knocking the empty shells out the window, digging for fresh cartridges. Svenson scooped up his weapon and ran.

He did not know where he was. He kept on until he was winded, doing his best to lose pursuit—dodging from street to street and cutting through what open lots and parks he could find. He finally collapsed in a small churchyard, sitting with his head in his hands on the ancient, cracked cover of a tomb, his chest heaving, his body spent. The light had grown—it was full morning—and the open space between objects struck him as almost shockingly clear. But instead of this making the events of his night seem unreal, Svenson found it was the day he could not trust. The weathered white stone, the worn letters spelling “Thackaray” under his fingers, the leafless branches above—none of these answered the relentless strange world he had entered. For a moment he wondered if he had eaten opium and was in that instant lying stupefied in a Chinaman’s den, and all of this a twisting dream. He rubbed his eyes and spat.

Svenson knew that he was no real spy, nor any kind of soldier. He was lost. His ankle throbbed, his hands were scraped, he had not eaten, his throat was raw, and his head felt like a block of rotten cheese from the Comte’s drug. He forced himself to remove his boot and palpate his tender ankle—it was not broken, nor probably even seriously sprained, he would simply have to treat it carefully. He scoffed at that unlikely prospect and pulled the revolver from his pocket, breaking it open. There were two cartridges left—he had no others with him. He stuffed it back in his pocket, and realized that the bulk of his money was still at the compound with his box of shells. He’d lost his medical kit, and was for the moment stuck in his uniform and greatcoat that, while a relatively restrained Prussian blue, nevertheless set him apart in a crowd.

His face stung. He brought up a hand to feel dried blood and a small splinter of wood still lodged below his right cheekbone. He delicately pulled it free and pressed a handkerchief to his face. Doctor Svenson realized that he desperately wanted a cigarette. He fished in his coat for his case, extracted one and then snapped a match alight off of his thumb. The smoke hit his lungs with an exquisite tug and he exhaled slowly. Taking his time, he worked his way to the butt, concentrating only on his breathing and on each successive plume of smoke sent over the gravestones. He tossed the butt into a puddle and lit another. He didn’t want to be light-headed, but the tobacco was restoring some of his resolve. As he replaced the case his hand bumped the glass cards in his pocket. He had forgotten the second card, from Trapping. He looked around him—the churchyard was still quite abandoned and the buildings around it void of any visible activity. Svenson pulled out the card—it looked identical to the one he had taken from the Prince’s chamber. Would he be looking into the mind of Arthur Trapping and see some clue about how he had died? He set his burning cigarette down on the tomb next to him and looked into the card.

It took a moment for the blue veil to part, but once it had Svenson found himself amidst a confusing swirl of images, moving rapidly from one to another without any logic he could discern. It was less as if he occupied another’s actual experience—as with Mrs. Marchmoor’s encounter with the Prince—so much as their free-floating mind, or even perhaps their dreams. He pulled his gaze up from the card and exhaled. He was shaking, it was just as involving, he had been as much outside of himself as before. He tapped the growing cylinder of ash from his cigarette and took a long drag. He set it down again and gathered himself for a second, more focused visit.

The first images were in a fussy, well-appointed interior—a carpeted room of dark wood and glass lamps, delicate Chinoiserie and thickly upholstered furniture—and a woman sitting on a sofa, a young woman only a part of whose body Svenson could see—her bare forearms and her small hands as they clutched the upholstery, and then her shapely calves just emerging from under her dress as she stretched her legs, and then to her charming green ankle boots…each glimpse imbued with a particular proprietary hunger from the gaze he was inhabiting.

From here the card jumped abruptly to a rocky scene, a high view into a pit of grey stone—a quarry?—below an only slightly less grey sky. Suddenly Svenson was in the pit, the feel of gravel against his knee—kneeling, bending over a seam of colored stone within the rock—a dark stubbled indigo. An arm—his arm, which was young, strong, in a black coat—and a hand in a black leather glove reached forward to touch the seam of blue, digging a finger into it and crumbling out a loose chunk, as if it were a chalky sort of clay.

The next movement began as one of standing up in the quarry, but as his point of vision rose, the scene around him changed, so that when he was fully upright he was in a winter orchard—apple trees, he thought—the base of each trunk packed with straw. His gaze moved to his left and he saw a high stone wall and a weathered hedgerow, and behind them both the peaked rooftop of a country manor.

He turned farther to his left and found himself facing Harald Crabbé, who was smirking, leaning back and looking out the window of a coach—the window beyond it showing a country wood racing past. Crabbé turned to him—to whomever this was—and quite clearly mouthed the words “your decision”…and turned back to the window.

The window now opened onto another room, a curving stone hallway, ending in a metal-banded door. The door swung open and revealed a cavernous chamber, ringed with machinery, a massive man leaning over a table, his broad back obscuring the identity of the woman strapped to it, a woman…Svenson suddenly recognized the room—at the Institute, where he had rescued the Prince.

He looked up from the card. There was more—in the gaps, almost like a window streaming with rain—that he could not clearly see. His cigarette had gone out. He debated lighting another, but knew that he must really decide what to do. He had no idea if they were still searching. If so, they would reach the churchyard eventually. He had to find somewhere he could stay in safety. Or, he countered, he had to seize the bull by the horns. At what point was the Prince beyond aid? Svenson could not in conscience abandon him. He could not go back to the compound—he did not trust Flaüss—and he still had no idea where to find the man in red or Isobel Hastings. If he was not going to simply find a place to hide, the only avenue he had left, however foolish it seemed, was to try once more to confront Madame Lacquer-Sforza. Surely during the busy scramble of morning it would be safe to approach the St. Royale. There were two bullets left in his pistol—more than enough to convince her, if he could just gain entry.

He looked down and saw that he had not replaced his boot, and did so, gingerly pulling it up around his still-throbbing ankle. He stood and took a few steps. Now that the rush of adrenalized fear had faded, he felt the pain more keenly, but he knew he could walk on it—indeed, that he had no choice. All it needed was rest. He would exhaust this last possibility for information and then find some place to sleep—whether he could return safely to Macklenburg he did not know. Svenson sighed heavily and limped from the churchyard, retracing his steps to a narrow alley that ran next to the church. The sun was behind clouds—he had no real idea which direction was which. At the alley’s end he looked around him, and then back at the church with its open doors. He entered the dark interior and made his way down the aisle, nodding to the few figures at worship, walking steadily to the base of the bell tower, which must have a staircase. He strode past the puzzled priest with his best scowl of medical authority and snapped a brusque “Good day to you, Father—your bell tower?” He nodded gravely as the man pointed in the direction of a small door. Svenson walked to it and stepped through, inwardly groaning at the number of steps he was going to climb with his injured ankle. He did his best to trot briskly until he was out of the priest’s view, and then favored the foot by hopping on the other and holding the rail. He was perhaps seventy galling steps into the climb when he came to a narrow window covered with a wooden shutter. He pushed it open, dislodging an accretion of pigeon droppings and feathers, and smiled. From this height he could see the curving silver loop of the river, the green of Circus Garden, the white stone mass of the Ministries, and the open plaza of St. Isobel’s Square. Between them all, its high red-tiled roof spires tipped with black and gold pennants, he found the St. Royale.

He descended as quickly as possible and dropped a coin into the collection box. Once on the street, he traveled through narrow alleys and residential lanes, keeping close to the walls. He passed a block of warehouses, swarming with men loading crates of all shapes onto carts. In the middle of it all was a small canteen, tucked between a storehouse of grain and another of raw fabric, rolling past in colorful bales. Svenson purchased a cup of boiled coffee and three fresh rolls. He tore them apart as he walked, the pith steaming, and drank the coffee as slowly as he could make himself, so as not to burn his mouth. He began to feel a bit more human as he neared the merchants’ district near St. Isobel’s—so much that he became self-conscious of his gashed face and disheveled greatcoat. He smoothed his hair back and swatted the dust from his coat—it would have to do—and strode ahead with what bluster he could manage. He imagined himself as Major Blach, which was at least entertaining.

Svenson skirted the hotel by a curving path of service alleys behind a row of fashionable restaurants, at this time of day thronged with deliveries of produce and slaughtered fowl. He had been careful, and perhaps lucky, to progress so far unobserved. Any attempt to take him would be swift and unforgiving. At the same time, his enemies were powerful enough to sway any mechanism of law. The slightest infraction—let alone shooting one of the Comte’s men in the street—could send him to prison, or straight to the gallows. He stood at the alley’s end, facing onto Grossmaere, the broad avenue that, two blocks away, ran past the St. Royale. He first looked in the opposite direction (it was possible that their line of sentries was farther away) but saw no one, or at least saw none of the Comte’s men or Blach’s troopers. With the involvement of Crabbé—or, heaven forbid, Vandaariff—there could be any number of other minions enlisted to find and kill him.

He looked toward the hotel. Could they be watching from above? The traffic was thick—it was by now well after nine o’clock—and the morning’s business in full throng. Svenson took a breath and stepped out, keeping across the street from the hotel, walking close to the walls and behind other pedestrians, his right hand on the revolver in his pocket. He kept his gaze on the hotel, glancing quickly into each shop front or lobby that he passed. At the corner he trotted across and leaned casually against the wall, peering around. The St. Royale was across the avenue. He still saw no one he could place as a sentry. It made no sense. He had already been found here once, trying to see her. Why would they not, even as a contingency, consider he would do the same again? He wondered if the real trap lay inside—perhaps in another private room—where he could be dealt with outside the public view. The possibility made his errand more dangerous, for he would not know until the last moment whether he was safe or not. Still, he’d made his choice. Grimly resolved, Svenson continued down the sidewalk.

He was nearly opposite the hotel when his view became blocked by two delivery carts whose horses had run afoul of each other. The drivers cursed loudly as men jumped from each cart to disentangle the harnesses and carefully back up each team. This caused the coaches behind to stop in turn—with another eruption of curses from each newly inconvenienced driver. Svenson could not help being distracted—his attention on the two carts as they finally worked themselves free and passed by, their drivers each offering one last particularly foul epithet—and so he found himself directly across from the hotel’s front entrance when the avenue had cleared. Before him, splendidly arrayed in a violet dress brilliantly shot with silver thread, black gloves, and a delicate black hat, stood Madame Lacquer-Sforza. Next to her, once more in a striped dress—now of blue and white—stood Miss Poole. Svenson immediately shrank away, pressing against the windows of a restaurant. They did not see him. He waited—scanning the street in either direction—ecstatic that he might be able to speak to her without entering the hotel, without being trapped. He swallowed, glanced for an opening in the coach traffic, and stepped forward.

His foot had just left the paved sidewalk for the cobbled street when he froze and then instantly scrambled backwards. From behind the two women had emerged Francis Xonck—now wearing an elegant yellow morning coat and top hat—tugging on a pair of yellow kidskin gloves. With a handsome smile he bent and whispered something that spurred Miss Poole to blush and giggle and Madame Lacquer-Sforza to wryly smile. Xonck extended an arm for each woman and stepped between them as they hooked their arms in his. He nodded toward the street and for a horrified moment Svenson thought he had been seen—he was more or less in plain sight—but saw that Xonck referred to an open coach that was even then drawing to them, blocking Svenson’s view. In the coach sat the Comte d’Orkancz, in his fur, his expression dark. The Comte made no effort to speak or acknowledge the others as they entered the coach, Xonck assisting each woman and climbing in last. Madame Lacquer-Sforza sat next to the Comte. She leaned to whisper in his ear. He—grudgingly, but as if he too were unable to resist—smiled. At this Xonck grinned, showing his white teeth, and Miss Poole burst into another fit of giggles. The coach pulled away. Svenson turned and reeled down the street.

She was gone—she was with them. No matter what other webs she might be spinning, Madame Lacquer-Sforza was their ally. If he could have spoken to her alone—but he had no longer any idea where or when or how that might happen. Svenson looked back at the hotel and saw that two of the Comte’s men were lounging by the main entrance. He walked steadily away, his face down, seized by the realization of just how close he had come to suicide. At the end of the block he again ducked around the corner and pressed himself against the wall. What could he possibly do? Where could he possibly go? What leverage could he acquire against such a powerful cabal? He looked up and saw across Grossmaere Avenue…was it? It was—the road he had taken so long ago with the Comte, toward the secret garden and the greenhouse. The woman. He could find her—he could take her—he could ransack the greenhouse for information—he might even lay in ambush for the Comte himself. What did he have to lose? He peered back at the hotel entrance—the men were laughing together. Svenson gauged the traffic and darted out, ducking behind one coach and then another, and was across the avenue. He looked back. No one was following. He was clear of them, and moved with a new purpose.

He tried to remember the exact route to the garden. It had been dark and the streets thick with fog, and his attention elsewhere—on the men following and on the Comte’s conversation. The streets looked so very different in the day and full of people. Still, he could find it—a turn here, along the next block, across that lane—and then around another corner. He found himself at a broad intersection, feeling as if he had mistaken part of the path, when he saw the entrance to a narrow lane across and farther down the street. Could that be it? He walked rapidly along his side of the street until he could gaze down the lane…it was different, but he thought he could see the church-like alcove where the Comte had unlocked the door. Could that be the high wall that lined the garden? Would there be men guarding it? Could he force the lock? Though the alley itself was empty of traffic, he knew all these questions would have to be answered with the crowded avenue only a stone’s throw away. Before he crossed the street toward it, he gave one last look around him to make sure he had not been followed.

Svenson froze. Behind him, through the glass double doors of what had to be another hotel, he saw a young woman sitting on a plush settee, her chestnut hair falling in sausage curls over her face, bent seriously over an open journal, scribbling notes, surrounded by books and newspapers. One of her legs was folded under her on the settee, but on the other—her dress riding up just enough to reveal her shapely calf—she wore a darling green ankle boot. Without another thought Doctor Svenson opened the door to the hotel and went in.