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 Flauss 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 Flauss—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 Crabbe, 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 Flauss 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, Flauss 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 Flauss, 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 Flauss, whose hands were tightened into fists above his desk top. “We have spoken of the vanished Colonel Trapping—” he began. Flauss 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.”
Flauss 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 Flauss?”
“It is none of your affair.”
“You were with Robert Vandaariff.”
Flauss 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.
“Is he paying you?”
“I will not answer insolence—”
“I will no longer suffer idiocy.”
Flauss opened his mouth to reply but said nothing, affronted into silence. Svenson was worried he’d gone too far. Flauss 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
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 Flauss with undisguised dislike.
“I’m afraid I must get back to my patient.”
Flauss 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
Flauss 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 Flauss, and walked to
