the door. Flauss stood, his hand still open. Svenson opened the door and walked into the hallway. Behind he heard rushing steps and then Flauss 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 Flauss.
“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, Flauss was smirking with ill-concealed triumph.
“You have been distracted, Doctor Svenson. Things have changed. So many, many things have changed.”
Svenson turned to Flauss 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. Flauss’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
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 Flauss 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. Flauss sneered at Svenson and indicated the door.
“Doctor? I believe you have the key.”
