Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

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