The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

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