The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

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