The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

as he could muster.
    “Did you find the Prince, Major? Or have you spent the night drinking other men’s wine…and licking other men’s…boots?”
    Blach stopped where he was and turned. Svenson did his best with a dry mouth and launched a gob of spit in the Major’s direction. It traveled only a few feet but still made its point. Major Blach flushed and took a stride toward Svenson. Behind Blach, Francis Xonck called out to him sharply. “Major!” Blach stopped, gave Svenson another murderous look and continued down the path. Xonck looked over the Major’s shoulder for a moment, meeting Svenson’s gaze, and chuckled. He waited for Blach to reach him, took hold of his arm and shoved him forward, so Xonck was now between them and Major Blach in the lead. Svenson looked back. The Comte’s men were bringing down the body, covered by a tarp—one holding the barrow, one in the rear with the pistol. There was no clear way for him to run, should he be foolish enough to try. Instead he called ahead to Blach in an even louder voice.
    “Is it an easy thing to betray your country, Major? I am curious—what was your price? Gold? New uniform? Women? Athletic young men? A sheep farm?”
    Major Blach wheeled, his hand digging for his pistol. Xonck took hold of his uniform with both hands and with difficulty—Xonck was stronger than he seemed—restrained Blach where he was. Once the Major had stopped his charge, Xonck again turned him around—whispering into his ear—and shoved him forward. When the Major had advanced a few paces, Xonck turned to Svenson, nodding to the troopers. Svenson felt a shove and began again to walk, now with Xonck right ahead of him. Xonck looked back at him with a smile.
    “I should have said suckling pigs instead of sheep, but I believe he took your point. I am Francis Xonck.”
    “Captain-Surgeon Abelard Svenson.”
    “Rather more than that, I think.” Xonck smiled. “You have the distinction of actually impressing the Comte d’Orkancz, which is a rare enough event that there really ought to be a parade.” He smiled again and took in the troopers and the men behind them with the wheelbarrow. “Perhaps it is a parade after all.”
    “I should have preferred more bunting,” said Svenson, “and some trumpets.”
    “Another time, I am sure.” Xonck chuckled.
    They walked on. Ahead Svenson could see the river. They were actually quite close to it, the fog and the buildings around them having obscured the view.
    “Did you locate the Prince?” asked Svenson, as airily as possible.
    “Why, did you?” answered Xonck.
    “I’m afraid I did not,” admitted Svenson. “Though I do know who has taken him.”
    “Indeed?” Xonck studied him for a moment, his eyes twinkling. “How
satisfying
for you.”
    “I am not sure you know those responsible. Though I believe you—or your companions—have tried to apprehend them.”
    Xonck did not reply, but Svenson thought his smile had become that much more fixed on his lips, and disconnected from his searching eyes. Xonck turned his gaze ahead, and saw that they approached the end of the path. “Ah—the splendid waterfront. We are arrived.”
    The path opened onto a slippery portage way, sloping under the grey surface of the river. To either side was a raised stone pier, where cargo or passengers might more easily be lowered. Tied to the left-hand pier was a flat, featureless barge with one high oar in the rear like a gondola’s. In its bow was a latched section that could be let down as a gangplank, as it presently was. In the center of the narrow barge was a closed metal coffin. Another, unsealed, lay on the pier. Svenson realized that once on the water, the ramp could be lowered again and the coffins slipped into the river to sink. If they had tried to push the coffins over the side the entire craft would be dangerously unbalanced. Two more of the Comte’s men were in the barge, and they stepped forward to help the others bundle Arthur Trapping into the waiting coffin. As Svenson stood to the side between the troopers, he watched them install the body and secure the lid with a series of clamps and screws. With a small surge of something vaguely like hope he noticed that, under Trapping’s body in the wheelbarrow, one of the men had thrown his medical kit. He looked up to see Major Blach on the pier, glaring at him. The Major snarled to Xonck, who had crossed to stand near him.
    “What of him?” He nodded toward Svenson.