The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

“There are only two coffins.”
    “What would you suggest?” asked Xonck.
    “Send back to the forge—weight him down with scrap metal and chain.”
    Xonck nodded and turned to the Comte’s men who’d brought down the body. “You heard. Metal and chain, quickly.” To Svenson’s relief they tossed the medical kit on the ground before turning the barrow around and jogging back up the path. Major Blach removed his pistol from his holster and—staring at Svenson—barked at his men. “Help with the loading. I will watch him.”
    Xonck gestured to Blach’s pistol with a smile, and then took in the riverside around them with a wave of his arm. “You will notice how peaceful the morning is, Doctor Svenson. And as a thinking man you will understand how the Major’s pistol might shatter that peace and draw unwelcome attention to our efforts. In fact, since such a
thinking
man might also assume a well-placed cry for help might accomplish the same, I am obliged to point out that, were such a cry to occur, preserving this lovely silence would no longer
matter
—which is to say that if you make any noise you will be shot with less hesitation than if you were a foam-spitting cur.”
    “It is of course kind of you to explain things so nicely,” muttered Svenson.
    “Kindness costs very little, I find.” Xonck smiled.

    The troopers crossed to the coffin, but one of them glanced back at the Doctor with an expression of curiosity, if not doubt. Svenson watched as they manhandled the coffin onto the barge. When they were at the exact moment of balance—two of them knee-deep in water on the sides, one in the barge, one shoving from the rear—he called up to Major Blach.
    “Tell me, Major, is Herr Flaüss a traitor like you, or merely incompetent?”
    Blach cocked his pistol. Xonck sighed audibly and placed his hand on the Major’s arm.
    “Really, Doctor, you must desist.”
    “If I’m going to be murdered, I am at least curious whether I leave my Prince in the hands of two traitors or one.”
    “But presently he is in no one’s hands.”
    “None of
their
hands.”
    “Yes yes,” snapped Xonck. “As you have already told me. Careful there!”
    The men had shoved the coffin too far, to the side of the barge, and the entire craft tilted perilously. One man flung himself onto the barge to balance the weight while the other three dragged the coffin back into position. The Comte’s two men carefully took up their places on the barge—one at the rear oar, the other readying shorter paddling oars for each side.
    “Why go to the bother of transporting the Colonel here?” asked Svenson. “Why not just sink him in a canal near Harschmort?”
    Xonck cast a side glance at the Major. “Call it Germanic thoroughness,” he said.
    “The Comte examined his body,” replied Svenson, suddenly knowing it was true. “In his greenhouse.” They didn’t know something…or had something to hide—but hidden from someone at Harschmort? Hidden from Vandaariff? Were they not all allies?
    “We need to kill him,” snarled Blach.
    “Not with
that,
” answered Xonck, nodding at Blach’s pistol.
    Svenson knew he should act before the others came back with the wheelbarrow, when there were that many fewer of them. He pointed to his medical kit.
    “Mr. Xonck, I see there my own medical kit. I know I am to die, and I know that you may not shoot me for making too loud a noise. This leaves any number of more hideous options—strangling, stabbing, drowning, all of them slow and painful. If you will allow, I can quite easily prepare an injection for myself that will be swift, silent, and painless—it will perform a service to us all.”
    “Afraid, are you?” taunted Major Blach.
    “Indeed, I admit it freely,” answered Svenson, “I am a coward. If I must die—as it seems I must, for the credulous Prince you have abused and kidnapped—then I would prefer oblivion to agony.”
    Xonck studied him and called to one of the troopers. “Hand me the bag.”
    The nearest trooper did so. Xonck snapped it open, rummaged inside, and fixed Svenson with a searching, skeptical eye. He snapped the bag shut and threw it back to the trooper. “No needles,” he said to Svenson, “and no attempt to throw acid or anything else you may have on hand. You will drink your medicine, and do it quietly. If there is the slightest trouble, I will merely gag you and let the Major do his worst—I assure you no one will hear the difference.” He