“There is inconstant movement of the eyes...it might be ascribed to some kind of fugue state...it is not catatonia...sheisnot aware, but perhaps...within her own mind...perhapsdreams...perhaps delirium...perhaps peace.”The Comte d’Orkancz did not reply, his eyes lost for a momentin 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, “un-til I say otherwise. You have assisted me—I would prefer to rewardsuch cooperation—and yet you stand quite clearly opposed toother 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 moredangerous? Was he more likely to be spared the more ignorantly loyal to the Prince he appeared? He could not see clearly out of thegreenhouse due to the glaring lantern light reflecting on theglass—he could not place any of the guards. Even if he were able toreach his pistol and somehow overcome d’Orkancz—by his size anextremely powerful man—how could he elude the others? Hedidn’t know where he was—he was exhausted—he had no safeplace 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?”
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“They are—”“Most likely quite near to the service revolver you brandishedearlier this evening. Does it not seem like a great deal has hap-pened since then? I have grappled with death and disruption, withintrigue and retribution—and you have done the same. And youhave lost your Prince
again
. We would both be nearly comic, werenot these consequences so steeped in blood. Have you ever killedanyone, 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 wellknow. You do know exactly what I am asking.”“I do. I have.”“When?”“In the city of Bremen. A man who had—it seemed—cor-rupted a young niece of the Duke—he was intractable, my in-structions...I—I forced him to drink poison, at pistol-point. Iam 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 inhis throat, his rolling eyes, and then recovering the incriminatingletters from his pocket as he lay on the floor, the sharp smell of theman’s bile. The memory haunted him. Svenson rubbed his eyes.He was hot—even more hot than he had been—the room wastruly 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 theComte’s untouched cup on the table. The table was above him. Hehad dropped to his knees, realizing dimly that he did not feel theimpact. His head swam. The fibers of the carpet pressed into hisface. Dark warm water closed over him, and he vanished within it.
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* * *He opened his eyes in shadow, goaded by a nagging shapeless ur-gency, through a warm woolen veil of sleep. He blinked. His eye-lids 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 woodagainst his skin, the smell of dust and oil, the sound of wheels andhoofbeats. He was in the back of a cart, staring up at a clothcanopy in the near dark. The wagon rattled along—they were trav-eling across uneven cobbles, the jolts waking him before he other- wise would have. He reached with his right hand and touched thecanvas cover, some two feet above him. His mouth and throat wereparched. His temples throbbed. He realized with a certain distantpleasure that he was not dead, that for some reason—or so far—the Comte had spared his life. He felt carefully around him, hislimbs aching but responsive. Crumpled near his head was hiscoat—the revolver no longer in the pocket, though he still pos-sessed the glass card. He groped farther, at his arm’s length, andflinched as his hand found a booted foot. Svenson swallowed androlled his eyes. How many corpses—or near-corpses, if he countedthe woman and the soldiers—had been thrown Svenson’s way thisday alone? It would be ridiculous if it were not also sickening. With a grim determination the Doctor felt farther—the body wasoppositely laid in the cart, the feet near his head—moving downthe boots to the trousers, which had a heavy side seam, braid orfrogging—a uniform. He followed the leg until he came to, nextto it, a hand. A man’s hand, and icy cold.The cart lurched again and Svenson pushed his exhaustedmind to determine in which direction they moved—was his headat 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 hefelt were the shakes up and down. He reached above his head andtouched a wooden barrier. He felt along the corner, where this
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