“To make this incision the blade must be pointing up.”

“What does that signify? If I were to attack you with a knife, my hands would be below your throat—my hands hang below my waist—they would rise in the same way!”

“No,” said Svenson. “Stand.”

They rose. Svenson put the blade into the other man's hand and then took hold of that hand's wrist, moving the blade slowly toward his own throat to sketch an attack.

“In making your stroke, your arm is actually much more likely to swing the blade from your shoulder, like a fist, and so the angle of entry is more a flat gash than what we see.”

Fruitricks looked down at the knife in his hand with distaste. “What does that mean?”

“Only that whoever killed the man was a good deal shorter.”

Svenson took back the clasp knife and knelt by the newly dead soldier, pressing aside the wound in much the same way—the fresher gash seeping unpleasantly over the blade.

“It is the same—from the front, and from below. I assume there was no cry or signal from this man either?”

“Not at all.”

“One must assume their silence comes for a reason. They might have been held at pistol-point. Or saw no reason to be afraid.”

“But they were murdered.”

“Obviously such reasoning was wrong. Was this man found inside the factory?”

“Can you say who has murdered them or not?”

Svenson imagined the ease with which the Contessa had approached each dead man, stilling their suspicions with a smile. He recalled the speed and violence—and the glee—with which she had murdered Harald Crabbé. Did his own reticence to name her prove she had charmed him as well?

A green-coated officer burst into the room.

“Mr. Leveret! Another man! You must come directly!”

HE LED them all, the Doctor following “Leveret” (since neither name meant anything to Svenson, it was as easy to call him this instead of the frankly ridiculous “Fruitricks”) out the opposite side of the building, another squad at loopholes guarding this door. On this side of the factory there was no wooden wall, but the still-standing stone border of a much older structure whose crumbled outline lay strewn beyond it, just visible through the trees, like a faded inscription on a moss-covered grave. At the base of the wall several soldiers clustered around a figure on the ground.

Leveret was already snapping for an explanation. The officer pointed to a wooden ladder fixed to the wall. Had the man simply lost his balance? Leveret wheeled on the Doctor, his mouth a tight line.

“This is monstrous!”

The Doctor glanced once at the corpse. He drew a last, long puff from the diminished stub of his cigarette before grinding it out against the stone wall. “You must send your men away.”

“I will not!” insisted Leveret. “You will take no more advantage of my tolerant manner!”

“As you insist… then they will hear the truth.”

Svenson had seen this countless times in the navy: over-promoted fools whose prideful insistence on “having their way” resulted in a ship needlessly lost in a storm, or drifting within range of enemy batteries. Svenson glared at him, flatly contemptuous. Mr. Leveret swallowed. With an impatient flipping of both hands he waved the soldiers back to their posts.

The dead soldier's eyes were open in uncomprehending terror, the corners of his mouth crusted with a blue-tinted saliva. The Doctor recalled Karthe, the blood on the rock where the boy had been mauled, the cold stench of death in the mining camp. With effort—and then with Leveret's help—he tipped the man on one side to expose his back: a shining lattice of spattered slashes and stabs, the blood hardened to gleaming blue, suffusing the green wool coat. Svenson counted at least seven deep punctures, all made with a savage rapidity. He nodded to Leveret and they gently set the body down. Doctor Svenson stood and dug in his pocket for his silver case.

“If you hoped for time to secure your rebellion, you will not get it. I have seen this before. In Karthe.”

“Karthe is in the mountains!” Leveret's face went even whiter with rage. “You will tell me what you know, sir, and straightaway! Rebellion indeed! You are my prisoner! I insist you tell me what has killed this man!”

“I should think it obvious.”

Leveret glanced again at the soldiers, all watching closely. Their master licked his lips.

“But—but it makes no sense… the others were killed by someone they trusted—or who did not scare them. However, this man…”

“Yes?” snapped the Doctor.

“Is it not the same killer?” Leveret asked hopelessly.

“Does it look like it?”

Leveret swallowed and crossed his arms.

“I suppose you doubt a man who kills like that would meet Mr. Brandt face-to-face without alarming him.”

“I also doubt a man who kills like that is necessarily sane.”

“You said you saw this before—in the north.”

“So I did.”

“Then what must we do? How was this person stopped?”

“He wasn't stopped at all, obviously. He's come to your door.”

Leveret studied the body, flinching with distaste at the shining wounds. “It is not possible…”

“What else did you expect?” Svenson asked. “Who else did you think you served? When you next see Francis Xonck, will he reward you? I should think a man who makes munitions would understand how care must be taken when one's work becomes deadly. But you will learn it soon enough—since this man was killed inside the wall, your defenses must be considered breached.” Svenson called to the soldiers directly and pointed to the ladder. “Look where this man was posted! Whoever killed him is inside! You must search in force!”

“Do not instruct us,” shouted Leveret. The soldiers had Svenson's arms and were hauling him away. “You are just like the rest of them— these social-climbing, whore-aping adherents—so confident, so ambitious, hoping to achieve by playing leapfrog, by climbing on the backs of others until they are lifted to the very top of their childish dreams. And lifted by whom? Where are these masters? I am master here!”

“I thought you served Francis Xonck!” Svenson called. He hoped for a reaction from the green-coated soldiers, but their faces did not shift.

“What you think means nothing!” cried Leveret. “Take him!”

THE DOCTOR gazed hopelessly at the silver walls of the tempering room, and at the round refining chamber hanging in its harness. He wanted to kick it. A moment after he had been escorted in, the same two soldiers resuming their stance by the door, another pair had dropped the third glass-stabbed body at his feet, as if the murder was his doing. Perhaps these new weapons were protection enough—perhaps Francis Xonck's own soldiers would shoot him like a rabid dog. Perhaps… but he could still remember the earnest faces of the slaughtered townsmen of Karthe. Svenson stared at the dead man's blue-crusted lips, then turned to the men at the door, just as doomed. This little room of corpses would not do.

He dropped to one knee, gasped, then leapt up and shouted urgently to the door. “You there—at once, run for Mr. Leveret! I have discovered something on the body. He must be warned!”

The men looked at each other.

“There is no time!” Svenson cried. “He may be making a terrible mistake!”

One man ran off, toward the front of the factory. The other stepped into the room, his carbine held ready.

“What mistake?” the soldier asked warily.

“Look for yourself,” said Svenson, and he knelt next to the third corpse, indicating a spot just to the back of the dead man's neck. “The brighter light in this room that allowed me to see—”

“I do not see anything,” said the soldier, leaning.

“I'm a blind fool! There! Under the collar—the first point of impact—the wound!”