The Chemickal Marriage

an unpleasant ease.

‘I will force you.’

‘You will have to kill me. Perhaps you can, but it is against your orders. I, however, may kill you most freely.’

‘You need me to reach Harschmort.’

‘I disagree. And once I get there I will kill your master.’

‘You won’t get within ten yards of the door. How many men did Miss Temple send? How many dozens came from other rivals? Harschmort has changed. You know how they died.’

Chang extended the walking stick like a blade, the tip floating at the level of Foison’s eyes. Foison sighed with impatience.

‘This is madness.’

Chang feinted at Foison’s abdomen, then swung the stick like a sabre blade, a cross-cut at the man’s head. Foison deflected the blow with one knife, but his counter thrust was slow. They watched each other. Foison could not attack freely and risk the possibility of Chang’s death, while Chang could attack and attack again, and finally – inevitably – strike home.

Foison retreated two steps. ‘Stop this – I am willing to follow, as long as we leave. If you’re not at Harschmort in time, Celeste Temple will be consumed.’

Chang advanced again, a jab to the face and then a swipe at Foison’s knee. Foison parried, dodged, fell back.

‘She’ll be consumed anyway. You know full well.’

‘I have no idea.’

‘You lie.’

With a swift motion Chang cracked the haft of the stick across Foison’s wrist and one knife clattered to the road. Foison brought the wrist to his mouth with a hiss, and fell back. Chang scooped up the knife, a weapon now in each hand. Foison flipped his remaining knife in the air and caught it by the tip, ready to throw.

‘You change nothing. She will die.’

‘She shouldn’t.’

‘We are all tested.’ Foison’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘And if I kill you here and now … so be it.’

Foison whipped back his arm and threw. Chang dived, taking the cobbles on his shoulder. He felt a sting at his hip, but Foison – still seeking to wound instead of kill – had missed. Chang rolled up, slashing the stick across the empty hands that reached to take him. Foison hissed at the pain, yanking both hands back as Chang lunged and stuck the knife into Foison’s thigh. Chang brought the walking stick down hard on Foison’s head. Foison fell and lay still.

The knife had pierced his coat, but the point had gone wide, scarcely a prick. Chang tucked a knife into his belt and glanced at Foison’s wound. He would live. Chang began to run.

It was half a mile before he found the cordon: exhausted militiamen doing their best to tend to those displaced – handing out blankets and serving soup from a makeshift canteen. He presented himself to a weary subaltern as an emissary of the Church and was passed through. Soon Chang was running again, angling away from where he’d been directed – if Foison did attempt to follow, Axewith would appear to have been Chang’s goal – and towards the train.

Not Stropping Station – there Foison had been right. The place would be a madhouse. But he recalled Foison’s suggestion that Bronque post men beyond Stropping on the route to the Orange Canal. Now, because of Foison, Schoepfil would make his transit safely under the protection of the Colonel’s men.

At the next checkpoint, further from the chaos, the troops again fed refugees from steaming pots suspended over open fires. He passed in easily, trading on the Archbishop’s name to request transport. A sergeant directed him to a line of people pressing similar claims of urgency. He stood behind a dishevelled older man and woman, their rich clothing spoilt by soot and water. The woman’s pleasure to see a churchman was visibly curdled by the Monsignor’s scars.

‘A terrible night,’ she managed.

‘We must reach our home,’ explained her husband, shifting to maintain his place in line ahead of Chang. ‘The grandchildren. The horses.’

Chang craned his head to the front. Despite there being any number of apparently free vehicles, no one moved. With a sigh of disgust he strode forward.

‘We have to wait!’ cried the old woman.

‘Take us with you!’ pleaded the husband.

Their calls caught the attention of others as Chang advanced, like a match to a trail of powder, igniting shouts of protest at his refusal to wait and calls of support from those attaching their frustration to his own.

Chang cared only that no one blocked his way – that they’d remained docile for this long showed how little destruction this crowd had really seen. At the head of the queue stood a major of engineers, looking up from a folding field table of maps at the growing cries. The weary officer raised his hoarse voice for everyone to hear. ‘A system is in place, without favouritism – if you would just go back to your place –’

‘I have urgent word for the Archbishop.’

The Major pointed with his stylus. ‘And that man for the Admiralty, and that man for the Ministries, and that man for Lord Robert Vandaariff himself – unfortunately, everyone must wait.’

‘Those coaches are unused.’

‘They may be required.’ The Major waved unhappily to his soldiers. ‘Kindly escort the Monsignor –’

‘That would be a mistake.’ Chang spoke coldly enough to give the soldiers pause. He turned to a man the Major had indicated, fat-faced and fair-haired, laden with several bulging satchels. ‘Your errand is with Robert Vandaariff?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ stammered the man.

‘His errand is none of your –’

Chang’s walking stick slammed like a shot on the folding table, directly between the engineer’s two hands.

‘What is your name?’ Chang demanded, ignoring how his action had stunned everyone within earshot to stillness.

‘Trooste.’ The fair man’s hesitation set a wobble to his chin. ‘Augustus Trooste, Professor of Chemical Science, Royal Institute.’

Chang let his expression curl to a knowing sneer. ‘Is that so?’

‘It is! My research – to Lord Vandaariff, is of the highest –’

‘When did you last see Madelaine Kraft?’

Professor Trooste blanched, swallowed, rallied. ‘Why, whoever is that?’

Chang laughed aloud at the lie. The trade between the Institute and the Old Palace was so thick that no resident scholar, whether he partook of her wares or no, could be ignorant of the woman who was its mistress.

‘You’ll come with me.’

‘To the Archbishop?’ protested Trooste, even as he bent awkwardly for his papers. ‘But I have told you –’

Chang leant over the engineer’s table, speaking low. ‘Robert Vandaariff clings to life. The explosion at the Customs House – the news has been suppressed, but he will die tonight. His bequest of aid to the city has not been signed. He has no heir. Do you understand what that will mean to the city if his offer becomes swallowed in legal wrangling?’

‘But – how does the Archbishop –’

‘Who do you think arranged it to begin with? This man’– Trooste had joined him, breathing hard from the weight of the satchels – ‘may be able to extend Lord Vandaariff’s life. Can’t you, Professor? If the matter is blue glass?’

Trooste baulked again, his shock evident, but the engineer, aware that the decision lay beyond his care, only shouted over his shoulder: ‘Two to pass. A damned dog-cart if you’ve got it!’ He glared sourly at Chang. ‘All blessings on your task.’