The Chemickal Marriage

Not a dog-cart, but small enough, a two-wheeled gig, given over at the soldiers’ insistence by its whey-faced owner, who demanded – and was denied – an official chit to mark his property’s requisition. Trooste drove, satchels crammed under the seat, as Chang, town-born and ever poor, had no skill with horses. He knew the city, however, and directed Trooste down unobtrusive roads where they made good time. The Professor was hardly calm in Chang’s menacing presence, however, and it was minutes before he attempted conversation.

‘Will we really go to Harschmort House? It seems cruel to the horse.’

‘It’s a cruel night,’ Chang replied. ‘Turn left.’

‘But that takes us away from –’

‘Turn.’

Trooste guided the trap into an unpaved lane. ‘So, the Archbishop’s own messenger –’

‘The Archbishop can go hang. Do you know how Mrs Kraft was restored to her mind?’

Trooste stammered at the directness of the question, but then accepted he was not up to the task of duplicity. ‘As a matter of fact I do.’

‘Was it you or Svenson?’

‘Well, I do not flatter myself –’

‘Or the child?’

‘What child?’

‘The one who’s dead, Professor.’ Chang turned in his seat, making sure they’d not been followed. ‘Left again.’

Trooste did so with some skill, for the road was littered with refuse that might well have broken a wheel. Chang wondered at the man’s origins. Had he grown up with money, a horse-cart of his own, books and telescopes to feed his hungry mind? Judging by his modestly cut coat, that comfort had gone – gambled away? – though an attending air of privilege remained.

‘Lord Vandaariff has not sent for you at all.’

‘But he will see me.’ Trooste beamed with confidence. ‘He will want to hear what has been achieved – the actions of his enemies –’

‘You mean Svenson.’

‘Indeed I do.’ Trooste shivered. ‘A terrible figure. You should have seen that poor child writhe! She guided the machines – you guessed it, I don’t know how – and the stench, the bile, like coal tar filling her mouth –’ Trooste waved his hands at the memory, then immediately lunged back to recover the reins.

‘Dreadful,’ he muttered, ‘simply dreadful!’

As the tale came out, Chang perceived the cruelty of the Doctor’s dilemma: how to save Madelaine Kraft without destroying the child. Svenson had failed – or had acted with a coldness of which Chang had not thought him capable … yet who knew Svenson’s mind or manner now? The horses of grief drove each man down a different, darkened path.

‘We fled our separate ways in the fire, and that was the last I saw of them.’ The Professor raised both eyebrows. ‘That German is a madman, you know. A killer.’

‘He refrained from killing you.’

‘Not from kindness!’ Trooste gave Chang a sidelong, crafty glance. ‘You know, I think you want to see Robert Vandaariff as much as I – and intend that I shall get you through the gates with my treasure house of news!’

Trooste chuckled and went so far as to slap Chang’s knee. Chang caught the hand as he might snatch a horsefly from the air.

‘Tell me about Vandaariff’s new glass. The different colours.’

‘I’m sure I’ve no idea –’

Chang squeezed, grinding the bones. Trooste grimaced, and Chang released the hand, the puffy flesh pink where he had gripped it. Trooste worked his fingers, chastened, but his eyes remained bright. Usually force and pain were all that was necessary to contain a man unused to violence, but Trooste was more resilient.

‘So that’s where we sit, then? I had hoped for a more collegial –’

‘Then do not lie. The different colours. Each with different alchemical properties.’

‘Alchemical?’ Trooste’s sly look had returned. ‘Surely you don’t credit such nonsense?’

‘I am not Lord Vandaariff.’

Trooste laughed. ‘But that is just his genius! For every mention of alchemy, planets and spheres – the metaphorical brushstrokes, if you will –’

‘Metaphorical horse droppings.’

‘You may well say, but the science at play is as sound as a bell.’

‘So. The coloured glass cards. What is their purpose?’

‘No purpose at all!’ Trooste insisted. ‘Experiments in smelting, nothing more. The primary component of each card remains indigo clay –’

‘But they are not infused with memory.’

‘No! Each card is an amalgam of indigo clay with a different metal –’

‘Why? Why alchemically?’

Trooste did not hear the question, for his attention had been taken by Chang’s face. Chang wiped at his cheek, wondering if he’d been splashed with Foison’s blood.

Trooste bit his plump lower lip, and dropped his voice to an eager whisper. ‘My Lord, I’d no idea. And – sweet mercy – where is it installed?’

Chang seized the reins and pulled. Trooste fought to keep them – to keep the gig from spilling – but the horse came to a stop without incident.

‘Of all the reckless – you could have broken our necks!’

‘How the nation would mourn. Get out.’ Chang reached beneath the seat and hurled one of the Professor’s satchels to the street.

‘What are you doing? I’m coming with you – you need me!’

Chang threw another satchel – aiming for the fetid gutter but landing short. Trooste lunged to stop him. Chang shoved him hard in the chest.

‘Get down.’

The Professor did so, an awkward scramble as the final satchel struck the road. Chang vaulted down after him and walked off quickly. Trooste gathered his burdens and hurried to follow.

‘But our gig! Someone will steal it!’

‘Let them.’

‘My papers are heavy!’

Chang called over his shoulder. ‘Then let them burn.’

Trooste caught up at the corner, red-faced and gasping. ‘You’re a lunatic!’

‘Is that so?’ Chang gazed at the Professor over the rim of his spectacles. ‘You see, I know Robert Vandaariff, and knew the Comte d’Orkancz before him even better.’

‘You knew the Comte d’Orkancz?’ Trooste’s voice rose, like a dreamy imperialist speaking of Napoleon.

‘I put a sabre through his guts.’

The Professor hitched his bundles higher on his chest. ‘You are not a priest.’

Chang laughed and walked on. Trooste glanced back to the gig as they rounded the corner, the horse waiting docile in the empty street.

‘Lord above!’

To Trooste’s credit, the outburst was not so fearful as grim. Before them stood the Crampton Place railway station, the platform packed with so many waiting travellers that they spilled into the lane. Chang saw neither Foison’s green-coats nor Bronque’s grenadiers …

‘We will never get through,’ huffed Trooste. ‘We should go back to the horse before it’s taken.’

‘One horse cannot get us there in time. You said it yourself.’

‘In time for what?’