The Chemickal Marriage

–’

Chang swung the helmet into the tray, sending the flasks and implements flying.

‘O heaven!’ wailed the actor, as if Rome itself had begun to fall. Chang dropped the helmet and seized Leffert through the robe. He dragged him to the fountain. Leffert caught the rim and pushed away. ‘No! I am not given over! I am promised to ascend!’

Chang shoved the actor’s head into the trough. Leffert struggled, holding his breath. Chang dropped a knee into Leffert’s kidney and a spray of bubbles spat orange. The actor inhaled and swallowed. Chang lifted him, dripping, by the hair. Leffert’s eyes were as blue as a songbird’s eggs. Chang released him to the floor, the actor’s mouth working soundlessly.

‘The Draught of Silence?’ said Chang. ‘Not the best for his profession.’

‘You have achieved nothing,’ replied Vandaariff.

He rapped his cane on the floor. Another line of acolytes filed into the room of machines and tubs behind Vandaariff, one of them, again, with a tray of bottles. To Chang’s horror the others bore the unmoving, naked bodies of Cunsher and Gorine. Both men were daubed with symbols in bright coloured paints, like savages from cannibal islands – or almost, for the skin beneath the paint was pale.

‘What have you done to them?’

The acolytes lowered Cunsher and Gorine into coffin-shaped tubs. Their heads lolled. The acolyte with the tray emptied a flask of straw-coloured powder into Gorine’s tub, and then Cunsher’s. The tubs began to steam. The acolyte looked up, the fat face beneath the hood transformed with scars.

‘You were acquainted, I believe, in my new initiate’s former life. He will be more useful now – always clever, but now he will transcend.’

Chang watched helplessly as Trooste emptied more flasks. By the end both Cunsher and Gorine floated in a rusty liquid that foamed against their painted skin.

Chang shouted to the metal grille: ‘What do you want?’

‘For you to take the Draught of Silence, of course.’

‘Go to hell.’ Chang turned to the other doorways. ‘I’ll find a way through. I will cut your throat.’

‘No, Cardinal. That is not your place.’ Vandaariff’s eyes shone brightly through the mask. ‘You know the ritual, do you not, from Rosamonde’s memory? I am in her debt, to be sure. So many celebrants now come prepared.’

‘This cannot work,’ called Chang. ‘Even if you survive, into what world? The city burns. The Army rules the streets. The people have fled. The Ministries are silent, the bank vaults emptied –’

‘Buzzing flies on a dunghill.’

‘The nation hangs on the brink! Your nephew has allies in place. Every power will assist his accession, and your demise. You are unstable. Bronque is alive. His grenadiers –’

The words died on Chang’s lips. The acolytes had returned with two more painted bodies – the angular man from the train, Kelling, and Colonel Bronque himself, whose flesh was marked with wounds. Chang recalled the silence they had noted in the dunes – what could explain it but the glass globes? Even a few of Vandaariff’s men could overwhelm Bronque and his survivors before they fired a shot. Trooste stood above the Colonel, emptying a flask.

‘Precious salts,’ said Vandaariff, following Chang’s gaze. ‘Blood and sex, acid and fire – a sacred tempering, Cardinal. And so the flesh of life becomes the flesh of dreams.’

‘Spare Celeste Temple.’

Vandaariff turned. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Spare Celeste Temple.’

‘Why should I do that?’

‘In exchange for myself, for my cooperation.’

‘I will have your cooperation.’

‘You won’t.’ Chang drew out the silver knife. He tore off the canvas satchel and his red coat. He lifted his silk shirt and reached behind, isolating the lump of scar near to his spine. ‘I’ll cut out your glass. Even if it kills me.’

Vandaariff studied Chang closely through his mask. ‘It will kill you.’

‘So be it.’

‘Stop.’ Vandaariff moistened his dry lips with a pallid tongue. Beyond him Trooste watched with an avid curiosity. ‘I cannot spare her. She must act the Bride.’

‘Use the Contessa.’

‘She is the Virgo Lucifera.’ Vandaariff raised a hand to the ceiling of the little room, which was formed of small open tubes, all of which had begun, ever so slightly, to glow.

‘She is your enemy. She wants your head.’

‘And I want her parts boiled down for paste. Nevertheless, ever we have found a way.’

Behind Chang, an acolyte had crawled to the canvas satchel. Chang stamped on the man’s hand and felt the crunch of a glass globe giving way. The acolyte screamed at the pain, but kicked the brass helmet clear before he succumbed to the fumes. Chang went after the helmet, but another acolyte – they’d been waiting for their chance – caught Chang’s leg, even as he too collapsed. The helmet spun beyond Chang’s reach.

A muffled roar shook the room. Chang looked up, his lungs tight. Black smoke spewed in from a splintered doorway. Foul air would protect him as much as the helmet. Chang flung himself at the door and wrenched it wide.

Blackened figures lay on the buckled tiles – grenadiers, to judge by their singed and tattered uniforms. Then the smoky air parted and a soot-faced man cracked a rifle-butt into Chang’s chest. Chang tumbled back, the breath knocked from his body. A sharp seizing took his lungs. His dark glasses were swatted away.

Vandaariff shouted from the other room: ‘Excellent! Subdue him!’

Chang had lost the knife. He groped for the helmet. A kick into his ribs knocked him flat again. He saw the face above him and took it for Mahmoud – for Vandaariff’s black Executioner – but this man was shorter and too lithe. Then he saw the white hair.

Foison fell onto Chang’s chest, pinning an arm with each of his knees. He’d a leather case slung across his chest, and snapped it open.

‘No, no!’ cried Vandaariff. ‘The draught – give him the draught!’

Chang arched his back but could not shift Foison’s weight. His lungs were on fire.

One of Foison’s hands sought Chang’s battered eyes and peeled back the lids. The other slapped an open glass book onto Chang’s face and pressed down hard.

For a blinding, screaming instant Cardinal Chang perceived the whole of his soul, suddenly naked, balanced on a precipice. Then every part of him was taken away.

Nine Indenture

Doctor Svenson swung the pistol calmly between Bronque’s soldiers, Kelling and Schoepfil. Any show of weakness would spark their attack.

‘Give my best wishes to Her Majesty. All of Macklenburg is at her service.’

The words were meaningless. He was a criminal in Macklenburg and a criminal here. How many times would he fling himself at death before the black wings caught him up?

He saw Schoepfil move, but the man’s damned speed was such that to stop him meant shooting to kill – and, while he knew Schoepfil to be a villain, the man had committed himself to bringing down Robert Vandaariff. Was this – lust apart – any different from his detente with the Contessa?

Schoepfil seized Kelling’s crate of paper and hurled it like a stone into the chest of a footman, pages flying in the air. The soldiers charged. Svenson swore in German.

He shot one trooper in the thigh and the other, sabre raised to open the Doctor’s skull, neatly under the arm.