The Chemickal Marriage

man with his limbs turned blue.

The procedure went smoothly. Svenson followed the mechanics of energy, his understanding augmented by the ordeal of Mrs Kraft. Well into the change Schoepfil could still converse, guiding Svenson through tight-clenched teeth until the blue colour began to saturate his skin. Bronque caught Schoepfil’s head when he fell back insensible, but it was for Svenson alone to judge the moment when the power must be cut off, when going further risked the next stage of transformation, turning Schoepfil’s flesh to glass.

Had he erred, he knew, Bronque would have taken his life. He wondered at the strange alliance between the two men, both possessed of a certain talent, yet judged by their betters to be mediocrities. Were they kindred spirits of spite? Certainly they had staked their lives on this one throw. Without Schoepfil inheriting his uncle’s empire – that protecting influence – Bronque’s diversion of an elite regiment in a time of public crisis would bring a court martial and disgrace, if not a firing squad. And if Schoepfil failed, for his abuses at the Therm? alone he would be banished or imprisoned. For the next hours, however, both men remained free as lords.

With the second leg finished and Schoepfil collapsed into a stupor, Svenson was left alone with Bronque. He blew smoke at the rear of the train. ‘How is Mrs Kraft here, after what you did to her people?’

Bronque laughed harshly and fished out his flask. ‘If Vandaariff dies, she won’t care about a few sticks of furniture and some trollops.’

‘You are an expert on women’s feelings?’

Bronque screwed up his face and took a pull of whisky. ‘Still brooding about the Contessa? Well, you may indeed. I’ve never had a more magnificent –’

‘No, Colonel, I am not brooding. Nor do I desire your narrative of conquest. But I am obliged to ask, are you so sure she did not conquer you? And the details of this very campaign?’

‘What in hell do you mean?’

Svenson said nothing. Bronque made to drink, but put the flask down.

‘I would know.’

‘Would you? She has learnt to make her own blue glass. With it, she could have stolen your memories or persuaded you with new ones. Ask yourself, Colonel, did you ever have her? Are you sure? I was there when she cut Pont-Joule’s throat. I did not know they were en amour, but it did not stay her blade. If you think she would not ransack your mind like a trunk, then you’re an ass.’

Bronque flushed with anger but did not speak. Instead he pocketed the flask and rubbed his face with both hands. He stood and stalked to the door. Svenson heard him address his men, but not the words. Bronque came back and reclaimed his seat.

‘If there is coffee on this train we will have some.’ Svenson nodded blandly, for Bronque’s sharp face still showed rage. ‘And I’m a fool not to allow for what you say. Which means that Mrs Kraft’s information must be considered in an altogether new light.’

‘Because she has only recently appeared,’ said Svenson.

‘And thus represents the one thing the Contessa categorically cannot know. And not only did that woman escape her captivity, by doing so she avoided a very specific fate. I planned to inform Vandaariff of the Contessa’s location, and Lord only knows what he would have done to her. But somehow she chose just that time to get away.’

‘As if she knew … or that you’d told her?’

‘But why would I? It was my plan!’ Bronque glared at Schoepfil on the pallet. ‘If you tell him this I’ll cut your throat.’

‘Why should I?’

‘Because you’re as desperate as I am. And, because a damned whore-mistress knows something the Contessa can’t anticipate, I must protect her at all costs. But, however important it might now be to reach Vandaariff before sunrise, that doesn’t change our having to get through his front door.’

Colonel Bronque slapped his thigh with frustration. Doctor Svenson took that moment to palm the flask of bloodstone and drop it in his pocket.

They woke Schoepfil before Orange Locks, where Bronque and his men would disembark. Schoepfil exulted in his altered legs: vivid blue from the toes to mid-calf, with marbled streaks extending up each sparsely haired thigh.

‘Did it work?’ asked Bronque.

‘O I do expect so!’ Schoepfil rotated each ankle, then hopped from one leg to the other. He snapped his fingers – a command for his clothing – and the Doctor grudgingly passed Schoepfil his trousers.

‘Do mind the crease!’ Schoepfil chided, shaking them out and slipping one foot through. ‘Anything in the meantime?’

‘Nothing to change our plans,’ Bronque replied. ‘A few prisoners. Pretending to be bankers. Michel Gorine, for one.’

‘No! That little nuisance must have set him free.’

‘What matters is that he tried to see Mrs Kraft.’

‘Very good of you to prevent it. Who are the others?’

‘One I don’t know – foreigner. The second is Vandaariff’s man from the Institute. Augustus Trooste.’

Schoepfil paused between shirt buttons. ‘With Gorine? Is it a scheme?’

Both men turned to Svenson. He sighed. ‘I have been under guard with you.’

‘Could be Chang,’ Bronque admitted. ‘Neither he nor Foison showed at any station, and the men sent after them did not return.’

Svenson made a point of balling up Schoepfil’s waistcoat and tossing it across. Schoepfil caught it with a frown and stroked the silk to smooth it.

‘Perhaps they are all dead. The violence in the town.’

‘Perhaps.’ Bronque snapped shut his watch. ‘You know what to do?’

Schoepfil wormed into his jacket. ‘Not to worry. I shall pass like a shade.’

Bronque gave Svenson a warning glance not to speak. ‘We do not know what to expect. It may be that Mrs Kraft’s knowledge –’

‘Yes, yes, you are the tactician. I leave it to you, though Gorine may serve as leverage over the woman.’ Schoepfil pulled on his gloves, as dapper a figure as he had ever been. He extended a hand to Bronque. ‘Until the finish.’ He laughed. ‘Rebirth.’

Bronque shook his partner’s hand, but did not speak. He turned for the door.

‘O do not be dour, Colonel! We will not fail!’

Bronque rapped on the metal panel. The door swung open, letting in the racket of the wheels. He nodded to them, without speaking, and stepped through.

Schoepfil sat on the table, legs dangling. Svenson had taken the Colonel’s chair. On his lap Schoepfil held an oblong wooden box, the lid positioned to block Svenson’s view. He ran a finger across its contents with a satisfied smile. The train rattled to its terminus.

‘You’re a soldier – of sorts, anyway. Are they all so superstitious?’

‘Most people are, when it comes to death.’

‘They should be confident.’

‘Solitude lacks comfort. And there is no greater solitude than mortality.’ Svenson rubbed his eyes. ‘Your uncle who will not die, I expect you think him a fool.’

‘The biggest.’

‘You have given your body to his same foolishness – this alchemy.’

‘I am not dying.’

‘You might have died ten times today. I could have shot you through the head myself.’

Schoepfil smiled. ‘You would not have!’

‘I would have very well,’ replied Svenson testily. ‘But for the same reason you keep me – that you may prove of use. Another man would have spattered your brains –’

But Schoepfil had already burst into laughter. ‘I be of use to you! O that is prime!’ Schoepfil drummed a hand on his knee. ‘You will be lucky to avoid the