The Chemickal Marriage

scaffold!’

The Doctor tapped his ash onto the floor, loathing the man, and even more the truth in his words. For a blessed moment Schoepfil did not speak. Svenson allowed his mind to touch upon the painful day he and Phelps had returned to Parchfeldt … the air wind-kissed, the clouds blooming white. He was no stranger to death. The medical habit of distance had run deep enough to let him search through the woods, and to at last identify the bundle of limbs – taken first for weather-beaten twigs – and the colour of the tattered dress she’d worn. Phelps had hung back with a handkerchief to his face, but Doctor Svenson could not. His hand had gently turned the corpse’s face, no longer Eloise, and, yet, he could not un-see her, still the woman he’d loved in all her ruined parts. The gaping, gummy crease from the Contessa’s blade, blackened with long-dried blood. The eyes cruelly sunken, glazed pale as milk. Her fingers in the grass, always so thin, now grey at the tips, puffed with bloat, foreign. He had spread the tarpaulin and so very tenderly eased her onto it, turning his eyes from the flattened earth where she had lain, the insects and worms writhing at the sudden light.

It is an illusion that we are not such objects while we still live, the Doctor had told himself. And in the time since, while Eloise mouldered in the garden of her uncle’s cottage, where had time carried him – what achievement lay in his staying alive?

Small gestures with Phelps and Cunsher, meagre checks against their enemies. Preserving Celeste Temple’s life, and Chang’s – for a time. And his own animal resurgence – the compulsion of life – had come at the provocation of an outright monster. Could there be any stronger proof of an indiscriminate world?

He groped for the red metal tin. ‘I assume we approach Harschmort by the canal? Timed to coincide with the Colonel’s arrival at the gate?’

‘O more than that, Doctor.’

Svenson sighed, then asked, as was expected. ‘How so?’

Schoepfil snapped the box shut and set it aside. ‘I do not expect to be alone.’

They disembarked at the Orange Canal Station with two grenadiers, the last of Bronque’s men, not a single other soul to be seen. The Doctor inhaled the salt tang of the sea.

‘I thought we would be joined.’

‘Not here, Doctor. We must to the canal.’

So rapid was Schoepfil’s pace that Svenson and the grenadiers were forced into an awkward trot. The Doctor addressed them as they ran.

‘Despite your orders, I wish to be civil – there is no telling what difficulties may drive us together. I am Captain-Surgeon Svenson of the Macklenburg Navy.’

Neither soldier spoke, so Svenson bent to the nearest, stripes on his sleeve. ‘Sergeant of grenadiers is no small achievement. Had I a hat, I would touch it to you.’

At this the tall sergeant smiled. ‘Barlew, sir, sergeant these two years. This is Poggs. You don’t want to cross Private Poggs.’

Svenson spoke across Barlew to Poggs, with a respectful gravity. ‘I’m sure I do not. But I am more concerned with your own safeties.’

‘Not to worry, sir,’ said Barlew. ‘But very good of you.’

They nearly collided with Schoepfil when the man suddenly stopped. Sergeant Barlew muttered an apology but Schoepfil hissed him to silence, peering around him in the gloom. Svenson saw nothing and heard only the wind. Schoepfil flexed his hands, as if stroking the air for scent. He whispered to the soldiers, ‘One of you stay here. Wait five minutes, then catch up to us. Be careful. Keep your guard. Come.’

Trooper Poggs diligently stepped aside and the others hurried on until the dunes were replaced by the shining surface of the Orange Canal. Its walkways were empty, with not even a watchman’s lantern. Schoepfil pointed away to a glow across the grass.

‘Harschmort.’

Svenson turned to the canal. ‘But is this not where we expect whoever will join us?’

‘Be patient, Doctor. Who is this?’

Schoepfil darted to the side with astonishing speed. Footfalls came towards them from the dark. The Sergeant’s bayonet was fixed and ready, but a whisper made clear it was Poggs.

‘Report!’ hissed Schoepfil.

‘Someone following all right. I couldn’t get him, sir. Kept hanging back.’

‘But who is it?’ Schoepfil squeezed his hands to fists. ‘And are you sure it is a man?’

‘Wouldn’t be a woman, sir – not out here.’

Abruptly Schoepfil looked up, listening intently. With a pale, questioning expression he turned to Svenson. ‘I don’t hear a thing.’

‘Ought you to?’

‘Colonel Bronque should have reached the gate.’

‘Perhaps he was delayed. Vandaariff has his own men –’

‘No, we should have heard.’

Sergeant Barlew cleared his throat. ‘There was the fire, sir.’

‘What fire?’

‘We saw it behind us, from the train. The Colonel must have burnt the station. Didn’t you see? We were told not to disturb you –’

‘There was no plan to burn any station!’

‘I’m sorry, sir. We must have it wrong, then.’

‘Of all the blasted idiocy! Follow me and watch – beware what traps I avoid – pay attention! Our purpose is stealth, not confrontation. Colonel Bronque is the broadside of cannon. We are the stiletto in the ear. Do you understand?’

‘Why do you need us at all?’ asked Doctor Svenson.

‘I need them to watch you. I will need you to preserve my life.’ Schoepfil darted away, his short, thin legs as brisk as a bird’s.

‘And why in hell should I do that?’ called Svenson.

Schoepfil’s reply echoed off the still canal. ‘Because otherwise she wins!’

The nearest Svenson had seen to it was watching men such as Chang, whose instincts had been thoroughly etched onto the most primitive portions of the brain, where action preceded thought. In Schoepfil’s case it had nothing to do with experience.

Running at full speed, Schoepfil abruptly jumped in the air. When Svenson and the soldiers reached the same point, they found black wire stretched between two huts, tied to an explosive charge. Carefully they stepped over and kept on – past more wires and beds of glass spikes hidden in the path. Veering around the last, Svenson glanced back and caught a glimpse of motion. Someone did follow, and aped Schoepfil’s safe path as well.

Muffled cries and the crack of breaking glass reached them with Schoepfil’s warning.

‘Stay back! Wait for the wind!’

Svenson perceived a cloud of smoke and watched it break apart, towards the sea. He advanced to find two men in green on the ground, their heads encased by brass helmets. Each carried a canvas satchel of apple-sized glass balls, several of which lay broken at their feet.

‘Hurry!’ called Schoepfil, already well ahead.

More traps and men – so many that Barlew and Poggs, wading in with their bayonets, reached Schoepfil before he could finish the last. Svenson, without a weapon, hung back, hoping to snatch something off one of the fallen men, but Barlew took the Doctor’s arm before he could.

They joined Schoepfil at a set of glass garden doors. This was the eastern wing of Harschmort. Schoepfil’s face gleamed with perspiration but he smiled.

‘Now we are to it! Follow some steps behind, weapons ready. The new construction has been concentrated in the western wing –’