Schoepfil whipped his head towards the outbuildings, then lunged for the door. Svenson heard the explosive pop of breaking glass as Schoepfil hauled himself through. Poggs and Barlew sank in a cloud of smoke. Schoepfil slammed the door even as the panes shattered, smoke rising around them from the shards.
Svenson clapped a hand over his mouth and ran – for an instant after Schoepfil, but then veering wildly away. He heard Schoepfil’s cries of outrage, but still more glass and smoke prevented any pursuit. Svenson crossed the ballroom floor before risking a look back: a distant figure like a tall tropical insect, all orange and brass, with two pitiless glass eyes that marked the Doctor as he fled.
Construction in the western wing, Schoepfil had said. Svenson gathered his memories of Harschmort as he ran, but the carpets were gone and the furniture covered with white sheets. He brought himself to a panting stop when the floor changed to black-and-white chequers. This was near the kitchens – at the corridor’s end had been the staircase descending to the Comte’s underground chamber. Chang had described it destroyed, collapsed to form a vast crater. And yet … renovation. Svenson began to trot in that direction.
At a swinging wooden door he paused and peered into a scullery. A heavy steel cleaver stuck up from a butcher’s block, and Svenson wrenched with both hands until the blade came free. A woman in dark livery watched from an inner doorway. Past her more servants gathered around a teapot.
‘Everyone all right?’ whispered Svenson.
The woman nodded.
‘Excellent. Stay here – you’ve all been told, haven’t you?’
The woman nodded. Svenson turned for the door, then craned his head back. ‘Beg your pardon – so much has changed – the western wing?’
‘No one goes there, sir.’
The cook was joined by the others, the increase in numbers heightening the dubious nature of his uniform, his accent, his filthy appearance.
‘That’s my cutting knife,’ said one of the men.
‘I will not abuse it.’ With an afterthought Svenson sketched a bow of thanks. ‘Not to worry. I do serve the Queen.’
The disapproving man only pursed his lips. ‘Queen’s an old haddock.’
Where the staircase had stood was a wall of new-laid brick, unplastered and without a door. This route blocked, Svenson followed the path of recent construction and eventually met voices, coming near. He scrambled behind a cloth-draped statue of an Eastern goddess (nearly putting out his eye on a finger of her fourth arm). The voices went past: two men in green with carbines guarding a half-dozen shambling, bandaged grenadiers.
He walked on, gripping the cleaver. The corridor was gritty with plaster and sawdust, and ended at a wide, high foyer. He had reached the front of the house. Svenson flattened himself against the wall.
The foyer was filled with bodies: grenadiers. Unlike the Customs House, these men were not dead: they stirred and moaned, slowly regaining their senses. A group of six, standing shakily, was bullied to order by Vandaariff’s militia.
More of Vandaariff’s men marched through the main door carrying the same boxes that Kelling had so assiduously cared for. These men wore brass helmets, and dropped the boxes without ceremony. There was no sign of Kelling, or of Bronque. Perhaps they were still outside. Perhaps they’d been killed.
The western wing lay beyond the foyer, but Svenson could not cross without being seen – any more than he could remain where he was. The group of grenadiers began to trudge towards Svenson’s arch. He retreated to a squat piece of cloth-covered furniture and ducked under the sheet, only to find a solid Chinese trunk. Svenson curled into a ball. The footfalls passed by, endlessly, but finally he tugged the cloth from his head. Not ten yards away on the opposite wall, similarly peeking from his own shroud, was a young man Svenson did not know.
Carefully the young man slipped free of his hiding place and Svenson recognized the figure who had followed from the canal – orange coat, brass helmet, canvas satchel. He pointed deliberately to the floor.
‘We must go
Svenson nodded. ‘First we must cross the foyer.’
The young man reached into the satchel, coming out with a pair of blue glass balls. He offered one to Svenson, but the Doctor shook his head, leaning close. ‘They have helmets – more than enough to stop us. Still, I have an idea.’
‘What is that?’
The Doctor carefully laid the cleaver on the young man’s throat. ‘That you are my prisoner, Mr Pfaff.’
The last grenadiers were being roused with kicks. Svenson’s quick count of Vandaariff’s men stalled at fifteen, four or five in helmets. Keeping to the wall, he and Pfaff advanced nearly halfway to the far wing before they were seen. The curiosity of Svenson holding a knife to Pfaff’s neck prevented an immediate clash. Instead, Vandaariff’s men formed a line to hem them in, carbines raised. Svenson addressed them as calmly as he could.
‘I am here for Lord Robert Vandaariff. If prevented, I will take the life of this man. Since Lord Vandaariff desires him
‘You’ll speak to me,’ replied a senior guard, shouldering through the line.
‘I am Captain-Surgeon Abelard Svenson of the Macklenburg Navy. This man is named Pfaff. He has information vital to Lord –’
‘
‘That is correct – and I assure you, unless you allow …’
The Doctor faltered, for the senior guard had taken a paper from his pocket and, upon consulting it, signalled to his men. The four in helmets strode forcefully towards Svenson and Pfaff, then knelt to lift two panels in the floor, exposing a staircase leading down. The drone of machines echoed from below.
‘The Warden. You are expected,’ said the guard. ‘Leave the satchel and the helmet.’
The carbines snapped back to readiness. Pfaff eased the satchel and helmet to the floor.
‘And the knife.’
Svenson dropped the cleaver with a clang. The guard motioned them to the stairs. The soldiers who’d opened the stair doors stood just out of reach … but they did not spring.
In a moment of strange calm, Doctor Svenson reached into his tunic for the red tin, took a cigarette, tucked the tin away and struck a match. He exhaled, and tossed the match aside. Still none of the green-coats attacked. Still mystified, Svenson descended, boots rapping the steel steps like a pair of mallets. Pfaff came after, and his head had just cleared the edge when the panels above them were unceremoniously slammed shut. Both men flinched, Svenson groping for the rail.
‘What did he mean, “Warden”?’ asked Pfaff.
‘I have no idea.’
Their shadows danced above them as they went, elongated demon shapes with twisting limbs. At its base the staircase vanished into black water, like a pen in a massive inkwell. Across the dark pool, too far to jump, awaited a brick wall and a door of unpainted oak.
‘Do you think it’s deep?’ asked Pfaff.
‘I do.’ Svenson knelt and cupped a palm. The water beaded on his skin like oil. ‘It’s warm … and filthy from the machines. I should not drink it.’
‘I had no desire to.’
Svenson thrust his hand into the water and shoved forward, sending small waves at the door. He stood. ‘Come.’
‘Where?’
Svenson extended one foot deliberately over the pool and stepped down. The water did not rise above the ankle of his boot. He used his second foot to kick another wave.
‘Look where the ripples break. There are stones beneath, in a path. Simple, really.’
He picked his way to the door, Pfaff following only after having rolled up his precious chequered trousers. ‘Why would anyone do this?’ Pfaff muttered. ‘Take all this trouble?’
‘To keep people like us out. And I suppose stepping stones instead of a path because the water needs to flow freely.’
‘
‘To power the machines.’ Svenson reached the door and turned. ‘But it isn’t salt water.’
