The Chemickal Marriage

scattered like African diamonds, treasure waiting for the worst of men to use for the worst of purposes.’

‘What is that to me?’

‘Because I see who you are. What is your answer? For Eloise?’

‘No. Never. No.’

Vandaariff gurgled with pleasure. ‘O Doctor. Such a terrible man with a lie. Excellent.’

By the time Svenson returned to the machines, Mahmoud’s arms had been bound behind his back, copper bands digging into his dark skin. Trooste kept well away, moving from tub to tub, adding pinches of different powders. Foison guarded Mahmoud, favouring one leg, knife held listlessly.

Svenson rubbed his neck where the helmet’s seal had pinched the skin. He nodded to the second, unoccupied medical table, and called to Vandaariff behind the glass: ‘Is that for Miss Temple or the Contessa? Or does it matter?’

‘Such cynicism – everything matters.’

‘We should find Pfaff,’ Foison called. ‘We should locate Drusus Schoepfil.’

‘You should let me examine your leg,’ said Svenson.

‘Thank you, no.’

‘Doctor Svenson has been tempted to save the innocent,’ called Vandaariff. ‘He has refused. He has been tempted by his own heart and refused again. He is a man of duty.’

Mahmoud spat at the Doctor’s feet. ‘That’s for your duty, if these two die.’

‘I’m sure Doctor Svenson’s assistance is welcome,’ Trooste muttered from Chang’s table, a pair of callipers measuring the expanded inflammation. ‘If not altogether required – earlier today, for example –’

Abruptly the curtains over the far door were torn free, pulled to the floor by a flailing acolyte. Another two reeled in, turned and flung themselves back at a figure Svenson could not see. Each man’s body was arrested in three different spots, jerking like puppets, and both dropped senseless. Hopping past them with a mincing precision, Drusus Schoepfil beamed with a cold intent.

‘Doctor Svenson – you did survive – well met indeed!’

Without breaking stride Schoepfil twisted his torso and slashed the air with his arm, deflecting Foison’s thrown knife so it rang against the wall like a bell. He pulled a sheaf of papers from his coat and waved them imperiously.

‘Uncle Robert, do not think to avoid me! I have searched your papers! The payments to my supposed allies! Your new will! I know it all!’ He hurled the papers at Chang’s unmoving form. ‘That man – that criminal – will not inherit. I will prevent it with my own two hands!’

Even with an injured leg Foison cut Schoepfil off, blocking his way to the table. Schoepfil only smirked.

‘Mr Foison. I apologize for not receiving you earlier when you called. I’d just had the place swept, you see, and simply couldn’t bear to admit my uncle’s trained baboon.’

Foison did not react to the insult, so Schoepfil’s arm shot out and slapped him hard across the face. Foison staggered and Schoepfil came on, swinging. Foison managed to block two blows, but a third, so fast that Svenson only heard it strike, left him weaving.

‘Do not fight him!’ shouted Vandaariff. ‘Mr Foison, retreat!’

But Schoepfil would not allow it. He feinted from side to side, while his fists, not strong but precise and persistent, pummelled Foison’s face and body. Foison’s skill was on full display, for he stopped more blows than struck home, but his counter-strokes found nothing but air. Schoepfil grinned fiercely. He darted about, teasing Foison with the final strike – but then, as he finally came near, Foison hurled himself, arms wide, and pinned Schoepfil’s arms to his body. He lifted Schoepfil off the floor, and squeezed.

Schoepfil gasped – with surprise as much as pain – and kicked his legs and swatted with his forearms.

‘Good Lord! Release me! Release me now and I – ah – I will – ugh – spare –’

Foison squeezed tight, tottering with the effort. Schoepfil’s eyes locked on Svenson.

‘Doctor – our agreement – gah – please –’

Svenson did not move.

‘Doctor –’

Mahmoud staggered past Svenson. The wire still held his arms but a swinging kick behind Foison’s knee brought all three men down. In a flash Schoepfil was up, stamping at Foison’s head. Foison did not rise. Schoepfil stamped again for spite. He swept his angry eyes around the room until he found Svenson and screamed.

‘You! Snake! Judas!’

‘Calm yourself –’

‘Calm myself?’

Schoepfil stalked in a ragged circle, glaring at the line of tubs, before stopping short at the sight of Bronque and Kelling.

‘Good Lord! This is not the ritual! What is this?’ He bellowed at the glass wall. ‘What have you done to Colonel Bronque? Uncle! What … wait – wait! Who in hell is that? ’

Svenson followed Schoepfil’s gaze. Vandaariff stood unmoving behind the glass, a bright blade at his throat. Holding the knife was a woman, her head hidden by a brazen helmet, her filth-stained dress hanging heavy, soaking wet.

‘Uncle Robert?’ asked Schoepfil.

‘Do your duty, Doctor Svenson,’ croaked Vandaariff. ‘You know what can be yours.’

‘Be quiet, Oskar,’ buzzed the voice from inside the helmet. ‘Doctor Svenson is of absolutely no importance to anyone.’

The Contessa gave the blade a sharp tug. A ruby jet splashed the glass and rolled down, fed in gouts as Robert Vandaariff slumped into the window and sank lifeless to the floor.

Ten Severance

Swimming itself Miss Temple enjoyed, for she was small and water offered a freedom of movement that air never could. She kicked her legs like a frog – a lovely feeling – and pulled with one arm. Bubbles nibbled her skin like the mouths of tiny fish. The water was cold, but as she went deeper she met plumes of different temperature. The warmest water fed the baths, but the colder moved more quickly. Was that the river? She kicked to the cold, her lungs beginning to pinch, and felt her hand slap rock. Miss Temple held on as her body, paused, sought to rise. She felt a current … was there a channel in the rock? Her searching hand grazed a soft tendril – a bit of grass? She caught it and felt the bump of a seam: a strip of the Contessa’s petticoat, looped around the rock.

Miss Temple groped lower, into a pocket of cold, then wriggled through an opening well wide enough for her body. Her lungs were painfully tight. She kicked up into a faster current. Now that she wanted air the seconds grew unbearable.

She broke the surface with a gasp, still in the dark, and immediately swallowed a mouthful of water. She choked and almost lost hold of the leather case. Her loud breath echoed. A current carried along. Miss Temple swam to the side, and eventually her hand struck not rock but slippery brick.

She floated there, easing her breath, then felt her way along the bank. She’d begun to shiver. Her hands found a protrusion in the brick – it took her a moment to realize it was a ladder of inset rungs. Miss Temple climbed onto a dank but dry landing, but did not stand.

She turned to the sound of creaking wood. The formless dark took shape with the glimmer of a candle, well away but coming near, an oval face just glimpsed beyond its glow.

‘At last, and what a fright you look. Hurry up.’

‘The problem, of course, is that we may need to swim again.’

Miss Temple shivered under a heavy wool blanket, too chilled for her nakedness to cause disruption. Her