The Chemickal Marriage

have shown no quarter, killed her or been killed in turn. But their principles were founded on hope, and his reflection showed a man cut free. Svenson admitted expediency. Alone amongst his comrades, he might sacrifice himself – might make such an alliance, murder innocents, sink to unanticipated depths – and so spare them all.

‘What a stricken face,’ observed the Contessa. ‘I tell you we are on the verge of a most profitable collaboration –’

Svenson seized her wrist and pinned her spike-hand against the door. She stared at him, eyes questioning and fierce, but his face was calm – indeed he felt altogether absent from his own body as it moved. Her left fist was ready to swing the jewelled bag. He deliberately shoved the pistol into his belt.

He caressed the soft curve of her jaw. She did not move.

His hand slipped lower, trailing the soft pulse in her throat with a fingertip, and then with a deliberate slowness slid his outspread palm over her bare collarbone, her bosom, and down her torso, feeling the silk and whalebone, until he reached her thin, cinched waist and the exaggerated sweep of her hips. Still the Contessa said nothing. Svenson sensed the span of her body between his fingers. He moved higher and squeezed again, feeling her ribs beneath the corset.

‘There is blood on your face,’ she murmured.

‘A way of dressing for the occasion.’

He released her and stepped away, pulling the revolver from his belt. The Contessa’s voice remained hushed.

‘For a moment I feared you might try to kill me … and then I understood that you have every intention of doing so. You have changed, Abelard Svenson.’

‘Is that so strange?’

‘When any man changes there ought to be fireworks.’

‘You still have every intention of killing me.’

The Contessa extended her left hand, the jewelled bag dangling, running her own fingers – pressing hard, her lips curling into a smile – the exact length of the scar from Tackham’s sabre.

‘I saw you, you know,’ she whispered, ‘bleeding on the ground, groaning like the damned … I saw you kill him. I thought you would die, just as I thought I had killed Chang. It is not often I underestimate so many people.’

‘Nor the same people so many times.’

The pressure on his scar was repulsive, but arousing. She lifted her fingers. ‘We overreach ourselves.’ Her cheeks held a touch of red. ‘Whatever your new provocations, there remains very much to do.’

At a pillared archway the Contessa raised her hand and they paused, peering into an ancient hall of high tapestries and cold stone walls. A row of tables ran down the centre of the room, arranged with bowls of floating white flowers.

Svenson craned his neck. ‘This room seems old – and, judging by the medieval decorations, quite out of fashion and unused.’

‘How do you account, then, for the flowers?’

‘A floral penchant of the Queen?’

The Contessa laughed. ‘No, because of the drains – the horrible drains! It is a wonder the entire royal household does not perish from disease. This chamber is particularly fragrant – but, while relining the pipes with copper would be an unthinkable expense, it is entirely acceptable to spend a colonel’s salary every fortnight on fresh flowers.’

‘Is this where the Privy Council meets, with Staelmaere House under quarantine?’

The Contessa shook her head, enjoying her riddle. ‘Axewith took the Regent’s gatehouse. Because it boasts a portcullis – which tells you all you need to know about Lord Axewith. No, Doctor, there is no hope of getting anywhere near Oskar himself – he was always a coward, and he will have soldiers as thick around him as his old bearskin fur. I wonder if he’ll get another one? The real Vandaariff would never wear such a thing, but I don’t suppose anyone will care.’

‘Then where have you brought me?’

She pulled Svenson back into hiding. ‘We each have our talents, Doctor, and I have brought you where my own may shine. Observe.’

At the head of a cloud of men, all burdened with sheaves of paper, satchels, rolled documents, leather-bound ledgers, strode a thin young man with fair hair, the tips of his moustache waxed to a darker maple: Harcourt, the man they had collided with in the doorway. Svenson knew – from his days recuperating in Rawsbarthe’s attic – that Harcourt was an obsequious fellow whose advancement had come from never questioning his superiors’ commands, no matter how criminal. With so many riddled by sickness, Harcourt had vaulted to real power. Phelps had taken the news with dismay, but Svenson could see the burden did not weigh lightly on Harcourt’s shoulders. The young man’s face was haggard, and his voice – rapping out commands to the crowd that clustered behind him like a burlesque of some multi-limbed Hindu deity – reduced to the flat crack of a toad.

‘The port master must receive these orders before the tide; requisitions to the mines must not be sent until after the morning’s trading; these judges called to chambers as soon as the warrants are approved; local militias marshalled for property seizure. Disbursements set against the Treasury’s reckoning as of today, we must draw down to demonstrate our need – Mr Harron, see to it!’

Harcourt swept on to the nest of tables. The Contessa pushed into Svenson as a determined portly figure – the dispatched Mr Harron, with a thick portfolio, each page dangling a ribbon weighted with a blot of wax – hurried by without stopping.

‘Will you drink something, Mr Harcourt?’ asked one aide, more concerned with an alluring ruby decanter than with property seizures.

‘There are hours left in the day,’ sniffed Harcourt. ‘Send to the kitchens for strong tea. Where is the list from Lord Axewith?’

‘It has not yet come, sir.’

‘Vandaariff will dictate terms to us all.’ Harcourt rubbed his eyes and exhaled. He took up a new stack of documents, at once thrusting a page at another aide. ‘Make sure the commanders understand – there is to be no official record of casualties, nor any death benefits charged to the paymaster. They are to draw on Lord Axewith’s fund. Go.’

The aide bustled out and the next – they were all of an age with Harcourt – stepped up with a ledger and a pen. Harcourt blinked at it, wearily. ‘Just remind me?’

‘Transport tariffs, sir – to widen the Orange Canal, from the new Parchfeldt spur down to the sea.’

‘Ah.’ Harcourt scribbled his name but kept the pen, his eyes hovering over the ledger. ‘Parchfeldt.’

The young man took his master’s hesitation for a chance to speak. ‘Do you know how long the quarantine will go on, sir? In Staelmaere House?’

‘Am I in the College of Medicine?’

‘Of course not, sir – but you served the Duke, were aide to Mr Phelps –’

‘Attend to your canals, Mr Forsett!’ Harcourt slapped the ledger shut, nearly upsetting the inkpot. ‘What in God’s name is keeping Pont-Joule? And where in blazes is that tea?’

But his last words were drained of wrath – indeed, were quite infused with stammering anticipation. The Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza had appeared before him, the red dress shimmering like a gemstone.

‘Sweet Christ,’ Harcourt croaked. ‘To your errands – at once, off with you all!’

‘What of your tea?’ squeaked Forsett.

‘Damn the tea! Drink it yourselves! I must meet with this lady alone!’

Harcourt’s officials hurried out, clutching their papers as if fleeing a house fire. Harcourt’s attention stayed fixed on the woman, and his lower lip trembled.

‘M-my lady …’

‘I told you I would return, Matthew. You look tired.’ The Contessa stood opposite Harcourt, the bowl of white blossoms between them like a ceremonial offering.

‘Not at all.’ Harcourt’s nonchalance was betrayed by the twitching of one eye. The Contessa set her jewelled bag onto the table and snapped it open, extracting a pair of silk gloves dyed to match her dress.