The Chemickal Marriage

key, the prison writ, the samples of glass from Pfaff’s room, including the broken key.

‘Dispose of it. Bring him in.’

A man had been bound to a high-backed wooden chair, a canvas bag over his head. His once-starched shirt was stained with blood, some dried rust-brown, some still a festive red. Whatever he had endured, it had spanned hours.

The man, whose head rose at their entrance, became more agitated at Foison’s approaching footsteps, pulling on the ropes that held him fast. Foison’s voice remained characteristically soft, with an absence of intent that nearly seemed kind.

‘Someone to help you.’

The captive’s bare feet kicked against the cords. His voice was smothered by the bag. ‘Stop your torments! No one has come!’

‘By God – you have won your way with Lacquer-Sforza, but here you do trespass, Mr Foison! That man is mine!’

Harcourt stood in the doorway with several Ministry men, reinforcements muttering at their superior’s collar.

Foison nodded at Chang. ‘And he is mine. Is it not possible they are acquainted?’

‘Perhaps! Perhaps! And now that we are all present – well, go ahead and ask your best – but any attempt to exclude the Council will not stand. My prisoner is here only at Lord Axewith’s personal instruction –’

‘Your prisoner is here so we may learn what you could not.’

‘If you throw them together they will only lie – you will be forced –’

‘To take measures?’

‘Exactly. And it will be no business of mine.’

‘Though it was your business with this gentleman.’ Foison sighed at the man in the chair. ‘Rather crudely.’

‘He is no gentleman!’ Harcourt’s eyes were hard. It was clear to Chang that the prisoner had been savaged precisely because of Harcourt’s indecision – with the ferocity boiling forth in resentment at his dilemma.

Foison shrugged. ‘He bleeds like one, but such distinctions are not my expertise. I do know that Cardinal Chang –’

‘A criminal of the first water.’

‘If by that you mean he will be more difficult to persuade, I agree.’

‘Do not say that where he can hear!’ Harcourt sputtered. ‘You steel his purpose – now he will hold out even longer!’

‘I tell the Cardinal nothing he does not know. Just as he knows, no matter his resistance, that I will break him. The only question is how badly broken he will be.’

‘If you think we will spare you,’ Harcourt called to Chang, deciding after all to support Foison, ‘you are deeply mistaken. The nation is in peril. The Crown. And in setting yourself against us, you’re nothing but a common traitor.’

Chang nodded towards their prisoner in the chair. ‘Is he?’

Foison pulled the bag away. Mr Phelps flinched from the light as if it too might strike him. What Cunsher had endured at the Marcelline was nothing to the ordeal inflicted on Phelps. Dark blood smeared his face. One eye had swollen shut, and the other peeped through a veil of seeping fluid. His nose was broken and one lip split like a rotten plum.

Chang felt his stomach tighten. Phelps had been one of their own, and this is what they’d done. Foison gently turned Phelps’s face to Chang. ‘Do you know this man, Mr Phelps?’

Phelps nodded. His voice was a slurred croak. ‘Criminal … ought to be hanged.’

‘You just heard Mr Harcourt voice the same opinion. Perhaps you would explain why he should be hanged?’

‘Outlaw … the Duke signed a writ on his life.’

‘I don’t believe he did.’

‘Lost … never delivered –’

‘Come, Mr Phelps. When did you last see this man?’ Phelps shook his head at the question, as if such a thing were beyond his scattered mind, but Foison remained patient. ‘At Parchfeldt? At Harschmort? This evening at the Palace?’

With a pang, Chang saw Phelps shake his head at this last suggestion, too vehemently. Harcourt pointed a finger, triumphant.

‘He is lying.’

A tight, pleading gasp of distress escaped Phelps’s throat. ‘Chang is a killer … you know it yourselves –’

‘Who did he kill?’

‘I don’t know –’

‘Did he kill Colonel Aspiche?’

‘I don’t know –’

‘What of Arthur Leverett? Or Charlotte Trapping?’ Foison remained calm. ‘The Crown Prince of Macklenburg? The Comte d’Orkancz?’ Phelps gulped air, unable to reply. Saliva flecked his purpled lips. Foison rested a hand on Phelps’s shoulder. ‘So many deaths …’

‘I would like nothing more than Cardinal Chang on a scaffold,’ said Harcourt.

‘Why in hell are you here?’ Chang’s voice was as dark as he could make it. Harcourt quailed.

‘I – I – Lord Axewith – I am appointed, deputized, in the immediate crisis –’

‘Do not speak to the prisoner, Mr Harcourt, he only seeks your discomfort.’ Foison stepped away from Phelps, hands at his waist, near his knives. ‘In truth, perhaps it would be better if you left.’

‘Phelps is my prisoner,’ protested Harcourt.

‘But Chang is a different matter. I require this room free.’

Harcourt sniffed and took a pocket watch from his waistcoat. ‘Very well. Five minutes. But then we will consult.’ Foison said nothing. Harcourt nodded, as if they had agreed, and backed into his assistants. They left in a scuffle. The soldiers remained at either side of the door.

Chang spoke as brightly as possible. ‘My turn?’

‘I must deliver you alive. You understand the breadth of options I can exercise without compromising that condition. Whether I do so is up to you.’

‘You will not break my teeth for your own revenge, then?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I know what awaits you, Cardinal Chang. Revenge enough.’

He was bound to a chair. When it was done, Foison crossed to the door, waving the green-coats out ahead of him. ‘I will return momentarily – Mr Harcourt, for all his faults, is energetic and must be contained. You cannot escape – nor, if you value the young woman’s life, will you try.’

The door closed and the room fell into silence, apart from Phelps’s straining wheeze. Chang knew there was little time. He snapped his fingers

‘Phelps! Wake up! Phelps!’

Phelps raised his head with difficulty, his one clear eye helpless and apologetic. Was he even in his right mind?

‘Your friend is alive,’ said Chang.

Phelps swallowed, blinked. ‘Friend?’

‘The one taken with you. He is alive and free.’

‘Dear God. Thank heaven.’ Phelps cast a wary glance to the door. ‘The Doctor?’

‘You need not worry. But there is little time –’