With a gesture somehow grudging and haughty at the same time, Harcourt sniffed at the grenadiers and shut the door in their faces.
‘And the
Harcourt turned the bolt. A curl of dread climbed Cardinal Chang’s spine. He had returned himself to this madman’s power. Every impulse cried out to fight, but he’d thrown away the chance.
‘Do you have … headaches?’
Chang did not answer, and then Vandaariff repeated the question, turning to Harcourt.
‘Mr Harcourt? The pains – they grieve you, yes?’
‘Beg pardon, my lord –’
‘I think they must. Speak freely.’
Harcourt shuffled back a step, aware of everyone watching. ‘Perhaps, my lord – but, given the crisis, regular sleep is impossible – much less regular meals –’
Vandaariff tapped Harcourt’s forehead with a knuckled claw. ‘
Harcourt smiled awkwardly.
‘And your eyes … have you seen your eyes, Mr Harcourt?’
‘No, sir. Should I?’
‘Take off your glove.’
Chang had not noticed the gloves: a self-important prig like Harcourt would naturally wear them. Harcourt squeezed his hands together.
‘I know already that your nails are yellow, Matthew. That the cuticles bleed, that gripping a pen gives you pain.’
‘Lord Robert –’
‘Not to worry, my boy. I also know what to do about it.’
Harcourt gushed with relief. ‘Do you?’
Vandaariff drew a handkerchief and laid it on Harcourt’s open palm. Harcourt gently plucked the handkerchief apart. When a blue glass card was revealed, Harcourt went pale, licking his lips.
‘You have met such an object before.’
‘Excuse me, my lord – it is difficult – ah – it is extremely difficult –’
‘Take it up, Matthew.’
‘I dare not – I cannot – given the current –’
‘I insist.’
Harcourt’s resistance gave way and he sank his greedy gaze into the blue card’s depths. No one spoke, and after a moment, like a dog in a dream, one of Harcourt’s legs began to shake gently, heel tapping softly on the floor.
‘The Contessa has no subtlety, no art,’ Vandaariff muttered sourly. ‘Yet she is effective, and through this fool has learnt far more than I would have liked.’ He cocked his head at Phelps. ‘But I’m afraid I interrupted your conversation, Mr Foison. Do you care to continue?’
‘Not if Your Lordship wishes otherwise.’
‘They spoke together?’
‘Nothing you did not anticipate.’
‘Too much to hope.’ Vandaariff sketched a stiff bow in Phelps’s direction. ‘I thank you, sir, and regret your discomfort.’
‘Mr Phelps,’ prompted Foison. ‘Late of the Privy Council.’
‘Mr Phelps. It is a shame to make an acquaintance under such conditions.’
‘Renew an acquaintance, you mean,’ said Chang.
Vandaariff fluttered a hand near his ear, like a fop’s handkerchief. ‘I did not hear.’
‘I said you
‘At the very least,’ Phelps muttered, rousing himself. ‘But there were also private meetings at Staelmaere House –’
Chang nodded. ‘Perhaps Mr Foison was away on your business, my lord, but
‘Indeed.’ The grey tip of Vandaariff’s tongue wet his lips. ‘I have been unwell. Even now, some … memories … they elude my grasp.’
‘How do you not recall a man you’ve met above a
Phelps attempted to straighten himself in the chair. ‘In the gardens of Harschmort, facing the sea – Your Lordship pointed across the water, to Macklenburg –’
‘I do apologize, Mr Phelps,’ Vandaariff cut in. ‘If I have not, in our present dealings, been
‘I beg your pardon?’ Phelps looked up without comprehension as Vandaariff tugged a slim leather glove onto one hand. ‘You’re setting me free?’
‘I am.’
‘My lord?’ This was Foison. ‘Without comparing the prisoners’ accounts –’
‘A question of balance, Mr Foison.’ Vandaariff dug in the pocket of his waistcoat. ‘You are not wrong – and yet, where is the right? Look at Mr Harcourt – ready to serve. Look at Chang, compelled to obey. But poor Mr Phelps …’ Vandaariff sorted what seemed like coins in his gloved palm. ‘I believe he has done all he can.’
Vandaariff raised what Chang had taken for a coin to the light – an edged disc glowing blue.
‘My lord, with respect –’
Vandaariff jabbed the disc into Phelps’s jugular, just enough to draw blood – which immediately crusted around the cut. Chang watched a vivid line crawl in both directions from the incision, up into his skull and under Phelps’s shirt, to his heart. Phelps stiffened, but no sound escaped his mouth. Vandaariff wrenched the disc free and dropped it to the floor. He ground it to powder with his shoe.
Phelps slumped, lifeless. Vandaariff took another handkerchief from his coat and blew his nose. ‘Mr Foison, inform Mr Harcourt’s companions that they must report to Lord Axewith in his stead. He is unwell.’
‘My lord.’
Foison left the room. Chang stared at Phelps’s still-open eye.
‘You gave me no choice,’ said Vandaariff. ‘And if you mention my memory again, I will shove a glass card between your teeth and force you to chew.’
With the croak of a carrion bird, Vandaariff began to softly sing.
My love is gone beneath the ground
though I was ever true
a dearer child would ne’er be found
until I first spied you …
Foison reappeared in the doorway. ‘The coaches await, my lord.’
‘Then let us be off.’ Vandaariff patted Chang on the head. ‘Everyone’s ready.’
Six
Somnambule
Chang had been right. A dusty, uniformed man leading a bedraggled child excited no comment and scarcely a glance of pity. Too much had happened to too many people. They passed bodies on carts, weeping women, men sitting stunned in the street, soldiers doing their best to clear the crowds – and it quickly became Svenson’s task to shield the girl from the devastation. Victims reared up, roused to fury by the glass embedded in their flesh, and set to attacking whoever came within reach. After the first crazed assaults, the soldiers no longer scrupled in their response, and before their eyes had clubbed a shrieking woman to the ground with their musket-butts.
Svenson took Francesca in his arms and veered into a side street, itself a crush. The people around them did not speak – their faces, drawn, bloody, streaked with ash, made plain what they too had survived. Svenson shifted
