The Chemickal Marriage

‘Not every man fears oblivion.’

‘Not every man has tasted it.’

‘Will you tell me where we’re going?’ Chang asked.

‘Harschmort,’ said Foison. ‘You know that.’

Foison kept his gaze on Chang and did not see his master’s disapproving look – though Chang did not suppose he needed to. The break in protocol had been deliberate.

Through the mesh loomed a line of lanterns, blocking the road. The panel slid shut. Outside came the sound of horses, and loud calls. The carriage slowed – a military roadblock.

‘You were away,’ said Chang. ‘You returned after his recovery from blood fever.’

‘Men change. The death of his daughter –’

‘That man doesn’t give a damn about any daughter.’

‘You’re wrong.’ Foison’s voice was soft, no longer needing to speak over hoof beats and wheels. ‘I’ve seen the flowers in her bedchamber.’

‘He’s not the same man – the same mind.’

‘He’s dying. So are you.’

‘And you with us, you ignorant monkey.’

Foison’s eyes went cold. ‘Unfortunate choice of word.’

‘Woke you up, didn’t it?’ Chang leant to the end of the shackles’ chain. ‘Our world isn’t theirs. Are you so well trained to forget it?’

The panel slid open.

‘Mr Foison!’ called Vandaariff. ‘A change of plan. Disembark with your charge. And take care for his safety. We know the fellow’s delicate.’

Chang stood in the street, a dog on Foison’s lead. In the lantern light waited at least a company of elite grenadiers. Another knot of men clustered at the door of Vandaariff’s carriage, chickens awaiting their handful of seed.

First amongst them – Chang squinted to be sure – was the Privy Minister, Lord Axewith. Chang thought of the man’s wife, retching her guts out, another dupe led to the grave. Did Axewith even know? The Privy Minister’s face was ashen in the torchlight, like a swine given its first whiff of the slaughterhouse. Next to Axewith stood Matthew Harcourt, sickly and pale. Chang pitied neither man – idiots who had naively passed their authority to Robert Vandaariff to end their troubles. The old Robert Vandaariff might have done so, but the man in the armoured wagon had no care for anything save his own dark dreams.

A colonel of grenadiers in full glittering dress advanced to the carriage as if he had been summoned. Axewith himself stepped aside so the Colonel might lean into the coach. Chang half wondered if he would pull his head out again or, as if in a children’s tale, the serpent in the cave would snap it off.

Foison lifted his face skyward, sniffing the air.

‘A shift in the wind,’ he said, assuming Chang possessed a sense of smell. ‘Who knows where the fire will be halted?’

‘Is it so severe?’

Foison flicked the chain as a sign for Chang to turn. The consultation had ended and the Colonel, bodily whole, strode towards them. He was a powerful, hawk-faced man, black hair flat against his skull.

‘Colonel Bronque,’ said Foison quietly. Bronque’s eyes darted across them with distaste – Foison with his dandified clothes and Asiatic cast, Chang with his cleric’s coat and scars.

‘Chang, is it? Lord Vandaariff says you will help us.’

All three turned at the sound of the carriage door closing, sealing Vandaariff back in his protected box. Lord Axewith’s men – save Harcourt, who was no longer visible – positioned themselves in a circle around several large maps spread onto the cobbles.

‘I need to find someone,’ Bronque went on. ‘A Mrs Madelaine Kraft.’

‘Why?’ Chang asked.

‘None of your affair. Say what you know.’

Chang smiled stiffly. ‘She’s at the Old Palace – or where her people put her. Left an imbecile. By a blue glass book.’

‘She was.’ The subject of blue glass gave Bronque no pause. ‘She’s been healed.’

‘That’s impossible.’

‘That is the point.’

Bronque was serious. And that Chang, a prized possession, had been lent for the search made clear the cure had not come from Vandaariff’s hand.

‘The Old Palace has been ransacked,’ Bronque went on. ‘And its ashes raked. She has fled with an employee. An African. Where would he take her? Where would she flee?’

Chang glanced at Foison. ‘Does your master have time for this? If this fire is as bad as you say –’

‘You’ll do what you’re told!’ Bronque bellowed at Chang, as if he were an insubordinate trooper. Without warning Cardinal Chang chopped his forehead into the Colonel’s nose. Bronque staggered back with a cry of shock.

The soldiers around them leapt forward, weapons ready. The Colonel straightened himself, eyes blazing with hatred, blood seeping through his fingers.

‘Calm, gentlemen.’ Foison pulled the chain to place Chang nearer. ‘Cardinal Chang will find this woman. But he is required – in sound condition – after the errand. At your peril, Colonel. Now I suggest you wipe your face.’

Bronque reeled away, shouting for water.

‘I don’t suppose you’d undo these chains?’ Chang asked Foison. ‘If I gave my word not to escape?’

‘Your word means nothing.’

Chang turned at the creak of Vandaariff’s massive carriage, pulling forward. Axewith waved his hat, an abject gesture. Chang had not expected Vandaariff to leave.

‘But you won’t escape,’ said Foison, ‘because you need to reach him, before the time. And without me you won’t.’

‘Then why this diversion?’

Foison called to Bronque, returning with a cloth pressed to his face. ‘I have spoken to Cardinal Chang, Colonel. He will cooperate.’

The soldier clearly wanted nothing more than to hack Chang’s head from his shoulders, but a man did not acquire so much gold brocade without learning to swallow his own desire.

‘Very well.’ Bronque sniffed wetly, to show he too was willing to begin anew. ‘We’ve spoken to a Michel Gorine. He described Mrs Kraft’s recovery.’

‘And where is Gorine now?’ Chang asked.

‘He knows nothing he didn’t say.’

Chang grimaced. ‘Which probably means he said a lot of things he didn’t know.’

‘He had every motivation to confess.’ Bronque dabbed at his nose. ‘Under further questioning the story didn’t change. I’m not a fool. The cure was managed by Captain-Surgeon Abelard Svenson. I understand you are acquainted.’

Mrs Kraft – that had been the Contessa’s secret errand: to attain her cure. Could every other victim be so restored? Could Robert Vandaariff himself? This changed everything.

To Bronque, Chang only shrugged. ‘Where is Svenson now?’

‘Not with Mrs Kraft. They were separated in the fire. When Gorine met him, Svenson was caring for a child.’

‘What child?’ asked Foison sharply.

Bronque glared at the interruption. ‘I don’t know – a girl. Dead in the fellow’s arms. Smoke, I believe.’

‘The child is dead?’

‘What can it matter? Do you know her?’

But Foison had already crossed to his green-coated mercenaries. He spoke low and rapidly. One man broke