The Chemickal Marriage

for a tethered horse, leapt into the saddle and clattered off.

‘Is there a problem?’ called Bronque.

‘Continue.’

Displeased at Foison’s evasion, Bronque snapped his fingers at an aide, who brought a map of the city. The soldier bent so the map could be spread across his back.

‘We need to know where she’d go to ground.’ Bronque traced a circle with his finger. ‘Now, these districts are presently inaccessible because of the fire …’

Chang was astonished. The area was massive – a full quarter of the city. He tried to figure for wind, but Bronque was ahead of him, sketching the likely path of the blaze and filling in where the authorities – always before neighbourhoods of wealth – had entrenched their resources to prevent its spread.

‘She can’t have reached the river, and coach travel is all but impossible. They are thus probably on foot, heading north or east. My own guess would put them here.’ Bronque tapped on what Chang knew to be a nest of warehouses. ‘She has wealthy backers – how else does a half-caste operate a place like that? One might easily hide her on his premises –’

‘You’re wrong,’ said Chang.

‘It makes perfect sense.’

‘Only if she wants to hide.’

‘Why wouldn’t she?’

‘Because she’s been wronged. She’ll want revenge.’

‘Just her and a servant?’

‘He’s not her servant,’ said Chang. ‘He’s her son. And he could snap your spine like a baguette. No, the question isn’t where they’ve hidden; it’s where they will attack.’

Bronque considered this, but shook his head. ‘I still can’t see it. I grant her intelligence, but how she can hope, even with this chaos –’

‘It depends on whom she blames, doesn’t it?’ Chang turned to Foison. ‘Assume she knows who formed the Cabal behind the blue glass. Any of those names could be a target.’

Colonel Bronque nodded, again admitting his awareness of this secret history.

‘The Comte d’Orkancz is dead,’ observed Foison carefully.

‘And Crabbe, and Francis Xonck,’ added Chang. ‘Who else remains?’

‘The Italian woman.’

‘We don’t know where she is,’ said Bronque.

But Bronque knew who the Contessa was. ‘Madelaine Kraft was invited to Harschmort along with a hundred other guests,’ said Chang. ‘That was where her mind was plundered.’

‘Invited by Robert Vandaariff.’ Bronque sighed. ‘If you are right, their destination will be Harschmort House. Which isn’t to say that reaching Harschmort won’t be extremely difficult.’ He peered at the map. ‘I can post men at these crossroads –’

‘Do you know Mr Drusus Schoepfil?’

Bronque looked up, but Foison’s question was for Chang. Chang shook his head.

‘With the death of Lydia Vandaariff, Drusus Schoepfil has become his uncle’s heir. Do you know him, Colonel?’

‘We’ve met in passing. Queer duck.’

‘Indeed.’ Foison traced a slim finger across the map. ‘As you set your roadblocks, you might also post men to the Crampton and Packington railway stations. Any train to Harschmort must pass them both – that way we needn’t bother with the madhouse of Stropping. We ourselves will visit Mr Schoepfil’s home.’

‘My understanding is that Mr Schoepfil and his uncle do not speak. Why would Mrs Kraft fix her revenge on him?’

‘Not her revenge, Colonel, theirs. What the woman needs is an ally.’

Bronque hesitated. ‘I’ve no wish to be indelicate, but, in all honesty, why would he betray his uncle now? If Lord Vandaariff’s health is on the wane –’

‘Will you join us or not?’ asked Foison.

Bronque slapped the map hard. The aide grunted at the impact, then rolled it up. The Colonel gave his orders, detailing men to roadblocks and the railway stations, and others to accompany them on their search. Bronque’s hand found the hilt of his sabre, gloved fingers curling around the guard.

‘So. Let us see if this insight into her mind is sound.’

Foison extended a finger to Bronque’s gold epaulette. ‘Spot of blood.’

The path to Schoepfil’s house, even accompanied by two dozen soldiers, required detours – around refugees, looting and roadblocks. The last they could have negotiated with Bronque, but the Colonel avoided the contact, preferring their errand to remain unknown.

‘Why didn’t you bring Gorine?’ Chang asked. ‘He could have been your hostage.’

‘I didn’t plan this,’ Bronque replied testily. ‘I came with dispatches from Her Majesty to Lord Axewith – this is at Lord Vandaariff’s insistence. I should not have rated the fate of a brothel-mistress above a burning city, but he does, and now every other duty must hang.’

‘You came all the way from Bathings?’

‘None of your damned business.’

The chaos Chang had witnessed in his flight with Cunsher had grown worse. Each face they passed – whether helmeted soldier or stricken citizen – showed how beyond the grip of authority the crisis had become. Even the men he walked with – Bronque’s soldiers and Foison’s lackeys, ostensibly agents of order – passed through the city as if it were a place for which they bore neither responsibility nor affection. It burnt around them, and by all it was ignored. Surely these men had wives, children, homes – why hadn’t they fled to save their own? Instead, every one did his best to save Robert Vandaariff.

Schoepfil’s residence was a cube of soot-stained granite whose unadornment spelt out the estrangement from his mighty uncle’s wealth. Bronque sent men to the rear of the house before mounting the steps. A servant welcomed them in and explained that Mr Schoepfil was not home.

‘Do you know where we might find him?’ asked Foison. ‘Our errand comes from the Privy Minister.’

‘I cannot say, sir.’ The servant did not blanch at Foison’s appearance or Chang’s, not even at the leash of chain.

‘The matter is extremely important. It concerns his uncle, and Mr Schoepfil’s inheritance.’

‘Indeed, sir. If I do hear from him, what message shall I give?’

‘That Lord Vandaariff’s health –’ began Foison, but Bronque cut in.

‘Tell him the woman and the black man were seen and his only hope is immediate surrender.’

The servant nodded, as if this threat was of a piece with everything else that had been said. ‘Very good, sir. I will do my best to convey the message.’

Back on the street, Foison whispered. ‘Do not apprehend the courier – we must follow.’

‘I know my business,’ the Colonel replied tersely. At a signal his men melted into the darkness. ‘As you see, I am happy to provoke the man, though I remain unconvinced Lord Vandaariff’s nephew will lead us to this woman. More likely, her own people hide her –’

‘Madelaine Kraft is not hiding,’ said Chang.

‘You don’t know that. Any more than I see how she’s worth our time.’

Chang said nothing, yet the Colonel’s comment raised a question as to the true – with regard to Robert Vandaariff – object of their search.

‘What does Drusus Schoepfil do?’ Chang asked Foison.

‘Whatever he wants. A life of random expertise, a thousand tasks half done.’

‘Another arrogant wastrel?’ asked Bronque.

‘If he was a wastrel,’ said Chang, ‘we should not be here. Is he capable of striking at his uncle?’

‘Anyone is capable,’ said Foison.

‘Because he’s threatened his uncle before?’

‘No,’ Foison sighed. ‘Because he hasn’t.’

One of Bronque’s soldiers waved from the corner. The chase had begun.

Their quarry was a young man in a shapeless coat, hurrying from the rear of Schoepfil’s house. Two of