The Chemickal Marriage

Mahmoud was but a witty coincidence.’

Foison sighed. ‘So Schoepfil was home when we called.’

‘Who else could send such a message to Bronque, one that he would follow?’

‘And if Madelaine Kraft was there as well – which would, as you say, inform the image – she is gone by now too.’

‘The real question is the extent to which your master’s been betrayed. Bronque has allied with Schoepfil – but who are they? Who pulls their strings – Axewith?’

‘It makes no sense,’ said Foison. ‘He owns them all.’

The lead men waved them on, and they dashed across the open road. Once on the other side, the third man fell back and the lead two loped ahead.

Chang was aware of his own place in Foison’s catalogue of men-as-property, yet how quickly his fortunes had changed – from free man to prisoner to fleeing through the streets – all of a piece with a city set spinning on a different and degraded axis. His first struggle with the Cabal had been a battle to gain control over institutions – Crabbe suborning the Ministries, for example, but the Ministries had been left intact. Now it seemed possible that anything could fall, any edifice could be torn down.

Chang sighed. If he lived, Svenson was their prisoner – as he was Foison’s, as Celeste Temple had been taken by the Contessa. Was that what had become of their grand alliance – tethered familiars, each to a different demon?

The lead men signalled a stop. Chang bent over, still wary of the pursuit they had outpaced. Foison wiped the sweat from his neck with two fingers and then, in a disquieting gesture, licked them, an animal seeking salt. Their path had dead-ended near the sounds of a crowd, whose voices echoed over the rooftops …

‘Two more avenues and we will find a coach,’ said Foison.

‘Or more empty stables.’ Foison did not respond. Chang spat on the cobbles. ‘Come – we’re alone. No one will hear. What does it mean that the child is dead? What does it mean that Mrs Kraft is healed? Why did your master choose me over Celeste Temple?’

‘None of that is my concern.’

‘Someone might be saved. You can choose.’

‘And follow your example – the nation of one man? Vanity.’

The blend of doom and duty drove Chang mad, almost as bad as the damned Doctor –

Doctor Svenson. Chang thrust out his hand. ‘The message, from the stable!’ Foison took the paper from his coat and Chang snatched it away. The black Executioner had been sketched like a gypsy’s Tarot trump, in blunt strokes of a primitive, emblematic power – the axe in his hands, the casket at his feet …

‘Explain,’ said Foison.

‘Vanity. The Chemickal Marriage.’ Chang tapped the new-made slash of ink. ‘The Executioner puts on the blindfold to kill – that mark is the order for Bronque, for our lives.’

‘We know that.’

‘Yes, but look at the image itself – torn from an old book –’

‘So? Drusus Schoepfil has copied his uncle’s esoteric habits –’

‘Do you know the details of this story – The Chemickal Marriage?’

‘Should I? My duties do not –’

Chang cut him off. ‘Precisely the point. You know it exists, but only because of your master’s interest.’ Chang held up the paper. ‘Schoepfil is no different. He knows the topic and pours himself into learning – from books. But the Comte d’Orkancz abandoned books to make his own versions – do you see? Schoepfil cannot know the Comte’s vision of The Chemickal Marriage, because he cannot have seen the painting.’

Foison paused. ‘And you have?’

‘We all did – Svenson, Celeste Temple and myself. A memory from before the canvas burnt – preserved in blue glass.’

One of Foison’s men hissed from the road ahead. Foison extended a palm so the man should wait, never taking his eyes from Chang. ‘So you lied. Why raise the question now?’

Chang thrust the paper back at Foison. ‘Because this is not from any book.’

A line of letters crossed the top and bottom of the image, so closely written as to appear decorative, like an engraved frame – yet without question recently added in the same black ink as the blindfold. Foison read the top line aloud. ‘ “Virgo Lucifera. No heart but goblet.” ’ He looked to Chang.

‘In the Comte’s painting,’ Chang explained, ‘there is no heart in a casket. The Executioner decapitates the Bride and Groom and their blood flows into a goblet. Don’t you see? It’s a message from someone who does know the painting, and who saw me in the foyer of Schoepfil’s house. To anyone else the words are alchemical nonsense.’

‘You believe Doctor Svenson inserted his own message into the one for Bronque?’

‘Who else? That first line is to prove his identity to me. Now read the second.’

Foison rotated the page, for the letters on the lower edge had been written upside down. ‘ “Mother Child Heir … Virgin Lucifera … I’m sorry –” ’

‘The symbols!’ Chang ran a finger along the text, as if he were schooling a child. ‘ “Mother Child Heir” is followed by two elemental signs taken from the Comte’s work, for iron and wind. “Virgin Lucifera” is followed by signs for water and fire. Svenson had no time, so used code – look closely, It’s not “Virgo” that’s written but “Virgin”. Virgin and Lucifera. Two people.’

Foison studied the paper, then nodded with an exasperated impatience at his own slow thinking. ‘ “Mother Child Heir” is Kraft, her son and Schoepfil. They are together, and – iron and wind – will travel to Harschmort by train. “Virgin” is Miss Temple, “Lucifera” the Contessa. Heat and water – since the Colonel is involved, this means the Royal Therm?. Either they remain there in the Queen’s protection –’

‘Or?’ asked Chang.

Foison returned the paper to his coat. ‘Or the old stories are true.’

‘What stories?’

Foison’s face went still. Chang spun round to follow the man’s gaze. The third green-coat, guarding their rear, was nowhere to be seen. How long had they been standing like fools?

With a drumming of boot steps, the darkness behind them filled with Bronque’s grenadiers, bayonets fixed for silent work. Foison and Chang broke as one, waving the lead men on, racing blindly into the next intersection. A shot cracked out and the green-coat next to Chang staggered and fell.

The far end of the road had been blocked with overturned wagons. Chang ran towards them, weaving to present a shifting target, ready to hurl his body over the makeshift wall. More shots came from the soldiers, missing their mark but splintering the wagons.

The last green-coat reached the barrier first, caught hold and began to climb. As soon as his head cleared the wagon, a fist-sized lump of plaster potted him square on the ear. The man dropped hard to the cobbles. Chang and Foison veered, careening from both the bullets snapping around them and a hail of bricks and stones from the wagons – now topped by a line of angry faces.

He seized Foison’s shoulder and they turned to see the crowd’s fury directed at the grenadiers. How many errant bullets had torn into the unseen crowd? The grenadier lieutenant waved his sabre for order, but a brick struck the officer on the arm and his sabre rang on the stones. The soldiers answered with a ragged volley, plumes of smoke spitting forward. Another shower of stones. The Lieutenant flat on his face. From the wagons, shrieks –

Foison jerked free of Chang’s grasp and ran. Chang followed, wondering what had happened to the world.

He caught an arm on a lamp-post and wheeled himself to a stop, ribs heaving. They had entered a warren of close lanes, but these were not streets simmering with discontent. Men in uniform stood scattered amongst the refugees, dismounted horsemen without their brass helmets, constables, even a priest, but no one claimed authority. Muskets cracked in the distance. A canopy of cloud hung over the city, its underside lit orange like an iron pot over a flame.

‘Why do you stop?’ called Foison.