The Chemickal Marriage (35 page)

‘And last of all, quicksilver …’

Each of the other applications had brought a sudden, specific reaction, but this last swallowed Chang’s senses as wholly as if his head had been forced into cold water. His bearings were lost in a swirl of visions from the Comte’s painting. His hands were black … his foot sank into the fertile earth of a new-tilled field … he was naked … he wore a swirling robe … he held a sword bright as the sun… and all around him faces, in the air like hanging lamps, people he knew – laughing, begging, bloodied – and then before him knelt the Contessa – blue teeth, one hand groping his thigh, and in the other, offered up, vivid red, visceral, oozing –

He was gasping, his face pressed into the leather table top. What had happened?
What had been done to him?

‘It is the worst result,’ the Contessa was saying. ‘All tempered into one.’

‘That is impossible,’ replied Piersohn. ‘Whatever his intention, the chemical facts –’

‘A moment, Doctor.’ Chang felt her touch. ‘Are you with us, Cardinal Chang?’

‘Can you remove it?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Chang pushed himself to his feet, and called harshly to Piersohn, ‘Can you
remove
it without killing me?’

Piersohn shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, whatever has been implanted, enough time has passed that the seeding –’

‘
Seeding?
’ Chang kicked the standing tray, crashing it back into the Doctor’s desk.

‘That is the Comte’s own term,’ protested Piersohn.

‘For
what
?’ shouted Chang. ‘What has he done?’

Piersohn glanced warily at the Contessa. ‘He made many notes – untested theories … a procedure for the assimilation of glass within a body.’

‘To make me his servant.’ Chang pulled his shirt over his head.

‘But are you, Cardinal?’ The Contessa waited for Chang to restore his dark spectacles. ‘
Are
you his creature?’

‘No more than I am yours.’

‘Exactly. But Oskar is arrogant. He will believe his magic has worked. Do you see? If you are
convincing
, his hopes will blind him.’

Had
Vandaariff’s plan worked? What if the implanted glass was just another sort of timed device, ticking its way towards detonation? The third day was not finished. Chang thrust his arms through the cleric’s coat and began on the buttons. ‘And Celeste Temple will be freed?’

‘She will.’

‘And she is whole? Undamaged?’

‘As far as I know.’

Chang looked at Pfaff, who wore a pale expression of unease. The stick had been restored to one piece, and Chang snatched it away. He turned to the Contessa. ‘As soon as she arrives, you will deliver her to Doctor Svenson.’

‘As you wish. And once
you
are with Robert Vandaariff, you know what to do.’

‘Cave in his skull.’

‘With the first brick that comes to hand.’

The Contessa led Chang and Pfaff back to the arid garden square. The streets remained empty, though in the distance Chang thought the sky had darkened.

‘Is that smoke?’

The Contessa shrugged. ‘Off you go, Jack. Find me when you have finished.’

‘Finished what?’ asked Chang.

‘None of your damned business, old fellow.’ Pfaff took the Contessa’s hand, bending to kiss it. Chang could have kicked Pfaff’s head like a ball, but took the moment to glance around him … the shrubbery of the park, brick gateposts, the shadow of an ornamental column …

Pfaff straightened, lifting the Contessa’s hand to his mouth for another kiss, then turned on his heel, his orange coat-tails swinging dramatically. Chang stooped and took a stone from the gravel walkway.

‘What are you doing?’ asked the Contessa. ‘We must –’

Pfaff had gone twenty paces when Chang threw the stone, perhaps the size of a pigeon’s egg, striking square between the man’s shoulder blades. Pfaff cried out, arching his back, and wheeled round, whipping a blade from beneath his coat, his face flushed red.

‘God damn you, Chang! Damn you to hell!’

Cardinal Chang swept off an imaginary hat and waved with foppish deference. Pfaff snorted with rage and stamped across the square.

Chang straightened with a sigh. He only hoped he’d guessed correctly, and that his signal had been seen.

‘I would ask if you are always such a child,’ observed the Contessa, ‘if I did not already have the answer. A child
and
a bully.’

‘I would not say you are in any position to judge.’

‘On the contrary, I am expert in each field.’ The Contessa smiled broadly. ‘That is why I find
you
so diverting – as much as any dancing, collared bear.’

‘Even when your man takes the brunt?’

‘Tish! Mr Pfaff is his own, or at least intends to be – his skills extend only so far, of course, a fledgling peeping from the nest.’

‘He kisses your hand.’

‘A hand is easily washed.’ Chang frowned his disapproval and she laughed again. ‘O I forget myself – it is not every day I stroll with Monsignor Virtue, beside whom I am the very Whore of Babylon. Dear Cardinal, do
you
want to kiss my hand instead?’

He took hold of her arm. She tensed, watching, mouth just open, daring him to act, though whether in violence or passion he had no idea – did the woman even distinguish?

‘Such a shame …’ she whispered.

They stood in broad daylight at the edge of the square, yet he could no more step clear than if they were trapped in the crush of a ballroom. Chang’s voice was tight. ‘Since when did you care for shame?’

Her words remained hushed. ‘Afterwards … after you kill Vandaariff … after Miss Temple is redeemed … we must once more seek each other’s life. It seems a terrible waste … two such well-matched creatures …’

‘I am no creature, madam.’

Her eyes traced his jugular. ‘And
that
is why I shall win.’

They walked beneath a canopy of trees on streets bereft of traffic. The Contessa’s eyes became restless and distracted, scanning the fine house-fronts but seeing none of them.

‘Have you ever been on a ship, Cardinal Chang? On the sea?’

‘No. Have you?’

‘Of course. I’m not a peasant.’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘But I have never sailed any distance – for
weeks
.’

‘Does that matter, aside from outlasting seasickness?’

‘Have you not wanted to visit Africa? China? To feel the Indian sun on your face?’

‘No.’

She sighed. ‘Neither have I.’

‘I fail to see the problem.’

‘Did you ever hear Francis Xonck speak of Brasil?’

‘Once, which was enough.’

‘All Francis ever sought was excess.’

‘Are you any different?’

‘I never had to seek,’ she replied tartly.

‘Is this about Miss Temple?’ Chang asked. ‘You mention the Indies –’

‘She is
from
the Indies. To her,
we
are the Dreamland – if more vaguely apprehended. But her obvious dissatisfaction here makes my point. One avoids Africa, Cardinal, because Africa will unfailingly
disappoint
. New horizons are always seen through one’s old set of eyes.’

‘But you
are
a traveller. When were
you
last in Venice? Or wherever you called home?’

‘I am home every minute of the day.’

Chang bit off his reply. For the first time in his experience, the Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza was behaving like a conventionally galling woman.

‘You are frightened,’ he said.

‘Of Oskar Veilandt? Cardinal, I am tired. And
hungry
.’ The tone underscoring this last made perfectly clear that the Contessa was not talking of her dinner. ‘Why, are
you
afraid?’

‘Not for myself.’

‘
Pah
. You are exactly as noble as a cart-horse.’ She plucked the shoulder of Chang’s scarlet coat. ‘Did you actually murder a priest?’

‘I did not need to.’

‘Are you willing to murder Oskar?’

‘Of course.’

‘And if he promises to save your life?’

‘I would not believe him. My life is forfeit – and along with me, how many others? The city? The nation?’

‘When
I
am dead, Cardinal, cities and nations can go hang.’

Chang saw she was smiling and immediately became wary. ‘Have we arrived?’

‘Near enough … we are certainly observed.’

Chang saw only the same well-tended streets. ‘Observed by whom?’

‘To answer that is the reason I am here. I was not asked to accompany you – merely to deliver you to their hands.’

‘If you had simply sent me off, I might not have cooperated.’

‘If you were going to abandon Miss Temple, you would have done so earlier, when you could have pummelled Jack Pfaff raw. No, apart from the splendour of your company, I have come to see who else does Oskar’s bidding.’

‘And is this the house of someone you know?’

She looked at him quizzically, and then nodded towards a white-painted mansion at the end of the street. ‘I thought you had been here. It was where he worked on Angelique.’

Chang sighed, recalling too vividly the abandoned greenhouse and its bloodstained bed. ‘I did not realize we had walked so far. The house is improved – from the rear it looked a shambles.’

‘Vandaariff money. And he
is
a resurrectionist.’

‘What stops them from shooting us dead in the street?’

‘How do you ever manage to feed yourself? If there are two people Robert Vandaariff is more keen to preserve than ourselves, I cannot name them. No, whoever he has charged will emerge, and then I will better know my enemies.’

‘At which point you will saunter away? Why not take you as well, if he desires you so
ardently
?’

‘Well, that is Oskar. I would end
his
life the first chance I had, but he will ever postpone. He has pretensions to
theatre
.’

‘Like the Chemickal Marriage?’

She did not answer, for the white door of the mansion opened and a dozen green-coated soldiers poured forth. Behind them came a man whose Ministry-black topcoat belied his young face and fair hair. He stabbed an arm at the Contessa.

‘That woman is wanted by the Crown! Seize her!’

Four soldiers broke forward. Chang only raised his hands.

The Contessa’s nostrils flared with rage. ‘I will cut off that man’s –’ But then the soldiers had seized her arms.

‘The pride – the pride of it!’ Harcourt’s voice shook. ‘Truly, madam, are you so brazen? So arrogant to think no one might withstand you?’

‘Release her.’

Foison stood far away in the open door, but his voice stopped the soldiers cold. Harcourt stamped up the steps like a schoolboy.

‘I beg your pardon! I am Deputy to the Privy Council – and this woman –
this woman
–’

‘Release her.’

‘Do you know Mr Foison?’ Chang ventured.

‘I had hoped he would be elsewhere,’ replied the Contessa. ‘But now I prize him above all other minions.’

It was clear that Harcourt was terrified of Foison, but the young man had
enough pride – at least for his office – to stand firm. ‘This woman is a murderer, a spy, a saboteur –’

‘There is an arrangement,’ Foison corrected him, menacingly calm. ‘If that woman steps through these doors – I do hope you understand me – you will answer for Lord Vandaariff’s displeasure.’

Harcourt wavered. ‘But – but surely she may be brought in – or if not brought in – surely remanded to the Marcelline –’

‘No.’

Harcourt wavered and in the silence his authority gave way. The Contessa gently extracted herself from the soldiers. Harcourt wheeled to her, his slim hands balled to fists.

‘It is not finished, madam! You will be taken – you will be hanged!’

The Contessa whispered to Chang, ‘
Au revoir
. Remember your pledge.’

‘Remember yours.’

‘Celeste Temple will be delivered to Doctor Svenson.’

‘Alive.’

The Contessa laughed. ‘
Stickler
.’ She dipped her head and walked away.

Chang knew she was lying, and that Celeste would be delivered to whomever the Contessa found most advantageous, or – in the absence of any advantage at all – to a grave. It made managing his mission now all the more vital. He noted with satisfaction a bruise below Foison’s eye.

Foison relieved Chang of his stick, tugged it open and studied the blade. Chang gestured at her receding figure. ‘If only my stick were half as deadly.’

One corner of Foison’s mouth twitched to acknowledge the remark. Ignoring Harcourt, Foison nodded to the soldiers and Chang was escorted inside.

The renovations were not limited to the exterior. The carpets had been piled against a wall, and the floorboards were slippery with plaster dust. Harcourt disappeared with Foison deeper into the house. Despite a slammed door, their muffled argument reached Chang where he waited. He turned to his nearest guard.

‘A soldier cannot love taking orders from a rich man’s secretary – especially a man like that. An
Asiatic
.’

‘Aren’t you a Chinaman yourself?’

‘That’s why I
know
.’

The soldier peered more closely at Chang. ‘
Are
you a Chinaman?’

Foison reappeared, still carrying Chang’s stick. ‘Hold his arms. Search him.’

The findings were presented to Foison, arrayed on the green-coat’s open palms like a tray: razor, money, 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!’