The Chemickal Marriage (52 page)

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 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 Crabbé, 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 Foison’s men, stripped of their jackets, made the nearest pursuit. The rest, including Bronque’s grenadiers, came at a safer distance. Chang walked between Bronque and Foison, still chained. After a quarter-mile Bronque leant across Chang’s chest to Foison, a sympathetic gesture intended to evince tact.

‘Lord Vandaariff’s rapid decline is most dispiriting. Is there truly no hope?’

‘He does not entertain any.’

‘But what of the nation?’ Bronque ventured.

‘Nations are vanity,’ replied Foison.

The restive wanderers they passed echoed this fatalism, feral in the glare of bonfires. All his life Chang had seen inequity, implacable and institutionalized, and people bore it all, even their own children dead before their eyes. This night these desperate faces had found the spark of rebellion. But he knew their momentary gains – windows broken or constables driven off with stones – would only provoke harsher measures when law was restored.

Was this not the arc of any life – from oppression to revolt to still deeper servitude? He thought of Cunsher, how the man’s competence was but a shell encasing a long-shattered heart. Who didn’t nurse sorrow at their core? Chang’s discontents were nothing new or precious. Had Foison lost a family, a lover, a language, a home? Of course he had – most likely all in one vicious stroke. And in exchange, offering his life to another man of power, he had
survived … the doomed chain of service. Phelps, Smythe, Blach … and Svenson – perhaps the most miserable of them all. To a man they would be finished, and that he would be finished with them, Chang did not doubt.

The young messenger skulked to the gate of a livery yard and disappeared inside. The Colonel quickly positioned his men, then drew their eye to a line of gabled windows.

‘With luck the woman has gone to ground. If we enter in force –’

Foison shook his head. ‘If it is merely an agreed-upon place to leave word, such action will keep her away. Let us see if the messenger stays or returns whence he came.’

Bronque looked at Chang. Chang kept silent, allowing their disagreement to stand.

Gunshots echoed from inside the livery. All three charged for the door. On the floor of the stable lay the young man they’d followed, shot twice in the chest. Bronque’s grenadiers crowded a far doorway, their officer holding a smoking revolver. Near the body lay another gun.

‘He was trying to leave,’ the young lieutenant explained to Bronque. ‘Saw us, sir, and drew his weapon.’

Bronque knelt over the messenger – little more than a boy – pressing two fingers to the jugular. ‘God-damned cock-up.’ He thrust his chin at a staircase in the corner. ‘Search the premises. No more killing. If the woman is here, we need her alive.’

The soldiers clattered off. Bronque exchanged a bitter look with Foison and set to emptying the dead boy’s pockets. ‘Idiots. Ruined everything.’

‘Unless she is upstairs,’ said Foison mildly.

Chang brushed the straw from around the boy’s gun with his foot – it was a service revolver, heavy and difficult to fire.

‘Lieutenant!’ Bronque roared at the staircase. ‘Report!’

The officer stomped back into view at the top of the steps. ‘Nothing, sir. All empty.’

‘Hang your idiocy! Get your men formed in the courtyard.’

The soldiers marched down the stairs and out. Bronque tossed the contents of the dead boy’s pockets into the straw: a clasp-knife, a scatter of pennies, a dirty rag.

Through the boy’s half-open lips gleamed a brighter touch of red, blood risen from a punctured lung. Chang cocked his head.

‘What is it?’ asked Foison.

‘His cloak is untied.’

‘What of that?’ asked Bronque.

‘It wasn’t before, when we were following him.’

‘So he untied his cloak upon coming in – that’s natural enough.’

‘Not if he wasn’t going to stay. Not if he was attempting to leave through the rear door.’

Bronque’s voice deepened. ‘Are you saying he wasn’t? Wait a moment …’

The Colonel slipped two gloved fingers into the messenger’s boot and came out with a folded square of paper. ‘A message, by God.’

He handed the paper to Foison, who opened it for them all to see: a page torn from an old book, a woodcut depicting a muscular black man in a turban, with an axe. At his feet lay an open casket, a jewel box that contained a human heart. But the woodcut had been freshly amended by its sender: with the crude stroke of an ink pen the axeman’s eyes had been wholly covered by a thick black bar, like a blindfold.