The Chemickal Marriage (63 page)

‘You’re a soldier – of sorts, anyway. Are they all so superstitious?’

‘Most people are, when it comes to death.’

‘They should be
confident
.’

‘Solitude lacks comfort. And there is no greater solitude than mortality.’ Svenson rubbed his eyes. ‘Your uncle who will not die, I expect you think him a fool.’

‘The
biggest
.’

‘You have given your body to his same foolishness – this alchemy.’

‘I am not
dying
.’

‘You might have died ten times today. I could have shot you through the head myself.’

Schoepfil smiled. ‘You would not have!’

‘I would have very well,’ replied Svenson testily. ‘But for the same reason you keep me – that you may prove of use. Another man would have spattered your brains –’

But Schoepfil had already burst into laughter. ‘I be of use to
you
! O that is
prime
!’ Schoepfil drummed a hand on his knee. ‘You will be lucky to avoid the scaffold!’

The Doctor tapped his ash onto the floor, loathing the man, and even more the truth in his words. For a blessed moment Schoepfil did not speak. Svenson allowed his mind to touch upon the painful day he and Phelps had returned to Parchfeldt … the air wind-kissed, the clouds blooming white. He was no stranger to death. The medical habit of distance had run deep enough to let him search through the woods, and to at last identify the bundle of limbs – taken first for weather-beaten twigs – and the colour of the tattered dress she’d worn. Phelps had hung back with a handkerchief to his face, but Doctor Svenson could not. His hand had gently turned the corpse’s face, no longer Elöise, and, yet, he could not un-see her, still the woman he’d loved in all her ruined parts. The gaping, gummy crease from the Contessa’s blade, blackened with long-dried blood. The eyes cruelly sunken, glazed pale as milk. Her fingers in the grass, always so thin, now grey at the tips, puffed with bloat, foreign. He had spread the tarpaulin and so very tenderly eased her onto it, turning his eyes from the flattened earth where she had lain, the insects and worms writhing at the sudden light.

It is an illusion that we are not such objects while we still live, the Doctor had told himself. And in the time since, while Elöise mouldered in the garden of her uncle’s cottage, where had time carried him – what achievement lay in his staying alive?

Small gestures with Phelps and Cunsher, meagre checks against their enemies. Preserving Celeste Temple’s life, and Chang’s – for a time. And his
own animal resurgence – the compulsion of
life
– had come at the provocation of an outright monster. Could there be any stronger proof of an indiscriminate world?

He groped for the red metal tin. ‘I assume we approach Harschmort by the canal? Timed to coincide with the Colonel’s arrival at the gate?’

‘O more than
that
, Doctor.’

Svenson sighed, then asked, as was expected. ‘How so?’

Schoepfil snapped the box shut and set it aside. ‘I do not expect to be
alone
.’

They disembarked at the Orange Canal Station with two grenadiers, the last of Bronque’s men, not a single other soul to be seen. The Doctor inhaled the salt tang of the sea.

‘I thought we would be joined.’

‘Not
here
, Doctor. We must to the canal.’

So rapid was Schoepfil’s pace that Svenson and the grenadiers were forced into an awkward trot. The Doctor addressed them as they ran.

‘Despite your orders, I wish to be civil – there is no telling what difficulties may drive us together. I am Captain-Surgeon Svenson of the Macklenburg Navy.’

Neither soldier spoke, so Svenson bent to the nearest, stripes on his sleeve. ‘Sergeant of grenadiers is no small achievement. Had I a hat, I would touch it to you.’

At this the tall sergeant smiled. ‘Barlew, sir, sergeant these two years. This is Poggs. You don’t want to cross Private Poggs.’

Svenson spoke across Barlew to Poggs, with a respectful gravity. ‘I’m sure I do not. But I am more concerned with your own safeties.’

‘Not to worry, sir,’ said Barlew. ‘But very good of you.’

They nearly collided with Schoepfil when the man suddenly stopped. Sergeant Barlew muttered an apology but Schoepfil hissed him to silence, peering around him in the gloom. Svenson saw nothing and heard only the wind. Schoepfil flexed his hands, as if stroking the air for scent. He whispered to the soldiers, ‘One of you stay here. Wait five minutes, then catch up to us. Be careful. Keep your guard.
Come
.’

Trooper Poggs diligently stepped aside and the others hurried on until the dunes were replaced by the shining surface of the Orange Canal. Its walkways were empty, with not even a watchman’s lantern. Schoepfil pointed away to a glow across the grass.

‘Harschmort.’

Svenson turned to the canal. ‘But is
this
not where we expect whoever will join us?’

‘Be patient, Doctor. Who is this?’

Schoepfil darted to the side with astonishing speed. Footfalls came towards them from the dark. The Sergeant’s bayonet was fixed and ready, but a whisper made clear it was Poggs.

‘Report!’ hissed Schoepfil.

‘Someone following all right. I couldn’t get him, sir. Kept hanging back.’

‘But who
is
it?’ Schoepfil squeezed his hands to fists. ‘And are you sure it is a
man
?’

‘Wouldn’t be a woman, sir – not out here.’

Abruptly Schoepfil looked up, listening intently. With a pale, questioning expression he turned to Svenson. ‘I don’t hear a thing.’

‘Ought you to?’

‘Colonel Bronque should have reached the gate.’

‘Perhaps he was delayed. Vandaariff has his own men –’

‘No, we should have
heard
.’

Sergeant Barlew cleared his throat. ‘There was the fire, sir.’

‘What
fire
?’

‘We saw it behind us, from the train. The Colonel must have burnt the station. Didn’t you see? We were told not to disturb you –’

‘There was no plan to burn any
station
!’

‘I’m sorry, sir. We must have it wrong, then.’

‘Of all the blasted idiocy! Follow me and
watch
– beware what traps I avoid – pay attention! Our purpose is stealth, not confrontation. Colonel Bronque is the broadside of cannon. We are the stiletto in the ear. Do you understand?’

‘Why do you need us at all?’ asked Doctor Svenson.

‘I need
them
to watch
you
. I will need
you
to preserve my life.’ Schoepfil darted away, his short, thin legs as brisk as a bird’s.

‘And why in hell should I do that?’ called Svenson.

Schoepfil’s reply echoed off the still canal. ‘Because otherwise she wins!’

The nearest Svenson had seen to it was watching men such as Chang, whose instincts had been thoroughly etched onto the most primitive portions of the brain, where action preceded thought. In Schoepfil’s case it had nothing to do with experience.

Running at full speed, Schoepfil abruptly jumped in the air. When Svenson and the soldiers reached the same point, they found black wire stretched between two huts, tied to an explosive charge. Carefully they stepped over and kept on – past more wires and beds of glass spikes hidden in the path. Veering around the last, Svenson glanced back and caught a glimpse of motion. Someone
did
follow, and aped Schoepfil’s safe path as well.

Muffled cries and the crack of breaking glass reached them with Schoepfil’s warning.

‘Stay back! Wait for the wind!’

Svenson perceived a cloud of smoke and watched it break apart, towards the sea. He advanced to find two men in green on the ground, their heads encased by brass helmets. Each carried a canvas satchel of apple-sized glass balls, several of which lay broken at their feet.

‘Hurry!’ called Schoepfil, already well ahead.

More traps and men – so many that Barlew and Poggs, wading in with their bayonets, reached Schoepfil before he could finish the last. Svenson, without a weapon, hung back, hoping to snatch something off one of the fallen men, but Barlew took the Doctor’s arm before he could.

They joined Schoepfil at a set of glass garden doors. This was the eastern wing of Harschmort. Schoepfil’s face gleamed with perspiration but he smiled.

‘Now we are to it! Follow some steps behind, weapons ready. The new construction has been concentrated in the western wing –’

Schoepfil whipped his head towards the outbuildings, then lunged for the door. Svenson heard the explosive pop of breaking glass as Schoepfil hauled himself through. Poggs and Barlew sank in a cloud of smoke. Schoepfil
slammed the door even as the panes shattered, smoke rising around them from the shards.

Svenson clapped a hand over his mouth and ran – for an instant after Schoepfil, but then veering wildly away. He heard Schoepfil’s cries of outrage, but still more glass and smoke prevented any pursuit. Svenson crossed the ballroom floor before risking a look back: a distant figure like a tall tropical insect, all orange and brass, with two pitiless glass eyes that marked the Doctor as he fled.

Construction in the western wing, Schoepfil had said. Svenson gathered his memories of Harschmort as he ran, but the carpets were gone and the furniture covered with white sheets. He brought himself to a panting stop when the floor changed to black-and-white chequers. This was near the kitchens – at the corridor’s end had been the staircase descending to the Comte’s underground chamber. Chang had described it destroyed, collapsed to form a vast crater. And yet … renovation. Svenson began to trot in that direction.

At a swinging wooden door he paused and peered into a scullery. A heavy steel cleaver stuck up from a butcher’s block, and Svenson wrenched with both hands until the blade came free. A woman in dark livery watched from an inner doorway. Past her more servants gathered around a teapot.

‘Everyone all right?’ whispered Svenson.

The woman nodded.

‘Excellent. Stay here – you’ve all been told, haven’t you?’

The woman nodded. Svenson turned for the door, then craned his head back. ‘Beg your pardon – so much has changed – the western wing?’

‘No one goes there, sir.’

The cook was joined by the others, the increase in numbers heightening the dubious nature of his uniform, his accent, his filthy appearance.

‘That’s my cutting knife,’ said one of the men.

‘I will not abuse it.’ With an afterthought Svenson sketched a bow of thanks. ‘Not to worry. I do serve the Queen.’

The disapproving man only pursed his lips. ‘Queen’s an old haddock.’

Where the staircase had stood was a wall of new-laid brick, unplastered and without a door. This route blocked, Svenson followed the path of recent construction and eventually met voices, coming near. He scrambled behind a cloth-draped statue of an Eastern goddess (nearly putting out his eye on a finger of her fourth arm). The voices went past: two men in green with carbines guarding a half-dozen shambling, bandaged grenadiers.

He walked on, gripping the cleaver. The corridor was gritty with plaster and sawdust, and ended at a wide, high foyer. He had reached the front of the house. Svenson flattened himself against the wall.

The foyer was filled with bodies: grenadiers. Unlike the Customs House, these men were not dead: they stirred and moaned, slowly regaining their senses. A group of six, standing shakily, was bullied to order by Vandaariff’s militia.

More of Vandaariff’s men marched through the main door carrying the same boxes that Kelling had so assiduously cared for. These men wore brass helmets, and dropped the boxes without ceremony. There was no sign of Kelling, or of Bronque. Perhaps they were still outside. Perhaps they’d been killed.

The western wing lay beyond the foyer, but Svenson could not cross without being seen – any more than he could remain where he was. The group of grenadiers began to trudge towards Svenson’s arch. He retreated to a squat piece of cloth-covered furniture and ducked under the sheet, only to find a solid Chinese trunk. Svenson curled into a ball. The footfalls passed by, endlessly, but finally he tugged the cloth from his head. Not ten yards away on the opposite wall, similarly peeking from his own shroud, was a young man Svenson did not know.

Carefully the young man slipped free of his hiding place and Svenson recognized the figure who had followed from the canal – orange coat, brass helmet, canvas satchel. He pointed deliberately to the floor.

‘We must go
down
,’ he whispered.

Svenson nodded. ‘First we must cross the foyer.’

The young man reached into the satchel, coming out with a pair of blue glass balls. He offered one to Svenson, but the Doctor shook his head, leaning close. ‘They have helmets – more than enough to stop us. Still, I have an idea.’

‘What is that?’

The Doctor carefully laid the cleaver on the young man’s throat. ‘That you are my prisoner, Mr Pfaff.’

The last grenadiers were being roused with kicks. Svenson’s quick count of Vandaariff’s men stalled at fifteen, four or five in helmets. Keeping to the wall, he and Pfaff advanced nearly halfway to the far wing before they were seen. The curiosity of Svenson holding a knife to Pfaff’s neck prevented an immediate clash. Instead, Vandaariff’s men formed a line to hem them in, carbines raised. Svenson addressed them as calmly as he could.

‘I am here for Lord Robert Vandaariff. If prevented, I will take the life of this man. Since Lord Vandaariff desires him
whole
, whoever amongst you provokes my action will pay the penalty. I will speak to Mr Foison.’

‘You’ll speak to me,’ replied a senior guard, shouldering through the line.

‘I am Captain-Surgeon Abelard Svenson of the Macklenburg Navy. This man is named Pfaff. He has information vital to Lord –’

‘
Svenson?
’

‘That is correct – and I assure you, unless you allow …’

The Doctor faltered, for the senior guard had taken a paper from his pocket and, upon consulting it, signalled to his men. The four in helmets strode forcefully towards Svenson and Pfaff, then knelt to lift two panels in the floor, exposing a staircase leading down. The drone of machines echoed from below.