The Dark Volume (70 page)

“That is only to be expected.” Vandaariff shrugged, surveying the room as if his gaze were a gun site, nodding with contempt as he recognized the faces around him. He reached up to wipe his face, the surprisingly delicate movements of his large hand entirely of a piece with the Comte d'Orkancz. He frowned at the black fluid wetting his fingertips. “What is this?”

“Margaret says you're
unclean.”

Vandaariff studied the glass woman, cocking his head at her bandaged arm. “Does she? Well… poor Margaret… always so
emotional.”

“They have administered the Process,” hissed Xonck impatiently.

Vandaariff reached up to the scars, his touch smearing the black fluid across the raised welts. “A perfectly good idea, I'm sure. At any rate, worth the attempt…”

Mr. Leveret stepped forward and shouted directly into Vandaariff's face.
“Indigo Pilate iris sunset Parchfeldt!”

Vandaariff chuckled. “The Process
is
powerful,” he said with a wan shrug. “But infusion from a book is even more so. One is new-laying the essence.”

“But—but we have remade you out of nothing!” Mrs. Trapping's arrogance had taken on a plaintive whine. “We
must
control you!”

“Must?”
Vandaariff faced her with a sudden, low intensity. “Control the worms in your own stomach, madame. Command the innocence of your daughter to return. Order your bankrupt heart to pump clean—”

Mr. Fochtmann brought down an iron wrench on the back of Francis Xonck's head, with a sickening, crushed-pumpkin
thwock
. Xonck collapsed on the dais, utterly still.

Vandaariff looked down, abstractly curious. “My
goodness.”

Mrs. Trapping's hand was over her mouth. “Francis! Francis!” She strode toward Fochtmann. “What have you done to my
brother?”

Mr. Fochtmann struck her cleanly on the jaw with his fist, knocking her into a sprawl of kicking legs.

“My God, sir!” cried Leveret, leaping to her. “You will not hit a woman!”

“I am surely finished with them hitting
me,”
growled Fochtmann, and he called to Mrs. Marchmoor. “Enough of this nonsense.”

Colonel Aspiche extended his saber toward Vandaariff.

“It does not sound like
nonsense
to me! If he can defy us—if he does not possess the knowledge to repair this sickness—I am finished with the pack of you!”

Phelps cradled the pistol in one hand and pulled the girl tighter to him with the other, addressing Mrs. Marchmoor. “Please, madame— the sickness! You call him ‘unclean’—does that mean we are doomed?”

“Don't be idiots,” began Fochtmann, “there is no need for
rebellion
—we are all allies!”

Aspiche spun to Mrs. Marchmoor, the naked saber daringly near her body, his voice tight and his arm shaking.

“For pity's sake, Margaret—tell us!”

But Mrs. Marchmoor said nothing. Her gaze remained locked on Robert Vandaariff. Miss Temple knew the glass woman had no answer, that she could not tell who—or what—this new person before her truly was. Vandaariff cocked his head again and licked his lips, deliberately tasting them. He abruptly began to retch but then swallowed it down with difficulty, a display that to Miss Temple was every bit as revolting as if he had vomited outright.

Still Mrs. Marchmoor said nothing, Aspiche's saber-tip dancing before her.

Charlotte Trapping cried out plaintively, “Alfred! They have Francesca—
please!”

Mr. Leveret was startled to action. He swept his arm dramatically toward the soldiers with the concussive shell. “No one will do anything—unless everyone here wishes to die!”

But Leveret's next shout failed on his lips. Blood burst out from the faces of the two soldiers. They dropped their wires and fuses as cleanly as if their arms had been lopped off with a scythe. Leveret stammered, and then yelled desperately for his army. He was already far too late.

MISS TEMPLE was staggered, as if she'd been cuffed hard across the ear, while all around her carbines clattered to the floor. The soldiers toppled heedless to their faces, eyes open wide, bodies entirely still. Across the entire room it was the same. Every person was incapacitated in an instant's sudden violent pulse from the glass woman's mind. Leveret and Mrs. Trapping lay flattened. Phelps and Aspiche sprawled on their backs, pulling Francesca Trapping with them. Elöise groped on the floor, hair fallen about her face. Vandaariff slumped into the brass boxes. The Contessa was on all fours. Only Fochtmann had kept his feet and his senses… along with herself, Chang, and Svenson.

Miss Temple shook her head—her ears were ringing—taking in the swathe of destruction. A moment before it seemed as if the glass woman's impossible powers had finally reached their limit, but she had smothered the rebellion in one mighty, silent stroke. Yet whatever she had intended—to escape? to eradicate her enemies?—was forever stalled when she saw they still stood to defy her. With a plangent whine Mrs. Marchmoor retreated several rapid clicking steps. If they could withstand her mental powers, Miss Temple realized, the creature was utterly defenseless. They might be children with stones intent on crushing a tortoise. Miss Temple met the glass woman's gaze and saw in her swirling eyes incomprehension and terror.

Chang lurched toward Colonel Aspiche, groping for the insensible man's fallen saber.

“Sir! I beg of you!”

Margaret Hooke cried out to Fochtmann, stirring him from his daze. As Chang took hold of the Colonel's weapon, Fochtmann took two strides and snatched up Mr. Phelps' pistol. Doctor Svenson tackled Fochtmann, and the tall man fell, crashing to the floor in a heavy tangle. Fochtmann fought against Svenson's arms to aim the gun at Chang, who was stranded between the struggling men and Mrs. Marchmoor, neither target within reach of his saber. Miss Temple darted forward and kicked Fochtmann's hand quite cleanly. The pistol flew away from them all, skittering unimpeded across the floor… until it was stopped by the Contessa's foot.

THE CONTESSA bent down unsteadily to retrieve the gun.

“Are we finished with the circus?” she asked. “I do hope so. I am
tired.”

She cocked the gun and held it generally, so she might as easily fire at Miss Temple or Chang as at Mrs. Marchmoor.

“An interesting circumstance,” the Contessa observed. “Like some interlocking Chinese box. Margaret can overpower
me
, but not Chang. I can shoot Chang, but then Margaret is free to overwhelm my mind. And no doubt each of us would be more than happy for the others to die.”

Before anyone could respond, another stirring on the floor caught Miss Temple's eye. Mr. Leveret sputtered and struggled to rise. He looked about him, taking in the crushing vision of his soldiers all dropped to the floor, saw the glass woman and Chang, and then lastly the Contessa. He rose to his knees, his voice pinched with disapproval.

“I must protest, madame, and demand that in all
decency
—”

The Contessa's bullet caught Leveret square between the eyes, a spout of dark red blood flipping in the air as he went down. Charlotte Trapping screamed aloud, and screamed again, drawing her shaking hands up to her face. Mr. Leveret did not move.

“Be quiet, Charlotte,” warned the Contessa coldly. “Or I will kill your child.”

She extended the pistol to where Francesca lay curled, looking altogether too small. Her mother's next cry stopped in her throat with a moan. Miss Temple turned with helpless anger to Chang. “Will you not do
something?”

“She is right,” he said quietly. “If I take Margaret's head, nothing stops the Contessa from killing as many of us as she has bullets.”

The hard truth of his words fell flat upon the room, and no one spoke. Then Robert Vandaariff coughed wetly He watched them with one open eye from where he lay slumped, the corners of his mouth touched with a distant bemusement. The Contessa called sharply to the glass woman.

“Margaret, I would put it to you that nothing between us need prevent an understanding
now
. We have an unparalleled opportunity, you and I—to create in a stroke a new future. My former agreement lay with Harald Crabbé, Francis Xonck, and the Comte d'Orkancz. Crabbé is dead. Francis is ill. The Comte has been reborn. You and I stand opposed. You already rule the Ministries—take Crabbé's place. With the Comte reborn and Francis restored, we can begin again as equal partners.”

The depths of Mrs. Marchmoor's blue eyes flickered, but she did not respond.

“Your only alternative fate is Cardinal Chang's blade. Come—together, Margaret, we will be truly unstoppable.”

“Francis Xonck tried to kill you,” said Chang.

“And I to kill him,” the Contessa replied. “What of it? This factory is reason enough to retain Xonck Armaments within the portfolio— do you think I can trust Charlotte? Besides, there is also that claim of Margaret's to settle… that Oskar is
unclean
. In my opinion, restoring Francis to good health is a perfectly reasonable test, demonstrating Oskar's sound mind and intact knowledge. It is entirely
sensible.”

Miss Temple felt the bile at the edge of her mind, curdling her concentration like tart lemon dripped in milky tea.

“But this man is
not
the Comte—not the Comte you knew!”

“Be quiet, Celeste. Come, Margaret… do we have an agreement?”

“If he can restore Francis…” The glass woman's words hung hesitant and thin, broken ice stretched across the skin of a dark pool. “Perhaps the corruption… is not important…”

The Contessa turned toward Robert Vandaariff. “What do you say to that, Oskar?”

“What
can
I say, Rosamonde?”

“You can agree.”

“And what of this… supposed ‘taint’?”

“Do you
feel
unclean?”

“I feel clean as Arctic ice.”

“He is lying!” cried Miss Temple. “For pity's sake, I touched the book—I
know!”

“If that is so,” the Contessa rejoined, “then we simply administer the Process once again, or find an empty book to re-vacate his mind, or wrap him in chains until the body of Robert Vandaariff is tractable once more.”

“Your sentiment is touching.” Vandaariff straightened his filthy coat with meticulous small tugs.

“Come now, Oskar, I am
overjoyed
at your return. Will you join us? Surely you would prefer not to be forced?”

“My goodness. How would you do that?”

The Contessa laughed. “How to decide? There is no time for seduction, and no one you care for to threaten. I could put this gun against your knee—one shot and the Doctor would no doubt be forced to amputate with a penknife!” She laughed again. “And think of all the money you would save, buying but one shoe!”

Vandaariff laughed with her. “It is a very good thing we are such friends. Of course I will join you, and join Margaret. I suppose I am even in Cardinal Chang's debt for stabbing me when he did—otherwise I should surely have twisted your lovely neck clean through.”

“Is… is Francis
alive?”
It was the tearful voice of Charlotte Trapping.

“O certainly,” replied Robert Vandaariff mildly. “One can see him breathe.”

He snapped his fingers at Fochtmann, who—after a wary glance back to Mrs. Marchmoor—lifted Xonck into the chair that had held Vandaariff. Under Vandaariff's instruction he reattached the nest of stinking tubes and hoses and masks to Xonck's body. As he worked, Fochtmann cut away Xonck's clothing and exposed the gleaming dark wound in his chest. It throbbed with each heavy breath, like a parasite with intentions of its own.

“What will you do?” asked Doctor Svenson. “The glass has fused to his heart and lungs. How can you hope to extract it?”

“The dilemma is indeed perplexing,” agreed Vandaariff, tapping the pulsing wound with his fingernail.

“If you cannot do it, let him die.” This was Cardinal Chang.

“O I can do it,” replied Vandaariff. Behind him Francis Xonck opened his eyes and groggily shook his head, pushing without comprehension against his bonds. Vandaariff tightened the mask with a tug. He turned and met Miss Temple's gaze. Her throat clenched hard, the arrangement of copper wires and hose around Xonck seeming to twist before her eyes into letters, nearly forming words. She was suddenly terribly afraid, but she could not quite pierce his intention… and then she burst out coughing, unable to speak. Doctor Svenson stepped to her but Miss Temple pushed him away, waving her hand at Vandaariff.

“What is
wrong
with her?” demanded the Contessa.

“She is
ill,”
replied Vandaariff. “An effect of the glass. Just like poor Francis. Can you hear me, Francis? Are you alive?”

“Can you truly heal him?” asked Mrs. Trapping.

Vandaariff tied off the end of a black hose. “Do you
want
me to?”

“I… I do,” she whispered.

An excitement leapt to Vandaariff's eyes.

“But your brother is a wicked thing. If anyone deserves an agonizing death it is certainly Francis. No, Mrs. Trapping, I'm sure I don't believe you.”

“I want him as he was,” she insisted.

“You must
convince
me…”

“I want him back,” she whimpered.

“Back?”
asked Vandaariff. “I see—so you can kill him yourself?”

“No,” sniffed Mrs. Trapping, but then was overtaken by sobs. “I do not know what I want at
all!”

Robert Vandaariff sniggered, arch and vile. The Contessa spoke angrily. “When you open your mouth, Charlotte, it helps you not at all!”

“As if I had a choice! In anything!”

The Contessa snorted and pointed to the deathly pale little girl, huddled in an insensible ball at the feet of Mr. Phelps. “You might have remembered your daughter.”

“I
might have—
I might have?”

Mrs. Trapping took three quick steps toward the Contessa, like a high-strung dog, her hands raised, then staggered from an unseen blow. She wheeled to the glass woman in a tearful fury.