The Chemickal Marriage (40 page)

‘Do not move.’

At Svenson’s words, the laboratory’s only occupant spun with shock, a glass flask slipping from his hand. The man yelped and hopped clear, batting at the greenish smoke that rose from the stone-flagged floor.

‘Damn you, sir! Look at what you’ve done! What is this trespass?’

The indignant man was fair and unkempt, with a well-fed jaw blooming from his tight collar like a toad’s. ‘Do you
know
whose works these are? I promise you, when
Lord Robert
is made aware –’

‘Professor Trooste,’ Mahmoud called from the door.

The Professor swallowed nervously. ‘Bloody Christ – I mean to say – hello. My goodness – and Mrs Kraft!’

‘Professor Trooste is a patron of the Old Palace.’ Mahmoud secured the door with an iron bolt. ‘When someone sponsors his visit, of course. He’s been travelling – haven’t you, Professor? Research expedition?’

‘Where?’ Svenson demanded. ‘Quickly –
where
?’

‘Nowhere at all –’

‘Polksvarte District,’ said Mahmoud. ‘And Macklenburg before it.’

‘Damn your black eyes! Not that it matters – what are the rivalries of science to the likes of you? If you must know, I was advised of certain mineral deposits – utterly unprofitable, as it happens, waste of time all round –’

‘You’re a liar.’ Svenson cocked the revolver. ‘What does he have you doing?’

‘He?’

‘Robert Vandaariff.’

‘Your uniform and voice, sir, suggest a foreign soldier.
I
am a patriot. Shoot me through the heart – threats mean nothing.’ Trooste struck a noble posture, but then broke into a knowing cackle. ‘In all candour, if I
were
to break my word, the Ministry would punish me tenfold –’

Svenson cracked the butt of the revolver on the Professor’s forehead. Trooste fell with a cry. Before he could scuttle under the table the Doctor dragged him clear.

‘Mahmoud – place Mrs Kraft on the table.’

‘But what do you intend?’ whined Trooste, both fat hands flat across his forehead. ‘I am sorry this woman is unwell – but I am no physician –’

Svenson sought out Francesca. The girl stood staring at a little hut against the far wall.

‘What is that room?’ Svenson asked Trooste.

‘The foundry.’

‘For what is it used?’

‘Smelting metals, what else?’

‘Is there a door inside, to the corridor?’

‘Of course not –’

Francesca coughed into her hands and sank down on a wooden crate. Her lips were dark and moist. Trooste squirmed to his feet. ‘Is it plague?’

‘It is not. Mahmoud, if you would prevent the Professor from leaving?’ Svenson crossed to the child. ‘What do you remember, Francesca?’

The little girl groaned, as if the disturbance in her body would not submit to speech.

‘Try shutting your eyes. The memories will be less insistent –’

She shook her head with a whine. ‘I
can’t
– I can’t look away.’

Svenson turned to find Trooste had edged near.

‘She is sick with the genius of your master, through close contact with indigo clay.’

‘Indigo clay?’

‘Do not pretend you do not know it.’

‘On the contrary …’ Trooste studied Francesca like a fox eyeing a fallen fledgling. ‘Close contact, you say?’

A sharp word from Mahmoud called Trooste to assist in situating Mrs
Kraft on the table. Mrs Kraft remained silent, gazing into the high, conical ceiling, an enormous brick beehive.

Svenson wiped Francesca’s mouth with a handkerchief and left it in her hands. ‘Once this is finished, you shall have anything. Back in your own home, safe with your brothers, all the tea cakes you can eat –’

Francesca nodded weakly, but her pallor forestalled further mention of food. The child had visibly deteriorated, the laboratory too resonant for her frail frame. It could not last.

‘We need to align these machines,’ he told Trooste. ‘You will obey the child’s instructions.’

‘Obey
her
?’

‘Exactly.’

‘How provocative. That a child might possess such knowledge – one speculates …’

Svenson ignored him and began to take stock of each device, speaking aloud for Francesca’s benefit. ‘Copper wiring connects each gearbox to leads at the foot of the table, and runs inside these rectangular crates –’

‘Crucibles,’ interjected Trooste. Svenson glanced at Francesca, who nodded, pinching her nose. Svenson went on.

‘More wires pass from the
crucibles
to the table and hoses, which attach to the subject’s body – no doubt there is an esoteric meaning to each point of contact – and also, most prominently, a mask …’ He found the thing hanging from a peg, rubberized canvas on a metal frame. ‘The current is passed through a bolus of blue glass inside the crucible. I assume you have an adequate supply?’

This was to Trooste. The Professor nodded, adding in a crafty undertone, ‘Lord Vandaariff assured me there was no rival inquiry in these subjects.’

‘He is a liar. And I tell you here: every man to study indigo clay has paid with his life. Gray, Lorenz, Fochtmann, the Comte d’Orkancz himself – all of them dead.’

Trooste chewed his lip, shrugged.

‘You
knew
this?’

‘O yes. Lord Vandaariff was quite candid. But once I knew the details of each man’s failure, I saw how my own efforts –’

Doctor Svenson dug into his tunic and came out with one of the glass spurs. He flung it at Trooste. The disc harmlessly struck the Professor’s chest and dropped into his gloved palm.

‘Packed into every bomb set off in the city,’ Svenson announced. ‘By the thousands. I trust you recognize the
provenance
.’

‘But that’s ridiculous –’

‘Look
into
it, Professor!’

At Svenson’s shout, Trooste raised the blue disc to his eye. An ugly grunt came from his mouth. Before the anger in the glass could fully insinuate itself, Svenson slapped the spur away.

‘
Doctor Svenson
.’

With a cold horror, Svenson followed Mahmoud’s gaze. From within the foundry came the rattling of a doorknob.

Mahmoud whipped a sheet of canvas over Mrs Kraft and shoved Svenson under the table. He plucked Francesca off her feet and carried her behind a tall cabinet, a hand across the child’s mouth.

Trooste stood blinking, still confused by the glass and staring at the tip of Svenson’s revolver beneath the hoses, ready to fire at the Professor’s first mischosen word.

Mr Foison entered from the foundry. With the knife in his right hand he pointed past Trooste to the main entrance. ‘Why is that door locked?’

‘Is it?’ asked Trooste.

Foison surveyed the room. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Nothing
objectionable
, I hope. I am
working
.’

‘Lord Vandaariff is delayed. He will send word.’ Foison flipped the knife into the air and caught it again, as if the action helped him to think. ‘Did
you
lock that door?’

Trooste’s voice hovered at the edge of a stammer. ‘Perhaps I did. Lord Vandaariff said our work was extremely sensitive –’

‘What sort of idiot locks one door but not the other?’

Trooste visibly fought the urge to glance at Svenson. ‘I suppose an idiot like me.’

‘The same idiot that dropped that flask?’

‘Indeed, yes – an accident –’

‘You are anxious, Professor. You have not been anxious before. No, I should have described you as singularly satisfied.’ Foison’s contempt entered his words like the surfacing eyes of a crocodile.

‘Ah – well, perhaps – the state of the city.’

‘I hadn’t heard.’ Foison flipped the knife again. Abruptly he stepped to the wooden crate where Francesca had been sitting. He drew a fingertip across the crate and flicked it at Trooste: a spatter of black across the Professor’s pink cheek. Trooste dabbed a finger to his face and sniffed.

‘A chemical residue – carbolic phosphate – I thought I had cleaned it all –’

Beyond Trooste, Svenson could just detect the tip of Mahmoud’s shoe. He knew Mahmoud had his own pistol ready to fire. With a sickening dread Svenson saw Foison casually shift his stance to place Trooste between, blocking any clear shot.

‘What you are
doing
, Professor?’

‘I am assisting Lord Vandaariff –’

‘And your guest?’

‘Guest?’

Foison flipped up the canvas, revealing Madelaine Kraft’s slippered feet. He pinched her toe and provoked a noise from beneath the canvas. ‘I did not know your work at the Institute had graduated to … live subjects.’

‘I do nothing save follow Lord Vandaariff’s instruction.’

‘I see. And – now your work
has
taken this turn – do you find Lord Vandaariff’s instructions troubling?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Of course not,’ Foison echoed.

‘I – ah – ascribe them to his own f-fever – and – and his recovery. To be candid, we have all heard the rumours –’

‘I have been abroad, until quite recently.
Rumours?
’

Trooste retreated into the table, rattling the hoses in front of Svenson’s face. ‘Lord Vandaariff’s interest in Macklenburg – and the marriage of his daughter –’

‘One explains the other, does it not? Where the daughter marries, the father invests.’

‘Indeed. But his patronage of the Comte d’Orkancz, who had also been to Macklenburg – ah!’ Trooste gasped at a sudden movement from Foison. Was the knife at his throat?

‘You will not take advantage of Lord Vandaariff, because of his ill health.’

‘Never. Christ above, I promise you –’

‘No, Professor. I promise
you
.’

Foison stepped away, the knife back in his coat. ‘Whatever happened to your face?’

Trooste touched his forehead where Svenson had struck it with the pistol-butt. ‘Ah, that. One of the machines. Flay-rod. One’s attention wanders –’

‘And then you’re dead.’ Foison walked to the foundry door, but then paused. ‘And Professor?’

Trooste forced a patient smile. ‘Anything.’

‘You wouldn’t know how empty shell casings came to be littering the top of your stairs?’

‘Shell casings?’

‘From a revolving pistol.’

‘I’ve no idea. I have no weapon.’

‘That is wise. The way your day is going, it would only be used against you.’

As soon as Foison was gone, Trooste sagged against the table, pale with fear. ‘I did what you asked – wait – wait! Where are you
going
?’

Mahmoud raced from his hiding place to the foundry room. Svenson hesitated, taking a step towards Francesca, but then followed the dark man. He found Mahmoud crouched at the second exit door. With silent care Mahmoud eased its bolt home, blocking any re-entry.

‘That cold-eyed Asiatic will have my life.’

Trooste had joined them, but the Doctor paid no heed. Above the foundry’s stone trough hung a metal rack, and there, like cakes from a baker’s oven, lay three blue glass books.

‘What in heaven …’ whispered Mahmoud.

‘O yes,’ agreed Trooste. ‘Aren’t they glorious? Just made this morning, by Lord Vandaariff himself, every one untouched and pure –’

Svenson tried to control his voice. ‘Mahmoud, take hold of the Professor. Do not touch or look into these books. A glass book brought your mistress to this pass.’

‘But what
are
they?’

Against the wall lay a stack of leather cases. Svenson opened the topmost, noting with grim satisfaction that its interior was lined with orange felt. Equally to his purpose was a pair of iron tongs, wrapped with cloth. As the others watched, Svenson carefully lifted one of the books and set it in the case. He snapped the case shut. Mahmoud held another ready, but Svenson shook his head.

‘Put it down. Turn away.’

‘O no.’ Trooste began to sputter. ‘No, no – good God, the
effort
! He will kill me! I beg you –’

Svenson flipped the second book off the rack. It struck the edge of the trough and shattered across the stone floor. Trooste howled, and only Mahmoud’s strength kept him from tackling Svenson. Svenson seized the third book.

‘You cannot!’ Trooste writhed. ‘I swear – I will be hunted down –’

Svenson heaved the book onto the stone. He broke the shards under his boots. He stumbled. He was growing light-headed – there were fumes. He dropped the tongs and clapped a hand over his nose and mouth.

‘Get out – hold your breath!’ As the others fled, the Doctor stamped again and again on the broken books. He careened into the main chamber, slamming the door behind.

‘Barbarian,’ spat Trooste.

‘You have no idea.’ Svenson rubbed his stinging eyes.

‘But, Doctor, I don’t understand.’ Mahmoud pointed to the leather case in Svenson’s hand. ‘If those books are so terrible, why keep that one?’

‘Because the Professor is correct. We’ll need a weapon.’

Svenson interrogated Trooste about the machinery, keeping one eye on Francesca – gauging the veracity of the resentful man’s answers by the distress each nugget of information provoked in the girl. Caught between Svenson’s bitter resolve and the spectre of Mr Foison, the Professor became
more and more anxious. By the end Trooste barked his replies, flinching in advance at the child’s grunts and soot-coloured drool.

But in that half-hour Doctor Svenson learnt more than he had ever desired about indigo clay: conduction, amplification, and the power Trooste termed ‘reciprocal cognition’. He now perceived in the tangles of wire and hose a mechanical intention: the operative
essence
of indigo clay eluded him as much as ever, but laid bare were the physical means to translate memory into a glass book, to infuse a book’s contents into an empty mind, to overwhelm a victim’s will with the Process – each action a relatively straightforward matter of force and direction. The restoration of Madelaine Kraft, however, depended on knowledge Trooste did not have.

Svenson had seen the toxic effects of prolonged exposure and bodily ingestion, but Madelaine Kraft’s affliction could not be put down to physical proximity – it was not as if blue glass had touched her brain. Moreover, she could form new memories – so how to explain her continued vacancy? Perhaps the chemical exchange wherein blue glass captured memory carried a charged violence, enough to leave the
psychic
equivalent of scar tissue. Could the power of these machines overcome that artificial barrier? And if so, would the action reveal her memory intact, like a forgotten city beneath a dam-formed lake? Or would the necessary intensity simply destroy her?