The Chemickal Marriage (53 page)

Bronque frowned at the corpse, as if to doubt such a message could have come from such a courier. ‘What can it mean?’

‘The Executioner,’ said Chang. ‘From
The Chemickal Marriage
.’

‘What does
that
mean?’ demanded Colonel Bronque.

Foison sighed, almost sadly, and refolded the page. ‘That Drusus Schoepfil must die.’

Foison sent another man into the night, this time on foot, with news of their discovery.

‘But what
have
we found?’ Bronque looked at them hopefully, then exhaled through his nose in the general direction of the corpse. ‘We can leave this lot here, and I’ll set my men to search the surrounding houses –’

Foison shook his head. ‘You don’t have enough men both to search and to establish a cordon. Anyone wary, and they are, would escape. Of course, with the messenger unable to speak and the message so obscure, we do not even know if it was meant for Mrs Kraft.’

‘Who else?’

‘Drusus Schoepfil – his people passing on your threat, no doubt to advise surrender.’

Bronque let this go. His men stood formed and ready. ‘Well, what next? Are we finished or aren’t we?’

‘Perhaps we are.’

‘Good.’ Bronque did not bother to hide his relief. ‘Where will you go? We can provide an escort –’

‘Cardinal Chang and I can make our own way.’

‘To Harschmort? On foot? It would take two days.’

‘Perhaps Stropping, and an east-bound train.’

‘Then let us walk together; Stropping Station is not so far from where Lord Axewith –’

‘That won’t be necessary.’

‘But what will I tell Lord Axewith?’

‘That we arrived too late. Our search was a fool’s errand – and now you are relieved of it. Best of luck in the night.’

Foison flicked Chang’s chain and began to walk, his three remaining men trotting across the courtyard to join him. Chang looked over his shoulder. Framed first by his grenadiers and then by the disaffected crowds, Bronque watched them go, a statue in the torchlight.

Around the first turn Foison stopped, listening. ‘Will he come?’

‘He must,’ Chang replied. ‘Once there are fewer witnesses.’

They had entered a walled avenue offering little cover. Foison stepped behind Chang to unwrap the chain. ‘When did you know? Before the clumsy murder?’

‘The interrogation of Gorine.’

‘How so?’

‘Svenson. If he cured Madelaine Kraft, we ought to be looking for
him
. We aren’t – because someone already has him. And not Vandaariff, or you would know.’

Foison coiled the chain into a loop he could carry, then thought better of it and threw it to the side. ‘Svenson could be dead.’

‘Then why not say so?’

Foison set off without replying. Chang kept pace, rubbing his wrists. Two green-coats jogged before them, while the third hung back to guard the rear. At the cross street, the lead men paused, peering cautiously ahead. Foison and Chang stopped as well, waiting.

‘The message was for Bronque,’ Chang said, ‘commanding our deaths. The Executioner’s resemblance to Mahmoud was but a witty coincidence.’

Foison sighed. ‘So Schoepfil was home when we called.’

‘Who else could send such a message to Bronque, one that he would follow?’

‘And if Madelaine Kraft was there as well – which would, as you say, inform the image – she is gone by now too.’

‘The real question is the extent to which your master’s been betrayed. Bronque has allied with Schoepfil – but who are they? Who pulls their strings – Axewith?’

‘It makes no sense,’ said Foison. ‘He owns them all.’

The lead men waved them on, and they dashed across the open road. Once on the other side, the third man fell back and the lead two loped ahead.

Chang was aware of his own place in Foison’s catalogue of men-as-property, yet how quickly his fortunes had changed – from free man to prisoner to fleeing through the streets – all of a piece with a city set spinning on a different and degraded axis. His first struggle with the Cabal had been a battle to gain control over institutions – Crabbé suborning the Ministries, for example, but the Ministries had been left intact. Now it seemed possible that anything could fall, any edifice could be torn down.

Chang sighed. If he lived, Svenson was their prisoner – as he was Foison’s, as Celeste Temple had been taken by the Contessa. Was that what had become of their grand alliance – tethered familiars, each to a different demon?

The lead men signalled a stop. Chang bent over, still wary of the pursuit they had outpaced. Foison wiped the sweat from his neck with two fingers and then, in a disquieting gesture, licked them, an animal seeking salt. Their path had dead-ended near the sounds of a crowd, whose voices echoed over the rooftops …

‘Two more avenues and we will find a coach,’ said Foison.

‘Or more empty stables.’ Foison did not respond. Chang spat on the cobbles. ‘Come – we’re alone. No one will hear. What does it mean that the child is dead? What does it mean that Mrs Kraft is healed? Why did your master choose me over Celeste Temple?’

‘None of that is my concern.’

‘Someone might be saved. You can choose.’

‘And follow your example – the nation of one man? Vanity.’

The blend of doom and duty drove Chang mad, almost as bad as the damned Doctor –

Doctor Svenson. Chang thrust out his hand. ‘The message, from the stable!’ Foison took the paper from his coat and Chang snatched it away. The black Executioner had been sketched like a gypsy’s Tarot trump, in blunt strokes of a primitive, emblematic power – the axe in his hands, the casket at his feet …

‘Explain,
’
said Foison.

‘Vanity. The Chemickal Marriage
.’ Chang tapped the new-made slash of ink. ‘The Executioner puts on the blindfold to kill – that mark is the order for Bronque, for our lives.’

‘We know that.’

‘Yes, but look at the image itself – torn from an old book –’

‘So? Drusus Schoepfil has copied his uncle’s esoteric habits –’

‘Do
you
know the details of this story –
The Chemickal Marriage
?’

‘Should I? My duties do not –’

Chang cut him off. ‘Precisely the point. You know it exists, but only because of your master’s interest.’ Chang held up the paper. ‘Schoepfil is no different. He knows the topic and pours himself into learning – from
books
. But the Comte d’Orkancz abandoned books to make his
own
versions – do you see? Schoepfil cannot know the Comte’s vision of
The Chemickal Marriage
, because he cannot have seen the painting.’

Foison paused. ‘And you have?’

‘We all did – Svenson, Celeste Temple and myself. A memory from before the canvas burnt – preserved in blue glass.’

One of Foison’s men hissed from the road ahead. Foison extended a palm
so the man should wait, never taking his eyes from Chang. ‘So you lied. Why raise the question now?’

Chang thrust the paper back at Foison. ‘Because
this
is not from any book.’

A line of letters crossed the top and bottom of the image, so closely written as to appear decorative, like an engraved frame – yet without question recently added in the same black ink as the blindfold. Foison read the top line aloud. ‘ “Virgo Lucifera. No heart but goblet.” ’ He looked to Chang.

‘In the Comte’s painting,’ Chang explained, ‘there is no heart in a casket. The Executioner decapitates the Bride and Groom and their blood flows into a goblet. Don’t you see? It’s a message from someone who
does
know the painting, and who saw
me
in the foyer of Schoepfil’s house. To anyone else the words are alchemical nonsense.’

‘You believe Doctor Svenson inserted his own message into the one for Bronque?’

‘Who else? That first line is to prove his identity to me. Now read the second.’

Foison rotated the page, for the letters on the lower edge had been written upside down. ‘ “Mother Child Heir … Virgin Lucifera … I’m sorry –” ’

‘The symbols!’ Chang ran a finger along the text, as if he were schooling a child. ‘ “Mother Child Heir” is followed by two elemental signs taken from the Comte’s work, for iron and wind. “Virgin Lucifera” is followed by signs for water and fire. Svenson had no time, so used code – look closely, It’s not “Virgo” that’s written but “Virgin”. Virgin
and
Lucifera.
Two
people.’

Foison studied the paper, then nodded with an exasperated impatience at his own slow thinking. ‘ “Mother Child Heir” is Kraft, her son and Schoepfil. They are together, and – iron and wind – will travel to Harschmort by train. “Virgin” is Miss Temple, “Lucifera” the Contessa. Heat and water – since the Colonel is involved, this means the Royal Thermæ. Either they remain there in the Queen’s protection –’

‘Or?’ asked Chang.

Foison returned the paper to his coat. ‘Or the old stories are true.’

‘What stories?’

Foison’s face went still. Chang spun round to follow the man’s gaze. The
third green-coat, guarding their rear, was nowhere to be seen. How long had they been standing like fools?

With a drumming of boot steps, the darkness behind them filled with Bronque’s grenadiers, bayonets fixed for silent work. Foison and Chang broke as one, waving the lead men on, racing blindly into the next intersection. A shot cracked out and the green-coat next to Chang staggered and fell.

The far end of the road had been blocked with overturned wagons. Chang ran towards them, weaving to present a shifting target, ready to hurl his body over the makeshift wall. More shots came from the soldiers, missing their mark but splintering the wagons.

The last green-coat reached the barrier first, caught hold and began to climb. As soon as his head cleared the wagon, a fist-sized lump of plaster potted him square on the ear. The man dropped hard to the cobbles. Chang and Foison veered, careening from both the bullets snapping around them and a hail of bricks and stones from the wagons – now topped by a line of angry faces.

He seized Foison’s shoulder and they turned to see the crowd’s fury directed at the grenadiers. How many errant bullets had torn into the unseen crowd? The grenadier lieutenant waved his sabre for order, but a brick struck the officer on the arm and his sabre rang on the stones. The soldiers answered with a ragged volley, plumes of smoke spitting forward. Another shower of stones. The Lieutenant flat on his face. From the wagons, shrieks –

Foison jerked free of Chang’s grasp and ran. Chang followed, wondering what had happened to the world.

He caught an arm on a lamp-post and wheeled himself to a stop, ribs heaving. They had entered a warren of close lanes, but these were not streets simmering with discontent. Men in uniform stood scattered amongst the refugees, dismounted horsemen without their brass helmets, constables, even a priest, but no one claimed authority. Muskets cracked in the distance. A canopy of cloud hung over the city, its underside lit orange like an iron pot over a flame.

‘Why do you stop?’ called Foison.

Chang shook his head. These choked lanes led to the railway station. ‘Stropping will be mobbed. And who’s to say your master hasn’t set off another device in the heart of it?’

Punctuating another grudging concession, Foison sniffed. ‘Then what?’

‘Schoepfil.’

‘He has no army. He is but one clever man.’

‘He may give us Svenson and Madelaine Kraft.’

‘They are gone. More sensible to find Axewith – he can get us horses, escorts.’

‘Schoepfil’s house is on the way.’

A knot of children stared at them, two strangely dressed demons conversing under the lamp light. Foison grunted and reached into his coat. He flung a fistful of coins onto the paving. The children didn’t move. Foison’s flat nostrils flared at his useless gesture and he stalked off. Behind the children stood a fat man in a stained waistcoat with a heavy walking stick. Chang extended one arm and snapped his fingers. With a nervous nod the man offered up the stick – strong ash with a brass grip shaped like a bird. Foison glanced back, saw the weapon in his prisoner’s hand, but continued on.

The cordon of soldiers had withdrawn, and with them the angry crowds, dispersing with the decision of Axewith and his engineers to abandon this district. The orange glow in the sky seemed no closer, but Chang wondered how many houses would survive the dawn. He snorted at the thought – that it had become a refrain – and focused his attention on the dark windows of Drusus Schoepfil’s home.

‘No one,’ whispered Foison from the servant’s lane behind. Chang followed to the rear door. The house had no rear garden or stable.

‘No coach,’ observed Chang.

‘The allowance from Lord Vandaariff is small.’

‘Why?’

‘Schoepfil is Lady Vandaariff’s nephew, no tie of blood.’ Foison slipped a knife from his silk coat. ‘Drusus Schoepfil is a parasite, his every gesture an imitation, of as little merit as a parrot’s speech.’

‘But if he has allied with more powerful –’

‘
Allied
.’ Foison spat the word. ‘At a word from Lord Vandaariff each man would sprawl on his belly and beg.’

Foison wedged the knife in the lock, but Chang caught his arm. Foison twisted quickly and Chang released his grip, raising an open palm.

‘Before we go in. The Royal Thermæ. You said the old stories might be true. What stories?’

‘You’re the native. I’m the monkey.’

‘Don’t be an ass. The Contessa and Miss Temple – where would they be?’

‘With your old Queen, rotting in a pool.’

The discussion of Schoepfil had pricked Foison’s loyalty back to prominence. Chang stepped back. The lock was as cheaply made as the rest of the house.

Having done his share of housebreaking, Chang was accustomed to inferring the character of a man from his furnishings, but the home of Drusus Schoepfil was as devoid of attachment as a hotel parlour. Foison lit a brace of candlesticks and passed one to Chang, who brought his to a mantelpiece topped with a line of identical Chinese jars, glazed with pagodas and bamboo. Likewise a case of silver showed no family pieces, only a tea service of middling value and cutlery purchased by lot.