The Chemickal Marriage (72 page)

‘How did Harald Crabbé perish?’ asked the Contessa.

‘What do you know about Ned Ramper?’ called Pfaff, who had pulled the tray of sharp tools from an angry acolyte.

‘When did we last speak?’ demanded Schoepfil. ‘The two of us alone?’

‘Excellent questions …’ Chang approached Miss Temple’s table. She felt the exposure of her bare limbs and a helplessness in her heart.

‘What would you have me do now, my lord?’ asked Mr Foison.

Chang ignored the question and brought his scarred face up to hers. With his thumb Chang wiped the black drool from Miss Temple’s chin. An acolyte offered him a cloth.

‘The Bride has accepted the corruption, my lord. Consuming the flesh of life –’

‘To make the flesh of dreams. By whose command?’

‘By your own,’ answered the Contessa.

‘I do not recall it.’ For the first time Chang noted the corpse of Robert Vandaariff. ‘But I am apparently indebted for your … assistance.’

‘There will be ample time to discuss debts.’

‘I would expect no less.’ Chang’s arm slipped and he fell back, catching himself on the table, his mouth near Miss Temple’s ear. His words were scarcely more than a sigh. ‘Remember the rooftop.
Stay alive
.’

Miss Temple did not move. ‘
Rooftop
.’ Happily – so
very
happily – she saw the Doctor had exchanged books – his fussy juggling, his insistence that the glass be cleaned, the leather case turned for an instant from all eyes. And the Contessa’s book had shattered on the iron stairs. If nothing else, the Comte could never return.

Acolytes moved at once to help him up. Chang pushed them away. He faced his audience and snapped his fingers. ‘I am perfectly well – but
underclothed
. A shirt. For the rest of you, Harald Crabbé died on a dirigible, slain by that woman’s hand. You and I, nephew, have not spoken alone for
years
. As for this Ned Ramper, I confess to never having heard the name.’

‘A lie!’ Pfaff smacked a fist into his palm. ‘He was your captive in this very house!’

‘I do not
recall
it,’ replied Chang. ‘But neither do I recall the changes made to this room. So many beautiful machines. Have I been … asleep?’

Before any of the acolytes could reply, the Contessa spoke forcefully: ‘Unfortunately the procedure was not completely successful. The blood fever has clouded Lord Vandaariff’s memory of recent events.’

‘Then have I answered you? Or is there more?’

Chang smiled thinly, as if his patience had been exactly spent. He held out his arms as an acolyte returned with a crisp white shirt and allowed himself to be dressed.

‘What I would have you
do
, Mr Foison,’ he went on, gesturing to the bodies on the floor and in the tubs, ‘is to gather these men up. If they are dead take them away; if they live, let them wake and receive judgement. Assuming I command my own house, of course. Do I?’

The acolytes bowed at once. After a moment’s hesitation, the green-coats came to attention. Chang turned his gaze to the glass.

‘And you,
Signora
? Will you not join us?’

Miss Temple rolled her head slowly from side to side, as if in delirium. She counted, to her right, four acolytes bending over Mr Cunsher and Mr Gorine, and one guard at the trapdoor. Directly before her two acolytes stood between the still bodies of Svenson and Mahmoud, and with them the sentry from the Contessa’s window. To her left stood Chang, with Foison, Pfaff and Schoepfil – in the excitement no longer meriting his own guard – and at least six more acolytes. Beyond them all were the last two green-coats at the main door.

The Contessa ignored Chang’s invitation. Instead, her fingers tapped restlessly on the rostrum. Chang could do nothing without revealing himself. Once that happened he would be assailed by all.

Miss Temple leant to one side and retched, an act whose vulgarity stopped conversation. Very little foulness remained in her mouth to void, but she covered the lack with an ugly croaking. She looked up with wild eyes.

‘Poor Mr Schoepfil. The Duchess will have her revenge. As least Colonel Bronque is spared the disgrace of being shot.’

Schoepfil’s mouth worked, and his goatee shuddered like a small mouse in the cold.

‘And Mr Foison,’ Miss Temple called, ‘are you a child? You
know
whom that book held.’

‘He is
not
my uncle,’ cried Mr Schoepfil with a rising zeal. ‘My uncle is dead and this man is nothing – a criminal! An assassin!’

Pfaff – more warily now – stepped back from Schoepfil. Miss Temple located a new supply of drool and let it fly.

‘And do you think she will lie with you, Jack Pfaff? With
you
?’ She heaved herself up to a sitting position. ‘What have any of you won? If she –
she
– is still in
there
?’

The words hung in the rancid air, and the acolytes and soldiers – for their loyalty determined the power in the room – shifted their attention back and forth from Chang to the Contessa.

‘I will come out,’ the Contessa at last replied, ‘but I will not be fooled.’

‘What else would you have me do?’ Chang asked.

‘I want you to choke the life out of her. Kill Celeste Temple in front of us all.
That
will convince me. And nothing less.’

‘And if I prefer to study her condition?’

‘You cannot. It is my price for your restoration.’

Chang smirked. ‘That alone? I expect your
price
to extend well into infinity.’

‘It is my price
now
.’

‘Or what?’

The Contessa cocked her head. ‘Don’t you know?’

Chang looked at the glass book in its slot. ‘My restoration does not extend to these latest days. The exact details of this chamber elude me.’

‘That is a pity. Watch.’ The Contessa slipped the cover from another knob and the light struck a glow inside the glass. From the ceiling dropped a small
glass globe, bursting into a bloom of blue smoke amongst the acolytes minding Cunsher and Gorine. In an instant all four toppled senseless. The guard at the trapdoor retreated, his hand over his mouth and nose, waving his arm. But the Contessa had chosen her target deliberately: the men were far enough apart for the fumes to disperse before reaching anyone else.

‘The entire chamber may be so
fumigated
,’ warned the Contessa. ‘After which it might also be required that I come amongst you and cut a few more throats. In the interests of our higher purpose, naturally.’

‘Naturally,’ replied Chang.

‘
So
. Will you kill her now, Lord Robert, or am I to feel …
unappreciated
?’

Pfaff turned with a pained expression. ‘Come now, whatever her offence –’

‘Be quiet, Mr Pfaff –’

‘But she’s already going to die –’

‘Then a quick death is a
mercy
.’

Miss Temple laughed. ‘The most powerful man in the land, forced to murder a woman, by a woman! There’s restoration for you! There is transcendence!’

‘
Do it!
’ shouted the Contessa.

In the mansion of Miss Temple’s heart, pity was consigned to a very small pantry nook, and so it was with a cold eye that she watched Jack Pfaff exhaust his disapproval with a tight-lipped slap on his thigh.

Chang advanced to Miss Temple and she braced herself for his touch – but then behind him came a blur of movement. Chang spun round, but that did not stop the blow that turned his jaw.

‘
I
am master here!’ Schoepfil cried. ‘Harschmort is mine! Every last stick!’

He fell on Chang in a fury, battering his chest, his face. Two acolytes, loyal to their new lord, hurled themselves at his assailant. Schoepfil easily dispatched them and returned his attention to Chang, who had stepped back and stood ready. Schoepfil feinted, several blows in sequence, and Chang’s arms moved in instinctive response to block them. Schoepfil’s face darkened with a strange mixture of rage and glee. He raised his arms to the ceiling and crowed.

‘Questions be damned! Come and see – all of you! This cannot be Robert Vandaariff! Robert Vandaariff does not
fight
! Robert Vandaariff could not kill a sleeping rat with an axe!’ Schoepfil aimed an accusing finger at the Contessa. ‘Your enterprise has failed, madam! We have been duped! This is no one but Cardinal Chang! Nothing but criminal slime!’

The spinning leather case struck Schoepfil’s head and bounced off, splitting open as it struck the floor. The glass book inside flew free and shattered directly before the knot of acolytes. The robed men tottered and fell, screaming and clutching their ruined legs. Svenson called from his hands and knees, off-balance from throwing the case, his face a mask of blood.

‘Run, Celeste! Run!’

Chang launched himself feet-first into Schoepfil, sending the small man sprawling. Miss Temple leapt off the table. Glass balls dropped and burst across the chamber. Miss Temple held her breath. She saw Chang in a swarm of bodies, Doctor Svenson wrestling with Jack Pfaff, and – with a shock – Mr Foison, limping directly for her. Broken glass blocked her way to the trapdoor. She could only run for the main door, where two green-coats stood guard.

‘Stop her!’ shouted the Contessa.

Miss Temple ducked the swinging carbine of the first man, but the barrel of the other’s caught her on the shin and tripped her flat. She clawed for the doorway but a guard caught her waist. She kicked out, lungs on fire, eyes watering chemical tears. The second guard had his carbine high to strike when Mr Foison, not one for mincing matters, drove a knife into the soldier’s back. The second guard dropped Miss Temple to grapple with Foison.

‘
Go!
’ He put a fist into the guard’s abdomen, then bashed the knife hilt across his jaw, but speaking even that word brought the gas into Foison’s lungs. He clutched his throat and sank to the floor. Miss Temple scrabbled to the corridor and ran.

Past the first corner she took deep breaths, forcing herself to think, to see. This was where she’d been before – when she met the party of acolytes and let loose with the revolver. Now she needed the other direction. Her bare feet pounded down the corridor.

She burst into the fountain chamber and rushed straight to where she’d first come in, hopping like a schoolgirl across the tiles back to the band of gravel. With desperate fingers Miss Temple snatched up lump after lump of the black explosive stone and heaped it onto one of the robes, fast as she could, heart pressing at her throat. Not after regaining herself, not after regaining him. She would not see him perish.

Each second was agony – she could bear it no more – it must be enough – and Miss Temple gathered the robe like a tramp’s bundle. She returned over the tiles – stepping now, never a hop – and to the open room.

Two soldiers in blue stood in the charred doorway that had been blown wide, bayonets fixed – Colonel Bronque’s men, bloodied and bareheaded.

‘Help me!’ she hissed, before they thought to run her through. One had stripes on his sleeve. ‘Sergeant – I beg you –’

Miss Temple flinched at the crack of his rifle. The doorway to the carpeted hall was crowded with green-coated men. One flew backwards at the Sergeant’s shot, and then another from the second grenadier’s. Both men raised a terrifying shout and charged past Miss Temple. The green mercenaries could not withstand such ferocity – despite their greater number no two amongst them wanted to receive the bayonets – and broke away. The grenadiers thundered after, bringing down the rearmost with a shriek.

Miss Temple let them go. She dashed to the doors covering this side of the Contessa’s cell and swung them wide.

She retreated quickly as the Contessa leapt towards her, behind the glass. Miss Temple swept the bundle round her head, for momentum.

‘Celeste Temple – what in all hell –’

She gave her improvised explosive its release and dropped to the floor. The bundle struck the glass and every particle of air roared into smoke and flame.

When her mind returned her skin ached and it felt as if her body had been showered with sharp stones. Smoke hung low in the room, thick and grey. Her right side was painfully tender. She touched a sharp protrusion with terror before her slow wits told her the corset had absorbed the worst of the
blow, that these were shafts of broken whalebone poking through the rips. She pushed the scraps of her shift between her legs to preserve her decency, coughed thickly and sat up.

The Contessa’s room no longer existed. Both walls of glass were blown clean through, the rostrum obliterated. The ceiling of light lay in chunks of twisted piping on the floor. Of the Contessa, Miss Temple saw no sign.

She stumbled forward, stepping over fallen pipes, searing hot to the touch, and finally into the far room. Her foot recoiled at the touch of something soft. She looked down to see Jack Pfaff, the orange coat shredded and his naked back, even up to the base of his skull, studded with daggers of glass. His face lay twisted to one side, lips curled in an expression of endless dismay. Beyond Pfaff, shielded from the blast by their grappling, Doctor Svenson lay rolled on his side, spitting dust. The blast had dispersed the blue smoke. The brass machines sparked and steamed, toppled and tipped, black hoses spurting like severed limbs.

He looked up and saw her. ‘Celeste …’

She passed Svenson by, her foot sliding in the blood of an acolyte. Another body lay across a tub, face down in the dregs – she extended a fearful hand and felt the rough wool of a guard’s green coat. She stumbled on to the tables. A hand caught hers, gripping, strong. She flinched and saw it was Chang. He lay on his back. She sank to her knees. He rose to meet her.

‘Celeste –’

‘You cannot die.’ Her tears poured out. ‘I could not bear it – not again –’

He squeezed her hand and reached to cup her cheek with an indelible soft care. She fell upon him, kissing his face until at last her lips found his, and there she stayed, sinking her need and her fear into his mouth, moaning, sobbing. Her fingers snaked through his hair and she cradled his head. At last she lifted her mouth to breathe.