The Dark Volume (55 page)

She cocked her head and studied Chang carefully. “He did not…”

Her eyes slid closed and her body went abruptly still. It took Phelps and Aspiche a moment to realize her attention had been directed elsewhere, but neither man knew whether their opportunity lay in killing Chang or freeing themselves from their mistress. Chang discounted Phelps—the man was too schooled by reason to act on his own—but watched Aspiche warily. Yet the Colonel hesitated as well—had sickness broken the soldier's nerve? The glass woman's eyes slid open again, one layer of a glass onion peeling away to reveal another, and her moist blue lips curled with disdain.

“The children are perfectly well. Captain Tackham—with whom I see you are
acquainted
—has them in hand. Francis Xonck has abandoned Harschmort House like a whipped cur.”

“Francis Xonck is many things,” said Aspiche, “and most far worse than any scorpion. But we believe him beaten at our peril.”

Chang barely listened. It was as one tasted intuition in a fight—on impulse lunging when a sane man would retreat, throwing all to the attack when others would flee—as a swordsman balances all in an instant, the position of each limb, the weight of the blade, and the nearness of each adversary…

“… we have men watching Hadrian Square, and his brother's houses in town and in the country, his club, his bank, his tailor, the Old Palace, his own rooms at the Caracalla—”

“The
Caracalla
?” asked Mr. Phelps. “He has rooms
there?”

“He does,” replied Aspiche.

“But it is horrible.”

“It is perhaps
notorious.”

“It is
louche,”
insisted Phelps, “and
foul.”

“So,” observed Aspiche, “is the man in question—”

THE WOODEN chair caught the Colonel across the legs, but Chang took care—whipping it with one arm from behind a table—to aim so it would not bounce in the direction of Mrs. Marchmoor. Aspiche went down with a shocked cry of pain, and as the man groped for his saber Chang stepped on the blade. Again, his reaction far too slow, Phelps raised his revolver, but Chang had already hauled Aspiche up by the collar, holding him as a shield.

Mrs. Marchmoor had not moved.

“Take control of your man,” Chang snarled, “before he hatches
an idea.”

Phelps lurched and then settled like a stack of jostled crockery, his face blank. Aspiche's body stiffened beneath Chang's grip, ensuring the same degree of silence and cooperation.

“I have others at my call,” she whispered, “in every direction throughout this house. You will not escape, no matter what you believe.”

“Whoever you call will only find a pile of broken shards.”

“I can have Mr. Phelps shoot you.”

“You can have him try.”

He scooped up Aspiche's saber and felt the desperate thrust of her mind. Two steps gave Chang the range to take her head.

“If I had decided to harm
you
, Margaret, I would not have thrown the chair at the Colonel.”

The glass flesh conveyed no more feeling than marble—or less, as marble at least presented a coherent surface. Chang's gaze penetrated beyond his ability to measure, into a swirling well whose depths he could not resolve.

“Of course, Cardinal… perhaps we can aid each other… there must be so much you want to know…”

Chang sneered at the need in her grating, acid-etched voice.

“Why have you taken Charlotte Trapping's children?”

“To force the cooperation of their mother, of course.”

“Why should you
need
the cooperation of Charlotte Trapping?”

He could feel her presence again, more gently, like the flickers of an annoying breeze.

“Stop that, Margaret.
Answer
me.”

The coldness fell away but her eyes still watched him closely.

“I should think it obvious. I need her because the
Grand Design
depended on shipments of munitions—how else were we to make sure of Macklenburg, much less our own city? With Henry Xonck lacking a mind and Francis Xonck ruined, Charlotte Trapping takes their place.”

“You're a liar.”

“How dare you!”

“When your masters left for Macklenburg, Henry Xonck was exactly as empty-minded as he is now, and Francis Xonck as unavailable—
nothing
has changed to require Mrs. Trapping's participation. All munitions were to be managed by Francis Xonck's handpicked man, Alfred Leveret—whom
you
have driven away. But that is not what I asked. I asked why you have taken that woman's
children.”

Chang's voice had become too loud, and in the silence that followed he feared some earnest minion or other would take it upon themselves to intrude—or perhaps those intrusions were just what Mrs. Marchmoor was preventing as she paused.

“Think of all I can tell
you
, Margaret,” he whispered. “Just answer this first. You sent Rawsbarthe into her home—”

“Charlotte Trapping is not important,” she barked, like a nail scraping porcelain. “But there is too much for me to manage—the Duke, the Council, all the
adherent
minions awaiting instructions— so many tasks… and I am alone, without help.”

“Without help? You have the servants of a Pharaoh.”

“But they must not see me! They would rebel! They would break my body!”

“Why is that?”

“Because they are all as ambitious as I once was!”

“Once?”

“You cannot begin to understand what has been done to me!”

“What has been
done
? What you
desired
!”

“But so much has changed… I was not to be alone…”

“Everyone's alone, Margaret.”

“No, not everyone.” Her voice had gone disturbingly still. “Some are fortunate enough to carry their loved ones with them always …”

CHANG SENSED the pressure of her thought entering his palm like a key into a lock-hole, and before he could react the same vision of Angelique that had over-borne him in the garden swallowed his awareness again. Chang shook his head but it was too late. When he saw the room once more, Colonel Aspiche had been pulled away, his body positioned to shield her. Chang stood utterly open to a bullet from Phelps, who extended the revolver with an arm of stone. How had she done it?

“All you can tell
me?”
Mrs. Marchmoor mocked him. “Will you begin—or will Mr. Phelps shoot your leg?”

“I should prefer he didn't.”

“How do
you
know of Leveret? Where is he now? I need the machines! I need the power!”

“You need a book too, I believe.
Xonck's
book.”

“She
has it. And she is already mine! I have been inside her mind, your proud little island rat—and left my stain upon it. Will it disgust you when
her
hair falls out—or her teeth? Will the stench of her decay revolt you more than
I
do?”

The glass woman's laughter came in brittle snaps. Chang felt the heat on his face, wanting to break her graceful neck. Mrs. Marchmoor leaned even closer and hissed again.

“How is it you were able to resist me?”

“I find you
vulgar
, Margaret,” he replied. “Why should a little glass change that?”

In answer, Mrs. Marchmoor poured all her energy into his palm— could there still be glass in the wound? Once more Chang was drowned in Angelique's incomparably sweet memory… once more, with a near-nauseating pang of loss, he dredged his mind free.

He looked up, breathing hard. Why was he not dead? Aspiche had returned his saber to its scabbard. Chang wiped his mouth on the back of his glove.

“Madame,” began Phelps, “we should not allow him to—”

“He wants nothing more than all our deaths,” Aspiche croaked. “He is our
enemy
.”

She did not reply. Chang looked into Mrs. Marchmoor's expressionless eyes. He took a step backwards.

“Where would you go now, Cardinal Chang?” she hissed.

“There's nowhere he can go,” said Phelps.

“Do not believe it. Cardinal Chang is
resourceful.”
He felt her loathing, her open hatred, her clear memory of his every insult. “He may even escape from Harschmort House alive. Who can say when we will encounter him again… each party having accomplished so much in the meantime?”

AS HE cut through Harschmort's maze, he met not a single servant or soldier. Had the glass woman cleared his path of any possible obstacles?

Mrs. Marchmoor would find Miss Temple. For Celeste to survive, Chang needed to deliver someone of equal value. He had been released to find Charlotte Trapping. Was their understanding so naked?

As he walked Chang brought his injured palm up to his mouth and tore off the bandage with his teeth. He stepped into a small mirrored alcove and took out the razor. He opened his hand wide, stretching the skin, and dipped the square corner of the razor into wound, pressing delicately until blood was flowing over his fingers. The metal touched something hard… Chang shifted the blade and braced himself against the insistent, pulsing memory of Angelique. He gouged the last splinter of glass free, winking and wet on the flat blade… the final shred of Angelique. Chang flicked the blade at the mirror, spattering it red, the blue fragment sent who knew where. He'd have no further shackling.

He kept walking until he finally reached what seemed like an acre of black-and-white tile, the entryway to Harschmort, a crossroads usually thronged with servants and guests, now empty. He made his exit without incident, trotting down the wide stone steps, certain he was being observed. In the courtyard were at least five coaches laid in a line, but their drivers stood clustered together, watching him descend.

No one had cleared the hallways for Francis Xonck, yet Chang was sure the man had escaped. In the Library, Chang relied on the archivists to limit his own effort and spare his eyes—could he not use Xonck the same way? Xonck's first priority would be to locate his book and thus Miss Temple. This
ought
to have meant following her path through the garden, slavering after his prize like a pig after truffles … but Aspiche's dragoons were combing the land between the gardens and the shoreline, from the farmlands to the canal—and the Colonel, odious but not incompetent, would have sent patrols to the train stations at both Orange Canal and Orange Locks. Yet they had
not
found her. Nor had they found Xonck. What did he know that his pursuers did not? Chang returned the impassive gazes of the gathered coachmen, and strode toward them.

THE COACHMEN were wary of someone—by his clothes at least—so obviously of a lower rung. But once he stood with them, their caution was punctured by both discomfort at Chang's scars and a curious compulsion, for his questions were so specific and assured that only afterward did the more careful amongst them realize they had answered the strange figure as if he were a policeman. Having learned where each coach had come from, and with whom, Chang asked if any had returned to the station. He was told they had not, nor had anyone approached them to do so. The men waited for another question. Chang cleared his throat.

“It will be obvious that I am being observed from the house—do not look at the windows, you will see no one—and were any one of you to go so far as drive me to the train station, another would be immediately drafted to follow in pursuit. I thus apologize for not being able to employ you. I
would
be much obliged if you might point me in the direction of the canals.”

In saying this to men he knew would be interrogated, Chang was simply attempting to save time. He knew the way perfectly well—and while the canals were a reasonable, even clever destination for a man seeking escape from Harschmort, Xonck would avoid them, for the canals would be thick with dragoons. Since Xonck had also avoided the coachmen, that left Cardinal Chang with a single place to pick up his trail—the Harschmort stables.

He jogged toward the outbuildings, but then deliberately overshot them, so anyone watching would assume he had passed the stables. At the next row of sheds he darted to the right and broke into a dead run to get around the far wall, where he paused, waiting. Soon enough a rumble of bootsteps on the gravel reached his ears and then faded in the distance. Chang hurried back, slipping the razor from his coat.

He need not have bothered. The stable door swung ajar, and a black-coated groom lay facedown in a heap of straw not two yards away. Beyond the groom gaped an open stall, no horse within. The boards at Chang's feet were sticky. Chang scuffed new straw into the goo and saw its vivid blue color. He sighed. Horses were not, to Chang, any source of comfort or pleasure. A rustle caused him to turn—a second groom in the doorway, obviously on the verge of shouting for help.

“Be quiet!” Chang snarled. “Who has done this to your fellow?”

The confused groom looked at the fallen man and then back to Chang. “But—I—
you
—”

“If it had been me, I would not be here. There was a horse there, yes? He has taken it!”

The groom nodded dumbly.

“A saddle! Another mount! Your friend will revive,” Chang said firmly. “I must catch his assailant—it is the only hope we have! As fast as you can or we are
finished
!”

As the groom leapt to his task, Chang risked a glance outside. No one had come back to search. He picked up the fallen man from the straw and turned him over. White flecks from Xonck's plaster fist dotted the raw skin along the jaw. Chang slapped the young man lightly and stepped away, letting him grope to awareness on his own.

Minutes later a saddled mare was brought forward for his approval. Chang nodded gravely—what did he know of horses?—and did his best to mount the thing on the proper side on the first attempt. This done and Chang's feet having found the stirrups, the groom guided the horse through the door and pointed to the only path Xonck could have taken—then slapped the mare's flank. Fast as a rifle shot the animal leapt forward. Chang squeezed with his knees to keep his seat, expecting at every moment to break his head like a melon.