The Chemickal Marriage by Gordon Dahlquist
‘What are you doing?’ called the Contessa.
‘Exactly what you want, damn you!’ Svenson stood. ‘Ask Celeste!’
On cue Miss Temple began to froth and spit. She did not know what he intended, but knew what was required.
‘You’re a bastard,’ she croaked.
Svenson stepped back and wiped his hands on an acolyte’s robe. He waved for the acolyte with the Contessa’s book to join him. ‘On second thought, I should prefer my book to be cleaned as well –’
He quickly knelt and extracted the book from the leather case. As he extended his hand for the one book and offered up the other, the Doctor’s gaze fell on Mahmoud.
‘Wait – watch that man!’ he shouted.
Mahmoud had indeed stepped nearer to the tubs and at the Doctor’s cry every carbine swung its aim to his chest. Mahmoud went still, staring at the Doctor. Then, his arms raised, he slowly sank to his knees. Svenson cleared his throat to regain the acolyte’s attention and handed him a book. ‘Gently, please – and when you’ve finished, put it back in that protective case.’
‘Damn you to hell,’ growled Mahmoud.
‘I am sorry,’ Svenson told him. ‘I cannot help you more than I have. You must make your own choice. I know it is an impossible position.’
Svenson slid the glass book into the brass machine and stood.
‘My Lady Lucifera, at last, all is prepared.’
Miss Temple did not know what the Doctor had done. He stood with his cigarette – his last, perhaps – and brushed the hair from his eyes with thin fingers. She would not escape. Once the Doctor had been shot for his impudence, the Contessa would try again – or simply cut Miss Temple’s throat. But that he had done something, that he had tried to the last, touched Miss Temple in her sick isolation, like a rope snaking down into a well. She would never be pulled up, but even a glimpse of a world beyond her fate eased her heart.
She was not afraid. She had been exhausted by corruption and fever – she did not desire that life. She did not want to live without Chang either, and Chang was gone. And, since she did not imagine he would reciprocate her feelings, that they might perish together without her being subject to his rejection was perhaps an inadvertent benefit of the Contessa’s victory. Miss Temple smiled, and bile burnt the corners of her mouth.
The Contessa stood with one hand hovering over the brass knobs controlling the tubs, the other on a larger knob, the size of an apple, at the centre of the rostrum.
‘You must do it all together,’ explained Doctor Svenson. ‘Secondary cables will begin the rendering of the remaining metals. The minerals will advance in the proper sequence and temper the incarnation. The infusion of identity will travel directly to Chang. The corrupted essence will burn apart and flow to Miss Temple. Do you understand? Are you ready?’
The Contessa spoke to the green-coated guards. ‘If he has done anything, shoot him. Be ready, in fact, to shoot anyone. Your master’s survival is at stake. Doctor?’
Svenson nodded, glanced once at Mahmoud, and then stepped away.
The Contessa slid back the brass caps on three of the knobs, and then uncovered the largest, a blood-red ball of glass, like the one they had found in the Contessa’s abandoned laboratory, which had so nearly claimed Chang’s life and her own. This new red sphere was undamaged and whole. The light struck the glass and the glass transformed, glowing with heat. With a shriek the cables leading to Chang’s table rattled to life. The hoses went taut and the machines took up their escalating drone. Miss Temple jolted against the restraints as the current met her limbs. Without volition sound came from her mouth, air from her lungs.
In the same instant, sparks leapt from the three tubs. With a decisive lunge Doctor Svenson brought his heel down hard on the coupling at the front of Cunsher’s tub. A grisly crack and the coupling gave way, spitting smoke and fire. Miss Temple saw Mahmoud hesitate – the Doctor’s warning, she now realized – before flinging himself at the tub of Michel Gorine. He seized the coupling with both hands, screaming at the contact, and with a brutal wrench tore it free. Sparking smoke spewed from the broken connection. Mahmoud’s body vibrated cruelly, his fingers locked around the cable, and he fell. Both Cunsher and Gorine remained as they had been, unharmed, but the tub containing Madelaine Kraft, like the others before her, erupted with a cloud of horrid steam.
Miss Temple could no longer see for the shaking of her eyes. The machines became deafening – or was the roaring in her blood? She braced herself for the flood of cold corruption – but what she felt instead was heat, a clean consuming fire that scored each bone and every lineament of muscle and vein … and, with the agony of its passage, she felt the whole of her body reclaimed.
The corruption of the Comte d’Orkancz had been scoured away. Her eyes streamed, and with her tears went his memories … from this much of her burden, at least, she was set free.
The air reeked of burnt flesh and indigo clay. Mahmoud and Doctor Svenson lay on the ground, a guard with a carbine over them. Madelaine Kraft was gone. The Contessa’s hands were pressed against the glass. Every acolyte had gathered. Foison had come forward, along with Pfaff. Every one of them was looking at Chang.
The scar on his back had lost its flaming shade, was now white and smooth like so many of his older wounds. Chang’s muscles strained as he fought to rise.
He was alive … and awake.
‘Is it him?’ cried the Contessa. ‘Did it work or not?’
Acolytes lowered the table to a horizontal position and loosened the restraints. Six together lifted Chang gently and turned him on his back. Then they bowed their heads. Chang groaned.
‘We require an answer! Are you these men’s master come back to life?’
Chang raised a hand against the light. His voice came raw.
‘Who is there? What is this place? What has happened?’
The Contessa raised her hand so that no one else might speak. ‘You are at Harschmort. Are you Robert Vandaariff restored?’
Chang turned and met Miss Temple’s gaze. What had the Doctor done? His final changes had redirected the flow of power, and the bloodstone had effected her cure. But what had he done to Chang?
‘What is your name, damn you?’ This was Mr Schoepfil, still on his knees. ‘Do you know me?’
Chang pushed himself up, his eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Drusus Schoepfil. Nephew.’
‘And do you know me, Lord Robert?’ called the woman in the brass helmet. ‘Can you name my role?’
‘I know your voice … Rosamonde.’ Chang hesitated. ‘My Virgo Lucifera.’
The acolytes erupted with praise, fairly singing their master’s return. Mr Foison, Miss Temple noted, said nothing. Nor did Jack Pfaff. Chang held out a hand.
‘Something to drink. To return from so far away is thirsty work …’ The acolytes helped him off the table. One offered a white robe that Chang refused, another a bottle that he scrutinized and then accepted. He clutched the table for support, his body not yet under full command. His gaze fell on Svenson and Mahmoud. ‘Are those men dead?’ He turned again to Miss Temple, without expression, and her blood went cold. ‘Does this woman live?’
‘This is not my uncle!’ declared Schoepfil, edging closer. ‘I do not believe it.’
Chang ignored him, drinking deeply. ‘Come out, Rosamonde. If I owe this delivery to your kindness, I would thank you.’
‘Are you truly healed?’ she asked.
‘In every particular.’
‘Then you cannot be offended by a test. Much depends upon it. Poor Mr Schoepfil’s inheritance, for one.’
‘Does he have an inheritance?’ asked Chang drily. ‘Surely new provisions have been made. As for tests … try me as you see fit.’ Chang inhaled deeply and drew his fingers along the canvas hoses, the blackened hanks of wire. He gazed into the porcelain coffins. ‘What a provocative arrangement … what sacrifice.’ With a shiver Miss Temple saw his gaze fall on a small table of metal tools. He nodded to it and addressed th
The acolytes leapt to the task. With two successive jerks Miss Temple was brought flat on her back. As the straps were loosed and the mask none too gently peeled free, she heard more questions fly at Chang.
‘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, s
‘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.