The Dark Volume mtccads-2

by Gordon Dahlquist

  “We don't understand you, Margaret,” said the Contessa.

  The glass woman rolled her head as if to clear it, yet her words remained too dense, as if she could not find the way to translate her present senses into language.

  “I could taste that the book held him, that he had been infused with Lord Robert—but not the character of his mind… I was forbidden, and so the corruption… eluded me…” Mrs. Marchmoor thrust her bandaged stump at Miss Temple. “She knew! She knew all along!” Her dismay rose to a keening shriek.

  Fochtmann wheeled toward Miss Temple, his own frustration finally finding its object.

  “Did she? It seems she has known all sorts of things! She was alone with the book—and alone with the girl! I suggest she tell us all exactly what she has done to them both!”

  Miss Temple took a careful step backwards.

  “The truth is before you all—the decay. You have not given a man new life… you have retrieved a corpse.”

  “TRUTH BE damned!” roared Xonck, and he careened toward Vandaariff, scattering everyone. Fochtmann turned in protest, but Xonck drove his plaster fist into the man's stomach, then took Vandaariff by the collar with his other hand.

  “Francis!” screamed Mrs. Trapping. “Francis, we need him—step away at once! At once or you will die!”

  “Company!” cried Leveret. “Arms!”

  The soldiers raised their carbines. Xonck spun Vandaariff's body before him as a shield, his foul lips pressed dripping against the man's right ear. Aspiche thrust Francesca Trapping to Phelps, sweeping out his saber as Phelps caught the girl in the crook of his cast and groped in his coat for a pistol. Leveret waved to stop the soldiers from firing, visibly furious at events being so suddenly beyond his control.

  But then Xonck's whispering was answered.

  From inside his raw throat came a chuckle, and the man's features settled into a heavier, petulant expression Robert Vandaariff had never worn.

  “Why, Francis…” he rasped. “You seem to be in… a very bad way…”

  “Oskar?” whispered Xonck with fervent relief. “Is it you?”

  “You hold me rather tightly,” answered Vandaariff. “I do not like it.”

  “If I release you, I will be shot.”

  “Why is that possibly my concern?”

  “Let me enlighten you, Oskar,” Xonck snarled. “My body is poisoned by your glass. I require you to save my life—after which I am again your willing friend. I cannot speak for Rosamonde—she too is not her best—but I can say that others, who hold the power to end both your life and mine and whose place this is, have agreed to your restoration only so you can be their slave.”

  “That is only to be expected.” Vandaariff shrugged, surveying the room as if his gaze were a gun site, nodding with contempt as he recognized the faces around him. He reached up to wipe his face, the surprisingly delicate movements of his large hand entirely of a piece with the Comte d'Orkancz. He frowned at the black fluid wetting his fingertips. “What is this?”

  “Margaret says you're unclean.”

  Vandaariff studied the glass woman, cocking his head at her bandaged arm. “Does she? Well… poor Margaret… always so emotional.”

  “They have administered the Process,” hissed Xonck impatiently.

  Vandaariff reached up to the scars, his touch smearing the black fluid across the raised welts. “A perfectly good idea, I'm sure. At any rate, worth the attempt…”

  Mr. Leveret stepped forward and shouted directly into Vandaariff's face. “Indigo Pilate iris sunset Parchfeldt!”

  Vandaariff chuckled. “The Process is powerful,” he said with a wan shrug. “But infusion from a book is even more so. One is new-laying the essence.”

  “But—but we have remade you out of nothing!” Mrs. Trapping's arrogance had taken on a plaintive whine. “We must control you!”

  “Must?” Vandaariff faced her with a sudden, low intensity. “Control the worms in your own stomach, madame. Command the innocence of your daughter to return. Order your bankrupt heart to pump clean—”

  Mr. Fochtmann brought down an iron wrench on the back of Francis Xonck's head, with a sickening, crushed-pumpkin thwock. Xonck collapsed on the dais, utterly still.

  Vandaariff looked down, abstractly curious. “My goodness.”

  Mrs. Trapping's hand was over her mouth. “Francis! Francis!” She strode toward Fochtmann. “What have you done to my brother?”

  Mr. Fochtmann struck her cleanly on the jaw with his fist, knocking her into a sprawl of kicking legs.

  “My God, sir!” cried Leveret, leaping to her. “You will not hit a woman!”

  “I am surely finished with them hitting me,” growled Fochtmann, and he called to Mrs. Marchmoor. “Enough of this nonsense.”

  Colonel Aspiche extended his saber toward Vandaariff.

  “It does not sound like nonsense to me! If he can defy us—if he does not possess the knowledge to repair this sickness—I am finished with the pack of you!”

  Phelps cradled the pistol in one hand and pulled the girl tighter to him with the other, addressing Mrs. Marchmoor. “Please, madame— the sickness! You call him ‘unclean’—does that mean we are doomed?”

  “Don't be idiots,” began Fochtmann, “there is no need for rebellion—we are all allies!”

  Aspiche spun to Mrs. Marchmoor, the naked saber daringly near her body, his voice tight and his arm shaking.

  “For pity's sake, Margaret—tell us!”

  But Mrs. Marchmoor said nothing. Her gaze remained locked on Robert Vandaariff. Miss Temple knew the glass woman had no answer, that she could not tell who—or what—this new person before her truly was. Vandaariff cocked his head again and licked his lips, deliberately tasting them. He abruptly began to retch but then swallowed it down with difficulty, a display that to Miss Temple was every bit as revolting as if he had vomited outright.

  Still Mrs. Marchmoor said nothing, Aspiche's saber-tip dancing before her.

  Charlotte Trapping cried out plaintively, “Alfred! They have Francesca—please!”

  Mr. Leveret was startled to action. He swept his arm dramatically toward the soldiers with the concussive shell. “No one will do anything—unless everyone here wishes to die!”

  But Leveret's next shout failed on his lips. Blood burst out from the faces of the two soldiers. They dropped their wires and fuses as cleanly as if their arms had been lopped off with a scythe. Leveret stammered, and then yelled desperately for his army. He was already far too late.

  MISS TEMPLE was staggered, as if she'd been cuffed hard across the ear, while all around her carbines clattered to the floor. The soldiers toppled heedless to their faces, eyes open wide, bodies entirely still. Across the entire room it was the same. Every person was incapacitated in an instant's sudden violent pulse from the glass woman's mind. Leveret and Mrs. Trapping lay flattened. Phelps and Aspiche sprawled on their backs, pulling Francesca Trapping with them. Elöise groped on the floor, hair fallen about her face. Vandaariff slumped into the brass boxes. The Contessa was on all fours. Only Fochtmann had kept his feet and his senses… along with herself, Chang, and Svenson.

  Miss Temple shook her head—her ears were ringing—taking in the swathe of destruction. A moment before it seemed as if the glass woman's impossible powers had finally reached their limit, but she had smothered the rebellion in one mighty, silent stroke. Yet whatever she had intended—to escape? to eradicate her enemies?—was forever stalled when she saw they still stood to defy her. With a plangent whine Mrs. Marchmoor retreated several rapid clicking steps. If they could withstand her mental powers, Miss Temple realized, the creature was utterly defenseless. They might be children with stones intent on crushing a tortoise. Miss Temple met the glass woman's gaze and saw in her swirling eyes incomprehension and terror.

  Chang lurched toward Colonel Aspiche, groping for the insensible man's fallen saber.

  “Sir! I beg of you!”

  Margaret Hooke cried out to Fochtmann,
stirring him from his daze. As Chang took hold of the Colonel's weapon, Fochtmann took two strides and snatched up Mr. Phelps' pistol. Doctor Svenson tackled Fochtmann, and the tall man fell, crashing to the floor in a heavy tangle. Fochtmann fought against Svenson's arms to aim the gun at Chang, who was stranded between the struggling men and Mrs. Marchmoor, neither target within reach of his saber. Miss Temple darted forward and kicked Fochtmann's hand quite cleanly. The pistol flew away from them all, skittering unimpeded across the floor… until it was stopped by the Contessa's foot.

  THE CONTESSA bent down unsteadily to retrieve the gun.

  “Are we finished with the circus?” she asked. “I do hope so. I am tired.”

  She cocked the gun and held it generally, so she might as easily fire at Miss Temple or Chang as at Mrs. Marchmoor.

  “An interesting circumstance,” the Contessa observed. “Like some interlocking Chinese box. Margaret can overpower me, but not Chang. I can shoot Chang, but then Margaret is free to overwhelm my mind. And no doubt each of us would be more than happy for the others to die.”

  Before anyone could respond, another stirring on the floor caught Miss Temple's eye. Mr. Leveret sputtered and struggled to rise. He looked about him, taking in the crushing vision of his soldiers all dropped to the floor, saw the glass woman and Chang, and then lastly the Contessa. He rose to his knees, his voice pinched with disapproval.

  “I must protest, madame, and demand that in all decency—”

  The Contessa's bullet caught Leveret square between the eyes, a spout of dark red blood flipping in the air as he went down. Charlotte Trapping screamed aloud, and screamed again, drawing her shaking hands up to her face. Mr. Leveret did not move.

  “Be quiet, Charlotte,” warned the Contessa coldly. “Or I will kill your child.”

  She extended the pistol to where Francesca lay curled, looking altogether too small. Her mother's next cry stopped in her throat with a moan. Miss Temple turned with helpless anger to Chang. “Will you not do something?”

  “She is right,” he said quietly. “If I take Margaret's head, nothing stops the Contessa from killing as many of us as she has bullets.”

  The hard truth of his words fell flat upon the room, and no one spoke. Then Robert Vandaariff coughed wetly He watched them with one open eye from where he lay slumped, the corners of his mouth touched with a distant bemusement. The Contessa called sharply to the glass woman.

  “Margaret, I would put it to you that nothing between us need prevent an understanding now. We have an unparalleled opportunity, you and I—to create in a stroke a new future. My former agreement lay with Harald Crabbé, Francis Xonck, and the Comte d'Orkancz. Crabbé is dead. Francis is ill. The Comte has been reborn. You and I stand opposed. You already rule the Ministries—take Crabbé's place. With the Comte reborn and Francis restored, we can begin again as equal partners.”

  The depths of Mrs. Marchmoor's blue eyes flickered, but she did not respond.

  “Your only alternative fate is Cardinal Chang's blade. Come—together, Margaret, we will be truly unstoppable.”

  “Francis Xonck tried to kill you,” said Chang.

  “And I to kill him,” the Contessa replied. “What of it? This factory is reason enough to retain Xonck Armaments within the portfolio— do you think I can trust Charlotte? Besides, there is also that claim of Margaret's to settle… that Oskar is unclean. In my opinion, restoring Francis to good health is a perfectly reasonable test, demonstrating Oskar's sound mind and intact knowledge. It is entirely sensible.”

  Miss Temple felt the bile at the edge of her mind, curdling her concentration like tart lemon dripped in milky tea.

  “But this man is not the Comte—not the Comte you knew!”

  “Be quiet, Celeste. Come, Margaret… do we have an agreement?”

  “If he can restore Francis…” The glass woman's words hung hesitant and thin, broken ice stretched across the skin of a dark pool. “Perhaps the corruption… is not important…”

  The Contessa turned toward Robert Vandaariff. “What do you say to that, Oskar?”

  “What can I say, Rosamonde?”

  “You can agree.”

  “And what of this… supposed ‘taint’?”

  “Do you feel unclean?”

  “I feel clean as Arctic ice.”

  “He is lying!” cried Miss Temple. “For pity's sake, I touched the book—I know!”

  “If that is so,” the Contessa rejoined, “then we simply administer the Process once again, or find an empty book to re-vacate his mind, or wrap him in chains until the body of Robert Vandaariff is tractable once more.”

  “Your sentiment is touching.” Vandaariff straightened his filthy coat with meticulous small tugs.

  “Come now, Oskar, I am overjoyed at your return. Will you join us? Surely you would prefer not to be forced?”

  “My goodness. How would you do that?”

  The Contessa laughed. “How to decide? There is no time for seduction, and no one you care for to threaten. I could put this gun against your knee—one shot and the Doctor would no doubt be forced to amputate with a penknife!” She laughed again. “And think of all the money you would save, buying but one shoe!”

  Vandaariff laughed with her. “It is a very good thing we are such friends. Of course I will join you, and join Margaret. I suppose I am even in Cardinal Chang's debt for stabbing me when he did—otherwise I should surely have twisted your lovely neck clean through.”

  “Is… is Francis alive?” It was the tearful voice of Charlotte Trapping.

  “O certainly,” replied Robert Vandaariff mildly. “One can see him breathe.”

  He snapped his fingers at Fochtmann, who—after a wary glance back to Mrs. Marchmoor—lifted Xonck into the chair that had held Vandaariff. Under Vandaariff's instruction he reattached the nest of stinking tubes and hoses and masks to Xonck's body. As he worked, Fochtmann cut away Xonck's clothing and exposed the gleaming dark wound in his chest. It throbbed with each heavy breath, like a parasite with intentions of its own.

  “What will you do?” asked Doctor Svenson. “The glass has fused to his heart and lungs. How can you hope to extract it?”

  “The dilemma is indeed perplexing,” agreed Vandaariff, tapping the pulsing wound with his fingernail.

  “If you cannot do it, let him die.” This was Cardinal Chang.

  “O I can do it,” replied Vandaariff. Behind him Francis Xonck opened his eyes and groggily shook his head, pushing without comprehension against his bonds. Vandaariff tightened the mask with a tug. He turned and met Miss Temple's gaze. Her throat clenched hard, the arrangement of copper wires and hose around Xonck seeming to twist before her eyes into letters, nearly forming words. She was suddenly terribly afraid, but she could not quite pierce his intention… and then she burst out coughing, unable to speak. Doctor Svenson stepped to her but Miss Temple pushed him away, waving her hand at Vandaariff.

  “What is wrong with her?” demanded the Contessa.

  “She is ill,” replied Vandaariff. “An effect of the glass. Just like poor Francis. Can you hear me, Francis? Are you alive?”

  “Can you truly heal him?” asked Mrs. Trapping.

  Vandaariff tied off the end of a black hose. “Do you want me to?”

  “I… I do,” she whispered.

  An excitement leapt to Vandaariff's eyes.

  “But your brother is a wicked thing. If anyone deserves an agonizing death it is certainly Francis. No, Mrs. Trapping, I'm sure I don't believe you.”

  “I want him as he was,” she insisted.

  “You must convince me…”

  “I want him back,” she whimpered.

  “Back?” asked Vandaariff. “I see—so you can kill him yourself?”

  “No,” sniffed Mrs. Trapping, but then was overtaken by sobs. “I do not know what I want at all!”

  Robert Vandaariff sniggered, arch and vile. The Contessa spoke angrily. “When you open your mouth, Charlotte, it helps you not at all!
”

  “As if I had a choice! In anything!”

  The Contessa snorted and pointed to the deathly pale little girl, huddled in an insensible ball at the feet of Mr. Phelps. “You might have remembered your daughter.”

  “I might have—I might have?”

  Mrs. Trapping took three quick steps toward the Contessa, like a high-strung dog, her hands raised, then staggered from an unseen blow. She wheeled to the glass woman in a tearful fury.

  “Do not touch me!” she shrieked. “I will not have your filthy mind in mine! I will break you to a thousand pieces! I do not care if my daughter dies! I do not care if I die! If you touch me again, this whole building can go to the devil's hottest furnace!” Mrs. Trapping swayed with the same crazed ferocity her brother had shown on the roof of Harschmort. “This is my factory,” she gasped, “my brother, you cannot—”

  “Be quiet, Charlotte!” snapped the Contessa. “Oskar, what pleasure is there in tormenting an idiotic…”

  Her words fell silent. Vandaariff's smiling lips were slick with black fluid.

  “Oskar?”

  “You never did credit my alchemy, Rosamonde.”

  “I beg your pardon? Who was it who took your learning to Vandaariff, to Henry Xonck—men of immense power of whom you had never heard.”

  Vandaariff nodded dismissively, stroking his chin as if it held the Comte's beard. “Yes, for you it was ever a means to power.”

  “For all of us.”

  “You lack higher goals, Rosamonde. At heart you are a dog. A pretty dog, but now look at you! You dismissed the glory of my plans for Lydia… for Margaret… even—” he giggled wickedly “—my plans for you. My goodness, yes—if you'd only dreamt what truly awaited you in Macklenburg… one limb at a time, my sweet… and your womb—O that more than anything, Rosamonde, your own sweet legacy… all given over to me.”

  The Contessa stared at him.

  “Oskar…you—even you—would not have dared—”

  Vandaariff barked with contempt. “Would not dare? Would not dare?”

  He raised his arm and Fochtmann, back at the line of machines, restored them to roaring life. The Contessa's eyes went wide. She looked with alarm at Miss Temple, still unable to speak, and shouted for him to wait, shouted for the glass woman to stop him. But Robert Vandaariff seized the handle on the brass box and pulled it down.