The action saved his life. Svenson heard Chang’s warning and at once dropped to the ground, the hail of glass shards screaming past his head.
He staggered up, ears ringing. Next to Chang lay an old woman, one of hundreds brought down. Though never in an outright battle, Svenson had witnessed accidents involving artillery ordnance and seen his share of shredded human beings. St Isobel’s Square had been thronged. Svenson stared at the scorched black spot where the bomb had detonated.
All around him, victims struggled with an unholy energy – howling and lashing at whomever they could reach, flailing like horses in a coach collision – unable to rise, unable to comprehend their condition. Chang rolled off Miss Temple, who seemed unharmed. Behind him, Phelps and Cunsher, both alive, wrestled with a man in a blood-spattered waistcoat. The man roared, and, as he twisted the dark stains on his waistcoat cracked and broke apart – the blood from his wounds had congealed into glass. Without a qualm Chang delivered a solid kick to the man’s jaw, freeing Phelps and Cunsher. The Doctor read Chang’s lips as much as heard his words.
‘There is nothing here! Hurry!’
The cavalry sounded their trumpets, at last moving to restore order, and with a dreadful prescience Svenson saw what would happen. He shouted, stumbling in the opposite direction, hauling Miss Temple with him.
‘This way! We cannot be caught between!’ Chang spun, his expression shot with impatience. Svenson pointed to the advancing horsemen, his own voice strangely far away. ‘The glass! The anger!’
The first cobblestone flew from the crowd – hurled by a tottering, blood-swept man – knocking the horsetailed helmet from a rider. A woman, blue-faced and screaming, charged blindly into the advancing line. A trooper reined in his horse, and the animal reared. Any sane person would have fallen back, but these two rushed on, the man catching a hoof in the chest that knocked him flat. The woman cannoned into the horse, scratching with her nails, even biting, until the soldier struck her down with the guard of his sabre. But by then dozens more had attacked the horsemen. The trumpets sounded again, to no effect.
Chang wheeled round and they forced a path away. Behind erupted more screams, shouting, trumpets. A wave of madness had overtaken the entire square. Phelps called to Chang, ‘If you had not shouted when you did –’
‘We must keep on,’ Chang broke in. ‘If we can reach the river –’
‘Wait,’ said Svenson. The ringing would not leave his ears. ‘Is this not the opportunity we desired?’ He looked to the white buildings of the Ministries and the Palace beyond. ‘In this chaos, might we not find an entry – find Vandaariff?’
Chang turned to Phelps. ‘Do you know a way?’
Phelps nodded. ‘I did not spend my life in that beehive without learning something –’
His words were cut off by the crash of gunshots.
‘Jesus Lord!’ cried Phelps. ‘Do they fire on their own people?’
The mob roared in echo of his outrage. The soldiers’ reprisals had only provoked the rest of the crowd to action. This would be an out-and-out riot.
Without another word Phelps drove for the Ministries, Cunsher at his heels. Doctor Svenson took Miss Temple’s hand, only to notice that Chang had taken her other.
‘It was Foison in the coach,’ Chang called over the noise. ‘They made Ropp into their weapon.’
‘But how?’ Miss Temple’s cheeks were wet with tears. ‘What did they do to him?’
‘The Process!’ Svenson shouted. ‘Overturning a man’s mind is the Comte’s first principle.’ He flinched at the crash of an ordered volley. The crowd ahead of them roiled and then split before a squadron of black-jacketed lancers, each man’s high czapka sporting a single red plume.
‘Behind!’ yelled Phelps. ‘Cross behind!’
The horsemen clattered past – lances menacingly low – and the way was momentarily clear. Phelps dashed forward and they followed at a run. With a shock Svenson saw an entire column of infantry advancing behind the lancers.
‘Are they planning to kill everyone?’ Chang yelled across Miss Temple’s head.
Svenson had no reply. Only moments ago a single line of cavalry had seemed an ample expression of force.
A line of constables blocked their final passage to the Ministries. Phelps shouldered his way to the front.
‘Officer!’
A constable with frightened wide eyes spun to face him, but Phelps retained an official bearing that won the man’s attention.
‘Why are only you officers posted here? Does no one realize the danger?’ Phelps’s voice sharpened. ‘I am Mr Phelps, attaché to the Privy Council. What provisions have been made for securing the underpassage?’
‘Underpassage?’
Phelps pointed past to the maze of white buildings. ‘To Stäelmaere House! Through it one can access both the Ministries and the Palace. How many men have you posted?’
The constable gaped at Phelps’s extended, damning finger. ‘Why … no men at all.’
‘O Lord above, man! There is no time!’
Phelps burst through the line of policemen. The constable darted after. ‘Wait now, sir – you can’t – all these people – you cannot –’
‘They are with me!’ snapped Phelps. ‘And no one will bar my passage until I am personally assured of the Queen’s safety!’
‘The Queen?’
‘Of course the Queen!’ Phelps directed the constable’s attention to Mr Cunsher. ‘This man is a foreign agent in our service. He has information of a plot – a plot employing significant distraction, do you understand?’
The constable, for whom Svenson was by now feeling a certain pity, looked helplessly to the square, echoing with screams and gunfire.
‘Exactly,’ said Phelps. ‘I only pray we are not too late.’
The constable gamely followed to a cobbled lane descending below Stäelmaere House.
‘Down there?’ he asked, dismayed by the darkness.
Phelps shouted into the cavern, ‘You there! Sentries! Come up!’ No soldiers appeared and Phelps snorted with bitter satisfaction. ‘It is the grossest oversight.’
‘I’ll run to the guardhouse –’ offered the constable.
Chang caught the constable’s arm. ‘If the attack has already begun, we will need every man.’
He pulled the constable with them, tightening his grip as the man’s countenance betrayed his doubts. They descended to a dank vaulted chamber. Phelps hurried to a heavy wooden door and pulled the knob. It was locked.
‘Safe after all,’ ventured the constable. ‘So … all is well?’
Doctor Svenson spoke gently. ‘You need not worry. We wish your Queen only long life.’ The constable’s expression sank further. ‘Restored health.’ Svenson’s words ran dry. ‘Dentistry.’
Phelps peered at the door’s lock while Cunsher and Chang combined to secure the constable: wrists and ankles tied and mouth stuffed with a handkerchief.
‘Dentistry?’ asked Miss Temple.
Svenson sighed. ‘I had the privilege of the royal presence, when the Prince was first received.’
‘I suppose one would not see it on the coins.’
‘A rotting dockfront hardly inspires monetary confidence.’
‘Surely there is carved ivory or porcelain.’
‘The monarch lays her trust in the Lord’s handiwork,’ replied the Doctor.
‘One enjoys all manner of advancements not strictly from the Lord.’
‘Apparently matters of the body have their own strictures.’
‘Surely she styles her hair, and uses soap.’
Svenson tactfully said nothing.
‘Royalty are in-bred dogs,’ said Chang, joining them, ‘yapping, brainless, and fouling any place they can bring their haunches to bear. What is he doing?’
This last was directed at Mr Phelps, but Chang did not wait for an answer, crossing to Phelps and repeating his question directly.
Miss Temple whispered to Svenson,‘It is a pneumatic vestibule.’
/> ‘A what?’
‘A room that moves up and down. I travelled in it with Mrs Marchmoor and the Duke, and with Mr Phelps.’
‘Do you accept his repentance?’ asked Svenson quietly.
‘I accept his guilt. One does not care why a cart-horse pulls.’
‘Chang fears Phelps will betray us. Did you not mark their discussion in the blast tunnel?’
‘What discussion?’ asked Miss Temple, a bit too loudly.
They turned at the sound of Mr Cunsher clearing his throat. Miss Temple took interruption as censure, and addressed Cunsher directly: ‘It is easy to repent when one has lost.’
Cunsher studied her face, which Miss Temple bore for perhaps three seconds before returning the stare doubly hard.
‘Any luck with the door?’ called Doctor Svenson.
‘The problem,’ Mr Phelps replied, ‘is that there is no lock.’ He nodded at a metal key plate. ‘To summon the car, one inserts the key, at which point the vestibule car descends. Only when the car is in place will the door open. Even had we an axe, we could only reach the empty shaftway.’
‘Then why did you bring us here?’ snarled Chang.
‘Because the way is unguarded. The hallways of Stäelmaere House connect to the Palace on one side and to the Ministries on the other. This was the private exit for the Duke himself – only his most intimate servants and aides know of it. Once inside we can search for the Comte – for Vandaariff – in any direction.’
‘Is there no signal?’ asked Miss Temple. ‘Some sort of bell?’
‘Of course,’ huffed Phelps, ‘the use of which will alert those inside. We will be taken and killed!’
‘Perhaps I do not understand,’ Svenson offered. Phelps had so deftly managed the cordon, it was dismaying to see him at such an impasse. ‘If we do ring the bell –’
‘Whoever hears it may well send the car down. But ringing the bell after the Duke’s death will spark all kinds of suspicion. The car will rise to a reception of armed men.’
‘And that is because we lack a key.’
‘Yes. Without a key, it will only return to whoever sent it down. It is a protection against any stranger using it. With a key, we could go to any floor without pause –’
‘But that could still deliver us to armed men,’ said Chang. ‘You have no idea.’
‘I descended from the Duke’s rooms to this sub-basement without stopping,’ announced Miss Temple rather unhelpfully.
‘We should press on to the river,’ muttered Chang.
‘I disagree,’ replied Svenson. ‘The idea to infiltrate is sound, a chink in our opponent’s armour.’
‘Entering a lion’s den does not constitute a chink.’
‘Then I will go,’ the Doctor snapped. ‘I will go by myself.’
Miss Temple took his arm. ‘You will not.’
Chang sighed with impatience. ‘Lord above –’
Phelps raised his hands. ‘No. I have brought us here – no one else need take the risk. Stand away.’
He pressed a disc set into the keyplate. Somewhere above them echoed a distant trill.
They waited, the sole sound the muffled breath of the constable, which they all chose to ignore. But then came a mechanical thrum … growing louder.
‘Well begun at least,’ Phelps said with a brittle smile. ‘Someone is home.’
His relief was cut short by the click of Cunsher pulling back the hammer of his pistol. Svenson dug out his own and soon they all stood in a half-circle, weapons ready. The car descended, settling with a clank.
The door opened wide. Beyond an iron grating, the vestibule car was empty. Phelps shoved the grate aside and stepped in.
‘I will go where it takes me, and if all is safe return to collect you.’
Chang shook his head. ‘All of us together may be able to overcome resistance – if you are taken alone, it will expose everyone.’
‘And there is no time,’ added Svenson. ‘Vandaariff is in the Palace now.’
Svenson entered the car and turned, averting his gaze from the figure of the trussed, wriggling constable. Overruled, Phelps slammed the iron gate home and the car rumbled into life. Cunsher took Chang’s arm, looking up. ‘Count the floors …’
They waited, listening. Cunsher nodded at a particularly loud clank.
‘Do you hear? We have passed the cellars.’
Svenson gripped his revolver. Another clank.
‘The ground floor,’ whispered Phelps. ‘Which offers passage to the Ministries.’
‘We’re still climbing,’ said Cunsher. They waited. The cables above them groaned. Another clank.
‘The first floor.’ Phelps nodded to Miss Temple. ‘The Duke’s chambers.’ Another loud clank. ‘We will reach the second, with passage to the Palace. Of course the corridor leads not to the Palace proper – first to suites of older apartments, where no royal has lived these fifty years – but technically speaking –’
‘Who will be there?’ hissed Chang.
‘I have told you!’ replied Phelps. ‘Absolutely anyone!’
The vestibule came to a shuddering halt. The iron gate slid into the wall and a wooden door was before them. Its lock snapped clear. Before the door could be opened from the other side Chang kicked it wide. An elderly man in black livery took the door across his chest and sprawled on the carpet. In a second Chang was above him like a ghoul, his razor against the servant’s throat.
‘Do not! Do not!’ Phelps spoke quickly to the stunned old man. ‘Do not cry out – it is your life!’
The servant merely gaped, his webbed old mouth working. ‘Mr Phelps … you were pronounced a traitor.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Phelps. ‘The Duke is dead and the Queen in danger. The Queen, I say, and there is little time …’
Svenson inhaled, tasting the dank air of a sickroom. Stäelmaere House had been the glass woman’s lair, staining all who came there with decay. The Duke’s old serving man showed dark circled eyes, pasty flesh, livid gums – and this after weeks of recovery. Phelps interrogated the servant. Svenson walked to a curtained window at the corridor’s end.
‘Where are you going?’ called Chang.
Svenson did not reply. The corridor was lined with portraits, intolerant beaks above a progression of steadily weaker chins, watery eyes peering out between ridiculous wigs and lace collars as stiff and wide as serving platters – an archive of the Duke’s relations, whose exile to the upper floor reflected the degree to which they’d been forgotten. Was there a plainer emblem of mortal doom than the extravagant portrait of an unremembered peer?
The Ministry of War blocked his view of St Isobel’s Square, but beyond its slate rooftops echoed regular spatters of musketry. That gunfire continued after the lancers and the column of infantry only confirmed the extent of the uprising, and the savagery employed to put it down.
To his left was a small wooden door. Svenson put an ear against it. Miss Temple motioned to return. Instead, the Doctor carefully turned the knob and eased the door open: a bare landing with a staircase leading down and, unexpectedly, continuing up. Was there a higher floor Phelps had not mentioned? He walked back to the others.
‘What did you see?’ asked Miss Temple.
‘Nothing at all,’ he said. ‘There is more gunfire in the square.’
‘Even better for a distraction,’ said Chang, stepping behind Svenson and Miss Temple and herding them along. Chang leant close to Svenson’s ear. ‘What did you see?’
Svenson shook his head. ‘Nothing – truly –’
‘Then what is wrong with you?’
By then they had reached Phelps, who laid a hand on the door behind him and spoke in a nervous rush. ‘Stäelmaere House is all but abandoned, under quarantine. The lower floors are a sick ward. The Privy Council has shifted to the Palace, and Axewith and Vandaariff will meet in the Marble Gallery, only a minute’s walk from the Queen herself. Axewith must be desperate, practically begging Vandaariff for the money to solve the crisis –’
‘But is money the issue?’ asked Miss Temple.
‘No, which Axewith does not understand. Without sound strategy, Vandaariff’s entire treasure is but a bandage on an unstitched wound. The crisis will continue, and Vandaariff has to know it.’
‘Then why appear?’ asked Chang. ‘Why associate himself with Axewith’s failure?’
‘Perhaps he only seeks an excuse to enter the Palace,’ said Cunsher.
At this Phelps opened the door and hurried them through. ‘We are now in the Palace. We will quietly descend and proceed east – east, I repeat – until the décor changes first to lemon, and then to a darker yellow, like the yolk of a freshly poached egg. It is a question of concentric layers – ah … here is the balcony.’
Svenson forced a yawn in hopes it might end the nagging whine in his ears. He looked at the faded and splitting blue wallpaper. Why had this wing of the Palace been allowed to go to seed? When had its last royal resident died – and was its lack of care an expression of poverty or grief? Svenson found the squalor a comfort.
Phelps started down the staircase and Svenson followed, last in line, the revolver heavy in his hand. His eyes darted along the opposite balconies, recalling a mission to Vienna long ago, a search for documents that had brought him to an abandoned brothel … bedsheets spread across a barrelhead, upon which a consumptive whore played cards with a one-legged pensioner –
Phelps hissed from the foot of the stairs and pointed to a heavy door. ‘Remember the walls: blue, then lemon –’
‘Then a poultry yard, yes,’ Chang sighed. ‘We have grasped the sequence.’
‘It is a precaution if we become separated.’
‘We will only become separated if we are seen – and in that case we all know enough to run for our lives.’
It was an ill-timed remark, for as the sour words left the Cardinal’s mouth Mr Phelps opened the door. Directly before them stood a detachment of the Palace guard in helmets, doublets and hose – holding halberds of all things – and a group of men in black topcoats. One of these, with pale hair and a waxed moustache, yelped in shock, staring at Phelps.
‘You!’
‘Harcourt!’ cried Phelps, but Cunsher lunged at the door and slammed it closed. The door leapt in his hands as the soldiers pushed from the opposite side.
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