‘That is Mr Kelling,’ explained Mrs Kraft.
‘You’re Cardinal Chang!’ The angular Kelling pushed himself back into his seat, all elbows and knees. He wore the clothes of a clerk, but there was a bandage around his wrist and a deepening bruise across his jaw.
‘Difficult day all round,’ observed Chang; then to Mahmoud, at the window: ‘Sit.’
‘Not while you –’
Before Mahmoud could finish Chang’s hand was around Madelaine Kraft’s throat. ‘Sit or we’ll start settling things the wrong way.’
‘Mahmoud …’ Mrs Kraft said gently. The dark man shoved the pistol into a pocket of his long coat and perched on the very edge of his seat, poised to fling himself onto Chang. Kelling did not stir. Chang released his grip. Mrs Kraft stretched her neck and studied Chang. He found the scrutiny unwelcome.
‘Robert Vandaariff will die,’ he announced, ‘but without care his death will only deliver his world, everyone’s world, to idiot children. Your desire for revenge risks disaster.’
Madelaine Kraft raised her eyebrows at his hard tone. ‘You’ve changed.’
‘Not at all. You no longer have anything I want.’
‘I don’t have the same thing.’
Chang let this go; there wasn’t time. ‘Tell me what you’ve planned with Schoepfil.’
She smiled at him. ‘Who is that?’
‘Are you so confident?’ Chang asked. ‘You were cast into a pit, and saved by the rarest chance.’
‘Which is why –’
‘Why you should realize your enemy is as strong as ever – no, far stronger, with the wealth of the world to ensure his safety. He searches for you, even now. Recovery makes you an especially rare species, to be displayed in a jar of spirits, post-dissection.’
‘Take him in hand!’ Mr Kelling whispered to Mahmoud. ‘He is vital to Lord Vandaariff’s plans!’
Chang slapped the metal head of the cane into a box, just wide of Kelling’s hand. Kelling yanked the hand into his lap.
‘Bronque and Schoepfil ransacked the Old Palace today,’ Chang said. ‘Michel Gorine is not two carriages away, beaten to pieces – he will gladly inform you of your error.’
Mahmoud made to stand, but Mrs Kraft only tilted her head. ‘Michel’s opinion is not mine and never was.’
‘How did you sway Schoepfil?’ Chang demanded. ‘What do you know about the Comte?’
‘Vandaariff is our enemy, Cardinal, and you need my help as much as ever. Each man braces his fear against his love. What you love may change. But if you love still, your fear remains.’
‘Where is Michel?’ asked Mahmoud. ‘How badly is he hurt?’
Chang leant close to Mrs Kraft. ‘I have seen it now dozens of times, people who think they can enter this arena and remain unscathed –’
‘But I don’t think that,’ replied Madelaine Kraft. ‘And I am not unscathed – any more than you. Lord Vandaariff’s own ticking clock.’
Chang prevented himself from slapping her face. When he looked up – when he had controlled his rage – he saw Mahmoud on his feet with the pistol in hand.
‘I saw her die,’ Chang said to them both. ‘I felt Angelique’s mind. You gave her to him. If you think I do not blame you – if you think I will forget it – you are wrong. And if you think, whatever happens at Harschmort House, that I will lift a finger to save your cold-minded souls, you could not be more deluded.’
Chang turned for the door, then spun round, slashing Mahmoud’s weapon to the floor. The dark man clutched his wrist.
‘I have done this,’ whispered Chang. ‘I know. This was your one chance. It’s gone.’
Upon exiting the compartment Chang once more darted to the side of the glass, but no bullet came. Pfaff smiled at Chang’s seemingly unnecessary movement.
‘And Mrs Kraft reckoned such a smart one. Well, she’ll be dead again soon enough. Us too, unless we leg it. Come.’
Pfaff retreated down the corridor. At its end he hopped the coupling to the small brake van. In a corner, atop a trunk, sat a bent fellow in overalls, his lank greying hair like last year’s rotten straw. With the coupling separating the brake van from the final carriage, there was no chance of being overheard.
‘This is Downie,’ said Pfaff, ‘an old friend who permits my trespass.’ Downie did not seem to hear. ‘This is Cardinal Chang. Don’t cross him, he’s a hard one.’
Downie blinked his dull eyes and swallowed. An opium eater.
‘We’re nearly to Packington,’ said Chang. ‘The train will be crawling with soldiers.’
‘Already is, in front.’
‘What’s your errand, Jack? You mentioned orders.’
‘And betray a client’s trust?’ Before Chang could advance, Pfaff shook his head. ‘You never did keep an ounce of humour.’
‘You took her money. You broke your bond.’
‘Bond. You have no idea what I have done, nor does she.’ Pfaff’s eyes gleamed. ‘And nor does she, either.’
‘You’re a fool to cross either of those women, Jack. And a fool to cross me.’
‘But I haven’t! We’re here, aren’t we? What else would Miss Temple desire?’
‘And today with that goblin of a doctor?’
‘What else do you expect? If I am to play a part –’
‘You’re a liar.’
‘I am not!’ Pfaff sighed, like an actress preparing to sing. ‘How can I convince you?’
‘You tracked the Contessa from the bankside to the Seventh Bridge – you presented yourself, she enlisted you to her side –’
‘She believes so.’
‘And what do you believe, Jack? That you can find your own path? Against Robert Vandaariff? Against her?’
But at his hard tone Pfaff went cold. No matter where Pfaff’s loyalty truly stood, jealousy formed a barrier he would never see beyond. Chang tried another tack. ‘Two of the men you hired for Miss Temple disappeared at Harschmort. One died in St Isobel’s Square wearing an explosive waistcoat – perhaps the other was shredded at the Cathedral. Vandaariff has turned Harschmort into a fortress. Obviously Bronque believes he can force an entrance with his men –’
Pfaff tossed his head. ‘Bronque.’
Chang was painfully aware of time. ‘Jack, we reach Packington in minutes.’
Pfaff threw a knowing smile to Downie, whose gaze had not shifted from the floorboards, and then, as if this much delay had made his point, nodded agreeably. ‘Right. You were exchanged for Miss Temple because he knew the Contessa would keep Miss Temple safe, and he’d get another crack at them both.’
‘But why would the Contessa keep Miss Temple safe?’
‘Why do cats play with mice before they dine?’
‘Is that something you memorized from a play?’ The words came out sharpened by impatience. Chang wanted to knock Pfaff to the floor and kick him to tears, yet whatever errand Pfaff had been charged with by the Contessa might well make the difference to Miss Temple’s survival. Chang was stranded between enemies over which he’d no control.
And what did Chang have to match them? His own strength. The knowledge of Trooste, the hope that Gorine could sway Mrs Kraft – or Mahmoud – to sense, and the intelligence of Cunsher to get each to the right place when their skills might make a difference. But every arrow of antagonism streaking towards Harschmort must be allowed to continue its flight if there was a chance that Vandaariff and his works would be destroyed.
That the effort would cost his own life, Chang accepted, and with that acceptance felt a pang of such regret, such sorrow, that, still facing Pfaff in the swaying, crowded little car, Chang shut his eyes and sighed. Whatever impossible notions he might this day alone have begun to entertain would remain just that – phantoms, dreams.
‘Listen to me,’ he repeated. ‘Whatever your errand – whatever you carry, whatever she’s told you to do – I don’t give a damn. I won’t stop you –’
‘No, you won’t,’ retorted Pfaff in a tight voice.
‘Celeste, is it?’ Pfaff met Chang’s implacable gaze. ‘Well, you’re finished. Everyone knows it.’
‘I may be.’ Chang voice was soft. ‘But I’ve seen the painting, Jack. He’ll kill Celeste. And the Contessa too, whatever she believes.’
Chang opened the door, then called back above the racket of the wheels. Pfaff – and, strangely, Downie – listened with a fearful expectation. ‘He’ll kill us all.’
The corridor remained empty of soldiers. Chang strode past Mrs Kraft’s compartment in time to hear the whistle. Packington Station. The platform was as crowded as Crampton Place, but fronted by a line of midnight-blue, Bronque’s grenadiers.
The train came to a halt with a great hiss of steam. Chang leapt out and rolled beneath the carriage. He hauled himself onto the steel cross-braces, kicking his legs over and through. He positioned his hips on the cross-point and wedged the walking stick between the iron posts to support his shoulders, then extended a limb in each direction, along the struts.
The whistle echoed down the track bed and the train resumed its motion. At each station Chang relaxed his arms and legs, working the joints, careful not to let them hang where they might be seen by any passing eye. He heard Bronque’s soldiers calling out, making sure no unknown persons gained access. That someone had already done so did not occur.
The only exception was Raaxfall. The Raaxfall Station had been burnt.
At last they reached Orange Locks, where the Colonel and his men would disembark. Chang remembered Foison’s words: good men had attempted to reach Harschmort in stealth, only to be taken or killed. The surest way to reach Robert Vandaariff was to let Colonel Bronque clear the path.
Around him rose the shouts of men – orders to form up, whistles. Chang crawled between the wheels, away from the station, and rolled down a slope of gravel, out of sight. The whistle sounded and the train churned on. Chang scrambled up and lay flat in the cover of the rails. A company of grenadiers, at least a hundred men, formed ranks in the station courtyard. Colonel Bronque trotted down the steps to join them. Chang traced Bronque’s path backwards to the station house in time to see Madelaine Kraft make a dignified if fragile exit, supported by Mahmoud. Bronque’s shouting, detailing men to stack wooden crates into a waiting wagon, brought his attention back to the courtyard. In the wagon stood Mr Kelling.
The rear red lantern of the train had passed from sight. Was Pfaff still aboard? Chang loped to the station and heaved himself onto the platform. He reached the station wall in a rush, his back flat against the brick. He peeked once in the window, then crept to the door.
He slipped out Foison’s knife and burst inside. The nearest grenadier took the blade across his throat. The second soldier raised his rifle to fire, but Chang slashed it away with the stick and drove the knife into the grenadier’s chest. On a bench, bound and gagged in a row, sat Cunsher, Gorine and Trooste. Chang yanked the rag from Cunsher’s mouth and sawed through the rope around his wrists.
‘They are marshalled for an assault on Harschmort.’ Chang moved to Trooste. ‘We have little time.’
Trooste spat a loose thread from his mouth. ‘I have never experienced such cruelty –’
‘The night is young,’ muttered Chang. He slipped the tip of the knife between Gorine’s wrists and ripped upwards, shearing the hemp, and left Gorine to extract his own gag.
‘She did not listen, did she?’
Gorine’s eyes were rimmed red. Chang returned to the door, peering out. The first soldier’s guttural exhalations had finally ceased.
Cunsher cleared his throat. ‘But she did listen, Chang, that is the painful fact. She knows who Bronque is, and Schoepfil – men who ought not hold the trust of a tea kettle, much less the secrets of indigo clay. She does not care.’
‘She thinks it better.’ Gorine wiped his lips on his sleeve. ‘They will fall more easily in their turn.’
‘Mrs Kraft was never so ambitious,’ said Chang.
‘No.’ Gorine’s voice had thickened. ‘I did not know her.’
‘What’s natural is rarely kind.’ Professor Trooste rubbed at the hemp strands stuck to his soft wrists. He met their inquiring faces with a shrug. ‘Growth accelerates. Four cells become eight, eight become sixteen … in an instant there are thousands. Is it not the same with licence?’
No one spoke. Cunsher brushed Gorine’s shoulder. ‘That he could not act now does not mean he cannot soon. His mind is not hers. You know it.’
Gorine smiled weakly. ‘So does she.’
The noise from the courtyard abruptly died. Something had happened that Bronque did not expect, but from his vantage Chang could see only the bearskin hats of the rearmost men.
‘Arm yourselves. If I don’t return, proceed as you can.’
‘And Pfaff?’ Cunsher passed a grenadier’s bayonet to Gorine.
‘He claims to still serve Miss Temple.’
Cunsher caught his moustache with his front teeth. ‘The night will be full of fools.’
Chang slipped out, keeping low. Bronque’s grenadiers were formed into neat lines. In front stood Bronque and his adjutants. Mrs Kraft sat with the wagon driver, while Mahmoud and Kelling perched amongst the crates, yet everyone’s attention was focused on an elegant coach just entering the courtyard.
The coachman’s face floated above his black livery. He rode alone in his seat, driving a team of four at an easy pace. A grenadier adjutant waved him to halt, and, in a confident gesture of compliance, the coachman veered his team into a sweeping curve, so the coach stopped directly in front of the adjutant with the horses facing back where they had come.
Two grenadiers moved to the bridles of the lead horses. The coachman paid no mind and tipped his black peaked cap to the officers.
‘Good evening, sir! Is it Colonel Bronque? I am sent by Lord Vandaariff, who expects you.’ The coachman turned his gaze to the lines of soldiers with an apologetic smile. ‘Perhaps not expecting so very many, of course. I can only fit four, sir. Six if you’re willing to squeeze.’
Cunsher, now carrying a carbine, joined Chang, the others close behind. Chang saw the logic – with every eye on the coach, this was the time to move. He waved them to a line of scrub that would offer cover, but did not yet follow.
‘If you’ll come with me now,’ continued the coachman, ‘ample provision will be made for your men when they arrive. It is a march of perhaps two miles –’
‘I am aware of the distance.’ Bronque gestured with a pair of thin leather gloves – as if their softness made his intentions seem more civilized. ‘You are Lord Vandaariff’s servant – no harm will come, no charges laid to your name – do you understand, you will not hang – if you cooperate.’
The coachman’s polite expression froze. ‘I beg your pardon –’
‘You will descend and describe every measure Lord Vandaariff has taken to secure Harschmort House. How many men, their placement, what weapons –’
The coachman stammered on his box, looking around him, though no assistance lay in sight. ‘I – I assure you, sir, I know nothing – only Mr Foison –’
‘And where is Mr Foison?’
‘I had been told to expect him with you! Along with Mr Schoepfil –’
Bronque smiled. ‘Doubly misinformed. Come, you have driven your team through gates and past guard posts –’
‘But Colonel – are you Lord Robert’s enemy?’
Bronque signalled for a soldier to bring down the coachman … yet the coach rocked ever so gently an instant before the first grenadier started his climb to the driving box. Before Chang could make sense of what he’d seen, the driver whipped out a pistol and put two shots into the grenadier. He furiously slashed the reins. The horses leapt to motion, kicking past their minders. Bronque began to shout, echoed by every officer and sergeant. The entire front rank of grenadiers shouldered their weapons and aimed for the departing coach –
The simplicity of the plan took Chang aback. In the split second before he’d flung himself face down he saw through the misdirection, how every eye’s placement on the coach meant no one noticed the man behind it – the passenger whose exit from the coach’s far side had caused the rocking Chang had seen: a man – no doubt the last of Miss Temple’s missing hirelings – whose torso bulged with another explosive harness.
The passenger, suddenly revealed as the coach surged away, stood not ten yards from the heart of the massed grenadiers. He reached into his coat with both hands. Only then did Colonel Bronque see, far too late, and his scream of warning vanished in an unearthly roar.
Chang stumbled to the thicket of scrub. The entire night sky seemed to echo with shrieks and moans. He met the astonished faces of the others but angrily drove them on. ‘Go! Go!’
‘But what happened?’ asked Gorine.
Chang caught Gorine’s arm. ‘They are alive. The wagon was too far away. Run.’
Only after fifty yards did Chang allow a look back. The Orange Canal Station was dotted with flame, even its shingled roof set alight.
Chang had glimpsed only a flattened mass, and enough bodies to turn a slaughterman’s stomach. How many had been left standing – even as Vandaariff’s damned coach rattled into the distance – perhaps three men in ten? But Chang had not lied to Gorine. The wagon, well off to one side, was intact, and its occupants apparently unhurt. As for Bronque … where the Colonel had stood was a seething heap.
In a stroke every contingency had changed. Chang had counted on Bronque’s men forcing an entrance to Harschmort. He considered doubling back to join forces – and felt Gorine’s pressing gaze silently urging that very path – but rejected the idea. The soldiers still standing would be only too delighted to find new targets on whom to vent their wrath. And Chang had already given Mrs Kraft her chance. He was damned if he would save her now.
They walked without the benefit of stars or moon. The chaos of the station gave way to rustling grass and the squelch of muddy fields. Trooste kept up a low litany of dismay, blundering into the muck and standing water the others always managed to avoid.
The Chemickal Marriage mtccads-3 Page 44
