He inserted the disc into the orange stream, and at once the flow was blocked; pressure forced the fluid up a previously unused tube of glass and into the air. In moments it filled a trough deep enough for him to dip his hand. Chang sighed. He set down the brass helmet, scooped out a palmful of the orange liquid and raised it to his lips.
He choked audibly and stumbled back, chin dripping, waving his wet glove as if it burnt. Chang’s eyes tipped back in their sockets, showing the white. He fell, limbs extended like a fallen horse. His breath came ragged and he went still, eyes open to the ceiling.
‘As tractable as a babe with an unknit skull. An object of desire dangles before it and all else recedes …’
The diminished voice of Robert Vandaariff. Somewhere behind Chang, a door had opened. Slippered footsteps. The orange fluid trickled in its trough.
‘A common misconception … at birth the bones are soft, allowing passage of essence from one realm to another, the crucial, brutal pressure associated with emission. In time the gap closes and the seams calcify – or so fools would have you believe …’
Into Chang’s peripheral vision came several figures in white robes, faces shrouded. A figure at his feet held a tray of corked bottles …
‘But the skull of an adult bends every bit as much as the human spirit, and that same spot – the fontanel – remains in every esoteric system a fountain through which souls flow to the ether. Even as coarse a soul as this.’ Vandaariff croaked with laughter. ‘Little more than an animal in trousers! What is the time?’
The man with the tray replied, ‘Near to the dawn, my lord.’
‘And our other guests? Our royal party? Our Warden? Our Bride? The Virgo Lucifera?’
‘All … mid-passage, my lord … save the ladies.’
‘Feminine vectors. What of our Executioner?’
To this question there was no reply. The robed acolytes glanced nervously across Chang’s body. A sharp sound brought them back to attention – Vandaariff rapping his cane.
‘None of that! The contract will be signed. To the vessel – he must be readied!’
Chang waited for the hands to take his shoulders and each leg. He gripped the robes of the men at his shoulders and yanked down hard, driving their heads together with an ugly thud. Sharp kicks drove the men at his legs away and he was up. The acolyte with the tray retreated, protecting his charge. None of them appeared to be armed. Chang drew the silver knife and made for Vandaariff, ready to plant it in his chest.
‘I am here, Cardinal Chang.’
Chang first turned to the voice – a metal grille, painted like a fresco of a blue-skinned maiden – and then to the glass barrier. Beyond it, in a white robe of his own, stood Vandaariff. The knobbed hand that gripped his cane was blackened, as if with burnt cork.
‘So you did not drink the Draught of Silence after all.’ Vandaariff’s hood slipped back to show a smug rictus grin and above it a soft half-mask of pale feathers. ‘I did not think you had.’
Chang snatched up the brass helmet and extended the knife to the acolytes.
‘Show yourselves.’
Vandaariff nodded, and the five pulled back their hoods. Every face bore new scars of the Process, a raw-skinned loop around the eyes and across the nose – more souls sacrificed on the altar of ambition. He wondered what clothes they’d shed in exchange for these robes, what uniforms or vestments, fashionable stripes or silks. Chang slammed the brass helmet into the barrier with all his strength. It rebounded nearly out of his grasp, the glass barely scratched.
‘Subdue him,’ said Vandaariff.
Chang faced the acolytes. ‘Keep away.’
‘Subdue him!’ repeated Vandaariff.
‘You will die,’ warned Chang.
Vandaariff cooed to his minions, ‘You’ll be reborn.’
Chang looked into eyes bright with belief and felt his stomach turn. His fist shot out, bloodying the nose of the foremost man and knocking him aside.
‘You cannot win, Cardinal Chang. The spheres have turned!’
Chang clubbed down one man with the helmet and then another. The last of the four rushed him with both hands. Chang dodged to the side, as if he were in a corrida, and drove the acolyte face first into the wall. The fifth remained where he’d been, backed against the fountain, still holding the tray. Chang suddenly scoffed.
‘I know your face. You’re an actor. Charles Leffert!’ Here was the leading man of the stage dressed like a eunuch in a comedy harem. ‘Not enough roses after the matinée? Not enough wives to seduce in their husbands’ carriages?’
‘You must submit!’ commanded Leffert in a heroic baritone. ‘The ceremony has begun – you cannot prevent –’
Chang swung the helmet into the tray, sending the flasks and implements flying.
‘O heaven!’ wailed the actor, as if Rome itself had begun to fall. Chang dropped the helmet and seized Leffert through the robe. He dragged him to the fountain. Leffert caught the rim and pushed away. ‘No! I am not given over! I am promised to ascend!’
Chang shoved the actor’s head into the trough. Leffert struggled, holding his breath. Chang dropped a knee into Leffert’s kidney and a spray of bubbles spat orange. The actor inhaled and swallowed. Chang lifted him, dripping, by the hair. Leffert’s eyes were as blue as a songbird’s eggs. Chang released him to the floor, the actor’s mouth working soundlessly.
‘The Draught of Silence?’ said Chang. ‘Not the best for his profession.’
‘You have achieved nothing,’ replied Vandaariff.
He rapped his cane on the floor. Another line of acolytes filed into the room of machines and tubs behind Vandaariff, one of them, again, with a tray of bottles. To Chang’s horror the others bore the unmoving, naked bodies of Cunsher and Gorine. Both men were daubed with symbols in bright coloured paints, like savages from cannibal islands – or almost, for the skin beneath the paint was pale.
‘What have you done to them?’
The acolytes lowered Cunsher and Gorine into coffin-shaped tubs. Their heads lolled. The acolyte with the tray emptied a flask of straw-coloured powder into Gorine’s tub, and then Cunsher’s. The tubs began to steam. The acolyte looked up, the fat face beneath the hood transformed with scars.
‘You were acquainted, I believe, in my new initiate’s former life. He will be more useful now – always clever, but now he will transcend.’
Chang watched helplessly as Trooste emptied more flasks. By the end both Cunsher and Gorine floated in a rusty liquid that foamed against their painted skin.
Chang shouted to the metal grille: ‘What do you want?’
‘For you to take the Draught of Silence, of course.’
‘Go to hell.’ Chang turned to the other doorways. ‘I’ll find a way through. I will cut your throat.’
‘No, Cardinal. That is not your place.’ Vandaariff’s eyes shone brightly through the mask. ‘You know the ritual, do you not, from Rosamonde’s memory? I am in her debt, to be sure. So many celebrants now come prepared.’
‘This cannot work,’ called Chang. ‘Even if you survive, into what world? The city burns. The Army rules the streets. The people have fled. The Ministries are silent, the bank vaults emptied –’
‘Buzzing flies on a dunghill.’
‘The nation hangs on the brink! Your nephew has allies in place. Every power will assist his accession, and your demise. You are unstable. Bronque is alive. His grenadiers –’
The words died on Chang’s lips. The acolytes had returned with two more painted bodies – the angular man from the train, Kelling, and Colonel Bronque himself, whose flesh was marked with wounds. Chang recalled the silence they had noted in the dunes – what could explain it but the glass globes? Even a few of Vandaariff’s men could overwhelm Bronque and his survivors before they fired a shot. Trooste stood above the Colonel, emptying a flask.
‘Precious salts,’ said Vandaariff, following Chang’s gaze. ‘Blood and sex, acid and fire – a sacred tempering, Cardinal. And so
the flesh of life becomes the flesh of dreams.’
‘Spare Celeste Temple.’
Vandaariff turned. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Spare Celeste Temple.’
‘Why should I do that?’
‘In exchange for myself, for my cooperation.’
‘I will have your cooperation.’
‘You won’t.’ Chang drew out the silver knife. He tore off the canvas satchel and his red coat. He lifted his silk shirt and reached behind, isolating the lump of scar near to his spine. ‘I’ll cut out your glass. Even if it kills me.’
Vandaariff studied Chang closely through his mask. ‘It will kill you.’
‘So be it.’
‘Stop.’ Vandaariff moistened his dry lips with a pallid tongue. Beyond him Trooste watched with an avid curiosity. ‘I cannot spare her. She must act the Bride.’
‘Use the Contessa.’
‘She is the Virgo Lucifera.’ Vandaariff raised a hand to the ceiling of the little room, which was formed of small open tubes, all of which had begun, ever so slightly, to glow.
‘She is your enemy. She wants your head.’
‘And I want her parts boiled down for paste. Nevertheless, ever we have found a way.’
Behind Chang, an acolyte had crawled to the canvas satchel. Chang stamped on the man’s hand and felt the crunch of a glass globe giving way. The acolyte screamed at the pain, but kicked the brass helmet clear before he succumbed to the fumes. Chang went after the helmet, but another acolyte – they’d been waiting for their chance – caught Chang’s leg, even as he too collapsed. The helmet spun beyond Chang’s reach.
A muffled roar shook the room. Chang looked up, his lungs tight. Black smoke spewed in from a splintered doorway. Foul air would protect him as much as the helmet. Chang flung himself at the door and wrenched it wide.
Blackened figures lay on the buckled tiles – grenadiers, to judge by their singed and tattered uniforms. Then the smoky air parted and a soot-faced man cracked a rifle-butt into Chang’s chest. Chang tumbled back, the breath knocked from his body. A sharp seizing took his lungs. His dark glasses were swatted away.
Vandaariff shouted from the other room: ‘Excellent! Subdue him!’
Chang had lost the knife. He groped for the helmet. A kick into his ribs knocked him flat again. He saw the face above him and took it for Mahmoud – for Vandaariff’s black Executioner – but this man was shorter and too lithe. Then he saw the white hair.
Foison fell onto Chang’s chest, pinning an arm with each of his knees. He’d a leather case slung across his chest, and snapped it open.
‘No, no!’ cried Vandaariff. ‘The draught – give him the draught!’
Chang arched his back but could not shift Foison’s weight. His lungs were on fire.
One of Foison’s hands sought Chang’s battered eyes and peeled back the lids. The other slapped an open glass book onto Chang’s face and pressed down hard.
For a blinding, screaming instant Cardinal Chang perceived the whole of his soul, suddenly naked, balanced on a precipice. Then every part of him was taken away.
Nine
Indenture
Doctor Svenson swung the pistol calmly between Bronque’s soldiers, Kelling and Schoepfil. Any show of weakness would spark their attack.
‘Give my best wishes to Her Majesty. All of Macklenburg is at her service.’
The words were meaningless. He was a criminal in Macklenburg and a criminal here. How many times would he fling himself at death before the black wings caught him up?
He saw Schoepfil move, but the man’s damned speed was such that to stop him meant shooting to kill – and, while he knew Schoepfil to be a villain, the man had committed himself to bringing down Robert Vandaariff. Was this – lust apart – any different from his détente with the Contessa?
Schoepfil seized Kelling’s crate of paper and hurled it like a stone into the chest of a footman, pages flying in the air. The soldiers charged. Svenson swore in German.
He shot one trooper in the thigh and the other, sabre raised to open the Doctor’s skull, neatly under the arm. His third shot went to the ceiling as the falling soldier’s sabre slapped Svenson across the forehead and knocked him to his knees. He looked up to see the door close behind Miss Temple, Schoepfil battering the second footman to the ground. The footman, with more than thirty pounds and seven inches on Schoepfil, collapsed, groaning. Schoepfil turned a raging gaze at Svenson, fists clenched.
‘Why should I spare you? Why should you not die?’ Schoepfil kicked Svenson’s pistol away and spun round to Kelling. ‘Open this damned door!’
Kelling barked at the Ministry men, standing off to the side, well clear of the struggle. Now that the prevailing wind of power was established, they willingly joined Kelling at the oval door – Kelling grunting at the pain, but heaving nevertheless – all straining at the iron wheel.
Svenson crawled on his hands and knees. Schoepfil hopped in front of him. ‘Where the devil do you think you’re going?’
‘These men.’ Svenson pointed to the soldiers. ‘Someone must bind their wounds.’
‘And perhaps you should not have shot them!’ But Schoepfil stepped aside, then shrieked at the courtiers: ‘And you! I will remember each of your names! O I will remember your names!’
Despite his patients’ hateful looks, Svenson bent to examine each soldier. The leg would heal easily, bone and artery spared, but the arm would be a trial, for the bullet had pierced the shoulder joint.
‘What’s the old crone thinking?’ Schoepfil asked, ostensibly to Kelling, but his secretary was hard against the wheel. Schoepfil thrust his face between the labouring men and shouted, ‘I am not deceived, Your Grace!’
His searching little eyes found Svenson, his only audience. The courtiers had fled.
‘The Duchess claims the Queen is within. She is a liar.’
‘Is it some Eastern system of combat?’ asked Svenson.
‘Beg pardon?’ Schoepfil chuckled. ‘O! O no, not at all.’
‘You move with an unnatural speed.’
‘And I shall do something unnatural to the Duchess of Cogstead, you may be sure of it! I know who is there! Why should she protect the Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza – of all people? And you! You gave that colonial chit my book! My own glass book and you have thrust it into the arms of an empty-headed girl!’
‘Only because I had no time to smash it.’
‘O! O!’ Schoepfil waved both arms at the ceiling. ‘Artless! Crude! Teuton!’
‘If the Contessa is inside, these few men will not take her.’
‘Pah! I’ll take her myself.’ Schoepfil clapped his grey-gloved hands. ‘So hard it stings.’
The wheel gave with a sudden lurch. Schoepfil bustled through, returning the pistol to his secretary as he passed. Svenson pushed after the Ministry men, but Kelling waved the pistol.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Put it away,’ sighed Svenson. ‘If he could spare me, I’d be dead. Since I’m not, I could shoot you in the head and he would only swear at the mess.’
‘You’re wrong,’ Kelling snarled. ‘He remembers – you’ll pay!’
‘You should bind that wrist.’
‘Go to hell.’
Svenson found the others in a low octagonal room, with an oval door in each wall, like the engine room of a steamship. Schoepfil faced the Duchess with his hands on his hips.
‘Well, madam? Your falsehood is exposed!’ When the Duchess did not respond, he screamed again, waving at the doors: ‘Open them! Open them all!’
Doctor Svenson locked eyes for an instant with the Duchess. ‘Whose rooms are these?’
‘Not the Queen’s!’ crowed Schoepfil. Three doors were opened to utter blackness.
‘They were given to Lord Pont-Joule,’ said the Duchess.
‘The late Lord Pont-Joule.’ Schoepfil’s voice echoed from inside a doorway. He reappeared to shove a Ministry man at the next door. ‘Nothing – go, go!’
‘He was charged with Her Majesty’s safety –’
‘I know who he is,’ said Svenson. ‘Or was.’
Schoepfil hopped back to the Duchess. ‘These tunnels follow the springs!’
‘Spy tunnels,’ said Svenson. ‘Just like where we observed Her Majesty’s baths.’ The Duchess gasped.
‘O well done,’ muttered Schoepfil. ‘Blab every single thing …’
‘You ought to have expected others. The rock beneath the Thermæ must have been honeycombed for a thousand years.’
Schoepfil sniffed at the next door. ‘Sulphur – leading to the baths proper. Would the Contessa seek the baths? She would not.’ He called to the Duchess: ‘She killed him, you know – Pont-Joule!’ Schoepfil scoffed on his way to the next doorway. ‘You arranged her audience. You aided her escape. He was her lover! Right in the neck!’
The Duchess put her hands over her eyes. ‘I did not –’
‘O I will see you punished. Where is my book?’
Kelling wrenched open the seventh door. Schoepfil sniffed the air. His face darkened. ‘O dear Lord …’
‘What is it?’ asked Kelling.
‘The channel.’ Schoepfil spun to the Duchess. ‘It’s true after all! You knew it! And she damn well knew it! Of all the – O this takes the biscuit!’
Schoepfil’s hand flew at the Duchess. Svenson caught the blow mid-air. With an outraged sputter Schoepfil’s other hand delivered three rapid strikes to the Doctor’s face. Still Svenson held on – giving the Duchess time to retreat – until Schoepfil wrenched his arm free.
‘You presume, Doctor Svenson, you presume!’
Schoepfil’s voice stopped with a guttural snarl. In the Doctor’s hand hung his grey glove, peeled off while retrieving his arm. The flesh of Schoepfil’s hand was a bright cerulean blue, nails darkening to indigo.
‘Sweet Christ,’ whispered the Doctor. ‘What have you done – what idiocy?’
Schoepfil snatched the glove and wriggled his hand inside, glaring at Svenson with a mixture of abashment and pride, like a young master caught plundering his first housemaid. The instant the glove was restored Schoepfil turned on Kelling with a scream: ‘What do you wait for? Inside and after them!’