Gordon Dahlquist - The Dark Volume

“These are family matters,” she said coolly. “Why should you be part of it?”

“Clearly I am already.”

“But what is your stake, sir? Is it this Doctor? Is it revenge? Or—” she allowed her eyes to traverse his ruined habit—“merely a matter of money ?”

With an effort Chang stopped himself from backhanding the woman across the face.

“I am here because people have tried to kill me. People like your brother.”

“But he has not killed you. I don't know what you're so afraid of— you must be very formidable to survive Francis. You must tell me where he has gone. What are his plans?”

“So you can assist him?”

She smiled almost girlishly. “O I do not say that …”

The woman was insufferable.

“When did you last see your children?” asked Chang.

Mrs. Trapping did not answer, realizing at once what the question meant.

“It is that terrible man!” she whispered. “Noland Aspiche. Always watching, disapproving—he never accepted Arthur as his rightful commanding officer.”

“He hired me to kill your husband, actually,” said Chang dryly.

“What?”

“Chang did not kill Arthur,” said Elöise quickly.

“But—but that man —he hired you.”

Chang smiled. “Your husband was loathed.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Your husband was an undeserving ass.”

“But—the arrogance—the presumption —”

“Charlotte!” Elöise cried. “Your children! Could they have been taken by Francis?”

“Of course not! Why would he endanger—”

“Charlotte!”

“I do not know!”

Both women turned to Chang. To tell them what he knew was to step away from interrogation and toward alliance. Did he want that? Did he care? What was his stake? Had he not been wrestling with Charlotte Trapping's question since the first night in the fisherman's hut? Why was he still involved in this business? He thought of the Doctor, with a broken head and a ruined heart, and of Miss Temple, running for her life, a captive, or already dead. He looked at the two women, their bundle of paintings, their idiot tycoon, squatting in a shambles like the meanest gypsies.

“At the command of the Privy Council, your children were put on a train to Harschmort House, under the immediate authority of a Captain Tackham.”

Charlotte Trapping's eyes narrowed. “David Tackham made advances to me at a regimental function. He was not even drunk. He is an adder.”

“Are they still at Harschmort?” Elöise asked Chang.

“Am I?”

“Did Francis see them?”

“I do not know.”

“Did he speak of them?” pressed Elöise. “You said the two of you talked—did he speak of them?”

“Not at all.”

“What did he say?” This was Mrs. Trapping, but her voice had gone cold.

“Very little that bears repeating,” replied Chang. “The blue glass has deranged his mind.”

“Cardinal, please!” cried Elöise. “Francesca! The boys! Where are the children now ?”

“No,” he said. “Tell me about Caroline Stearne.”

FROM OUTSIDE the window came the sound of splashing water. Chang turned to it, trying to pick out anything unusual within the normal noises of the woods at night—for night had indeed fallen while they spoke—but it all sounded strange to him. Who knew what shuffling steps would be covered by the pond water rushing past the broken mill wheel?

He spun again and pulled his head back as sharp as any bantam rooster. The brick in Charlotte Trapping's hand swung inches past his face. He caught her wrist and, had the razor been open, could not have prevented an instinctive counter-stroke from slicing her jugular. As the razor was folded into his right fist he merely snapped a blow to the woman's jaw, dropping her to the floor with a protesting grunt of pain. He looked at Elöise, who stood with both hands over her mouth.

“I did not see her!” she whispered. “O Cardinal Chang—O Charlotte, you fool!”

She went to her mistress, sprawled and kicking, then looked to Chang, her eyes wide.

“Cardinal!”

The door behind was kicked open. Three dragoons filled the window, carbines aimed at his chest, while in the doorway stood an officer with his saber drawn. Behind the officer were the shadowed forms of at least another ten soldiers.

“Whatever is in your hand, drop it,” ordered the officer—a lieutenant by the bar on his collar and the single thin epaulette. “You are all prisoners of the Crown.”

Chang opened his palm and let the razor fall to his feet. The Lieutenant stepped into the room, the tip of his saber pricking Chang's breastbone. Chang retreated so he stood in a line with the two women and Vandaariff, who had leapt up at the crash of the door. The officer kicked the razor to the side with one muddied boot. Behind him four more dragoons entered, their saber blades glinting in the firelight.

“You are Chang,” announced the Lieutenant, as if to cross the name off a list of tasks. “Do not move.” He nodded once at Vandaariff. “Berkins, Crimpe—take him.”

Two troopers seized Vandaariff's arms and marched him away into the darkness. The officer's blade did not waver from Chang's chest.

“Ladies. I am Lieutenant Thorpe—”

“I know you very well, sir,” said Mrs. Trapping.

The Lieutenant nodded stiffly, not meeting her eyes. Instead his gaze went to Charlotte Trapping's leather travel case. Without a word he stepped to it, pulled it open, and sorted carefully through the clothing inside. He stood and then saw the clutch bag around her wrist. The Lieutenant held out his hand for it—the woman handed the thing across with a huff of indignation—and then pulled open the top. Chang heard clinking from inside, and then saw a glint of blue light reflecting off Thorpe's face. The bag was stuffed with blue glass cards… no doubt all looted from secret corners in Arthur Trapping's study.

Lieutenant Thorpe closed the bag and hardened his voice. “I have been pursuing this criminal from Harschmort House. That I have located your party as well is a kind coincidence. Sergeant!”

From the doorway came a massive man. He placed an iron hand around an elbow of each woman.

As she was pulled past Chang, Elöise whispered, “I am so sorry, so very sorry.”

Chang had no answer, and then she was gone. Thorpe sheathed his saber with a sweeping ring and followed the women outside, to whisper in his sergeant's ear. Chang stood alone, facing the firing squad of carbines in the window. Then Thorpe returned, studying him with a professional detachment.

“It was the horse, you know. We saw it from the road.”

“I know little of horses,” Chang replied.

“And that has cost you. Take off those glasses.”

Chang did so, having no other option, and took some satisfaction in the discomfort on the faces of the soldiers at the revelation of his scars. He folded the glasses into his pocket.

“I am obliged,” said Thorpe, and called behind him, “Corporal!”

A young soldier stepped forward, yellow chevrons on his sleeves. Chang smiled bitterly. The man's left leg was wet above his boot— here was the oaf who'd tripped into the pool.

“Secure him.”

The Corporal quite savagely drove a fist into Chang's abdomen, doubling him over, then stepped behind and laced his arms with Chang's, pinning them tight. With a brutal shove he drove Chang onto his knees. Chang looked up, fighting for breath. The three troopers had left the window. Thorpe was tugging on a thick pair of leather gauntlets, and the dragoon next to him held an open leather satchel. Another dragoon stood to Thorpe's other side, with a drawn saber, but Chang could no longer see any troopers through the door.