Gordon Dahlquist - The Dark Volume

The irony of finding a haven on a rooftop—a place where at the best of times his vertigo would drop him to his hands and knees—was not lost on him. He would have to pull himself over the lip, an awful moment of releasing the ladder entirely and taking hold of a bare— and dusty, slippery, even crumbling—crenellation of brick with his hands. What if he mistimed his reach? What if his boots slipped? And if he took too long, would the Contessa slash the back of his knee? Useless anxiety hammered his nerves. He was at the top of the ladder. He could not see beyond the lip of brick some two feet above him. With a feral snarl he thrust his arms up and took scrabbling hold, the edge of the brickwork digging awkwardly into his bicep, flailing with his legs, scuffing his knees. The Doctor clawed his way onto a gritty, soot-smeared expanse of planking slathered with old tar.

The rooftop, an open rectangle some thirty yards across and sixty yards long, was divided lengthwise by a double line of squat brick chimneys, each perhaps the width of a barrel and twice the height of a tall man. But near to where he had emerged, on his side of the line of smokestacks, rose a squat brick hutch, with a door to the factory below. Svenson gave one quick glance to where the Contessa would momentarily emerge, and dashed to the door—reasoning one fearsome women to be less dangerous than an army of soldiers. He snatched up a length of broken wood—at one point it had been the leg of a chair (who knew how it had migrated to the rooftop, like a sheep's bone in an aerie)—and wedged it fast between the door and the frame. He heard no steps at the door, and peering through the line of chimneys he saw no guards ascending from the other side of the rooftop. How could that be?

He looked back to the ladder. The Contessa's hand shot over the brick lip, fingers splayed like the claws of a clambering cat.

Doctor Svenson stepped forward. One kick, and she would be done for. The Contessa tottered on the rooftop's edge, legs thrusting against their confines of silk. He reached his hand to the woman's good arm. She met his gaze, snorted, and took it. With a not entirely gentlemanly pull Doctor Svenson hauled her onto the rooftop and to her feet. She snorted again and tossed her head.

“If we had stayed together it would have been far more sensible.”

“I am not your ally.”

“Don't be an ass! Acknowledge the world as it is—as it has become.”

“I disagree,” he replied, feeling inadequate that he had no further words.

“You have given me your hand,” the Contessa panted. “It was that or smash your boot on my fingers and send me to hell. You did not do that, Doctor Svenson—you have made your choice, pray do not tax me with peevish distaste! Do not, or I will turn your heart's blood to a fountain!”

Doctor Svenson did not doubt the woman's rage, nor her capacity—she had this night slain how many men? But he knew she had done so by virtue of surprise, by the fact that she was a beautiful woman, whom the soldiers had no reason to think a mortal threat. Svenson had no such illusions.

“Your wound has opened.” He nodded to the smear of gore that had reached the end of her right sleeve.

“Your teeth are unpleasantly stained,” sneered the Contessa. “Neither fact is of the slightest use for being pointed out.”

“They will be coming for us, and very soon.”

“Again, you cleave to the obvious.”

“I must ask you something, and I will insist on an answer.”

“And I will insist on flinging your corpse from this rooftop—”

“I am not afraid of you, madame.”

With a shocking vulgarity the Contessa spat onto the stiff tar at her feet and met Svenson with a glittering expression that made it clear that, given the chance, she would carve her answer on his neck.

“By all means, then. Ask.”

“You arranged for Caroline Stearne to meet with Charlotte Trapping and Elöise Dujong in a private room of the St. Royale Hotel. I want to know why, and I want to know what resulted.”

The Contessa rolled her eyes with disbelief. “You want to know this now?”

“I do.”

“My Lord, Doctor! Because of her? Am I to determine whether you throw away your life in a futile rescue? The woman does not deserve the affection one would give a chicken whose neck one was about to wring.”

“I am not interested in your opinions, madame.”

“At least let us listen at the door—it would be stupid to be surprised—”

As she spoke the Contessa gestured with her injured hand to the rooftop door but at the same time took a sly step toward Svenson, her left hand carefully out of view behind her hip. The Doctor stepped rapidly back, beyond her reach, and spoke quite sharply.

“If you do that again, I will shout at the top of my lungs for Mr. Leveret. And then, madame, I will do my very best to end your life, even if it means carrying you off the rooftop with me.”

“You would not.”

“I would consider it a service to all mankind and a sure passage to sainthood.”

The Contessa wiped her mouth with the fingertips of her left hand, a contemptuous gesture that deliberately showed him her weapon: a band of bright metal that fit across all four fingers, sporting in the middle a sharp, almost triangular spike of steel, perhaps an inch in height: enough of a blade to slash, yet the squat base also made it a vicious adjunct to the wearer's fist. One swift blow had punctured the skull of Harald Crabbé on the airship, ending his life before he could collapse to the floor. But—and the sensation caused him to marvel, for he was in his life stricken by so many things—Doctor Svenson was not afraid, not of her, nor—especially of dying itself… not when survival meant so little.

“If you would,” he said to her. “The St. Royale…”

AS IF admitting she had been for the moment foxed, the Contessa smiled. Doctor Svenson braced himself. Whatever she was about to say would form the first step in her revenge.

“There is practically nothing to describe. You must know of her assignation with Trapping—merciful sin, Doctor, you met the man yourself. Is there anything more dispiriting than to be the mistress of a fool?”

Svenson wanted very much to strike her, but did not move. “I find you dispiriting, madame. With all your unquestioned talents, you remain the epitome of waste.”

“From a man who has thrown away his life for Karl-Horst von Maasmärck…well, I shall bear it in mind.”

“The meeting. The hotel.”

“What is there to say? I did not want Francis or Oskar or Crabbé to know of my suspicions, so I could not risk being seen. As I knew Charlotte Trapping socially, it needed to be arranged by Caroline.”

“Mrs. Trapping was not to know of your involvement?”

“She least of all,” replied the Contessa, as if this point were especially obvious.

“But why should Elöise be present? Why, if she was—” he stammered to say it, feeling his face grow hot with anger and shame “—the Colonel's mistress, and Mrs. Trapping was aware of—her—their— assignations—”

“Aware?” laughed the Contessa.

Svenson was dumbfounded. “But—if—why—”

The Contessa laughed again. Svenson saw her assumptions change—and knew what she would tell him had changed as well. Before she could speak, he held up his hand.

“You were not getting information from Charlotte Trapping— that you would have insisted on hearing alone. Instead, Mrs. Stearne was informing her that some deep secret was known, and exacting a promise or payment to forestall its publication. The obvious secret is the infidelity, the Colonel's mistress…”