Gordon Dahlquist - The Chemickal Marriage

The bloody prints continued to climb, despite – and Miss Temple’s heart leapt to her throat each time she slipped past – the noisy presence of Vandaariff’s men behind each successive stairwell door. Foison’s errand was his alone. But at the top of the staircase her search was foxed, for the bloody trail vanished into a long runner of carpet.

She kept walking. This was Harschmort. She would meet someone – and confront them. The Contessa was wrong about that too.

When the shouts came she hurried towards them, and the explosion that followed. Ahead, a woman careened through a smoking archway, gold-skinned and frail, black hair around her shoulders. She saw Miss Temple but did not pause.

‘Hurry!’ she cried. ‘ Run! ’

Without thinking Miss Temple took the woman’s hand and fled. A cork slipper flew from her foot, and after three awkward steps she kicked off its mate.

‘All of them – every last one taken –’

Cries and the sound of breaking glass came from behind. Miss Temple saw shadows wrestling in blue smoke, and brass-helmeted men charging into the cloud with clubs.

The woman watched with too wide eyes, hand to her mouth. ‘My son –’

Miss Temple tugged her on. ‘You can do nothing. Run .’

‘Who are you?’ the woman demanded, out of breath. ‘How did you escape?’

‘I have not escaped. I have entered. Wait.’

They had reached a doorway left ajar, and Miss Temple peered through. Four green-coated men lay on the floor, though they bore no wounds. The air stank of indigo clay, and Miss Temple’s eyes stung.

‘Wait,’ gasped the woman. ‘In case. My name is Madelaine Kraft –’

‘There is no “in case” if we keep moving,’ said Miss Temple.

‘I cannot run. You will be taken with me. Listen. You don’t know who I am. Please. I heard him once explain a thing –’

‘ Who? ’

She squeezed Miss Temple’s hand in a feeble request for patience. ‘The Comte d’Orkancz. The secret is light. “The chemical value of light” – as if it were as solid as earth or water, or active like fire or cold. He put a disc of glass – do not be shocked – a disc of glass on a woman’s body and opened a curtain so the sun hit it. She fairly sang with pleasure –’

‘What woman?’

‘That does not matter. Her name was Angelique –’

Miss Temple pulled her hand away. ‘ Ah .’

‘ Light . The character of blue glass –’

‘You mean it will not work in the dark?’

Madelaine Kraft shook her head. ‘We are already too late – the dawn has come! The only hope now is to know – to understand his thinking –’

‘His thinking is as scrambled as five eggs in a bowl. Do you know Cardinal Chang?’

‘Of course I know Chang.’

‘Where is he?’

‘I do not know. I have misjudged him. I have misjudged myself and lost my son.’ Abruptly Madelaine Kraft pushed Miss Temple through the door. ‘I will lead them away. Go .’

She closed the door, and through it Miss Temple heard her shouting to attract the guards.

Miss Temple pulled a revolving pistol from the holster of a fallen man. She waited, bracing the weapon with both hands, ready to shoot the first man through the door. The sounds outside went quiet – Madelaine Kraft had been taken away – and no guards returned to search. Still, for some minutes Miss Temple did not move. The men at her feet, asleep or dead, lay in a heap like the bones outside an ogre’s den. She had managed an entry to Harschmort, but this room marked another degree of danger. Newly constructed for the ritual of this night, here was the true beginning of her battle with its master.

Blocking her path was a bed of black gravel mixed with blue stones: blue glass spurs. She could not risk the spurs in bare feet. On the wall hung a line of white robes edged with green, with a pair of felt slippers at the foot of each. She exchanged the Contessa’s cotton robe for that of a Vandaariff acolyte, and helped herself to the slippers, noting how filthy and dark her feet were.

Between the gravel and the far door lay a mosaic of large tiles. A noxious resonance in her throat warned her not to simply walk across, though she’d no idea what would happen if she did. Each tile was made of a different coloured glass, but the Comte’s memories brought only confusion. Then Miss Temple laughed aloud, for in the corner of one tile she saw an x , quite freshly scratched.

‘Well, thank you very much …’

A series of hops brought her to the far side, thinking very little of the entire challenge. Like so much learnt thinking, to Miss Temple it was just another obstacle to avoid – or, like the fellow with the knot, hack through.

She threw the hood over her face and opened the door. Here was the same acrid smell … now augmented by gunpowder. Across the room three robed acolytes lay huddled in death. Another doorway had been blown open. Miss Temple padded to it, but quickly turned from the burnt, twisted bodies. It was now clear what happened if one stepped on the wrong tile.

She forced herself to approach the robed corpses, examining each as carefully as Chang or Svenson might have done. One man’s face was stained orange. Though the Contessa had taken such pains to bring her own supply, here was a bubbling fountain full of the stuff, from which this poor wretch had drunk. His lips were stretched and his empty eyes wide in a carnival mask of fear. The other two acolytes had been beaten and stabbed, but, judging by the blood smeared on the floor, there had been more men, hauled away. Again, she did her best to sort the passage of each one, diligence rewarded when her eyes at last caught a particular blot in a sooty footprint. These prints emerged from the blasted door and followed the drag marks leading out. She’d found Mr Foison … and he’d found someone else.

She started at a skittering noise: a metal grille, painted to blend with the distorted figures that decorated the walls. Miss Temple went to her toes and turned the knob. Through it came voices she knew.

‘You underestimate the power of his belief,’ said Doctor Svenson.

‘There was a second question, my lord?’ asked Mr Foison.

The doors next to the grille had been pushed closed, but remained ajar. Miss Temple cautiously craned her head. Robert Vandaariff stood with his back to her, the only occupant of a strange little room sealed off by thick glass. Beyond him, and more glass, stood Svenson and Foison in what was obviously Vandaariff’s new laboratory.

‘Indeed, for Doctor Svenson. You were given entry in the company of another man. A Mr Pfaff . Where is he now?’

‘We parted ways.’

‘Pfaff is an ally of the Contessa, my lord …’

They kept talking. Miss Temple paid no attention, for at the sight of Chang on the table her heart went cold.

She kicked off the slippers and ran, following Foison and the drag marks, only to reach a crossroads and more damned carpet, where the trail disappeared. Without a thought she dashed left, reached the end of the carpet and cried out as her toe caught on a new-laid plank. She hopped on one foot, picking at the splinter. Staring at Miss Temple with an imperious distrust was a band of acolytes in white robes.

‘Sister?’ ventured one. ‘What brings you here?’

‘I must find Mr Foison!’ cried Miss Temple. ‘Where is Mr Foison?’

But her hood had slipped off. The acolyte pointed at her face. ‘She has not been consumed. She has not been redeemed.’

‘ Tell me! ’ Miss Temple raised the revolver. ‘Where is Mr Foison!’

Her threat meant nothing. The acolytes charged. Miss Temple pulled the trigger. The pointing acolyte fell, clutching his leg. Miss Temple bolted, snapping another blind shot behind. She careened around a corner. A door ahead of her opened and another white robed idiot peeked out. She raised the pistol, her aim bouncing wildly. The acolyte threw out his arms.