Gordon Dahlquist - The Chemickal Marriage

‘You will surrender, madam, or your man will die.’

‘That is your man, in the tub next to Harcourt, is it not?’

The Contessa’s voice was polite, as if she were asking about his tailor. Schoepfil turned. ‘Yes. Mr Kelling. A very useful person – and this disgraceful treatment –’

‘I wonder if he is more useful to you than Colonel Bronque.’

‘What? Colonel Bronque is my good friend.’

‘You have no friends. You are a mole.’

Schoepfil’s face reddened. ‘Come out at once! Or I promise you, this man will pay.’

The Contessa stepped to the rostrum. Her hand danced above the brass-covered knobs.

‘It does not work,’ Mahmoud called to her. ‘Vandaariff tried. The machines –’

‘Were disabled, yes, at my command – but now they are reset, and the sun has risen.’ The Contessa faced them all. ‘The question is one of attachment . One speculates in every direction … but I don’t suppose any one of you gives a damn for Matthew Harcourt. I’m the only person here who might, I suppose. And I do not .’

She pulled off the brass cap. Light fell from the ceiling onto the exposed glass lozenge and set it to gleaming. The copper cables leading to Harcourt’s tub sparked high into the air and the hoses along the tub shot stiff as they were filled. The liquid in the tub leapt to a hideous boil.

‘Stop!’ shouted Doctor Svenson. ‘God in heaven –’

The Contessa uncovered another knob and sparks leapt up round Mr Kelling’s tub. Schoepfil stepped towards his man, but already the liquid spit and steam billowed, the figure within obscured. Miss Temple covered her mouth and nose. With a slithering rush the hoses connecting the two tubs to the undercarriage of Chang’s table vibrated with the transfer of some gruesome reduction .

The power switched off. The noxious steam dispersed. With a sickening compulsion Miss Temple joined the others, stepping near enough to see. The red liquid had sunk to an opaque inch of crimson mud. Apart from lump-like shadows beneath the scum, no sign of either body remained.

Miss Temple turned, her gorge rising. No one moved to help her, not even Svenson, stricken dumb. She bent over, but nothing came … nothing save jumbled visions of bright paint and cold machines.

‘I trust my point is made,’ called the Contessa. ‘From now on you are responsible for one another’s good behaviour. Drusus Schoepfil to protect his friend . Mr Mahmoud doubly for his mother and his spouse.’ She laughed at Mahmoud’s expression of surprise. ‘O come, Bronque told me everything. And you, Doctor Svenson, will want to protect everyone , as ever, especially the gnome. The only one of you who might not care – care enough to submit – is poor, puking Celeste. I leave it to you gentlemen to compel her cooperation.’

‘And what do you intend?’ asked Doctor Svenson. ‘If it is anything like what Vandaariff had planned, these poor people are already lost. Kill them now and be damned!’

‘Why, Doctor, why should I follow Robert Vandaariff’s plan?’

‘Then what are you doing? What do you want?’

At last Svenson came to Miss Temple, a hand on her bare shoulder. She shrugged herself free, her eye falling upon the revolver near Pfaff’s feet, and dashed towards it.

‘Stop her!’ warned the Contessa. ‘Or someone else turns to soup!’

In a flash Schoepfil had his arms around Miss Temple’s waist. Mahmoud was only a step behind and snatched up the gun. His finger found the trigger as he looked to the glass.

‘Do try.’ The Contessa reached to the rostrum. ‘Will you break the glass in time to stop my hand?’

Mahmoud lowered the gun. Her hand did not retreat. He tossed the weapon through the trapdoor.

‘Bloody idiot,’ snarled Miss Temple. ‘She’s going to kill you all.’

‘That is not true,’ replied the Contessa. ‘Poor Celeste. I’m only going to kill you .’

A dozen acolytes entered from the open doorway and through the trapdoor climbed green-coated lackeys, three with carbines and a fourth, with a wry smile, holding the revolver Mahmoud had just thrown down. The two groups surveyed the chamber with a menacing aspect, but the Contessa addressed them with an easy confidence.

‘Welcome. As you can see, your master, Robert Vandaariff, is dead. His legacy is not. The man on that table is his legal heir. It is your duty to protect him. This is the will of Robert Vandaariff. If any one of these people attempts to interfere, take their lives. Faithful service will be handsomely rewarded.’

Schoepfil stammered with outrage. ‘That – that – woman – she has killed Robert Vandaariff. My uncle! I am his heir! I am his only heir! She is the villain!’

The Contessa’s hand floated warningly above the rostrum. ‘Mr Schoepfil …’

‘She killed him!’ protested Schoepfil desperately. ‘Use your eyes!’

Miss Temple knew it was the Comte d’Orkancz who would be restored, but the soldiers and acolytes had all sworn allegience to Harschmort’s lord.

The acolytes did not move, but the four soldiers took in the blood and the corpse and exchanged a look between them of great suspicion.

‘Perhaps I might speak – for the benefit of those others present in belief ?’ An acolyte who had been crouched behind Chang’s table came forward, slipping the hood from his face. His Process scars carried an authority inside Harschmort, and the acolytes and soldiers listened closely. ‘My name is Trooste. I was redeemed this very night. The woman speaks the truth. She did take our master’s life. It was his intention that she do so. He commanded her admission to his chamber. He knew .’

The green-coat with the revolver pointed it at Vandaariff’s corpse. ‘But why?’

‘Yes!’ cried Schoepfil. ‘It makes no earthly sense –’

‘Only bear witness, gentlemen,’ replied Trooste. ‘And you will have your answer.’ He whispered to a pair of acolytes and they hurried away. Trooste bowed to the Contessa, who dipped her brass-bound head in return. Then she flicked the cover off a third glass knob.

‘Now, then, since, by Mr Schoepfil’s resistance, there is no love for Colonel Bronque …’

Schoepfil screamed his useless contrition. Bright sparks leapt up to burn the air.

The acolytes returned with a wheeled rack of blue glass books and a wicker hamper Miss Temple knew well. Trooste carefully extracted the book from the hamper and slotted it into the rack. He then emptied the three squat bottles, one by one, into rubber reservoirs that hung from the undercarriage of Chang’s table like bloated, black fruit.

The other acolytes confidently tended the machines. The four soldiers adopted positions of fire: two at the main door, one by the glass wall, and their leader behind Schoepfil, the revolver pressed to the man’s back. Schoepfil had fallen to his knees, his pinched face red and wet with tears, unable to turn from the horrid remains in Colonel Bronque’s tub.

The Contessa watched from the window, but her gaze most often returned to Miss Temple, who stared right back. This was the Contessa’s promise from Parchfeldt, a slow death after extinguishing all hope.

Doctor Svenson stepped casually between them, facing Miss Temple.

‘My poor Celeste,’ he whispered.

‘Chang and I are lost. I saw what happened to Francesca. Save yourself.’

‘I will not allow it.’

She looked into his blue eyes, despising his decency, even as she knew Svenson’s care was the only mirror that might show her as she had once been. She took his hand and glanced at the machines. ‘The star map. It shows every coupling, every wire and box.’