The Chemickal Marriage

patron in the Palace, Sophia of Strackenz?’
    Cunsher nodded at the shift in conversation. ‘Another commonplace. An impoverished exile with the poor taste to have become unattractive.’
    ‘Nothing more?’
    ‘The Princess is insipid to an exceptional degree.’
    Chang frowned. ‘The Contessa does not act without reason. She sequestered herself in the Palace while employing the glassworks and Crabbé’s laboratory. Now she has abandoned them all – as if an event she had worked for, or awaited, has finally occurred.’
    Chang stopped. Cunsher came up to him and stood, breathing hard. When he saw where Chang had brought them, he clucked his tongue.
    ‘You grasp my idea,’ offered Chang.
    ‘Quite so. Court society
is
about patronage.’
    ‘And her target’s elevation is recent.’
    ‘Brazen, of course, but that is the lady.’
    ‘
Precisamente
.’
    Given his appearance, Cunsher offered to remain outside and observe.
    ‘And if you do not reappear, or are exposed?’ he asked.
    ‘Escape. Find Svenson. Make your own way to Harschmort and put a bullet in Vandaariff’s brain.’
    Cunsher twitched his moustache in a smile. Chang crossed to a mansion guarded by black-booted soldiers in high bearskins – elite guardsmen. The officer in charge had just given entry to a society lady with a beefy jawline and hair stained the colour of a tangerine. At Chang’s approach the officer resumed his former position, blocking the way.
    ‘Father.’
    ‘Lieutenant. I require a word with Lady Axewith, if she is at home.’
    ‘At home is not the same as receiving, Father. Your business?’
    ‘The
Archbishop’s
business is with Lady Axewith.’ Chang was an inch taller than the grenadier and studied the man over his glasses, an ugly stare. The Lieutenant met it for perhaps two seconds.
    ‘How do I know you’re from the Archbishop?’
    ‘You don’t.’ Chang reached into the cleric’s coat and extracted a scrap of paper.
    ‘This is a prison warrant.’
    ‘Do you know how many criminals have been taken these last two days alone? Do you think the prisons can bear it?’
    ‘What is this to Lady Axewith?’
    ‘That’s for
her
to decide. Your choice is whether thwarting an archbishop puts paid to your career.’
    It would be an exceptional junior officer to withstand such rhetoric, and the way was cleared. Chang stumped into the courtyard, leaning hard upon his stick, wondering if the Contessa had already spied him from a window.
    Born Arthur Michael Forchmont, Lord Axewith succeeded to his title only after a withering year had claimed the uncle, cousins and father standing in his way. Lacking opinions of his own, he happily accepted those of the Duke of Stäelmaere, and at His Grace’s demise this tractability marked him as a reliable heir. Earnest, bluff, and blessedly disinterested in drink, the future Privy Minister had spent the bulk of his first forty years in the company of horses (even a fondness for stage actresses was affectionately tolerated by the public, as the assignations seemed limited to actual horseback riding). Upon his ascension to the title and entry to politics, Lord Axewith had chosen a wife and in turn that wife had doggedly given birth on a regular basis – seven births in near as many years, with four surviving. And for her pains, his child-ridden spouse now found herself the first lady of the land.
    Chang could imagine the tide of flattery that had swelled around the wife of the new Privy Minister, bringing with it inclusion and isolation in equal measure. The Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza could hardly have found better circumstances in which to insinuate herself; too insignificant for any real interest at court, she would appear to be the safest soul in whom Lady Axewith might confide …
    Two more guardsmen stood inside. A butler advanced with a tiny silver tray.
    ‘I have no card,’ Chang told him. ‘Monsignor Lucifera, sent by the Archbishop – Lady Axewith will not know me.’
    The butler indicated a well-proportioned parlour. Chang’s eyes fell on a soft upholstered chaise. The prospect of stretching upon it pulled at him like a throbbing tooth. He shook his head.
    ‘No doubt many suitors beg for Lady Axewith to intervene with her husband.I have come for the lady herself, on a most private – if you will understand me – and
intimate
matter.’
    The word hung in the air and Chang wondered if he had gone too far. An ‘intimate matter’ first and foremost meant accusations