The Chemickal Marriage

stone?’
    ‘As far as I can determine, the discoloration is inert, almost a kind of stain.’ Doctor Piersohn resumed his pressure on Chang’s back. ‘Is this painful?’
    ‘No.’
    The Contessa leant over the arm of her chair so she could see Chang’s face. ‘Did he say
anything
? You must tell me, Cardinal, even if you took it for nonsense –’
    Chang stared at the table. He could feel the heat in his face and sweat under each eye. ‘He told me I could cut his throat in three days.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Just that. As if it were a joke.’
    ‘When?’ The Contessa shot to her feet. ‘
When did he say this?
’
    ‘Three days ago. Today is the day. Believe me, I am perfectly willing to take him up on his offer –’ Chang turned at the rattle of Piersohn taking something from his tray. ‘If that man draws a drop of blood I will break his neck.’
    The Contessa whispered in Piersohn’s ear, ‘Pray do not mind. He is deranged.’
    ‘That seems all the more reason
to
mind, madam.’
    ‘Is drawing blood strictly necessary?’
    ‘All manner of tests depend upon it.’
    ‘Derangement, Doctor, mere derangement –’
    ‘But what threads bind him to reason? Without knowing the
programme
of his new master –’
    ‘I have no master!’ shouted Chang.
    The Contessa nodded to one of the squat bottles. ‘Very well, Doctor. Do what you can.’
    The Doctor doused a ball of cotton wool from the bottle, staining it a pale orange. ‘Now, let us see. If the inflammation recedes –’
    ‘It won’t,’ said Chang quickly. Piersohn paused, the cotton suspended inches from Chang’s lower back. ‘Doctor Svenson attempted a similar procedure, with the same orange mineral, with drastic results.’
    ‘Doctor Svenson?’ asked Piersohn. ‘Who is he? Did he even know how to apply –’
    The Contessa grasped the Doctor’s arm. ‘Drastic how, Cardinal?’
    ‘I was not in a position to take notes,’ replied Chang. ‘The inflammation deepened and spread. He also applied blue glass, with an equally dismal effect – a congestion in the lungs –’
    ‘An imbecile could have foreseen
that
,’ sniffed Piersohn.
    ‘Shouldn’t you cut him open?’ asked Pfaff. ‘If we want to see what it is, that’s the simplest way.’
    ‘Why don’t I open up your head?’ Chang growled.
    ‘Hush. I have an idea of my own.’ Chang felt the Contessa’s slim fingers on his spine and tensed himself. ‘Try the iron.’
    Piersohn dunked another cotton ball from a second bottle. Chang inhaled sharply as it touched his wound, icy cold. He could not hear them speak for a hissing in each ear. He arched his back and broke the contact.
    ‘A palpable reaction,’ muttered Piersohn, ‘but it fades already. Perhaps if we try the metals in sequence –’
    ‘What in hell are you doing?’ demanded Chang. It was as if he had returned to the table at Raaxfall.
    ‘Isolating the alchemical compound, of course.’
    Chang flinched again. The taste of ash curled his tongue.
    ‘Why, look at
that
. Do keep going, Doctor …’
    Chang shut his eyes, wanting to pull away, to thrash Pfaff to a pulp, to kick Piersohn across the room, but he did not move, knuckles whitening as he squeezed the table. Celeste Temple was alive. If he was not exchanged, there was no telling what Vandaariff would do.
    The next application sent sparks across his vision. The one after that was like he’d been pricked with a hundred needles. The one following – against every bit of reason – sparked a vivid
scent
. Chang had lacked the ability to smell for more than ten years, but now he shook his head at the searing aroma of cordite. The next set off a fire in his loins and for the instant of contact he felt like a bull in rut, snorting air through each nostril with the shock of it. Then the cotton ball was removed and he gasped with relief, barely noting the Doctor’s procedural murmur.
    ‘And last of all, quicksilver …’
    Each of the other applications had brought a sudden, specific reaction, but this last swallowed Chang’s senses as wholly as if his head had been forced into cold water. His bearings were lost in a swirl of visions from the Comte’s painting. His hands were black … his foot sank into the fertile earth of a new-tilled field … he was naked … he wore a swirling robe … he held a sword bright as the sun… and all around him faces, in the air like hanging lamps, people he knew – laughing, begging, bloodied – and then before him knelt