The Chemickal Marriage

bodies littered the ground under the stone archway … what struggle had forced the guards to seal the way? Were these people from the
town
?
    Mahmoud shook Svenson’s arm. ‘Listen!’
    He heard nothing save the shouts of the men attempting to quell the fire – a poor handful, and all from the Institute, but the blaze had grown well beyond their ability. He saw men trapped by flames, others burdened with possessions, unsure where to flee. Still more huddled in the courtyard, like Trooste, unable to move for fear of rifle fire. A few sharpshooters aimed at them, but most faced the other direction, to the street … and then Svensonheard what Mahmoud had, beyond the walls, another roar to echo the inferno – a mob outside the gate! They had attempted to storm the Institute! Had the fire spread through the district?
    A bullet chipped the brick above Svenson’s head. They had been seen at last. Svenson plunged forward, Francesca in his arms.
    ‘We will be trapped! Hurry!’
    He cut to his left, tight against the curving brick, away from the snipers. A moment later Mahmoud and Mrs Kraft were there.
    ‘I do not understand,’ she gasped, out of breath. ‘They have been ordered to keep people
in
as much as keep them out!’
    A portion of the burning wing collapsed in a shower of sparks. Fresh jets of flame rose through the open hole.
    ‘The Institute will burn!’ Mahmoud cried. ‘And every neighbouring building …’
    ‘We must get out,’ Mrs Kraft shouted. ‘My people – I must know they are safe.’
    A ricochet sent them further along the wall – at least one sniper had shifted for a better shot. Svenson saw Trooste dash from his refuge and into a gap in the wall. He boldly plunged after, Francesca bouncing in his arms. If anyone knew their way to a bolt-hole, it would be a conniving fellow like Trooste.
    Bullets cracked through the branches over his head, but – perhaps due to the rising smoke – nothing found its mark and he reached the gap in the wall. Trooste had vanished, but the door he’d gone through hung open. Svenson charged on, into chaos: black-robed scholars fleeing with boxes, satchels, specimen cases. Svenson glimpsed Trooste through the mob and pressed after him, against the tide.
    Mahmoud shouted over the tumult: ‘He isn’t leading us out! He wants his own papers –’
    Svenson didn’t answer. The Professor had spent a good minute cowering behind the tree, long enough to grasp the scope of the fire and the orders that had been given to the soldiers. Trooste was no fool.
    ‘Where are we?’ he shouted to Mahmoud. ‘Which direction –’
    Mahmoud pointed urgently. White smoke curled towards them from thecorridor’s end. Svenson wheeled round and spied a door ajar: an office whose window had been broken out with a chair. Beyond it bobbed the figure of Trooste, racing down an alley. Once through the alley they would be free.
    ‘Mahmoud, as we did before – you first, I will help Mrs Kraft –’
    Svenson paused. They stared at Francesca. He put an ear to the child’s ashen mouth. Her breath was starkly uneven.
    ‘The medicines you purchased for Mrs Kraft will answer – willow bark, and mustard to dislodge congestion – but we must get her out of this inferno!’
    Fat flakes of ash filled the air like tainted snow. Improbably, the blaze had not yet leapt to the nearby townhouses, but their occupants had fled to the street. At the main road, Svenson and the others were swept into a jostling crowd. Any hope of locating Trooste was lost, and within seconds Mahmoud and Mrs Kraft were swallowed up behind him. Where
were
they? Francesca required immediate treatment, yet Svenson could not see which corners they were passing. He shifted his grip, despairing at the sickly flop of her hanging legs.
    To either side stumbled figures in silk and fur, escaping within pockets of servantry. Surges of traffic tore at each little group as the smoke flowed over the rooftops: shoving, shouts, shrubbery trampled, a lamp-post torn from its place and crashing to the cobbles. Svenson wiped his eyes on the epaulettes of his greatcoat – if only he could
see
.
    The people before him stopped short and Svenson piled into a wide man in his shirtsleeves. Before he could beg the fellow’s pardon someone behind cannoned into
him
, and again it was all he could do to remain upright.
    Trumpets. Hoof beats. Cavalry clearing the road for the fire brigade. The shirtsleeved man slapped at his neck, burnt by a