The Chemickal Marriage

It’s what killed Lydia Vandaariff. She was decapitated. Did you know that?’
    Foison gripped a metal hook for support as the coach swept round a turn. ‘Lord Robert was so informed, yes.’
    ‘By whom?’
    ‘Does it matter?’
    ‘Only five people survived that crash. Francis Xonck is dead since. If any of the four – I include myself – had described that scene for your master, you would know it. I’ll wager they have not, and yet he knows. How is that possible? Because those memories – memories of a dead man, also on that airship – have been placed inside his mind.’
    A panel slid open and through a barrier of steel mesh loomed Vandaariff’s haggard face.
    ‘Such an interesting conversation, Cardinal. One is reminded of those Greeks, groping to understand the world – everything wrong, of course, the logic of intelligent children, fumbling in their mother’s kitchen, rising on their toes in the hope of buttering bread. You observe – of course you do, you’re a hunter – but do you comprehend?’
    ‘I know you’re going to die.’
    ‘But not alone, Cardinal Chang. Do not let the news deject you.’
    Vandaariff turned from the panel, but left it open. He resumed his hoarse humming.
Love is a severance sure as any blade
    Flesh is a table where God’s feast is laid
    The carriage took another turn and the iron shackle dug into Chang’s wrist. Foison watched him with a bone-deep readiness, and in the man’s posture Chang recognized himself: at the Old Palace, present only by sufferance, waiting for a message from Madelaine Kraft – which would be his signal to depart. His eyes were ever fixed on Angelique, shining amidst the wealthy men who might at any moment signal the house manager, Gorine, and claim her for however long desire might last. Chang watched her, but what had heever seen? Tiny hands holding a wine glass. Smiling lips. Black eyes. Scraps of whoever she might, truly, have been.
    Even after so much time, so many
lives
, Chang preserved Angelique in his heart, but only – he knew – like a doll, a dream. What had all that longing served? Did his life merit survival? Had he punished wicked men? Of course. Had he done so within his own web of wickedness? Undeniably. Who spared a fowl-eating fox because it also dined on rats?
    This was rhetoric and pity. Chang looked again at Foison – at his own futile past – and glimpsed what he stood to lose
now
.
    She was not beautiful, not like Angelique. She was not kind. She was undoubtedly – in her heart, glass books be damned – an ignorant prude. She was a perfectly spoilt example of a class he despised. He did not honestly know if he could stand her presence for one entire sustained day. He did not know if she was alive.
    But he thought of her in his arms, wading through the freezing surf. Her courage at Parchfeldt. Guiding them from Raaxfall, the acceptance of her doom. Against every instinct and all logic, these thoughts uncoiled like the sticky wings of a butterfly. He felt the rush in his soul. It was absurd. He could choose to suppress it – that was in his power. Yet he was dying too. He did not choose. He shut his eyes and let go.
    Robert Vandaariff cleared his throat, a coach wheel crunching gravel. ‘Wither your thoughts, Cardinal Chang?’
    ‘How best to end your life.’
    ‘I think not. No, you were far away.’
    ‘What do you care?’
    ‘All flesh may be cursed, but there are degrees. There are tigers and there are sheep. And tigers – though rare – can be anywhere in life. I am no snob, Cardinal. One finds as many sheep in a palace as in a poorhouse.’
    ‘You seek to count my stripes, then? So I am remembered?’
    ‘You’d prefer to be forgotten?’
    ‘I’d prefer to set myself on fire.’
    Vandaariff scowled. ‘Posturing.’
    ‘Not every man fears oblivion.’
    ‘Not every man has tasted it.’
    ‘Will you tell me where we’re going?’ Chang asked.
    ‘Harschmort,’ said Foison. ‘You know that.’
    Foison kept his gaze on Chang and did not see his master’s disapproving look – though Chang did not suppose he needed to. The break in protocol had been deliberate.
    Through the mesh loomed a line of lanterns, blocking the road. The panel slid shut. Outside came the sound of horses, and loud calls. The carriage slowed – a military roadblock.
    ‘You were away,’ said Chang. ‘You returned
after
his recovery from blood fever.’
    ‘Men change. The death of his daughter –’
    ‘That man