The Chemickal Marriage

– look closely, It’s not “Virgo” that’s written but “Virgin”. Virgin
and
Lucifera.
Two
people.’
    Foison studied the paper, then nodded with an exasperated impatience at his own slow thinking. ‘ “Mother Child Heir” is Kraft, her son and Schoepfil. They are together, and – iron and wind – will travel to Harschmort by train. “Virgin” is Miss Temple, “Lucifera” the Contessa. Heat and water – since the Colonel is involved, this means the Royal Thermæ. Either they remain there in the Queen’s protection –’
    ‘Or?’ asked Chang.
    Foison returned the paper to his coat. ‘Or the old stories are true.’
    ‘What stories?’
    Foison’s face went still. Chang spun round to follow the man’s gaze. Thethird green-coat, guarding their rear, was nowhere to be seen. How long had they been standing like fools?
    With a drumming of boot steps, the darkness behind them filled with Bronque’s grenadiers, bayonets fixed for silent work. Foison and Chang broke as one, waving the lead men on, racing blindly into the next intersection. A shot cracked out and the green-coat next to Chang staggered and fell.
    The far end of the road had been blocked with overturned wagons. Chang ran towards them, weaving to present a shifting target, ready to hurl his body over the makeshift wall. More shots came from the soldiers, missing their mark but splintering the wagons.
    The last green-coat reached the barrier first, caught hold and began to climb. As soon as his head cleared the wagon, a fist-sized lump of plaster potted him square on the ear. The man dropped hard to the cobbles. Chang and Foison veered, careening from both the bullets snapping around them and a hail of bricks and stones from the wagons – now topped by a line of angry faces.
    He seized Foison’s shoulder and they turned to see the crowd’s fury directed at the grenadiers. How many errant bullets had torn into the unseen crowd? The grenadier lieutenant waved his sabre for order, but a brick struck the officer on the arm and his sabre rang on the stones. The soldiers answered with a ragged volley, plumes of smoke spitting forward. Another shower of stones. The Lieutenant flat on his face. From the wagons, shrieks –
    Foison jerked free of Chang’s grasp and ran. Chang followed, wondering what had happened to the world.
    He caught an arm on a lamp-post and wheeled himself to a stop, ribs heaving. They had entered a warren of close lanes, but these were not streets simmering with discontent. Men in uniform stood scattered amongst the refugees, dismounted horsemen without their brass helmets, constables, even a priest, but no one claimed authority. Muskets cracked in the distance. A canopy of cloud hung over the city, its underside lit orange like an iron pot over a flame.
    ‘Why do you stop?’ called Foison.
    Chang shook his head. These choked lanes led to the railway station. ‘Stropping will be mobbed. And who’s to say your master hasn’t set off another device in the heart of it?’
    Punctuating another grudging concession, Foison sniffed. ‘Then what?’
    ‘Schoepfil.’
    ‘He has no army. He is but one clever man.’
    ‘He may give us Svenson and Madelaine Kraft.’
    ‘They are gone. More sensible to find Axewith – he can get us horses, escorts.’
    ‘Schoepfil’s house is on the way.’
    A knot of children stared at them, two strangely dressed demons conversing under the lamp light. Foison grunted and reached into his coat. He flung a fistful of coins onto the paving. The children didn’t move. Foison’s flat nostrils flared at his useless gesture and he stalked off. Behind the children stood a fat man in a stained waistcoat with a heavy walking stick. Chang extended one arm and snapped his fingers. With a nervous nod the man offered up the stick – strong ash with a brass grip shaped like a bird. Foison glanced back, saw the weapon in his prisoner’s hand, but continued on.
    The cordon of soldiers had withdrawn, and with them the angry crowds, dispersing with the decision of Axewith and his engineers to abandon this district. The orange glow in the sky seemed no closer, but Chang wondered how many houses would survive the dawn. He snorted at the thought – that it had become a refrain – and focused his attention on the dark windows of Drusus Schoepfil’s home.
    ‘No one,’ whispered Foison from the servant’s lane behind. Chang followed to the rear door. The house had no rear garden or stable.
    ‘No