The Chemickal Marriage

wide, scarcely a prick. Chang tucked a knife into his belt and glanced at Foison’s wound. He would live. Chang began to run.
    It was half a mile before he found the cordon: exhausted militiamen doing their best to tend to those displaced – handing out blankets and serving soup from a makeshift canteen. He presented himself to a weary subaltern as an emissary of the Church and was passed through. Soon Chang was running again, angling away from where he’d been directed – if Foison did attempt to follow, Axewith would appear to have been Chang’s goal – and towards the train.
    Not Stropping Station – there Foison had been right. The place would be a madhouse. But he recalled Foison’s suggestion that Bronque post men beyond Stropping on the route to the Orange Canal. Now, because of Foison, Schoepfil would make his transit safely under the protection of the Colonel’s men.
    At the next checkpoint, further from the chaos, the troops again fed refugees from steaming pots suspended over open fires. He passed in easily, trading on the Archbishop’s name to request transport. A sergeant directed him to a line of people pressing similar claims of urgency. He stood behind a dishevelled older man and woman, their rich clothing spoilt by soot and water. The woman’s pleasure to see a churchman was visibly curdled by the Monsignor’s scars.
    ‘A terrible night,’ she managed.
    ‘We must reach our home,’ explained her husband, shifting to maintain his place in line ahead of Chang. ‘The grandchildren. The horses.’
    Chang craned his head to the front. Despite there being any number of apparently free vehicles, no one moved. With a sigh of disgust he strode forward.
    ‘We have to wait!’ cried the old woman.
    ‘Take us with you!’ pleaded the husband.
    Their calls caught the attention of others as Chang advanced, like a match to a trail of powder, igniting shouts of protest at his refusal to wait and calls of support from those attaching their frustration to his own.
    Chang cared only that no one blocked his way – that they’d remained docile for this long showed how little destruction this crowd had really seen. At the head of the queue stood a major of engineers, looking up from a folding field table of maps at the growing cries. The weary officer raised his hoarse voice for everyone to hear. ‘A system is in place, without favouritism – if you would just go back to your place –’
    ‘I have urgent word for the Archbishop.’
    The Major pointed with his stylus. ‘And
that
man for the Admiralty, and
that
man for the Ministries, and
that
man for Lord Robert Vandaariff himself – unfortunately, everyone must wait.’
    ‘Those coaches are unused.’
    ‘They may be required.’ The Major waved unhappily to his soldiers. ‘Kindly escort the Monsignor –’
    ‘That would be a mistake.’ Chang spoke coldly enough to give the soldiers pause. He turned to a man the Major had indicated, fat-faced and fair-haired, laden with several bulging satchels. ‘Your errand is with Robert Vandaariff?’
    ‘I beg your pardon?’ stammered the man.
    ‘His errand is none of your –’
    Chang’s walking stick slammed like a shot on the folding table, directly between the engineer’s two hands.
    ‘What is your
name
?’ Chang demanded, ignoring how his action had stunned everyone within earshot to stillness.
    ‘Trooste.’ The fair man’s hesitation set a wobble to his chin. ‘Augustus Trooste, Professor of Chemical Science, Royal Institute.’
    Chang let his expression curl to a knowing sneer. ‘Is that so?’
    ‘It is! My research – to Lord Vandaariff, is of the
highest
–’
    ‘When did you last see Madelaine Kraft?’
    Professor Trooste blanched, swallowed, rallied. ‘Why, whoever is that?’
    Chang laughed aloud at the lie. The trade between the Institute and theOld Palace was so thick that no resident scholar, whether he partook of her wares or no, could be ignorant of the woman who was its mistress.
    ‘You’ll come with me.’
    ‘To the Archbishop?’ protested Trooste, even as he bent awkwardly for his papers. ‘But I have told you –’
    Chang leant over the engineer’s table, speaking low. ‘Robert Vandaariff clings to life. The explosion at the Customs House – the news has been suppressed, but he will die tonight. His bequest of aid to the city has not been signed. He has no heir. Do you understand what that will mean to the city if his offer becomes swallowed in legal