The Chemickal Marriage

just his genius! For every mention of alchemy, planets and spheres – the metaphorical brushstrokes, if you will –’
    ‘Metaphorical horse droppings.’
    ‘You may well say, but the science at play is as sound as a
bell
.’
    ‘So. The coloured glass cards. What is their purpose?’
    ‘No purpose at all!’ Trooste insisted. ‘Experiments in smelting, nothing more. The primary component of each card remains indigo clay –’
    ‘But they are not infused with memory.’
    ‘No! Each card is an amalgam of indigo clay with a different metal –’
    ‘Why? Why
alchemically
?’
    Trooste did not hear the question, for his attention had been taken by Chang’s face. Chang wiped at his cheek, wondering if he’d been splashed with Foison’s blood.
    Trooste bit his plump lower lip, and dropped his voice to an eager whisper. ‘My Lord, I’d no idea. And – sweet mercy – where is it
installed
?’
    Chang seized the reins and pulled. Trooste fought to keep them – to keep the gig from spilling – but the horse came to a stop without incident.
    ‘Of all the reckless – you could have broken our necks!’
    ‘How the nation would mourn. Get out.’ Chang reached beneath the seat and hurled one of the Professor’s satchels to the street.
    ‘What are you doing? I’m coming with you – you need me!’
    Chang threw another satchel – aiming for the fetid gutter but landing short. Trooste lunged to stop him. Chang shoved him hard in the chest.
    ‘Get
down
.’
    The Professor did so, an awkward scramble as the final satchel struck the road. Chang vaulted down after him and walked off quickly. Trooste gathered his burdens and hurried to follow.
    ‘But our gig! Someone will steal it!’
    ‘Let them.’
    ‘My papers are heavy!’
    Chang called over his shoulder. ‘Then let them burn.’
    Trooste caught up at the corner, red-faced and gasping. ‘You’re a lunatic!’
    ‘Is that so?’ Chang gazed at the Professor over the rim of his spectacles. ‘You see, I
know
Robert Vandaariff, and knew the Comte d’Orkancz before him even better.’
    ‘You knew the Comte d’Orkancz?’ Trooste’s voice rose, like a dreamy imperialist speaking of Napoleon.
    ‘I put a sabre through his guts.’
    The Professor hitched his bundles higher on his chest. ‘You are
not
a priest.’
    Chang laughed and walked on. Trooste glanced back to the gig as they rounded the corner, the horse waiting docile in the empty street.
    ‘Lord above!’
    To Trooste’s credit, the outburst was not so fearful as grim. Before them stood the Crampton Place railway station, the platform packed with so many waiting travellers that they spilled into the lane. Chang saw neither Foison’s green-coats nor Bronque’s grenadiers …
    ‘We will never get through,’ huffed Trooste. ‘We should go back to the horse before it’s taken.’
    ‘One horse cannot get us there in time. You said it yourself.’
    ‘In time for
what
?’
    Chang stopped cold. Trooste slammed into his back and cursed as a satchel tumbled to the ground.
    ‘Leave it!’ Chang set off. ‘
Hurry
.’
    ‘I cannot leave it! O damn you – will you not wait?’
    Chang ignored him, sure of what he’d just seen. He plucked a satchel from Trooste’s grasp and thrust it ahead, a battering ram to reach an alley that ran parallel to the rails.
    Trooste gestured over his shoulder. ‘Is not the platform
behind
us?’
    Chang pointed the walking stick. Trooste extended his bulging neck to look – why did such men so often opt for constrictive garments? At the end of the alley, in a gap between tar-shingled shacks, appeared a squat line of green – rushes along the trackside … and through them came another wink of orange.
    At the final shack, Chang knelt to wait. A far-off wail. The train.
    ‘Who is the man in orange?’ asked Trooste. ‘A friend?’
    ‘No. If he sees us, he may attack. You should flee.’
    ‘Not you?’
    Chang smiled. ‘Let us say we share an outstanding wager.’
    The train wheezed into Crampton Place like a massive metal ox, overburdened but stoic. A bell sounded from the station house and the air erupted with the tumult of hundreds attempting to board. Chang counted twenty carriages in all – a long train, extended to answer the fleeing crowds – and watched as Jack Pfaff broke from his hiding place and ran straight for the brake van. Chang slapped Trooste’s arm and made for the nearest carriage, third from the rear. He vaulted the steps into the