The Chemickal Marriage

and kick him to tears, yet whatever errand Pfaff had been charged with by the Contessa might well make the difference to Miss Temple’s survival. Chang was stranded between enemies over which he’d no control.
    And what did Chang have to match them? His own strength. The knowledge of Trooste, the hope that Gorine could sway Mrs Kraft – or Mahmoud – to sense, and the intelligence of Cunsher to get each to the right place when their skills might make a difference. But
every
arrow of antagonism streaking towards Harschmort must be allowed to continue its flight if there was a chance that Vandaariff and his works would be destroyed.
    That the effort would cost his own life, Chang accepted, and with that acceptance felt a pang of such regret, such sorrow, that, still facing Pfaff in the swaying, crowded little car, Chang shut his eyes and sighed. Whatever impossible notions he might this day alone have begun to entertain would remain just that – phantoms, dreams.
    ‘Listen to me,’ he repeated. ‘Whatever your errand – whatever you carry, whatever she’s told you to do – I don’t give a damn. I won’t stop you –’
    ‘No, you won’t,’ retorted Pfaff in a tight voice.
    ‘But if you harm Celeste, Jack, I will kill you. I won’t stop until I do.’
    ‘
Celeste
, is it?’ Pfaff met Chang’s implacable gaze. ‘Well, you’re finished. Everyone knows it.’
    ‘I may be.’ Chang voice was soft. ‘But I’ve
seen
the painting, Jack. He’ll kill Celeste. And the Contessa too, whatever she believes.’
    Chang opened the door, then called back above the racket of the wheels. Pfaff – and, strangely, Downie – listened with a fearful expectation. ‘He’ll kill us all.’
    The corridor remained empty of soldiers. Chang strode past Mrs Kraft’s compartment in time to hear the whistle. Packington Station. The platform was as crowded as Crampton Place, but fronted by a line of midnight-blue, Bronque’s grenadiers.
    The train came to a halt with a great hiss of steam. Chang leapt out and rolled beneath the carriage. He hauled himself onto the steel cross-braces, kicking his legs over and through. He positioned his hips on the cross-point and wedged the walking stick between the iron posts to support his shoulders, then extended a limb in each direction, along the struts.
    The whistle echoed down the track bed and the train resumed its motion. At each station Chang relaxed his arms and legs, working the joints, careful not to let them hang where they might be seen by any passing eye. He heard Bronque’s soldiers calling out, making sure no unknown persons gained access. That someone had already done so did not occur.
    The only exception was Raaxfall. The Raaxfall Station had been burnt.
    At last they reached Orange Locks, where the Colonel and his men would disembark. Chang remembered Foison’s words: good men had attempted to reach Harschmort in stealth, only to be taken or killed. The surest way to reach Robert Vandaariff was to let Colonel Bronque clear the path.
    Around him rose the shouts of men – orders to form up, whistles. Chang crawled between the wheels, away from the station, and rolled down a slope of gravel, out of sight. The whistle sounded and the train churned on. Chang scrambled up and lay flat in the cover of the rails. A company of grenadiers, at least a hundred men, formed ranks in the station courtyard.Colonel Bronque trotted down the steps to join them. Chang traced Bronque’s path backwards to the station house in time to see Madelaine Kraft make a dignified if fragile exit, supported by Mahmoud. Bronque’s shouting, detailing men to stack wooden crates into a waiting wagon, brought his attention back to the courtyard. In the wagon stood Mr Kelling.
    The rear red lantern of the train had passed from sight. Was Pfaff still aboard? Chang loped to the station and heaved himself onto the platform. He reached the station wall in a rush, his back flat against the brick. He peeked once in the window, then crept to the door.
    He slipped out Foison’s knife and burst inside. The nearest grenadier took the blade across his throat. The second soldier raised his rifle to fire, but Chang slashed it away with the stick and drove the knife into the grenadier’s chest. On a bench, bound and gagged in a row, sat Cunsher, Gorine and Trooste. Chang yanked the rag from Cunsher’s mouth and sawed through the rope around his wrists.
    ‘They are marshalled for an assault on Harschmort.’