The Chemickal Marriage

the bright line of windows was broken by rooms left dark, allowing the observers within to keeptheir night vision. ‘His men are watching. If we run they will shoot us down. But if we advance, I believe their master’s lack of time will dictate cooperation.’
    ‘But why should they cooperate?’
    ‘Because they will have seen
me
.’
    As he stepped onto the mown grass that surrounded the house, a half-dozen men filed from it, looking in their green jackets and brass helmets like insects leaving a hive. Chang dropped to one knee to present a smaller target. The others, still in the high grass, did the same, so only their faces were in view. Vandaariff’s men formed a line and, in unison, each reached into a canvas satchel slung over one shoulder, reared back and threw.
    Chang was already in motion, dodging one of the hurled missiles. He heard the shatter of glass and felt a stinging in his eyes. He held his breath. Cunsher’s carbine barked behind him and one of the six men fell. Glass burst at his feet in a cloud of bluish smoke – something flew past his head –
    Then Chang was on them – slashing furiously, catching hands and wrenching them backwards, kicking at knees – above all staying in motion to prevent their greater numbers from pulling him down. The helmets limited their vision and made their movements awkward. Two retreated to the door, digging for weapons. Chang spun out of an attempt to seize his waist and saw Cunsher stagger from the meadow, carbine dangling from one hand, then fall, smoke swirling in his face. Chang drove his blade into an attacker’s stomach and when the man doubled over slipped behind and wrenched the helmet from his head. The man fell, hands tight around his throat. Instead of putting on the helmet, Chang charged for the two men now guarding the door with wooden clubs. More glass shattered at his feet. He felt the pressure in his chest as he collided with them, viciously swinging the helmet like a studded mace. Chang broke through and to the door, which he slammed and bolted behind.
    This air too was marked by curling smoke, and in the light he saw its bluish tint more clearly. He tore off his glasses and clapped the helmet over his head. The rubber seal gripped tight around his throat. He exhaled in a gasp … and on the inhale tasted nothing but air. The door rocked on itshinges, pulled from outside. More canvas satchels hung from hooks on the wall. Chang slipped one over his shoulder and ran.
    Harschmort House had changed. Chang remembered the western wing (where he’d found Arthur Trapping’s corpse, so long ago) enough to note rooms knocked through, walls stripped to prison stone. In two months this wing of Vandaariff’s luxurious residence had been returned to its original state, as unadorned as a military barracks.
    He opened the satchel. Carefully insulated in sewn pockets were a dozen blue glass spheres, the size of small apples. He eased one out with a gloved hand and raised it to the light, like a float from a fishing net but for the clouds inside, swirling like milk in tea.
    Alerted by a shadow on the wall, Chang turned round and threw, the globe shattering between two bareheaded green-coats. With one shuddering breath they crumpled to their faces and lay still. Were they dead? Was there hope for Cunsher and the others? He did not go near to make sure. There wasn’t time.
    In the helmet he could just see straight ahead. At every room he was forced to spin like an antic dog to make sure he was alone. Three times he had not been – green-coats, servants, even a pair of housemaids – and a glass globe had preserved his liberty. Word of his penetration would spread, and Vandaariff’s forces, no matter his attempts to twist and turn,
ought
to have converged by now. Instead Chang advanced unimpeded, past unplastered walls, lumber, copper piping bound together with rope. Obviously every resource had been devoted to construction – the creation of whatever arena this final alchemical rite required.
    Chang did not have to search. As he bulled his way on, new figures appeared – always in rooms with multiple doorways, leaving one open path – guards and servants alike, never moving to apprehend him, or to sound an alarm. He was being herded along, like a sheep nipped on its flank. He could have burst free of the cordon, but the lives of his allies demanded a confrontation, and so he pressed willingly into his adversary’s lair.
    Chang’s path stopped at a