The Chemickal Marriage

eyes were as blue as a songbird’s eggs. Chang released him to the floor, the actor’s mouth working soundlessly.
    ‘The Draught of Silence?’ said Chang. ‘Not the best for his profession.’
    ‘You have achieved nothing,’ replied Vandaariff.
    He rapped his cane on the floor. Another line of acolytes filed into the room of machines and tubs behind Vandaariff, one of them, again, with a tray of bottles. To Chang’s horror the others bore the unmoving, naked bodies of Cunsher and Gorine. Both men were daubed with symbols in bright coloured paints, like savages from cannibal islands – or almost, for the skin beneath the paint was pale.
    ‘What have you done to them?’
    The acolytes lowered Cunsher and Gorine into coffin-shaped tubs. Their heads lolled. The acolyte with the tray emptied a flask of straw-coloured powder into Gorine’s tub, and then Cunsher’s. The tubs began to steam. The acolyte looked up, the fat face beneath the hood transformed with scars.
    ‘You were acquainted, I believe, in my new initiate’s former life. He will be more useful now – always clever, but now he will
transcend
.’
    Chang watched helplessly as Trooste emptied more flasks. By the end both Cunsher and Gorine floated in a rusty liquid that foamed against their painted skin.
    Chang shouted to the metal grille: ‘What do you want?’
    ‘For you to take the Draught of Silence, of course.’
    ‘Go to hell.’ Chang turned to the other doorways. ‘I’ll find a way through. I will cut your throat.’
    ‘No, Cardinal. That is not your place.’ Vandaariff’s eyes shone brightly through the mask. ‘You know the ritual, do you not, from Rosamonde’s memory? I am in her debt, to be sure. So many
celebrants
now come prepared.’
    ‘This cannot work,’ called Chang. ‘Even if you survive, into what world? The city burns. The Army rules the streets. The people have fled. The Ministries are silent, the bank vaults emptied –’
    ‘Buzzing flies on a dunghill.’
    ‘The
nation
hangs on the brink! Your nephew has allies in place. Every power will assist his accession, and your demise. You are unstable. Bronque is alive. His grenadiers –’
    The words died on Chang’s lips. The acolytes had returned with two more painted bodies – the angular man from the train, Kelling, and Colonel Bronque himself, whose flesh was marked with wounds. Chang recalled the silence they had noted in the dunes – what could explain it but the glass globes? Even a few of Vandaariff’s men could overwhelm Bronque and his survivors before they fired a shot. Trooste stood above the Colonel, emptying a flask.
    ‘Precious salts,’ said Vandaariff, following Chang’s gaze. ‘Blood and sex, acid and fire – a sacred tempering, Cardinal. And so the flesh of life becomes the flesh of dreams.’
    ‘Spare Celeste Temple.’
    Vandaariff turned. ‘I beg your pardon?’
    ‘Spare Celeste Temple.’
    ‘Why should I do that?’
    ‘In exchange for myself, for my cooperation.’
    ‘I will
have
your cooperation.’
    ‘You won’t.’ Chang drew out the silver knife. He tore off the canvas satchel and his red coat. He lifted his silk shirt and reached behind, isolating the lump of scar near to his spine. ‘I’ll cut out your glass. Even if it kills me.’
    Vandaariff studied Chang closely through his mask. ‘It
will
kill you.’
    ‘So be it.’
    ‘
Stop
.’ Vandaariff moistened his dry lips with a pallid tongue. Beyond him Trooste watched with an avid curiosity. ‘I cannot spare her. She must act the Bride.’
    ‘Use the Contessa.’
    ‘She is the Virgo Lucifera.’ Vandaariff raised a hand to the ceiling of the little room, which was formed of small open tubes, all of which had begun, ever so slightly, to
glow
.
    ‘She is your enemy. She wants your head.’
    ‘And I want her parts boiled down for
paste
. Nevertheless, ever we have found a way.’
    Behind Chang, an acolyte had crawled to the canvas satchel. Chang stamped on the man’s hand and felt the crunch of a glass globe giving way. The acolyte screamed at the pain, but kicked the brass helmet clear beforehe succumbed to the fumes. Chang went after the helmet, but another acolyte – they’d been waiting for their chance – caught Chang’s leg, even as he too collapsed. The helmet spun beyond Chang’s reach.
    A muffled roar shook the room. Chang looked up, his lungs tight. Black smoke spewed in from a splintered doorway. Foul air would protect him as much as the helmet.