The Chemickal Marriage

…’
    ‘What is this?’
    Mahmoud had reached into the box of papers and lifted out a leather volume that, even as he handled it, began to moult paper and ash. Schoepfil hurried to take it from his hands.
    ‘No! That is an extremely valuable
grimoire
! Please set it down!’
    For the briefest instant Mahmoud’s eye caught the Doctor’s, then the dark man twisted away from Schoepfil, towards the light. ‘Valuable? But so much of it has been burnt –’
    ‘Yes, yes – an accident at the Thermæ –’
    Mahmoud innocently shifted further from Schoepfil. With the stealthy ease of a cat Doctor Svenson took the pen and began to write, tiny letters, quickly made. Kelling had joined his master in retrieving the precious book, and Mrs Kraft chided her son to return it. By the time Schoepfil finally snatched up the woodcut to fold and seal, the Doctor had retreated to his seat.
    An hour later Svenson sat across a coach from Mrs Kraft. Mahmoud was beside her and Kelling next to Svenson, boxes between them and cluttering the floor. Mr Schoepfil travelled with Colonel Bronque, a wedge of soldiers clearing their way to Stropping.
    ‘Mrs Kraft, what did you learn from being
healed
?’
    She studied Svenson closely, and he saw with pity how every transaction of her life must be a thing of leverage and guile. He did not doubt her desire for revenge, her determination to wager all. That she was willing to risk those around her should not have surprised him – what brothel keeper does not rise on the destruction of others? – but that it would include her own son took him aback. Had he misjudged her, or the hell to which she’d been consigned?
    ‘Your hands shake, Doctor.’
    He raised one to his face and saw the thin vibration. ‘I am in the habit of consuming more tobacco than has been available. And I am tired. And …’ He met her eyes and smiled. ‘I am sad.’
    ‘
Sad?
’
    ‘When I ask what you have learnt, it is not as physician or confessor, but what you remember about the Comte d’Orkancz, as only that would be valuableto Mr Schoepfil. Something he did to one of your women? Or is your insight from another source – Francis Xonck? You must have known
him
very well –’
    ‘Do not say a thing!’ warned Mr Kelling.
    The Doctor wanted to smile, for there was no better lever against Mrs Kraft’s silence than a presumptuous underling demanding that she keep it. But either she was not so easily provoked, or Mr Kelling was too insignificant.
    At Stropping, as they waited for the soldiers to clear a path, the Doctor had the presence of mind to put money into Mahmoud’s hands and shove him to a kiosk, open to brisk business despite the hour. ‘Anything – anything he has.’
    Schoepfil glanced from where he stood with Bronque – letting the Colonel, who clearly relished the task, harangue the militia officers charged with keeping order – scowling at Mahmoud’s departure, and then, having discerned the cause, wagging a finger in Svenson’s direction. Svenson only looked away. The station echoed with every sound ten thousand desperate people could make. Whistles shrieked. Railwaymen laboured to add extra carriages to trains going in every direction.
    ‘Turkish.’ Mahmoud handed him a flat red tin. ‘All that was left.’
    ‘Bless you.’ Svenson popped the lid with a thumbnail and inhaled. He plucked out a slender cigarette in coffee-coloured paper, tapped it twice on the tin and stuck it in his mouth. ‘You have no
idea
.’
    ‘Why do we wait?’ Mahmoud asked Mr Kelling.
    ‘Our special arrangements have been misplaced in all this nonsense. This
fire
.’
    Svenson met Mahmoud’s gaze over a flaming match set to the cigarette.
    ‘Damned inconvenient,’ added Kelling.
    ‘I expect it spoils Lord Vandaariff’s plans as well. He counts on our arrival as much as we do.’
    ‘Not mine,’ said Mrs Kraft.
    ‘Of course yours – unless Foison and Chang are dead. He will expect us all.’
    ‘They
are
dead. With all of the Colonel’s men hunting them? Men like that are common enough, and they die commonly too.’
    ‘I do not think you know Cardinal Chang.’
    ‘I assure you, I do, Doctor. And his faults. Do you know of his feeling for Angelique?’
    ‘Something of it. I was called to treat her, by the Comte.’
    Mrs Kraft shook her head. ‘Chang could have had her. Of course she was indifferent to him, as his behaviour was – almost
courtly
. But he could have
taken
her.’
    ‘That is not