The Chemickal Marriage

that direction.
    At a swinging wooden door he paused and peered into a scullery. A heavy steel cleaver stuck up from a butcher’s block, and Svenson wrenched with both hands until the blade came free. A woman in dark livery watched from an inner doorway. Past her more servants gathered around a teapot.
    ‘Everyone all right?’ whispered Svenson.
    The woman nodded.
    ‘Excellent. Stay here – you’ve all been told, haven’t you?’
    The woman nodded. Svenson turned for the door, then craned his head back. ‘Beg your pardon – so much has changed – the western wing?’
    ‘No one goes there, sir.’
    The cook was joined by the others, the increase in numbers heightening the dubious nature of his uniform, his accent, his filthy appearance.
    ‘That’s my cutting knife,’ said one of the men.
    ‘I will not abuse it.’ With an afterthought Svenson sketched a bow of thanks. ‘Not to worry. I do serve the Queen.’
    The disapproving man only pursed his lips. ‘Queen’s an old haddock.’
    Where the staircase had stood was a wall of new-laid brick, unplastered and without a door. This route blocked, Svenson followed the path of recent construction and eventually met voices, coming near. He scrambled behind a cloth-draped statue of an Eastern goddess (nearly putting out his eye on a finger of her fourth arm). The voices went past: two men in green with carbines guarding a half-dozen shambling, bandaged grenadiers.
    He walked on, gripping the cleaver. The corridor was gritty with plaster and sawdust, and ended at a wide, high foyer. He had reached the front of the house. Svenson flattened himself against the wall.
    The foyer was filled with bodies: grenadiers. Unlike the Customs House, these men were not dead: they stirred and moaned, slowly regaining their senses. A group of six, standing shakily, was bullied to order by Vandaariff’s militia.
    More of Vandaariff’s men marched through the main door carrying the same boxes that Kelling had so assiduously cared for. These men wore brass helmets, and dropped the boxes without ceremony. There was no sign of Kelling, or of Bronque. Perhaps they were still outside. Perhaps they’d been killed.
    The western wing lay beyond the foyer, but Svenson could not cross without being seen – any more than he could remain where he was. The group of grenadiers began to trudge towards Svenson’s arch. He retreated to a squat piece of cloth-covered furniture and ducked under the sheet, only to find a solid Chinese trunk. Svenson curled into a ball. The footfalls passed by, endlessly, but finally he tugged the cloth from his head. Not ten yards away on the opposite wall, similarly peeking from his own shroud, was a young man Svenson did not know.
    Carefully the young man slipped free of his hiding place and Svenson recognized the figure who had followed from the canal – orange coat, brass helmet, canvas satchel. He pointed deliberately to the floor.
    ‘We must go
down
,’ he whispered.
    Svenson nodded. ‘First we must cross the foyer.’
    The young man reached into the satchel, coming out with a pair of blue glass balls. He offered one to Svenson, but the Doctor shook his head, leaning close. ‘They have helmets – more than enough to stop us. Still, I have an idea.’
    ‘What is that?’
    The Doctor carefully laid the cleaver on the young man’s throat. ‘That you are my prisoner, Mr Pfaff.’
    The last grenadiers were being roused with kicks. Svenson’s quick count of Vandaariff’s men stalled at fifteen, four or five in helmets. Keeping to the wall, he and Pfaff advanced nearly halfway to the far wing before they were seen. The curiosity of Svenson holding a knife to Pfaff’s neck prevented an immediate clash. Instead, Vandaariff’s men formed a line to hem them in, carbines raised. Svenson addressed them as calmly as he could.
    ‘I am here for Lord Robert Vandaariff. If prevented, I will take the life of this man. Since Lord Vandaariff desires him
whole
, whoever amongst you provokes my action will pay the penalty. I will speak to Mr Foison.’
    ‘You’ll speak to me,’ replied a senior guard, shouldering through the line.
    ‘I am Captain-Surgeon Abelard Svenson of the Macklenburg Navy. This man is named Pfaff. He has information vital to Lord –’
    ‘
Svenson?
’
    ‘That is correct – and I assure you, unless you allow …’
    The Doctor faltered, for the senior guard had taken a paper from his pocket and, upon consulting it, signalled to his