The Chemickal Marriage

and selected a flask, sprinkling its contents judiciously … bright flakes gleaming gold. The flask was capped and they moved on to Mr Harcourt. Another beaker to the light, and another flask, but for Harcourt it was a sprinkling of dark pellets.
    The Doctor pressed at Foison. ‘Today, at the Institute, you asked the Professor if he found Lord Vandaariff’s interests
troubling
–’
    ‘A test, obviously,’ said Vandaariff.
    ‘
Obviously
,’ echoed Trooste. Foison said nothing.
    Svenson’s voice rose to a shout. ‘These are good men – Cunsher, Gorine! They do not deserve this barbaric treatment! This is
cannibalism
– forbidden by every sane precept – Lord, how can you not
see
?’
    Foison said nothing. Vandaariff tapped the glass with his stick.
    ‘If your outrage can bear it, Doctor, I have a question for Mr Foison myself. Actually I have two. The first from the confession – upon initiation to the Process, secrets will out – of Professor Trooste. He swears that Doctor Svenson destroyed two glass books at the Institute today, and kept one for himself. Somehow, the Doctor lost that book, most likely at the Royal Thermæ, as you have obviously found it. Yet, in the tumult of Cardinal Chang’s arrival and subsequent harvest, I have not had the details of that acquisition. One winnows the list of those who might have taken such a book from the Doctor – Drusus Schoepfil? The Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza? If you had bested any of these enemies I should expect to hear of it.’
    ‘Forgive me, my lord.’ Foison’s thin voice held not an ounce of contrition. ‘It was my intention to report whenever you had time to hear. I found the book in the house of Drusus Schoepfil, in a secret room painted in the mannerof the Comte d’Orkancz.’ Foison glanced, impassively, at Svenson. ‘Mr Schoepfil is a dangerous man. As his people occupied the Harschmort train, I was forced to find my own transport, and entrance.’
    Vandaariff waved away this inconvenience, along with Foison’s concern. ‘I well know of my nephew’s painted
room
, and that he has collected every artefact of the Comte he could find. Who do you think made them available? Who instructed those powerful men to promote Drusus Schoepfil as a figurehead in the first place? Though he credits his own ludicrous destiny, he remains as he ever was, an insignificant worm.’
    ‘You underestimate the power of his belief,’ said Doctor Svenson.
    ‘The man believes nothing. His heart is inert.’
    Svenson had given the book to Miss Temple. Foison must have had it from her, have
seen
her. But why had he hidden that from Vandaariff? Not from any weakness or wavering of purpose – Foison had used the book to reduce Cardinal Chang to a mindless husk, after all – a fact Trooste’s examination had just confirmed. Had Foison taken the book from the Contessa instead? Was
that
the alliance? Was Miss Temple even alive?
    Foison cleared his throat. ‘There was a second question, my lord?’
    ‘Indeed, for Doctor Svenson. You were given entry in the company of another man. A Mr
Pfaff
. Where is he now?’
    ‘We parted ways.’
    Foison cut in, softly but insistently: ‘Pfaff is an ally of the Contessa, my lord. He collected Miss Temple from the tomb. A criminal for hire, like Chang.’
    ‘Are
you
in league with Rosamonde, Doctor Svenson? I should find that …
amusing
.’
    ‘I am not.’
    ‘I wondered if you had forgotten poor Mrs Dujong so very soon.’
    ‘Burn in hell.’
    ‘I have a better notion – why don’t you come join me?’
    Leaving nothing to chance, six acolytes escorted the Doctor past three different locked doorways, the last edged with a band of black rubber to make anairtight seal. Brass helmets hung on pegs, two taken by acolytes and a third given to Svenson. The door was opened and, the seal of the helmet pulling at his neck, he followed the acolytes through.
    In the corners of the room stood copper braziers, each heating a bowl of orange-coloured oil, a tonic for Vandaariff’s condition, and evidently fatal for anyone else. The ceiling was honeycombed with small holes, aglow with growing light.
    Vandaariff waited at a table, blackened fingers tracing the edges of a blue glass key. An acolyte with gloved hands set a gleaming book before him. Vandaariff carefully inserted the key into its binding, lengthwise from the base, and the bright glass clouded, ever so slightly. He opened the cover and ran a fingertip down the first