The Chemickal Marriage

behaviour. Drusus Schoepfil to protect his
friend
. Mr Mahmoud doubly for his mother and his spouse.’ She laughed at Mahmoud’s expression of surprise. ‘O come, Bronque told me everything. And you, Doctor Svenson, will want to protect
everyone
, as ever, especially the gnome. The only one of you who might not care – care enough to submit – is poor, puking Celeste. I leave it to you gentlemen to compel
her
cooperation.’
    ‘And what do you intend?’ asked Doctor Svenson. ‘If it is anything like what Vandaariff had planned, these poor people are already lost. Kill them now and be damned!’
    ‘Why, Doctor, why should I follow Robert Vandaariff’s plan?’
    ‘Then what
are
you doing? What do you want?’
    At last Svenson came to Miss Temple, a hand on her bare shoulder. She shrugged herself free, her eye falling upon the revolver near Pfaff’s feet, and dashed towards it.
    ‘Stop her!’ warned the Contessa. ‘Or someone else turns to soup!’
    In a flash Schoepfil had his arms around Miss Temple’s waist. Mahmoud was only a step behind and snatched up the gun. His finger found the trigger as he looked to the glass.
    ‘Do try.’ The Contessa reached to the rostrum. ‘Will you break the glass in time to stop my hand?’
    Mahmoud lowered the gun. Her hand did not retreat. He tossed the weapon through the trapdoor.
    ‘Bloody idiot,’ snarled Miss Temple. ‘She’s going to kill you all.’
    ‘That is not true,’ replied the Contessa. ‘Poor Celeste. I’m only going to kill
you
.’
    A dozen acolytes entered from the open doorway and through the trapdoor climbed green-coated lackeys, three with carbines and a fourth, with a wry smile, holding the revolver Mahmoud had just thrown down. The two groups surveyed the chamber with a menacing aspect, but the Contessa addressed them with an easy confidence.
    ‘Welcome. As you can see, your master, Robert Vandaariff, is dead. His legacy is not. The man on that table is his legal heir. It is your duty to protect him. This is the will of Robert Vandaariff. If any one of these people attempts to interfere, take their lives. Faithful service will be handsomely rewarded.’
    Schoepfil stammered with outrage. ‘That – that – woman –
she
has killed Robert Vandaariff. My uncle!
I
am his heir!
I am his only heir!
She is the villain!’
    The Contessa’s hand floated warningly above the rostrum. ‘Mr Schoepfil …’
    ‘She
killed
him!’ protested Schoepfil desperately. ‘Use your eyes!’
    Miss Temple knew it was the Comte d’Orkancz who would be restored, but the soldiers and acolytes had all sworn allegience to Harschmort’s lord.
    The acolytes did not move, but the four soldiers took in the blood and the corpse and exchanged a look between them of great suspicion.
    ‘Perhaps I might speak – for the benefit of those others present
in belief
?’ An acolyte who had been crouched behind Chang’s table came forward, slipping the hood from his face. His Process scars carried an authority insideHarschmort, and the acolytes and soldiers listened closely. ‘My name is Trooste. I was redeemed this very night. The woman speaks the truth. She did take our master’s life. It was his intention that she do so.
He
commanded her admission to his chamber. He
knew
.’
    The green-coat with the revolver pointed it at Vandaariff’s corpse. ‘But why?’
    ‘Yes!’ cried Schoepfil. ‘It makes no earthly sense –’
    ‘Only bear witness, gentlemen,’ replied Trooste. ‘And you will have your answer.’ He whispered to a pair of acolytes and they hurried away. Trooste bowed to the Contessa, who dipped her brass-bound head in return. Then she flicked the cover off a third glass knob.
    ‘Now, then, since, by Mr Schoepfil’s resistance, there is no love for Colonel Bronque …’
    Schoepfil screamed his useless contrition. Bright sparks leapt up to burn the air.
    The acolytes returned with a wheeled rack of blue glass books and a wicker hamper Miss Temple knew well. Trooste carefully extracted the book from the hamper and slotted it into the rack. He then emptied the three squat bottles, one by one, into rubber reservoirs that hung from the undercarriage of Chang’s table like bloated, black fruit.
    The other acolytes confidently tended the machines. The four soldiers adopted positions of fire: two at the main door, one by the glass wall, and their leader behind Schoepfil, the revolver pressed to the man’s back. Schoepfil had fallen to his knees, his