The Chemickal Marriage

The girl would kill them all.
    For a moment he heard nothing … then the hidden door swung open, shielding Svenson behind it. No one stepped through. Chang jerked his head as if woken and blinked at the light. He could see Foison’s shadow, and a gleam of metal in his hand.
    ‘What now?’ Chang called hoarsely. ‘Where is your master?’
    Foison took a single step into the doorway, offering no clear shot to Svenson or Phelps.
    ‘Where are they?’
    ‘What are you talking about?’ Chang cocked his head. ‘Has the cat misplaced its mice?’
    Chang looked past Foison, hearing more footsteps.
    ‘Benton’s dead, sir!’ The man was out of breath. ‘Everyone but Hennig – two men, he says, with guns – left with the girl!’
    ‘Left where?’
    ‘He didn’t see, sir. We’re looking everywhere –’
    ‘Bring Hennig. Send word to Lord Vandaariff.’
    ‘But, sir – if we find them – no one need know –’
    ‘If we find them, we will then send word of
that
. Do it
now
.’ The man ran off. Throughout their conversation Foison had kept his eyes on Chang, who could not decide whether his captor was Asiatic or, instead, some Lapp or northern Finn.
    ‘There are footprints outside. I came to ask. You might have
heard
.’
    ‘Not a thing,’ said Chang.
    ‘You are fortunate they did not find you.’
    ‘Why is that?’
    ‘Because
you
… are the property of a jealous, jealous man.’
    Foison drove his body hard against the door, slamming it into Svenson, then he spun, whipping the knife in his right hand towards Phelps, who cried out, the bright blade sticking out of his topcoat. Foison slammed the door again, still harder – Chang could see Svenson’s legs buckle – and then opened it wide, another knife in his hand, and kicked the still-struggling Doctor in the ribs.
    The chain across Chang’s chest and arms went slack. Foison turned at thesound, but Chang took hold of the chain and cracked it at Foison like a whip, the last hard link snapping at the man’s forehead. Foison sprawled into the wall.
    Miss Temple stood, her fingers rapidly working free the other chains, eyes blessedly averted from Chang’s body. Svenson was on his knees, an unwieldy Naval revolver jammed into Foison’s belly. The white-haired man lay on his back, blood on his face, his teeth bared in pain.
    ‘He has pinned me to the wall,’ hissed Phelps, pulling at the knife that held him.
    Miss Temple hurried to assist Phelps, who did not seem to be injured. Chang gratefully slipped off the table to crouch near the Doctor.
    ‘We did not expect you,’ said Svenson. ‘We thought you dead.’
    ‘As I you,’ replied Chang.
    ‘These fellows will kill us.’
    ‘They will try.’
    Chang slapped Foison across the face, and then wrenched him up by the collar.
    ‘I require your clothes.’
    He left the white-haired man his undergarments and boots, for Foison’s feet were small. He turned his back on the others to dress. Foison’s trousers were black leather, but the white shirt was silk and draped Chang’s skin like cool water. Decent once more, he reached for the jacket, but paused at the expression on Svenson’s face.
    ‘Dear Lord … Cardinal …’
    ‘I beg your pardon,’ Chang snarled, turning his head. ‘I have lost my glasses, I cannot help it if my eyes offend your delicacy –’
    ‘No, no – good heavens, no – your
spine
–’
    Both Miss Temple and Phelps stood in shocked silence. It was the last thing Chang wanted to think about. He could move without pain – that was what mattered. He slipped into the coat, a surprisingly good fit, given the discrepancy of shoe size, and jerked his chin at their prisoner.
    ‘Get him on his feet.’
    Foison’s hands had been tied behind his back. Chang picked up the second knife – Foison’s coat still held another pair sheathed within it – and held it flat against the man’s throat.
    ‘Must we take him with us?’ asked Phelps.
    Chang raised a hand for silence, then pointed to the door. At his nod the Doctor pulled it wide, revealing Chang alone in the doorway, Foison before him like a shield.
    The clicking of pistol hammers came like a chorus of crickets – at least ten men, standing in the cover of more tables and the colourless corpses they bore.
    ‘If you interfere, he will die.’
    ‘If you touch him, we’ll shoot you to pieces,’ replied the man to his right, in a green Xonck tunic, three stripes on his sleeve. His revolver pointed straight into