The Chemickal Marriage

niche.
    ‘Is anyone lurking in the back?’
    The guard shouted for the prisoners to shift, striking the hindmost aside with a deep-rooted, casual savagery. A single man lay curled, barely stirring, his face a mask of dried blood.
    ‘Found one,’ muttered the guard. ‘But I don’t –’
    ‘At last,’ cried Chang, and turned away. ‘That is the fellow. Bring him.’
    The guard following with his burden, Chang tapped his way back to the first warder.
    ‘The Archbishop is most deeply obliged. Will I sign your book again?’
    ‘No need!’ The warden made note of the prisoner’s number, then carefully tore out half the page. ‘Your warrant. I am glad to have been of service.’
    Chang took the paper and nodded to the slumping man, upright only by the guard’s vicious grip. ‘I require a coach – and those shackles off. He will do no further harm.’
    ‘But Father –’
    ‘Not to worry. He’ll have confession before anything.’
    As soon as the coach was in motion, Chang tore the bandage from his head and used it to wipe the blood and grime from Cunsher’s face. The cuts above the man’s eyes and the bruising around his mouth spoke to a punishing interrogation, but Chang detected no serious wound.
    Chang tapped Cunsher across the jaw. Cunsher flinched and rolled away his head. With a sigh, Chang wedged his other hand under Cunsher’s topcoat and pinched the muscle running along his left shoulder, very hard. Cunsher’s eyes opened and he thrashed against the pain. Chang forced Cunsher’s gaze to his.
    ‘Mr Cunsher … it is Cardinal Chang. You are safe, but we have little time.’
    Cunsher shuddered, and he nodded with recognition. ‘Where am I?’
    ‘In a coach. What happened to Phelps?’
    ‘I have no idea. We were taken together, but questioned apart.’
    ‘At the Palace?’ Cunsher nodded. ‘Then why were you sent to the Marcelline?’
    ‘The officials who took us were fools.’ Cunsher probed for loose teeth with his tongue. ‘Did you take such trouble to find me?’
    ‘I sought someone else.’
    Cunsher shut his eyes. ‘That you came at all is luck enough.’
    In the minutes it took the coach to reach the Circus Garden, Chang explained what had happened since they had parted, revealing the loss of Celeste Temple only in passing.
    ‘The Doctor goes with the child to the Contessa’s rendezvous, but I cannot guess what she has gone to such lengths to show him, save this painting.’
    ‘Has she not already shown you the painting?’ asked Cunsher. ‘This glass card –’
    ‘But the actual canvas must be the heart of whatever Vandaariff plans.’
    Cunsher frowned. ‘My being sent to prison shows how low my interrogators set my worth – a foreign tongue is a useful tool to suggest one’s idiocy – but it suggests the contrary for poor Phelps.’ Cunsher pressed the gauze to his oozing cheekbone. ‘Either he remains at the Palace, or he has been given over to Vandaariff. Or – and most likely – he is dead.’
    ‘I am sorry.’
    ‘And I for you. But this is what I wanted to say. Phelps did go to the
Herald
–’
    ‘Did he learn the painting’s location?’
    ‘The salon was in Vienna.’
    ‘Vienna?’
    ‘Indeed, and the only reason the
Herald
printed the report was the rather large fire that consumed the entire city block, along with every piece of art in the salon. With regard to Veilandt’s
œuvre
, it was not seen as a loss.’ Cunsher’s puffed lip curled to a wry smile. ‘To the
empire
.’
    Chang could not believe it. The painting was
gone
? What, then, was the point of the Contessa giving Svenson the glass card?
    ‘Do the others know?’ He shook his head, correcting himself. ‘Does Svenson?’
    ‘No, Mr Phelps told me as we walked to the fountain. Lord knows where the Doctor truly has been taken.’ Cunsher grimaced at his thumbnail, bruised purple, and brought it to his mouth to suck. ‘And conditions in the city?’
    Chang’s reply was swallowed by an oath as the coach came to a sudden halt. He stuck his upper body out of the doorway. The street was a tangle of unmoving coaches. Trumpets clamoured ahead of them, followed by a menacing rush of drums and the crash of stamping boots. Chang ducked back inside, speaking urgently.
    ‘The Army holds the road – we should escape on foot, before there is violence.’ Chang leapt down, ignoring the protests of the driver, and extended a hand to Cunsher. ‘Can you walk?’
    ‘O yes, since I must. If we are