The Chemickal Marriage by Gordon Dahlquist Page B
Authors: Gordon Dahlquist
world, was like planting corn in the snow.
He woke, eyes screwed shut against a painful glare. The helmet had been removed. Chang squinted and saw it on the wall: hammered brass, with two glass eye plates – round, like the eyes of an insect, now painted black. The earpieces and mouth box had likewise been bolted tight. It was a helmet designed to protect the wearer during the smelting of indigo clay.
He was a prisoner of the Comte d’Orkancz, whose rotted mind now lived in the body of Robert Vandaariff. Who else? The others were all dead. Chang had done his best to kill the Comte and failed. His skin went cold. Had he been kept alive only for revenge?
A voice reached him from beyond the glare, soft, chuckling.
‘You have been so long away from any light as to be a
mole
.’
Chang blinked and made out a padded chair. In it, business attire shielded by an oilcloth apron, sat Robert Vandaariff.
‘You are under my protection.’
Vandaariff used a thin black cane to rise and advanced to the table. His steps were brittle and, as he entered the light, his face revealed new lines of age.
‘Reincarnation disagrees with you.’ Chang’s voice was raw. ‘You look like a fishwife’s dinner.’
‘And
you
have not seen a mirror.’
‘Now that I’m awake, might I have my clothes?’
‘Are you cold?’
‘I am naked.’
‘Are you ashamed?’ Vandaariff’s eyes drifted across Chang’s body. ‘A handsome man – barring the scars, of course. So
many
scars … knives mostly, by the stitching. But your face … the damage there is singular – and to most tastes horrifying, I’m sure. The eyes are abnormally sensitive – even when asleep you flinch from a lantern. Do you mind my asking the cause?’
‘A riding crop.’
‘Viciously applied. How long ago?’
‘Where are my clothes?’
‘I’ve no idea. Burnt? No, Cardinal Chang, you remain almost as you were born. For one, to increase the difficulty of slipping away, were you – ever resourceful – to manage it. But, in the main, it makes you easier to
study
.’
‘Study how?’
‘Such a hopeful question. I will ask one in return, now we are speaking. What do you remember?’
The words hung between them, and Chang knew his inability to recall a thing since the forest was a direct result of something Vandaariff had done. With nothing else to say he could only hope to provoke the man.
‘I remember putting a sabre through your guts on the airship.’
‘But that was not me at all,’ Vandaariff replied mildly. ‘That was the poor Comte d’Orkancz.
I
was at Harschmort House, left behind by all my former friends.’
‘Left an idiot, you mean. I
saw
you –
him
– and I saw everything at Parchfeldt! How in hell did you survive? That mob was set to tear you to pieces.’
‘Very good. The airship
and
the factory. And after that? What, Cardinal Chang, do you remember
next
?’
Chang pulled against the chains and exhaled through his nose.
‘If you have done anything to me – I promise you –’
‘Done? I have saved your life.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘Another excellent question. You are abrim.’
Chang turned at a sound to his left – a panel flush with the wall, swinging clear. A tall man in a shining black coat stepped through, silk rustling against the doorframe. Though he was not old, white hair hung to the man’s collar, and his skin was as brown as a Malay sailor’s. He sank into a silent bow and then spoke gently, tamed.
‘My apologies, my lord …’
‘Yes?’
‘Another incident at the gate. A single man. Not from the town.’
‘Not from the town? Gracious, is he alive?’
‘He is.’ The white-haired man met Chang’s gaze without expression.
‘Bring him, Mr Foison,’ said Vandaariff heartily. ‘We will seize the opportunity to learn.’
Foison bowed and left the room. What town? Chang could see nothing to place where he was. If only he were not so
weak
. Through the door came the sounds of men lugging a
He woke, eyes screwed shut against a painful glare. The helmet had been removed. Chang squinted and saw it on the wall: hammered brass, with two glass eye plates – round, like the eyes of an insect, now painted black. The earpieces and mouth box had likewise been bolted tight. It was a helmet designed to protect the wearer during the smelting of indigo clay.
He was a prisoner of the Comte d’Orkancz, whose rotted mind now lived in the body of Robert Vandaariff. Who else? The others were all dead. Chang had done his best to kill the Comte and failed. His skin went cold. Had he been kept alive only for revenge?
A voice reached him from beyond the glare, soft, chuckling.
‘You have been so long away from any light as to be a
mole
.’
Chang blinked and made out a padded chair. In it, business attire shielded by an oilcloth apron, sat Robert Vandaariff.
‘You are under my protection.’
Vandaariff used a thin black cane to rise and advanced to the table. His steps were brittle and, as he entered the light, his face revealed new lines of age.
‘Reincarnation disagrees with you.’ Chang’s voice was raw. ‘You look like a fishwife’s dinner.’
‘And
you
have not seen a mirror.’
‘Now that I’m awake, might I have my clothes?’
‘Are you cold?’
‘I am naked.’
‘Are you ashamed?’ Vandaariff’s eyes drifted across Chang’s body. ‘A handsome man – barring the scars, of course. So
many
scars … knives mostly, by the stitching. But your face … the damage there is singular – and to most tastes horrifying, I’m sure. The eyes are abnormally sensitive – even when asleep you flinch from a lantern. Do you mind my asking the cause?’
‘A riding crop.’
‘Viciously applied. How long ago?’
‘Where are my clothes?’
‘I’ve no idea. Burnt? No, Cardinal Chang, you remain almost as you were born. For one, to increase the difficulty of slipping away, were you – ever resourceful – to manage it. But, in the main, it makes you easier to
study
.’
‘Study how?’
‘Such a hopeful question. I will ask one in return, now we are speaking. What do you remember?’
The words hung between them, and Chang knew his inability to recall a thing since the forest was a direct result of something Vandaariff had done. With nothing else to say he could only hope to provoke the man.
‘I remember putting a sabre through your guts on the airship.’
‘But that was not me at all,’ Vandaariff replied mildly. ‘That was the poor Comte d’Orkancz.
I
was at Harschmort House, left behind by all my former friends.’
‘Left an idiot, you mean. I
saw
you –
him
– and I saw everything at Parchfeldt! How in hell did you survive? That mob was set to tear you to pieces.’
‘Very good. The airship
and
the factory. And after that? What, Cardinal Chang, do you remember
next
?’
Chang pulled against the chains and exhaled through his nose.
‘If you have done anything to me – I promise you –’
‘Done? I have saved your life.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘Another excellent question. You are abrim.’
Chang turned at a sound to his left – a panel flush with the wall, swinging clear. A tall man in a shining black coat stepped through, silk rustling against the doorframe. Though he was not old, white hair hung to the man’s collar, and his skin was as brown as a Malay sailor’s. He sank into a silent bow and then spoke gently, tamed.
‘My apologies, my lord …’
‘Yes?’
‘Another incident at the gate. A single man. Not from the town.’
‘Not from the town? Gracious, is he alive?’
‘He is.’ The white-haired man met Chang’s gaze without expression.
‘Bring him, Mr Foison,’ said Vandaariff heartily. ‘We will seize the opportunity to learn.’
Foison bowed and left the room. What town? Chang could see nothing to place where he was. If only he were not so
weak
. Through the door came the sounds of men lugging a