The Dark Volume mtccads-2 Page 50

  The Contessa wiped her mouth with the fingertips of her left hand, a contemptuous gesture that deliberately showed him her weapon: a band of bright metal that fit across all four fingers, sporting in the middle a sharp, almost triangular spike of steel, perhaps an inch in height: enough of a blade to slash, yet the squat base also made it a vicious adjunct to the wearer's fist. One swift blow had punctured the skull of Harald Crabbé on the airship, ending his life before he could collapse to the floor. But—and the sensation caused him to marvel, for he was in his life stricken by so many things—Doctor Svenson was not afraid, not of her, nor—especially of dying itself… not when survival meant so little.

  “If you would,” he said to her. “The St. Royale…”

  AS IF admitting she had been for the moment foxed, the Contessa smiled. Doctor Svenson braced himself. Whatever she was about to say would form the first step in her revenge.

  “There is practically nothing to describe. You must know of her assignation with Trapping—merciful sin, Doctor, you met the man yourself. Is there anything more dispiriting than to be the mistress of a fool?”

  Svenson wanted very much to strike her, but did not move. “I find you dispiriting, madame. With all your unquestioned talents, you remain the epitome of waste.”

  “From a man who has thrown away his life for Karl-Horst von Maasmärck…well, I shall bear it in mind.”

  “The meeting. The hotel.”

  “What is there to say? I did not want Francis or Oskar or Crabbé to know of my suspicions, so I could not risk being seen. As I knew Charlotte Trapping socially, it needed to be arranged by Caroline.”

  “Mrs. Trapping was not to know of your involvement?”

  “She least of all,” replied the Contessa, as if this point were especially obvious.

  “But why should Elöise be present? Why, if she was—” he stammered to say it, feeling his face grow hot with anger and shame “—the Colonel's mistress, and Mrs. Trapping was aware of—her—their— assignations—”

  “Aware?” laughed the Contessa.

  Svenson was dumbfounded. “But—if—why—”

  The Contessa laughed again. Svenson saw her assumptions change—and knew what she would tell him had changed as well. Before she could speak, he held up his hand.

  “You were not getting information from Charlotte Trapping— that you would have insisted on hearing alone. Instead, Mrs. Stearne was informing her that some deep secret was known, and exacting a promise or payment to forestall its publication. The obvious secret is the infidelity, the Colonel's mistress…”

  But suddenly Svenson knew this was wrong.

  “Indeed, such would explain the presence of Mrs. Dujong. But you forget that I have seen the women arrive together to this building, as I have seen them together earlier this day: if the infidelity were indeed a breach between them, this would not be. You included Mrs. Dujong in the invitation for two reasons: first, as a sensible, observant person who must have known the secret herself, she would make sure Charlotte Trapping showed up; and second, upon being apprised of the threat to her mistress, Mrs. Dujong would exert a prudent influence—in protecting Mrs. Trapping, she would inadvertently deliver her into your control.”

  It was also ironic, he thought: Elöise being made aware of the threat to Mrs. Trapping—swiftly followed by the Colonel's disappearance—explained why she had been so readily persuaded by Francis Xonck to go to Tarr Manor, where the memories of that meeting, along with the very fact of her infidelities, had been removed from her mind.

  “Why should I require prudence?” asked the Contessa. “I find prudence dull.”

  “Because Mrs. Trapping is a Xonck,” replied Svenson. “Proud, angry, bitter, and as unpredictable as a drunken Lord.”

  The Contessa smiled again. “My goodness, Doctor, your cleverness has so nearly assuaged the urge to strike you dead.”

  “You have not yet told me what the secret was.”

  “And I will not.”

  “You will.”

  “Unfortunately, Doctor, we are no longer alone.”

  SVENSON SPUN toward the rooftop door. At once, instinct firing his limbs just in time, he threw himself back to avoid the slash of the Contessa's spike across the front of his throat. The woman staggered at the force of her erring blow. Svenson's own arm was cocked in a fist when he met her eyes and saw she was once again laughing.

  “You cannot blame me, Doctor—only a fool gives up easily. Strike me if you must—or if you can—but I was telling you the truth.”

  She pointed with her steel-wrapped hand at the far side of the rooftop, beyond the line of chimneys. Two men stood there, one straight, one bent as if in illness, yet however many steps apart they stood, they unquestionably stood together. Svenson turned back to the Contessa, wishing he still held the silver revolver. On the other side of the line of smokestacks stood Francis Xonck with—with!—Cardinal Chang.

  The two men advanced to the line of chimneys and crossed through to Svenson's side of the tar-covered rooftop. The Contessa darted to the ladder, but once there merely leaned down, sniffed, and then called to them.

  “No one climbs up. As it would be evident to an infant that we are here, I must assume Mr. Leveret considers us managed.”

  How easily the woman had gone, in the matter of a minute, from dashing conversation to attempted murder, to a reunion with sworn enemies—and then shown the presence of mind to assert that any specific argument between them had been rendered trivial by their shared predicament.

  “What weapons are they using?” growled Xonck, his voice thick and hoarse.

  “Your special carbines, of course,” replied the Contessa. “But I do not believe they have men in the trees to shoot us here.”

  “They could rush us if they cared.” Xonck nodded to the rooftop door.

  “So they do not care,” she snapped. “It is your Mr. Leveret—perhaps you know his intentions.”

  Xonck hacked out a wretched blue gobbet onto the tar. For an instant his eyes lost focus and his body swayed. “Leveret… merely following… orders.”

  “I do not think so, Francis,” the Contessa said. “Leveret remains no more your creature than Margaret Hooke is the Comte's, or Caroline Stearne is my own.”

  “He does not know that I have arrived.”

  “Perhaps not—merely that a savage, stinking, monstrosity—”

  “Rosamonde—”

  “And how bold you were to remove Oskar's machinery from Harschmort—before anyone was even dead! Or was everyone to die in Macklenburg by way of a poisoned pudding?”

  Standing apart from them all, Cardinal Chang chuckled. Svenson searched on his one-time ally's face for some explanation for his alliance with Xonck, but found only the two implacable, flat circles of black glass.

  “Francis.” The Contessa's tone was almost kindly. “There is no time at all. You must talk to us while you are still able, and while we have time. The machines are gaining speed.”

  The clatter from below, and the corresponding vibrations, had accelerated so gradually the Doctor had scarcely noticed the change. But the incremental change was actually quite extreme, like a ship's boiler driven slowly to ramming speed to break through ice.

  “What of that army—those adherents?” Xonck growled. “Why summon them if you are marooned with us?”

  “Because she did not summon them at all,” said Chang.

  “You might have said before what you knew,” hissed Xonck, swaying.

  “Neither of you could have called them. You have both just arrived.”

  “Nor Leveret,” said Svenson. “He does not even know who they are.”

  “It is Margaret,” said the Contessa, bitterly.

  “She will skin you alive yet, Rosamonde,” Xonck snorted, a garbled rueful laugh. “Do you still have it?”

  “Have what?”

  “The marrow sparge,” said Chang, again causing both to turn to him.

  “Margaret has the book,” Xonck snarled
. “She will bring it here.”

  “With a damned army,” began Svenson, but Xonck ignored him, weaving close to the Contessa.

  “If you have the marrow sparge, none of this matters!”

  “Unless Margaret did not recover the book,” said Chang.

  “Recover it from whom?” the Contessa asked with impatience.

  “The little teapot.”

  “Celeste Temple,” said Chang.

  “She is alive?” cried Svenson, taking a step closer to Chang, wanting to shake the man.

  “She went to Harschmort,” said Chang. “And took the book for herself.”

  “Margaret has invaded her mind!” insisted Xonck. “The girl is marked, finished.”

  “So all will be well!” the Contessa shot back at him. “If your book does arrive—and if we are not killed—and if our minds are not raped—and if Margaret and Mr. Leveret are both utter fools! And if that's the case, Francis, I suppose we must come to an agreement.”

  “I am dying, Rosamonde.”

  The Contessa's only reply was a haughty snort.

  “None of this makes sense,” said Svenson. “Leveret knows we are here. And yet he does nothing.”

  “Because he fears to cross me,” rasped Xonck.

  “Because he fears us,” cried the Contessa. “We have defied his men, his weapons, his every defense—”

  “He does nothing because he does not need to,” said Chang. “We are birds in a cage.”

  “No.” Svenson shook his head. “He did not expect us to be here— we mean nothing to his plan. He waits for his true rivals—one he has taken captive, and the other is on her way. The one he has is insignificant. But the one he waits for—the glass woman—when she arrives, he must be ready for her. It can be the only reason for this factory to exist.”

  NO ONE spoke, and then a moment after that they could have shouted at the top of their lungs and no one would have heard. The double line of chimneys burst into life, belching thick columns of black smoke and steam. The roar of their spewing left Doctor Svenson staggering as if a gunshot had gone off next to each ear.

  It was perhaps two seconds after this that the rooftop door exploded in an almost silent flower of wood chips and flame. The Contessa fell to her knees and Xonck, nearest to it of all, was knocked flat. Svenson flinched at the splinters blown against his face, and looked up, blinking. Chang carefully raised his empty hands. Svenson followed his gaze and then lifted his own arms with the exact placating caution. The ragged hole where the doorway had been was now crowded with green-coated soldiers, their bright weapons aimed in an unwavering line. Another squad of soldiers had swarmed up the ladder where he had climbed with the Contessa, and a third—following Chang and Xonck on the opposite side—had crossed the roof to take positions between the chimneys.

  Xonck vomited onto the tar. The Contessa struggled to her feet, her hair in disarray. The soldiers at the ruined doorway fanned onto the rooftop, and as they did so Svenson saw a figure rise through the fingers of still-flaming wood, the black chimney smoke behind her like an infernal curtain blotting out the sky.

  Charlotte Trapping stepped onto the rooftop, looking with disdain at the disheveled Contessa and her ruined brother, then wrinkled her nose at Svenson and Chang, their arms still in the air.

  “Collect them,” she cried over the roar, a note of pleasure running through her poised demeanor like a seam of silver through cold stone. “If any one so much as raises a finger… kill them all.”

  Ten. Factory

  WHEN MISS TEMPLE opened her eyes the tiny hold was still dark. She lifted her head from a burlap sack of beans she had pulled onto the bale of wool (the moist wool being raw and still smelling of sheep) and rubbed absently at the imprint its rough surface had pressed into her cheek. The barge was not moving. They had arrived. She sat up fully and restored Lydia's case to her lap from the crevice it had found between the bales. She bundled up her dress and wiped her face with her petticoat, then smoothed it down again. A very small amount of light crept in through an imperfection in the hatch cover, but it did not tell her whether it was safe to emerge.

  Miss Temple felt better for sleep, though her dreams had been unpleasant. She had been once more on the roof of the sinking airship, but the sea was made of shifting plates of blue glass, and as it licked her feet she had felt them freeze and stiffen. Elöise had been there, but then Elöise had become Caroline Stearne, her neck still cruelly gashed, the ruby wound and her black hair making her skin appear achingly pale. As if to amplify this impression, Caroline had reached behind her bloody shoulders and undone the buttons on her black dress. Miss Temple had squirmed at this impropriety, but then Caroline's torso was bare, the dress draped around her hips like a funereal willow. Miss Temple swallowed, rooted by Caroline's sorrowful beauty, the gentle curve of her belly, soft, hanging breasts, nipples the color of raw meat, and the white flesh above them flecked with dried blood. Miss Temple felt her frozen toes beginning to snap. She tottered, knowing that to fall would mean death. Caroline had changed back to Elöise, but with the same body and the identical wound. It was suddenly vital that Elöise reveal some secret, but her ruined throat would hold no air. Each attempt to open her mouth was mocked by the puppetlike gape of the open gash below it. In a sudden spasm of dread Miss Temple reached up for her own throat and felt the tips of her fingers enter the cold incision carved across it…

  She frowned, plucking at her hair with both hands, remembering rather more of the dream than she cared to. While she did feel restored—more physically capable, at least—this improvement was accompanied by a palpable increase in her own hunger. Not any hunger for food—though it had been some time since she had eaten, and Miss Temple would not have refused anything wholesome (save mutton)— but an erotic hunger calibrated precisely to the urges of her blue glass memories. At the same time, her sleep had placed some small distance between her and the black influence of the Comte d'Orkancz's book of death. She could taste ash in the back of her throat when she swallowed, but the impulse to despoil things lay not so heavy on her will.

  Miss Temple swallowed again (having done so once to gauge the acrid taste, she could not prevent herself from repeating the gesture) and quietly shuffled off of the bales to the ladder, climbing until she touched the hatch cover. She heard nothing, and so pushed gently with the top of her head. The cover was quite heavy and did not budge until she pushed with her hand as well, when it lurched a sharp half-inch, the sudden scrape horridly loud. She peeked through the tiny crack, but could see nothing. Miss Temple raised the hatchway another two inches, waited, then raised it more, waited again, then finally raised it enough to make any further pretense of secrecy absurd. The deck was empty. She shifted the hatch cover to the side and carefully clambered through, keeping her dress and petticoats free of her feet in case she needed to run.

  The lantern whose dim light had penetrated the hold hung some yards away, and in its glow she saw they were docked at the edge of the canal. Beyond the canal's bricked border lay a cleared grassy sward and a thick, dark wall of trees whose high branches stretched over the barge, the moon and stars only visible through their whispering canopy.

  Miss Temple crept to a short mast half-way up the deck, the furled sailcloth at its side making a thick column to hide behind. She heard the clomp of a heavy bundle dropped onto a wooden surface, and then laughter. In the glow of another lantern loomed a knot of men hauling boxes from another hatch. But they were too far away—and then Miss Temple realized her own barge had been tied directly behind another of identical width, and that it was her very good luck to have emerged just when the crew of her own vessel had chosen to plunder their unguarded neighbor. Miss Temple seized the opportunity and scuttled to her barge's gangway. She looked once more at the men, heard the thud of another box dropped on the far deck, and picked her way down the planking, each footfall silent as a fox. She padded across the grass to a gravel road, crouching low until she reached a turn that hid her from the bargem
en. Miss Temple stood straight and exhaled. The dark color of her dress and hair would hide her in the night.

  The gravel road terminated at a high square building. The tall windows blazed in the darkness like a star come down to earth.

  The closer she came to the bright building, the more she heard what sounded like the low roar of a fire, and the metallic clatter of pots and pans. The sky above the building was covered with cloud, yet it took Miss Temple some minutes to realize that the cloud came from the building, for it rose not from a single chimney stack, but in a long curtain the width of the entire structure. Once the massive scale of the industry at work became plain to her, the low roar became legible as the hum of turbines and engines, and the kitchen racket as the remorseless clanking of mill machines.

  It was no great leap for Miss Temple to connect the destruction of the Comte's laboratory at Harschmort with another factory so vividly alive. Yet when she shut her eyes and opened her mind to the sickly pool of his book—which she did there on the road, despite her abhorrence, for she knew the knowledge might save her life—she detected no inkling of such a place whatsoever. But how could these works exist without the Comte's knowledge? Miss Temple walked on, dizzied again. She had seen her father's sugar works and the great coppers cooking rum—the stink of burning cane stayed with her to that day—but this would be her first modern mill. She did not expect to enjoy it in the least.

  DID SHE expect to enjoy anything anymore? It was a puling thought, more suited to a helpless lady in a play than Miss Temple's sturdy character, and yet at the core of the complaint lay something very real. She might appreciate incidental niceties—scones, for example—but these seemed merely appetite, an animal's need. Did not pleasure depend on an architecture of perspective—on contrast and delay, withholding and loss? Did not true enjoyment rely on facing the future? Did a cat possess such understanding? Did Miss Temple—in truth, in her soul?

  It was a difficult prospect to swallow, walking alone in the dark. What of substance had she ever wanted—genuinely, not taken by rote from the expectations of others? A husband? Roger was gone, and even if there had been someone to replace Roger (not that she was any sort to stick her affections so quickly from one place to another), what then? What sort of lover—the very word was an unchewed bite she could not swallow—could she possibly be when at the first intimation of desire she vanished beneath a sea of depravity? What man would possibly have her once they glimpsed the dark lusts staining every cranny of her mind? She saw herself lying exposed on what ought to have been her marriage bed, eyes nakedly aflame with knowing desire— he would cast her away in disgust! How could she convince anyone else of her innocence when she could not convince herself?