In a swift movement Chang raised his stick and strode to Bascombe. Before the man could half-rise from his chair the end landed viciously against his ear. Bascombe slumped down with a cry, holding the side of his head. Chang took the opportunity to press the stick roughly across his neck. Bascombe choked, his face abruptly reddening. Chang leaned forward and spoke slowly.
“Where is she?”
Bascombe did not immediately answer. Chang shoved the stick sharply into his windpipe.
“Where is she?”
“Who?” Bascombe’s voice was a rasp.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t think he knows who you mean.”
Chang whirled around and with a smooth motion pulled apart his stick. Behind the desk, leaning indolently against the bookcases, stood Francis Xonck, in a mustard yellow morning coat, his red hair meticulously curled, an unlit cheroot in his hand. Chang took a careful step toward him, risking a quick glance back to Bascombe, who was still laboring to breathe.
“Good afternoon,” said Chang.
“Good afternoon. I hope you haven’t hurt him.”
“Why? Does he belong to you?”
Xonck smiled. “That’s very clever. But you know, I’m clever too, and I must congratulate you—the mystery about the ‘she’ you so desperately seek is positively diverting. Is it Rosamonde? Is it little Miss Temple—or should I say Hastings? Or even better, the Comte’s unfortunate, slant-eyed trollop? Either way, the idea that you’re actually looking for any of them is richly amusing. Because you’re so manly, don’t you know, and at the same time such a buffoon. Excuse me.”
He pulled a small box of matches from his waistcoat and lit the cheroot, looking over the glowing tip at Chang as he puffed. His eyes shifted to Bascombe. “Will you survive, Roger?” He smiled at Bascombe’s reply—a hacking cough—and tossed the spent match onto the desk top.
Chang took another step closer to Xonck, who seemed as uncaring in his manner as Bascombe had been moments before, but oddly gay where Bascombe had been watchful. “Shall I ask you?” he hissed.
“You would do better to listen,” Xonck replied dryly. “Or, in lieu of that, to think. The way behind you is locked, as is the door behind me. If you were able to make your way through the door behind Bascombe—which you won’t—I promise you will be quickly lost within a dense maze of corridors with absolutely no chance of evading or surviving the very large number of soldiers even now assembling to kill you. You would die, Mr. Chang, in such a way as to serve no one—a dog run down by a coach in the dark.” He frowned and picked a scrap of tobacco off his lower lip and flicked it away, then returned his eyes to Chang.
“And you would suggest I serve you?” asked Chang.
“Serve yourself,” croaked Bascombe, from the table.
“He rallies!” laughed Xonck. “But you know, he is right. Serve yourself. Be reasonable.”
“We’re wasting time—” muttered Chang, moving for Xonck. Xonck did not move, but spoke very quickly and sharply.
“That is foolish. It will kill you. Stop and think.”
Against his better judgment, Chang did. He was nearly within reach of the man, if he lunged with the long part of the stick. But he didn’t lunge, partly because he saw that Xonck wasn’t frightened…not in the slightest.
“Whatever reason brought you here,” Xonck said, “your search—you must postpone. You were allowed up for the sole reason, as Mr. Bascombe has said, to make you a proposition. There is plenty of time to fight, or to die—there is always time for that—but there is no more time to find whichever woman you hoped would be here.”
Chang wanted very much to leap over the desk and stab him, but his instincts—which he knew to trust—told him that Xonck was not like Bascombe, and that any attack on him needed to be as carefully considered as one on a cobra. Xonck did not seem to be armed, but he could easily have a small pistol—or for that matter a vial of acid. At the same time, Chang did not know what to make of the man’s warning about escaping into the Ministry. While it might be true, it was in Xonck’s every interest to lie. But why had they let him ascend without any soldiers to take him in hand? He had too many questions, but Chang knew that nothing revealed more about a man than his estimation of what your price might be. He stepped away from Xonck and sneered.
“What proposition?”
Xonck smiled, but it was Bascombe who spoke, clearly and coolly despite the hoarseness of his voice, as if he were describing the necessary steps in the working of a machine.
“I cannot give you details. I do not seek to convince, but to offer opportunity. Those who have accepted our invitation have and will continue to benefit accordingly. Those who have not are no longer our concern. You are acquainted with Miss Temple. She may have spoken of our former engagement. I cannot—for it is impossible to say how I was then, for that would be to say how I was a child. So much has changed—so much has become clear—that I can only speak of what I have become. It’s true I thought myself to be in love. In love because I could not see past the ways in which I was subject, for I believed, in my servitude, that this love would release me. What view of the world had I convinced myself I understood so well? It was the useless attachment to another, to rescue, which existed in place of my own action. What I believed were solely consequences of that attachment—money, stature, respectability, pleasure—I now see merely as elements of my own unlimited capacity. Do you understand?”
Chang shrugged. The words were eloquently spoken, but somehow abstractly, like a speech learned by heart to demonstrate rhetoric…and yet, through it all, had Bascombe’s eyes been as steady? Had they betrayed some other tension? As if responding to Chang’s thought, Bascombe then leaned forward, more intently.
“It is natural that different individuals pursue different goals, but it is equally clear that these goals are intertwined, that a benefit to one will be a benefit to others. Serve yourself. You are a man of capacity—and even, it seems possible, of some intelligence. What you have achieved against our allies only certifies your value. There are no grievances, only interests in competition. Refuse that competition, join us, and be enriched with clarity. Whatever you want—wherever you direct your action—you will find reward.”
“I have no uncle with a title,” observed Chang. He wished Xonck was not there—it was impossible to read Bascombe’s true intention apart from his master’s presence.
“Neither does Roger, anymore.” Xonck chuckled.
“Exactly,” said Bascombe, with all the evident emotion of the wooden chair he sat in.
“I’m afraid I don’t actually understand your proposition,” said Chang.
Xonck sneered. “Don’t be coy.”
“You have desire,” said Bascombe. “Ambition. Frustration. Bitterness. What will you do—struggle against them until one of your adventures goes wrong and you die bleeding in the street? Will you trust your life to the whims of a”—his voice stumbled just slightly—“a provincial girl? To the secret interests of a German spy? You have met the Contessa. She has spoken for you. It is at her urging you are here. Our hand is out. Take it. The Process will transform you, as it has transformed us all.”
The offer was enormously condescending. Chang looked to Xonck, whose face wore a mild, fixed smile of no particular meaning.
“And if I refuse this proposition?”
“You won’t,” said Bascombe. “You would be a fool.”
Chang noticed a smear of blood on Bascombe’s ear, but whatever pain he had caused made no impression on the man’s self-assurance, nor on the sharpness of his gaze, the meaning of which Chang could not discern. Chang glanced back to Xonck, who rolled the cheroot between his fingers and exhaled a jet of smoke toward the ceiling. The question was how best to learn more, to find Angelique, or Celeste—even, he had to admit, confront Rosamonde. But had he only come here to deliver himself into their hands so effortlessly?
About the Ministry at least, Xonck had been telling the truth. They wal
ked down a twisting narrow hallway in the dark—Bascombe in the front with a lantern, Xonck behind. The rooms they passed—the flickering light giving Chang brief, flaring glimpses before they fell back into shadow—had been constructed without any logic he could see. Some were crammed with boxes, with maps, with tables and chairs, day beds, desks, while others—both large and small—were empty, or contained but a single chair. The only point of unity was the complete absence of windows, indeed of any light at all. With his poor eyesight, Chang soon lost any sense of direction as Bascombe led him this way and that, up short sets of stairs and then down odd curving ramps. They had allowed him to keep his stick, but he was deeper in their power with each step he took.
“This Process of yours,” he said, ostensibly to Bascombe though hoping for a reply from Xonck. “Do you really think it will alter my desire to ruin you both?”
Bascombe stopped, and turned to face him, his gaze flicking briefly to Xonck before he spoke.
“Once you have experienced it yourself, you will be ashamed of your doubts and mockery, as well as the purposeless life you have so far pursued.”
“Purposeless?”
“Pathetically so. Are you ready?”
“I suppose I am.”
Chang heard a slight rustle from the darkness behind him. He was sure Xonck held a weapon.
“Keep walking,” muttered Xonck.
“You swayed Colonel Aspiche to your cause, didn’t you? The 4th Dragoons are a fine regiment—so helpful to the Foreign Ministry. Good of him to step into the breach.” He clucked his tongue and called back to Xonck. “You’re not wearing black. Trapping was your brother-in-law.”
“And I am devastated, I do assure you.”
“Then why did he have to die?”
He received no answer. Chang would have to do better than this to provoke them. They walked on in shuffling silence, the lantern light catching on what seemed to be chandeliers in the air above them. Their passageway had opened into some much larger room. Xonck called ahead to Bascombe.
“Roger, put the lantern on the floor.”
Bascombe turned, looked at Xonck as if he didn’t fully comprehend, and then placed the lantern on the wooden floor, well out of Chang’s reach.
“Thank you. Now go ahead—you can find your way. Give word to prepare the machines.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“I am.”
Bascombe glanced once, rather searchingly, at Chang, who took the opportunity to sneer, and then disappeared into the dark. Chang heard his footsteps well after the man had passed from the light, but soon the room was silent once more. Xonck took a few steps into the shadow and returned with two wooden chairs. He placed them on the floor and kicked one over to Chang, who stopped its momentum with his foot. Xonck sat, and after a moment Chang followed his example.
“I thought it worthwhile to attempt a frank discussion. After all, in half an hour’s time you will either be my ally or you will be dead—there seems little point in mincing words.”
“Is it that simple?” asked Chang.
“It is.”
“I don’t believe you. I don’t mean my decision to submit or die—that is simple—but your own reasons…your desire to speak without Bascombe…not simple in the slightest.”
Xonck studied him, but did not speak. Chang decided to take a chance, and do exactly what Xonck asked—speak frankly.
“There are two levels to your enterprise. There are those who have undergone this Process, like Margaret Hooke…and then there are those—like you, or the Contessa—who remain free. And in competition, despite your rhetoric.”
“Competition for what?”
“I do not know,” Chang admitted. “The stakes are different for each of you—I imagine that’s the problem. It always is.”
Xonck chuckled. “But my colleagues and I are in complete agreement.”
Chang scoffed. He was aware that he could not see Xonck’s right hand, that the man held it casually to the side of his chair behind his crossed leg.
“Why should that surprise you?” Xonck asked. Chang scoffed again.
“Then why was Tarr’s death so poorly managed? Why was Trapping killed? What of the dead painter, Oskar Veilandt? Why did the Contessa allow the Prince to be rescued? Where is the Prince now?”
“A lot of questions,” Xonck observed dryly.
“I’m sorry if they bore you. But if I were you, and I didn’t have those answers—”
“As I explained, either you’ll be dead—”
“Don’t you think it’s amusing? You’re trying to decide whether to kill me before I join you—so I won’t tell your colleagues about your independent plans. And I’m trying to decide whether to kill you—or to try and learn more about your Process.”
“Except I don’t have any independent plans.”
“But the Contessa does,” said Chang. “And you know it. The others don’t.”
“We’re going to disappoint Bascombe if you don’t show up. He’s a keen one for order.” Xonck stood, his right hand still behind his body. “Leave the lantern.”
Chang rose with him, his stick held loosely in his left hand. “Have you met the young woman, Miss Temple? She was Bascombe’s fiancée.”
“So I understand. Quite a shock to poor Roger, I’m sure—quite a good thing his mind is so stable. So much fuss for nothing.”
“Fuss?”
“The search for Isobel Hastings,” Xonck scoffed, “mysterious killer whore.”
Xonck’s eyes were full of intelligence and cunning, and his body possessed the easy, lithe athleticism of a hunting wolf—but running through it all, like a vein of rot through a tree, was the arrogance of money. Chang knew enough to see the man was dangerous, perhaps even his better if it came to a fight—one never knew—but all of this was still atop a foundation of privilege, an unearned superiority imposed by force, fear, disdain, by purchased experience and unexamined arrogance. Chang found it odd that his estimation of Xonck was crystallized by the man’s dismissal of Celeste—not because she wasn’t in part a silly rich girl, but because she was that and still managed to survive, and—more important than anything—accept that the ordeal had changed her. Chang did not believe Francis Xonck ever changed—in fact change was the exact quality he held himself above.
“I take it you haven’t made her acquaintance then,” Chang said.
Xonck shrugged and nodded at the door in the shadows behind Chang. “I will bear the loss. If you would…”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. I’ve found what I meant to. I’ll be going.”
Xonck swung his hand forward and aimed a shining silver-plated pistol at Chang’s chest. “To hell?”
“At some point, certainly. Why invite me to join you—your Process? Whose idea was that?”
“Bascombe told you. Hers.”
“I’m flattered.”
“You needn’t be.” Xonck stared at him, the lines of his face deeply etched in the flickering lantern light. His sharp nose and pointed chin looked positively devilish. Chang knew it was a matter of moments—either Xonck would shoot him or drive him along to Bascombe. He was confident that his guesses about the fissures within the Cabal were correct, and that Xonck was smart enough to see them too. Was Xonck arrogant enough to think they didn’t matter, that he was immune? Of course he was. Then why had he wanted to talk? To see if Chang was still working for Rosamonde? And if he thought Chang was…did that mean he would kill him, or try to satisfy the Contessa and let him escape—thus the need to get rid of Bascombe…
Chang shook his head ruefully, as if he had been caught out. “She did say you were the smartest of them all, even smarter than d’Orkancz.”
For a moment Xonck didn’t respond. Then he said, “I don’t believe you.”
“She hired me to find Isobel Hastings. I did. Before I could contact her, I was waylaid by that idiot German Major—”
“I don’t believe you.”
&nbs
p; “Ask her yourself.” He suddenly dropped his voice, hissing with annoyance. “Is that Bascombe coming back?”
Chang turned behind him as if he’d heard footsteps, so naturally that Xonck would have been inhuman not to look, even for a moment. In that moment Chang, whose hand was on the back of the wooden chair, swept it up with all his strength and hurled it at Xonck. The pistol went off once, splintering the wood, and then once more, but by that time Xonck was flinching against the chair’s impact and the shot went high. The chair hit his shoulder with a solid cracking sound, causing him to swear and stumble back against the possibility that Chang would rush him with his stick. The chair rebounded away and, his face a mask of fury, Xonck brought the pistol back to bear. His third shot coincided exactly with a scream of surprise. Chang had scooped up the oil lantern and flung it at him, the contents soaking Xonck’s extended arm. When he fired, the spark from the gun set his arm ablaze. The shot missed Chang by a good yard. His last image of Xonck, screaming with rage, was the man’s desperate attempt to rip off his morning coat, his fingers—the pistol dropped—roiling with flame and clutching in agony against the sizzling rush of the fire that swallowed his entire arm. Xonck thrashed like a madman. Chang dove forward into the darkness.
Within moments he was blind. He slowed to deliberate steps, hands held out to prevent walking into walls or furniture. He needed to put distance between himself and Xonck, but he needed to do it quietly. His hand found a wall to his left and he moved along it in what seemed to be another direction—had he entered a corridor? He paused to listen. He could no longer hear Xonck…could the man have put out the fire so quickly? Could he be dead? Chang didn’t think so. His one comfort was that Xonck was now forced to shoot with his left hand. He crept along, pawing at a curtain in front of him until he found an opening. Behind it—he nearly twisted his ankle missing the first step—was an extremely narrow staircase—he could easily touch the walls on either side. He silently made his way down. At the landing, some twenty steps below, he heard noises above him. It had to be Bascombe. There would be lights, a search. He groped ahead of himself for the far wall, found a door, then the knob. It was locked. Chang very carefully dug in his pockets for his ring of keys and, clutching them hard to stop them jingling into one another, tried the lock. It opened with the second key, and he stepped through, easing the door closed behind him.