“Where is she? Be quick about it!”

“Who?”

Chang hurled him into the wall—the onions slathered away on impact—and hauled him up again, this time placing the razor flat against the man's cheek.

“The Ministry officials—where are they?”

Chang spun to the second man, the cleaver wrested from the wheel, foolish—or angry—enough to attack. Chang's razor flashed forward. The man yanked back his arm, too late, his face going white as he looked down, for the slice across his fingers was so clean that the blood took a good two seconds to flow—but then the flow would not stop. The servant dropped the cleaver and held the wound tightly with his other hand, the blood seeping through those fingers as well. Chang yanked his captive peremptorily toward the kitchens.

“You are making their food—where is it to go?”

“The green drawing room—just outside—”

“What would they be doing in the kitchens if you're preparing their food here?”

“I don't know—they made us leave!”

“Where are their other prisoners?”

“What prisoners?”

“Where are the dragoons?”

“Outside—something happened in the garden.”

Chang shoved him back where they had come.

“Tell no one, or I will return to cut your throat.”

THE NEXT red curtain led to a formal saloon, with a mirrored wall and a massive sideboard lined with bottles. Its tables lay littered with papers, glasses, cigar butts, and at least one cardboard box of carbine cartridges. Chang crossed the carpet in silence to another curtain—he imagined how, with all the curtains drawn, the whole suite of connecting rooms would appear as one massive reception hall—and heard two men speaking low… guards?

“Allow me… your nose…”

“Ah! I do beg your pardon. It is no doubt the fen grass, one always sets to sneezing at Harschmort. Good Lord—this is blood!”

“It is.”

“Good Lord.”

“Did you see Mr. Soames?”

“Soames? Who is Soames?”

“With Phelps.”

“Who is Phelps? I am hopelessly at sea—and my head aches like a night of gin.”

“Phelps is with the Duke.”

“The Duke is here?”

“The Duke was in the garden.”

“Good Lord. Was not the garden where—”

“His Grace—”

The second man cut him off with a sneeze. Chang flicked the curtain aside. The two men wore black coats, and each held a handkerchief—one tight against its owner's nose and the other, the target of the sneeze, using his cloth to wipe blood from his cravat. They looked at Chang with surprise.

“Where is the Duke?” he snarled.

“Who are you?” asked the man no longer wiping his front.

Chang snapped his fist into his face. The man staggered and dropped to his knees, clutching his nose. His companion took a prudent step away from both Chang and his toppled fellow.

“I will raise the alarm!” he cried.

“Where is the glass woman?”

“Who?”

“Where is the Colonel? What has happened in this house to make you bleed like lepers?”

The men looked at one another, and Chang flicked out the razor.

“Get away while you can.” He nodded behind him to the dining room. “That way.”

The men dashed out. Chang did not give them another thought— time was short and his tactics doomed to fail. At some point someone would stand up to him, others would gather, the dragoons would appear, and that would be that. Around a corner the carpet ended and a gleaming waxed wood floor began, which told Chang he had entered the domain of servants. He must be close to the kitchens. Another turn brought a set of swinging double doors, and he stepped through, aware he could not lock them behind him.

It was a more formal preparation room, and Chang supposed it might be used for flower arrangements as well as to dress meat. There were several long tables topped with grey marble. On the nearest were laid two men as if for a mortician's care. The Duke of Stäelmaere was stretched next to the Ministry functionary Chang had seen on the grass in the garden, a dark stain obscuring one side of the man's face where the temporal bone had been crushed. The functionary showed the same peeling veneer of disease Chang had seen on Aspiche. The Duke, on the other hand, looked as if he had been dead for a fortnight, bloated and discolored, eyes disgustingly gummed.

The doors on the far side of the room pushed open. Mr. Phelps, now holding a sheaf of papers, entered side by side with Colonel Aspiche. Behind them floated Mrs. Marchmoor. She was wrapped in a cloak, its hood slipped back on her shoulders. Chang could see the transformation with more clarity now… the solid blue eyes, plump indigo lips, and her once-lustrous hair, still brown but stiffened, a mocking vestige of a different life, like a eunuch's beard. From the side of the cloak emerged her right arm, the hand gone, the stump bound tight with blue-stained cloth.

The instant was over. The Colonel leapt forward, sweeping out his blade. Phelps dug in his topcoat for the pistol. This was going very badly, very fast.

“Stop!”

The two men paused, glancing to each other. Chang realized that the word had not been spoken aloud.

“It is Cardinal Chang!” cried Aspiche. “He must be killed!”

At once Aspiche's sword arm fell to his side, like the limb of a mechanical man on a clock. The Ministry man had the revolver free, but apparently could not bring it to bear.

The voice buzzed in Chang's head. “We are in no danger, Colonel. Be patient…”

Mrs. Marchmoor floated forward, her gait tender. The two men stepped aside with unease. It did not seem they found Mrs. Marchmoor's company any more welcome than a tiger's—and yet, what choice did they have? Chang braced himself—he felt her pushing at his mind… but without success, like a strong wind shaking a window. Mrs. Marchmoor paused, tried again, and failed. Her swimming eyes narrowed.

“What is this?”

Chang remembered Angelique's words in his head, pricking his brain like needle-points. Something was wrong—the glass woman's voice was blunted, less astringent. Was it her injury?

Chang took a step toward her. At once she retreated, and dragged Colonel Aspiche directly between them, the saber in his hand sawing the air like a puppet's. It was not the injury at all, Chang realized— her power over the other men had not dimmed.

“Let me take him myself!” cried Aspiche. Chang feinted with the razor. Aspiche's arm leapt at his movement, abruptly and without aim. Chang chuckled.

“This sort of… street fight… is a tricky thing, Margaret. Without any experience, one is simply ordering trouble on a plate.”

“What have you done?” she hissed. “How do you resist me?”

“Why don't you release Mr. Phelps and his pistol so he can shoot me? Why not release the Colonel and his saber? Surely you don't doubt their loyalty—just because they've seen it's possible to defy you?”

“I do not release them because they will kill you too soon.”

Chang feinted and she brought up the Colonel's arm, again too awkwardly and too late.

“An afternoon of setbacks, Margaret. My defiance, Harschmort burned, your poor hand… and you seem to have fallen out with Francis Xonck.”

“Francis Xonck will be dead in two days. Like all of the others. I will not be anyone's slave.”

“No, now you require slaves of your own—an ever-replenished supply, the way you corrode them like acid.”

“That can be undone!”

Chang turned to the Duke's body on the table top. “Your puppet doesn't look so spry, Margaret…”

In a sudden movement Chang seized the Duke's long hair and dragged the dead peer's head and shoulders off the edge of the table. He dropped his right forearm onto the extended neck like a hammer, snapping the half-rotten vertebrae with a crack. He stepped away, leaving the head in a morbid dangle. Mrs. Marchmoor cried out, and lost her possession of the two men. Aspiche leapt to the side, the saber raised high, his eyes flashing first at Chang and then at the glass woman. Behind him Phelps had his pistol raised, knowing no more than the officer where it ought to be aimed.