Part 27 (1/2)
”So has Leveret.”
”Leveret's a dull clot. He will be as obvious in his hiding place as a schoolboy crouching under a table.”
”Is Charlotte Trapping a clot?”
”Even more than Leveret! She is a society widow. She is marooned-she has no skills. The powerful brother has lost his mind, and the other brother... has vanished.”
”Along with the Contessa, and everyone else on the airs.h.i.+p.”
”Quite a tragic journey, that,” said the Captain. ”A comprehensive loss for the nation.”
Chang studied the man's face, as he knew the man studied his. The Captain had been in the train yard along with Chang-it was entirely possible he too had seen the Contessa and Xonck. In fact, he must have seen them-why else would the Ministries be searching Stropping with such vigor?
”As you say... there may be opportunities... Mrs. Trapping-” The Captain spoke carefully.
”What can a woman matter?” Chang interrupted. ”Especially her?”
”The Privy Council believes Mrs. Trapping matters a great deal. Makes a fellow think...”
”Think what?” asked Chang, stepping closer.
The dragoon glanced at the knife blade and then up to Chang, girlish curls framing a mirthless smile. ”That the Privy Council has lost its head.”
”Get out your key.”
CHANG TOSSED the dragoon's saber behind him on the chaise. He looked into the open coffin where the Captain lay, arms tucked tightly to his sides, face set with displeasure.
”What is your name?” asked Chang.
”Tackham. David Tackham.”
”They will find you when we arrive, if not before.”
”I a.s.sure you, it is not necessary-”
”It is this or cutting your throat,” said Chang.
”My point being, such a choice does not have to be-”
”What do you know of this Fochtmann?”
Tackham sighed. ”Nothing at all. Engineer-invented some useful... thingummy.”
”And Rawsbarthe?”
”Another Foreign Ministry stick insect. Why the Duke entrusts such weak tea to do his bidding-”
”Where is Margaret Hooke?”
”Who?”
”Mrs. Marchmoor.”
”Who?”
”Where is Charlotte Trapping?”
”As I have told you-”
”Who is Eloise Dujong?”
”I've not the slightest idea-”
”Then where is Captain Smythe?”
Tackham was taken aback and smiled, unsure of the question's intent.
”I beg your pardon?”
”Captain Smythe,” snarled Chang. ”Your brother officer.”
”Yes, of course-I just don't know why you would be asking, of all people!”
”Answer me.”
”Captain Smythe is dead. Shot in the back and strangled where he lay-on the roof of Harschmort House, before the airs.h.i.+p went aloft. Shot and strangled by you, according to every account I have heard. a.s.suming you are the infamous Cardinal Chang...”
Chang was no longer listening. He dropped the gla.s.s lid into place and shot the bolts, trapping Tackham inside. Perhaps the man would be able to kick his way free. Chang did not especially care.
THE LIGHT in the next car was all wrong-brighter than it should have been. Chang craned his head around the wall of what he a.s.sumed was the first compartment, only to see that the compartment was not only empty of people, but of seats and luggage racks as well. Moreover, the walls between this compartment and the next two had been knocked down. Chang silently crossed this opened s.p.a.ce, and craned round again to find another three compartments enlarged into one. This new room was cluttered with boxes and occupied by a man in a black coat, sitting with his back to Chang at a table of stacked crates piled high with notebooks. Chang did not move... and neither did the man. Chang stalked closer, slipping the dagger from his stick. The man's face was pale, red around the nose and eyes. A crust of blood lined his nearer ear. He rocked gently with the motion of the train, upright but quite asleep.
If the train was going to Harschmort with so much empty s.p.a.ce, its aim must be to collect whatever of the Comte's scientific paraphernalia still remained. What would prompt such an expedition, and on such a scale? It could not have been the return of Francis Xonck- Aspiche and his men had orders to collect the black car before Xonck arrived at Stropping, probably even before Tackham could have confirmed Xonck was alive. Chang imagined all the t.i.tled and moneyed adherents the Cabal had suborned for various schemes, all waiting greedily, desperate for the orders that would make them exceedingly rich and powerful... and yet it was clear, from the soldiers controlling Stropping Station and the reclamation of the black car, that something was happening. Was the plotting of Aspiche and Rawsbarthe part of it? Or were they already the first sign of rebellion?
There was one more compartment. Going to it would put Chang in the line of sight of the sleeping man, but even if the fellow woke, who could he call for help?
Chang peered around the wall. Curled on the far seat lay a girl in a lilac dress, perhaps eight years old, and next to her, his head having sagged into the girl's lap, a boy of five in a black velvet suit. The near row of seats held a still-younger boy, in a matching suit, save he had kicked off his shoes. He sat next to another sleeping man in a black coat with a sheaf of papers on his lap. Chang tilted his head to see the man's face: fair, with a pale waxed moustache, just enough like the dip lomat Bas...o...b.. to spark contempt. The face bore no signs of the degenerative pallor. The man's fingernails, however, were splitting and red. Another look at the man's face-the eyelids were noticeably gummed-and Chang stepped back from view.
These were Charlotte Trapping's three children.
He looked again, only to find the girl, eyes now open, staring directly back at him. Chang froze. The girl did not make a sound. She glanced quickly to her sleeping Ministry guardian, then to Chang's black lenses. Her face betrayed no fear-though he knew her world had been uprooted like a tree, both parents gone, in the custody of men she did not know. His own appearance must seem to her like something from a carnival. Yet the girl merely watched him.
The chilling air above a winter stream A stab of doubt enrobing every day Why did this come into his head now? More of DuVine's ”Christina,” a poem Chang did not so much enjoy as feel subject to. With his painstaking reading habits he had lived in the work's incandescent world for days-an archaic story of a woman bewitched by a wizard who had died, taking to his grave the secret of her enchantment, and of her doomed lover, unable to penetrate the magic-”a sheet of lead enwrapping a corse”-yet unwilling to abandon his love... or was it merely impossible to remember a life before his efforts?
None of this was helping.
He could do nothing for the Trapping girl. In two steps Chang was through the far door, hoping the sudden rush of noise from the platform did not wake the other children or the man. Before him was the coal wagon. As he climbed to it, the train rattled past Raaxfall Station without slowing. At this pace they would reach the Orange Locks in under an hour.
CHANG LEAPT off the train-hanging from the coal wagon ladder- half-way between St. Porte and Orange Locks. He landed without breaking his ankle and rolled into the cover of a copse of low trees. He stayed down until the train was well past, collected his stick from where he had thrown it before jumping, and began his hike to Robert Vandaariff's mansion.