Title: The Train, Ch. 1, Part 1.
***
The Train
Chapter One
The trouble all started at the train station. Rather, it
started with the train itself.
Well, strictly speaking, that wasn’t true. And Anton Seiber,
as a journeyman thaumaturge possessed of a letter of acceptance to the Masters
of Thaumaturgy program at the prestigious Universität Zürich, should know
better than to allow himself to indulge in generalizations. Specificity was the
cornerstone of reputable, repeatable thaumaturgy, and if he was going to do
anywhere near as well at his chosen profession as his father had, he was going
to have to cultivate a more nuanced outlook of the world. The trouble, his trouble, had not begun with this bloody train. But staring at it now,
sitting on sparkling tracks beside a secured platform that might as well be
miles away from Anton rather than yards, it was difficult not to be a bit
spiteful about it.
Anton had had tickets for the train from Paris to Zürich,
the last train from Paris to Zürich
that could get him to the university before the first day of classes. A series
of mishaps on the trip over from London—Anton winced and adjusted his stance at
the stab of pain in his side, hearing the broken glasswork in his holdall rustle
accusatorily—had resulted in a delay, but it shouldn’t have mattered.
It shouldn’t have mattered,
for Paris was never meant to be more than a waystation, a place he might wile
away a day or two before he left for Zürich, but no more than that. His mother
had procured him this train ticket, at great expense. Despite everything,
despite the aches and pains and inconvenient blood stains and the loss of far
too much of his personal laboratory equipment, he had made it. He’d made it all the way here, and now he was
to be shoved aside for one of Bonaparte’s royal lackeys. Worse still, there was
no way to procure a new ticket on another train, and he couldn’t afford a ride
in one of those newfangled auto-carriages. Not even as far as the border of
Switzerland, much less all the way to Zürich.
“Doctor Grable is a great thaumaturge,” his mother had told
Anton the night before he left, “but he is a difficult man. He places enormous
value on punctuality and propriety, and has dismissed students from his program
before for rather innocuous offenses. You cannot afford to be late, Anton.” This
was the maxim she’d been drilling into his head ever since he was accepted to
the university’s alchemical thaumaturgy program. “For if he dismisses you, there are a hundred other scholarship
applicants vying to take your place.”
“I won’t be late, Mother,” he’d assured her, so full of
himself in his final hours at home. He had lived there almost all his life,
watched it gradually fall into a slow decay after his father’s death, with no
money to be spared on repairs. He had clawed and fought his way to a position
in Oxford’s apprentice thaumaturge program, his place far from guaranteed
despite his father’s illustrious career there. He had graduated at the top of
his class, confident in his skills and his chances for a position in London,
only to see them melt away into the hands of other, lesser graduates, people of
smaller minds but greater status.
It had been a learning experience. A hard one, but one that
had provided a fire of purpose that set his mind ablaze. He had taken a lesser
position with a minor forensic researcher specializing in death miasmas. Anton
had designed a spell that not only let a layperson see the aura of the
previously deceased in the moment of their death, but whatever lingering auras
remained of his surroundings as well. As far as practical theses went, it was
impressive. Impressive enough to land him the scholarship in Zürich. But he had
to get there before anything was
assured.
His head ached. Anton wasn’t sure whether it was from anger
or from the way the back of his skull had been knocked against the cobblestones
of a dirty alley just off the Champs Elysees, but either way, it was getting
worse. He’d come so close. So close,
only to find that his train had been diverted for this candy apple, steam-powered
monstrosity. It was a beautiful train, actually, with crystal clear windows and
bright, shining red enamel stretching down the length of it. It looked like an
artery, bright and healthy, ready to carry its passengers from the heart of
Napoleon III’s empire out to one of it’s distant limbs. The train’s final
destination was Lucerne, where a royal alliance for one of Bonaparte’s cousins
waited with the recently-widowed Duchess of that selfsame canton.
The cousin in question, a viscount or some such nonsense,
was in the middle of a throng of brightly-colored courtiers, the men all dandy
in frock coats and top hats, the women resplendent but slow-moving in waist-defining
corsets and layers of petticoats. At their edges were lines of unobtrusive
servants moving baggage onto the train, and beyond them, the people who did the
actual work for the lordling: his advisory staff, all wearing the royal crest
somewhere on their clothes and all far more serious than the flock of fine
society. Guards checked the ticket and identification of every person who
approached the platform, and more than one curious onlooker was menaced with
the business end of a saber for venturing too close.
Anton had been displaced for a popinjay. A royal sycophant,
a—a toff toad amidst a bloody puddle
of toads! This was who he was losing his livelihood, his future, for? This back
end of a donkey who just happened to be related to the most powerful man on the
continent? Of course it was. Of course, because there was no one to say
otherwise.
Well, no. There was Anton,
damn it, and he was going to be on that train whether he had to beg, borrow or
steal his way aboard. There were things in his holdall he could use if all else
came to naught—things that those swaggering thugs hadn’t thought to destroy,
too tough or too innocuous looking to be of any interest to them. He might have
to fudge a few of the finer details, but—
God in Heaven, his head was aching now. It was never a good
idea to do magic with anything other than a clear mind. Perhaps it was worth another
argument at the ticket counter before resorting to fresh spellwork.
Fortunately, his father’s Device was still working perfectly.
It was far from unheard of for a gentleman to carry a token
of his lady’s affection on his person: a handkerchief, a twist of hair inside a
silver locket or set in a ring. An earring was perhaps a bit unusual, but it
was a plain thing, a simple silver clasp that fit perfectly around Anton’s left
lobe. Someone looking at it might assume that the other half of the pair
resided in the jewelry case of the young lady it came from.
In reality, the second half of the pair was a slender,
flexible silver disc that fit over the soft palate of the mouth. The Translation
Device was one of Gerhardt Seiber’s finer engineering feats, the result of long
nights working out theory with his linguist wife, who spoke seven languages
fluently. It used complex thaumaturgical equations to enable someone ignorant
of the language at hand to hear what was being said, and perceive it as being
said in their native tongue. Only in general terms, unfortunately, but it was far
better than nothing. In turn, the silver receptor plate within the mouth
provided a translation effect for whatever the wearer said. Speaking with it
had occasionally nearly tied Anton’s tongue in a knot, but he couldn’t imagine
learning French would be any easier at this point. He hadn’t the time. Literally, he hadn’t the time: the crowd
was beginning to move onto the train. If he did not act quickly, he would lose
his chance.
Anton narrowed his eyes and turned resolutely toward the
ticket counter. By God, he would make the man see sense, or—“Oof!” He was suddenly almost knocked off
his feet by a tall man in a dark brown coat, whose shoulder had very firmly
found it’s way into Anton’s.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” the man said graciously. “I should
have been more careful.”
Anton would have liked to absolve him, but the action had
knocked his careful physical equilibrium out of place. A sharp pain lanced
through his skull and somehow ended up lodged in his side, where someone’s
solid boot had made itself known. “Ah—huuuh,” he gasped, nearly bent in two.
“Are you quite all right?”
“Ye—yes, quite,” Anton managed. The last thing he needed
right now was pity, from anyone other than the ticket clerk at least. “Thank
you.”
“Only you seem rather unwell.”
“’Tis nothing,” Anton insisted. “I just need a moment to
catch my breath.”
“Then at least do so where another clumsy oaf like myself
cannot knock you down.” A warm hand found it’s way to his elbow and guided him
gently through the crowd to the side of the train station. Anton leaned against
the smooth stone and closed his eyes as he sorted the pain away, back to where
he could function.
“I would stay to ensure your comfort, but my train is about
to leave.” The man had a pleasant voice, his English crisp and nearly without accent.
“Again, I beg your pardon for my haste.”
“I’ll be well momentarily,” Anton assured the fellow, his
eyes still shut but his posture slowly recovering. “Please, don’t let me keep
you.” The man turned slowly and began to walk away. By the time Anton opened
his eyes, he could no longer distinguish the cause of his little mishap. He
straightened his back and began to head for the ticket counter—but no. The
window was closed. All of the windows were closed, their inhabitants leaving to
watch the pretty red train ride off with its pretty cargo. Anton stared at the
shuttered window for a long moment, then gritted his teeth and reached for the
clasp of his holdall. Right, he didn’t want to do this and his brains might be
coming out his ears by the end of it, but surely he had enough energy for a
minor obfuscation. All he needed was a place to work it, and the strength to
push his way through the crowd to the train before it left.
A place, a quiet place—not easy to find in this crowd, but—there.
The tiny little inlet beside the ticket booths, dark and uncomfortably like the
last alley Anton had had such terrible luck in. It didn’t matter. He pushed the
memory of his assault back and stepped as briskly as he could manage into the
tight, dark space. A few yards more and he would have enough privacy for five
minutes of—but wait. No, someone else was back here.
Anton stopped when he heard the sounds of a man in violent
distress coming from further down the narrow corridor. Not the sound of an
attack: Anton was well acquainted with those. This was a man who sounded
terribly ill. As much as Anton needed to get on that train, he couldn’t stop
himself from following that sound, just to ensure that the person in question
wasn’t on the brink of death.
What he saw froze him in his tracks.
Yaaaaay! Great start to what I'm sure will be a grand steampunky adventure!! Woot!
ReplyDeleteAnything for you, dahling :)
DeleteWhoot! New story!!! Whoot!!
ReplyDelete~M
Yeah baby! Trying something new :)
DeleteI hope you are feeling better now, and I like the new story, too. Poor Anton! But I know, this is just the beginning.😈
ReplyDeleteScottie
I'm feeling much better! And yes, it'll only get more exciting from here :)
DeleteWow! I wanted to draw a bit and get some work done, but now I have to continue here first :D Those cliffhangers!!!
ReplyDeleteAt least you don't have far too read this time!
Delete