Title: The Train: Chapter Two, Part Two
The dining car was an elegantly appointed room, with tables
covered by white linen cloths lining the edges of the space, and red leather
chairs taking up the center, which was mostly occupied at this point. Electric
lights lit the arched ceiling, and the wainscoting beneath the windows was dark
and sumptuous. A silent porter offered Anton a glass of champagne, which he
took just as silently before settling himself into a back corner of the room.
He didn’t wish to move forward and claim one of the remaining chairs and draw
attention to himself. Not that he had much to worry about there; the room was
filled with the lesser passengers on this illustrious trip, none of the
nobility but every advisor and personal servant to the viscount and his
coterie.
At the front of the room stood a tall man in a dark blue
uniform, a flat trainmaster’s cap perched on his high forehead. He wore a
thick, sandy handlebar moustache with panache, the one point of physical vanity
on an otherwise unremarkable appearance. Of pride, however, his posture spoke
volumes.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said once the flow of traffic had
ceased and people were engaged more in drinking than talking. His voice was
official without being officious, stentorian without being deafening; it was an
easy voice to listen to. He’d likely practiced finding that fine line many,
many times. “My name is Victor Cassan, your trainmaster for the duration of our
three day voyage to Lucerne. Welcome aboard the Emperor’s Standard, the only
train of its kind on the whole of the continent. Our luxury Pullman cars were
shipped directly from America and modified by some of the most innovative
thaumaturges in service to His Majesty.” That
got Anton’s attention, and he straightened his back, ignoring the twinge in his
ribcage as he focused on the trainmaster’s speech.
“Every car of this train is equipped with a tank beneath the
floor, heated by the same coal that provides our comfortable speed of fifteen
kilometers per hour. Hot water circulates constantly through the radiators in
each of your sleeping cars, adjustable for your comforts, of course. Your sink
is equipped with a spell that sterilizes the water as it flows through the pipes,
providing only the cleanest product to bathe and shave with. Our laundry
service is continually at your disposal; simply press the button beside the
door of your car, and a porter will be with you presently.”
Silver mesh, Anton
thought absently to himself, still listening with one ear. Powered by the coal; a simple enough spell of attraction to set in a
device, fire signifying cleansing, silver immunity to poison and disease…they
must have to be cleaned with terrible frequency, though.
Cassan continued blithely. “Meals will be served at eight,
noon, and seven precisely. Each of our tables offers a privacy candelabrum for
sensitive topics of discussion. You are welcome at any time to avail yourself
of the smoking car, the lounge car, or the library car. The only exception to
that freedom rests with Viscount Bonaparte, whose uses naturally take
precedence. I understand that the viscount wishes to host all of you for an
informal meeting after dinner tonight in the lounge car, so please be prepared
to accommodate.
“Feel free to enjoy your drinks here, and don’t hesitate to
ask for anything else that our barman might reasonably procure for you. Once
again, welcome aboard the Emperor’s Standard.” Cassan inclined his head, and
just like that, the brief bubble of silence broke and people were speaking to
each other again, the servants clustering around the trainmaster and asking
more questions about amenities, and the black coats…
They were speaking to each other, and unfortunately, one of
them had spotted Anton. He was already on his way over, and there was no ready
escape or excuse. Anton steeled himself and plastered on a ready expression.
“Willem Hasler, I presume?” the man asked as soon as he was
within striking distance. Anton let a small sigh escape him; they had never met
before. “I would know that insignia anywhere.” He had to be referring to the
small red and blue flag beneath the imperial sigil on Anton’s jacket. “Well
met, sir!” the man continued, his florid face beaming as he held out a hand.
Anton smiled back and shook it. “You’re rather younger than I expected,” the
nameless bureaucrat continued. “Looking at you, I’d scarcely believe you were
old enough to see action during the Troubles.”
The Troubles, as those within the French empire referred to
them, were a series of minor wars that had erupted across the continent a
decade earlier. The timing and instigation of them was still something of a
mystery, but the uprising had found a voice in the discontent of many of the
native populations of Napoleon the Second’s latter conquests. The collectivist
theories of Marx and Bakunin rose in esteem, leading to revolutionary ideas of
equality between the classes. Former aristocrats and disenfranchised tradesmen alike
had fought back against the Frenchmen installed in positions of authority in
their cantons, leading to some very humiliating press for the emperor.
Napoleon III’s response had been swift and brutal. He’d sent
troops into the capitol of each former nation and principality, their
commanders given a mandate to utterly destroy all opposition. They had taken
their savage responsibility seriously, and at the end of seven months, over
half a million fighters, suspected fighters, outspoken politicians and their
families and been put to death. Liechtenstein’s capitol of Vaduz, Anton
remembered vaguely, had been one of the cities brought most thoroughly to
bloody heel.
“It isn’t the sort of thing one lies about, sir,” he said,
hoping his silence on the other man’s name wouldn’t go noticed.
Chance was with him, thus far at least. “No, of course not,
of course,” the man agreed. “Indeed, I’ve had such assurances of your
competence in all things, I would never dare underestimate you!”
Oh, good heavens.
What did this man think he knew about Willem Hasler? “You’re most kind, sir.”
“There’s no need for such formality between us, Willem.” The
man leaned in closer. “Especially not when we’ve already given each other such
assistance, eh? I’ve upheld my part of the bargain; here you stand, despite the
short notice. Now.” He rubbed his hands together. “How about your part, my lad?
After all—oh, how does the saying go in your part of the country?” He smiled
brightly, then said something that sounded like an incoherent string of syllables
tacked together with tongue and spittle.
Oh, no. Whatever
this man was speaking, it wasn’t a dialect that the Translation Device could
recognize. It was…possibly based in German, with a hint of French or…Flemish?
Perhaps? Whatever it was, Anton couldn’t speak it. With the Device sitting
heavy against his palate, striving to understand something that had it
thoroughly confounded, Anton himself couldn’t force a word from his mouth. This
had only happened once before, when he and Caroline had tested the Device with Gaelic
and Anton had spouted gibberish in response for a full minute. At the time, it
had been amusing. Right now, it was nowhere close.
The man’s open, friendly demeanor was beginning to close
off. “Consul Hasler?” he asked more formally, with a bit of frost in his one.
Anton tried to respond, but the Device hadn’t sorted out its
difficulty yet, and all that came from his lips was a low hum. The other man’s
frost was beginning to transition to contempt. “Sir, I must say—”
“Consul Olivier,” a fresh voice broke in, warm but slightly
condescending. It sounded slightly familiar to Anton, and curiosity warred with
relief as he turned to face the newcomer. “You must forgive Consul Hasler for
being a bit taken aback by your…more spirited than accurate attempt at
Walliser.”
Consul Olivier—it was so good to have a name for the man at
last—deflated a bit. “Ah. Lord Lumière. I didn’t know you were a part of this
trip.”
“I go wherever His Majesty wishes me to be.” Lord Lumière
was a tall man made even taller by his silk top hat. His frock coat was a deep
navy blue, his ascot and waistcoat were sapphire, and he should, by very dint
of his size and handsome fashion, have stood out in the crowd. Yet somehow, even though
he was standing right there, Anton felt that if he looked away he might miss
him entirely.
“So you do.” The consul licked his lips nervously. “So you
do. Well, sir, I…ah.” He looked back at Anton. “Forgive me any impertinence,
Consul, it was entirely accidental. I was assured that I had the phrase
correct.”
“It’s perfectly all right, Consul Olivier.” The words flowed
easily off Anton’s tongue, and the tension in his throat melted away. “You just
surprised me.”
“My apologies. But you—you did bring it, didn’t you?” He
leaned in a bit closer. “You did promise that you would.”
Bring what? “Of
course I did,” Anton said, utterly unsure of what he was committing himself to
having but unable to see a way out of it.
“Ah!” Consul Olivier’s expression brightened again. “Wonderful!
Bring it with you to dinner tonight, won’t you? I’m eager to see what kind of
cock hackle could land a benthic beast like the one you described to me in your
letter.”
For a moment, Anton wondered whether the Translation Device
was malfunctioning again. Fortunately, Lord Lumière stepped in again. “If you don’t
mind excusing us, Olivier, I have a pressing bit of business to conduct with Consul
Hasler.” He turned to look at Anton, his dark eyes shining brightly beneath the
brim of his hat. “Perhaps in our sleeping car.”
Anton swallowed. “You’re sharing with me?”
“I am if you’re in Sleeping Car Four, Cabin One.” Consul
Olivier wandered away, leaving Anton without conversational recourse. This man
had business with him? This…strange man, who seemed to have an even stranger
effect on the people around him? Because Anton noticed the way that no one was
quite looking at them, as though both of them had been obscured somehow.
Thaumaturgy? An obfuscation device?
Whatever it was, and whatever the man needed, he obviously
wanted to bring it up in private. And he had
gone to the trouble of rescuing Anton from a linguistic nightmare. Perhaps it
would be something simple.
Lord Lumière’s pleasant voice interrupted Anton’s
rumination. “Shall we, Consul?” He indicated the path toward the door with an
outstretched hand.
“Of course.” Anton set his champagne flute down on the
closest polished windowsill, then led the way down the hallway back to their
car. It was a much easier trip with the crowd behind him, and he breathed easier
with each step, his anxiety diminishing to almost normal levels once he finally
opened their cabin door and stepped inside.
That anxiety spiked dramatically when Anton felt the sharp
point of a knife dig ever-so-slightly into the skin just above his kidney. “Now,
sir,” Lord Lumière murmured as the door of their cabin swung shut. “You will
explain to me who you truly are and what business you have on this train, or I
will ensure that ‘Consul Hasler’ is never seen or heard from again.”
I don't know where you're steering this train, Cari, but I am totally on board! (<---See what I did there?!?)
ReplyDeleteSeriously, I love this so far :-)
This is so good! I'm hoping this is the same guy that helped Anton at the train station... he really could use an ally on this trip!
ReplyDelete