PS, I turned 34 last week. Oh my god. How.
Title: The Train: Chapter Seven, Part One.
***
Chapter Seven, Part
One
Anton calculated the radius of the resonating spell as he
walked slowly down the train. It was primarily an exercise in keeping his mind
occupied, and not dwelling on the fact that with every step he took, he felt
more―vulnerable? No, that word was too soft, and not one he wished to lay claim
to. He would rather say he felt less at ease being on his own now than he had
before he’d been nearly murdered. Yes, that had a better ring to it.
Regardless, every step took him farther from Camille, and despite still
believing in the possibility that Camille had been the target of the attack,
Anton had to admit he felt less secure being separated from the man.
He had the air of authority that seemed natural to so many
aristocrats, those born and bred to be obeyed. It wasn’t suffused with the same
effortless condescension that the vast majority of them had, though. Anton
wondered whether the “lord” part of Camille’s title was more than simply
ceremonial.
Anton bit the inside of his cheek. He needed to focus, focus…
The radius was likely two to four meters. No more than that. The headache truly
had been part hunger, part spell, so Anton would have to be fairly close to the
murderer before he could identify them.
Happily, no one stopped him on his slow meander down the
train. The vast majority of the passengers had been herded into the lounge car,
to be dealt with by Camille, and nothing about any of them had resonated with
Anton as he passed along their outskirts. Someone had to be missing, though, and
Anton was determined to discover who. Carefully, of course. Very carefully.
He reached Sleeping Car Four, and would have continued along
his path had he not discovered that his and Camille’s compartment door was open
a crack. Anton’s head felt fine—no resonance disturbed him, but the voice he
could hear muttering to itself from within the room did. He drew closer and
listened quietly.
“No tackle, no rod, no reel,” the man—the pitch was too low
to be anything but a man—said in a tone of dismay. “No tackle, no rod, no reel.
No tackle, no rod…” A moment later there was a snap, followed by a guttural “Bloody
hell!” and the sound of the faucet running. Ah. The man had sprung the trap
on Anton’s holdall. The water wouldn’t do him any good—it might feel like his
hand was burning, but the trap was actually based on a nettle-like reaction.
His skin was swelling even now, and the pain would endure for at least a day.
It was far from lethal, but it would lesson any would-be thief.
Anton drew a little closer, so that he might attempt to
glance through the crack in the door. He didn’t desire a confrontation―far from
it―but at least whoever was in his room right now wasn’t armed with a magical
killing machine. A little closer…a little
closer…he was about to lean in when suddenly, the door at the end of the hall
opened. The familiar handsome face of the porter emerged, and as soon as he saw
Anton, he spoke up.
“Is there any trouble with your room, sir?”
“Ah.” Anton heard the faucet abruptly turn off. “No. None at
all. Everything is fine, thank you. I mean, well, as fine as it can be,
considering,” he demurred.
“It’s a terrible business, isn’t it, sir?” The porter shook
his head as he drew closer. “The death of the viscount, that terrible business
with the engineer. Are you holding up all right? May I bring you a drink?”
“That won’t be
necessary. It is terrible, but I’m bearing up well.”
“Are you sure?” Up close, the porter’s coquettish smile was
slightly marred by a missing tooth, but he was still an undeniably handsome
man. “If a drink isn’t to your fancy, perhaps a bit of private consolation
would be more welcome. Your bunk mate will be busy for some time yet, I
imagine.”
“I am sure he will, but I have no desire for company at this
time.” Especially not when an intruder into
my privacy is eavesdropping as we speak!
“As you wish, sir. The offer does stand, however.” The
porter glanced at his door. “Is it sticking?”
“No, thank you, it’s…I was just about to go inside.” Perhaps
the man within had found a decent hiding place, and Anton could enter and exit
in short order.
“Very well, then. I’ll leave you to your work.” The porter
moved slowly down the hall, glancing curiously back at Anton more than once.
There was no help for it. He had to go in. Anton took a breath, opened the door
all the way, and stepped inside the small room.
Consul Olivier stared at him in consternation.
“Oh, hell,” Anton whispered. He shut the door behind him,
not taking his eyes off the consul. “Sir, what are you doing here?”
“I—I might ask you the same thing!” Olivier blustered, his
florid face redder than usual, glistening with nervous sweat. “No tackle.” His
voice was grim. “No rod. No reel. You are not the real Consul Hasler, are you?
The man I corresponded with would not travel across town without his fishing
gear, much less take on an assignment in an entirely new country! You, sir, are
an imposter!”
Anton opened his mouth to say, The real man didn’t have any bloody tackle, rod or reel either! but
knew that such an outburst wouldn’t help his cause. He cleared his throat. “I
am a thaumaturge in the employ of Lord Lumière. The deception was necessary.”
It was true, in the very strictest sense of the word. “The man you knew as
Consul Hasler was not who you thought.”
“Why did you come on board this train?” Olivier thrust one
swollen, ruddy finger at Anton. “If Hasler isn’t who you’re after, then why did
you come here? What did you expect to find? You could not have known such
things would occur—the murder of a viscount? Incredible nonsense! You must have
been after something else. What was it?” He drew closer, his face contorted
with fear. “Is it the Dévoué? Because I have nothing to do with them, I swear!
Was Hasler one of them? I did not know when I got him this position. I would
never pander to their cause!”
“What are you talking about?” Anton demanded, rubbing his
fingers along his temple. “Who are the Dévoué?” Odd, that the translation
device didn’t work on that word. It had to sense somehow that it was a proper
noun, a name rather than a description.
Consul Olivier narrowed his eyes. “How can you not know, if
you work for a lumière? What kind of assistant to the emperor’s intelligence
officer doesn’t know of such things?”
“I have only been—” The strain Anton felt within his head
made sudden, horrifying sense. He turned and slammed the lock closed on the
compartment door, then dragged the chair in front of the handle. It quivered a
moment later. Anton drew back against the far wall, the pain spiking as he
craned his neck around the room, looking for anything that might get him and
Olivier out of this. It was too late to cast a spell; he didn’t have enough
time to prepare something defensive. The knife would not help him through a door,
but the gun’s wielder could shoot him dead without even trying. The only option
that remained was…
“The roof.” Anton picked up the nearest heavy object, the
pewter pitcher beside the sink, and slammed it into the window. The first blow
only cracked the glass, but on the second strike the window shattered, and
Olivier actually jumped.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“You must come with me,” Anton said as he stepped carefully
up onto the sink. Cold wind blew through the room, setting the drapes swirling.
Anton gazed longingly at his holdall, but knew bringing it would only slow him
down. He maneuvered himself through the window, wincing as a jagged glass edge
sliced into his thigh. “Come if you want to live!” he insisted when Olivier had
yet to move to follow him.
“You’re mad,” Olivier murmured, staring at Anton like he’d
lost his mind. Behind them, the doorknob rattled again. “Mad! Why would I
follow you outside?”
“Because the man beyond the door wishes to kill me!”
“So? I’m not you! You
aren’t even you, you imposter! Perhaps I should inform him of that!” Olivier
turned and strutted over to the door, heaving on the chair.
“Don’t!”
Olivier turned to glare at him. “You—” The bang of a gunshot ended his brief
denouncement, a gory hole appearing square between his eyes. The killing bullet
lodged in the wooden frame next to Anton’s head.
“Oh God.” Anton knew he needed to move―his very life
depended on it―but for a moment the corpse of this garrulous, briefly-known
acquaintance held him transfixed. He hadn’t actually seen the knife kill the
original Hasler, not graphically. He hadn’t seen the bullet destroy the
engineer’s face, hadn’t even looked at the bloody aftermath for longer than a
telling glance. This? It was almost impossible to look away from. Brains oozed
like sludge from the crater between Olivier’s eyes, which seemed to look at him
accusatorily.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, before straightening up and
groping for the ledge on the roof of the train. There, there—the thin bronze railing that had seemed so bright and
decorative in Paris might now save his life. As he pulled himself onto the
roof, he heard the door in his room splinter apart. His assailant could now see
that he’d gotten the wrong man. He could see how Anton had escaped.
Anton had to run.
No comments:
Post a Comment