Title: The Tank: Chapter Six, Part Two
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Chapter Six, Part Two
This was the second time Anton had seen Camille march into a
perilous situation and take it over completely, and to say the man had a knack
for it would be ludicrously minimalist. He presented himself to Anton’s party—Dr.
Grable, at least, had met him during the incident at the university and
therefore didn’t put up the fuss he otherwise might have—and showed them all his
credentials. “While my presence among you is purely coincidental, I was aware
of your group’s presence on the train and have already taken the liberty of
supplying a new mode of transportation that should be here within the hour,” he
continued, looking at everyone but Anton. “I understand you’re headed
for L’Institut D’Ingénierie Technologique.”
“How did you come to understand that, young man?” Cardinal
Proulx asked, his voice somehow thunderous and mild at the same time.
“Your Eminence, I am a lumière working under the aegis of
the emperor himself,” Camille replied dryly. “There is very little that goes on
in this Empire that I do not understand.”
“This is a nightmare,” Monsieur Deschamps whimpered, one
hand clutching the amulet around his neck as he stared at Camille. “It must be
a nightmare. I’ve fallen into a dream I can’t wake up from.”
“You should consider yourself lucky to have convinced the
late Lord Voclain that you were qualified for whatever if was he asked of you.”
Anton had never heard that particular tone from Camille before, something so
cold and contemptuous it made him want to shiver secondhand. “I suggest you
take the time between now and our vessel’s arrival to quiet your nerves.
“Dr. Grable,” he continued, dismissing Monsieur Deschamps
entirely, “the rest of this journey is going to be somewhat trying for a man
with a broken leg. Would you prefer to be carried to the nearest village with
the rest of the train’s passengers and continue after you’ve recovered a bit?”
“Whatever happens next can’t be more trying than an ambush
by a lot of ruddy cowards in the middle of the mountains,” Dr. Grable replied
with a grimace. “I’ll manage.”
“Very well. I suggest you have your assistant—” and even now
he didn’t look at Anton, just spoke of him in the third person as though he
were an abstract concept instead of a living being “—retrieve your belongings
and place them to the side of that clearing over there. When our transport does
arrive, speed will be of the essence.” Now he did glance over, but it was the
same look he might have given any porter. “Perhaps you can do the same for the
rest of your party as well, since you seem to be the only hale young man of the
bunch.”
It felt like a dismissal—hell, it was a dismissal,
but that didn’t mean that Camille wasn’t correct. Between Caroline and the
now-deceased Voclain alone, there was probably half a ton of baggage. The Vicomte
hadn’t believed in traveling light. “Of course,” Anton said, feeling quite
subdued, and walked toward their overturned car in a bit of a daze.
It was getting colder by the minute. Thankfully, a relief
crew had arrived a few minutes earlier, and the survivors were either walking
toward the closest village or being carried there by hardy volunteers. The dead
were left behind, held inside one of the overturned cars. It was cold enough
that they would last the night, at least.
Anton was grateful to have something to do that kept his
hands busy and his brain occupied, however briefly. It kept him from thinking
too much about Camille. He had made a mistake, voicing his half-formed concerns
the way he had, but was it really too much to ask for a hint of understanding?
He’d just been thrown from a train car and nearly shot by a man in black—a bit
of rattled thinking was a clear and unavoidable consequence of that. But now
his lover was giving him the cold shoulder, it was more important than ever
that Caroline keep her distance from him, and his mentor—and, indeed, his
direct employer—Dr. Grable had a broken leg. What would that mean for their
work in Paris? Would Anton be expected to step in and demonstrate combat spells
in the doctor’s place? The only outcome of that would be utter disaster.
He lifted, stepped, and stacked, over and over again,
ignoring the pain in his ribs and the occasional furtive glances from the rest
of the company in his direction as he moved every case, trunk and carton to the
clearing some yards apart from the wreck. By the time he was nearly done inside
the train car, where there were fortunately no bodies to deal with thanks to
the Cardinal’s efforts to get them blessed and removed, Anton felt nearly
incapable of thought, much less speech. The whole of his world had narrowed
down to basic movements, and it was only the silvery glint of the buttons on
the leather strap of the tiny holster that led him to notice it at all. He crawled
toward the gleam, reached around the seat that nearly obscured it, and pulled
out the holster.
What kind of gun goes into this? It was tiny—whatever
weapon it held could not hold more than five shots, at best. The leather
holster had delicate silver scrollwork on it, in addition to the brilliance of
the buttons. Anton lifted it to his nose and sniffed—fresh oil, and a hint of
gunpowder. This was no ornamental keepsake, then.
Could it be… Such a holster was dainty enough to hold
a gun that would perfectly fit a lady’s hand. Had Caroline or her companion
been the ones to carry it? If so, where was the gun? And could it possibly have
been the gun that fired the fatal round into the vicomte’s chest?
Oh, God. More clues, more secrets, more things that
Anton wanted nothing to do with and yet was dragged headlong into regardless.
He stiffly placed the supple little thing inside his vest and sat there, his
mind whirring even as his body broke out in shivers that Anton barely felt.
What the hell was Caroline playing at? Or was this even hers? A gun this small
could easily be stored inside a set of robes as ornate as the cardinal’s, for
example.
Oh, don’t be an idiot. Why would a man of the church turn
to murder? Then again, why did anyone turn to murder? Anton ought to give
the holster directly to Camille, but… now it was even more imperative that he
do his utmost to guard Caroline against additional scrutiny from the Lord Lumière.
Camille was devilishly insightful, he didn’t need any more ammunition than he
already had.
But then Anton was potentially obstructing an official,
Imperial investigation. If he was found to be withholding evidence, if—
“Anton.” A quiet voice in his ear pulled him out of his
daze. He turned blearily to see Camille, down on his knees in the wreckage beside
him. Anton was shaking so hard he could barely stay upright.
“God, look at you.” Camille pinched the bridge of his nose
as he closed his eyes for a moment. “You’re but a minute away from shock. What
did you injure in the crash?”
“Nothing,” Anton protested numbly. “Nothing serious.”
“Nothing serious, he says.” Camille shook his head. “You’re
done in here,” he declared. “I’ll have Deschamps gather the rest, I need a respite
from his bellyaching. Come outside and sit down. Our transport should nearly be
here.”
“You must know him,” Anton said, turning awkwardly on his
knees in preparation to crawl out of the car again. Oh, ouch—perhaps the
tree he’d hit had done a little more damage than he’d thought.
“Know who?” Camille reached a hand out to steady him but
didn’t quite make contact.
“Monsieur Deschamps. You’d never speak of him so—” contemptuously
“—familiarly if you didn’t.”
“I have the dubious honor of a prior knowledge of the man,
yes.”
“God, I hope he wasn’t a friend before you decided to hate
him.” It fell out of Anton’s mouth before he could take it back. Camille looked
at him sharply.
“He wasn’t,” he said, quiet but firm. “And nothing about
Deschamps can compare in any way at all to our own situation. Now.” He finally
extended his hand. “You need to get up and get ready. Our new transport has
arrived.”
Anton took Camille’s hand and let him pull him up to his
feet, then forced himself to let go as he looked around outside. “Where? I don’t
see any horses, or…”
“Not on the ground,” Camille corrected. “Look up.”
Anton did so, and saw a silver speck growing larger and
larger as it sailed through the sky at breakneck speed over the nearest mountain
range. “What is that?” he asked, gaping.
Camille looked pleased. “Our ride.”
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