Title: The Train: Chapter Six, Part One
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Chapter Six, Part One
Anton had just finished downing a glass of water and was
considering calling the porter to see about having a meal brought to him when
Camille returned. A faint smiled curled his moustache upward, and there was an
air about him that could only be dubbed ‘satisfied.’ Anton waited for him to
close the door before interrogating him. “You look like a cat that got the
cream. What did you find out?”
“Did you know,” Camille drawled as he took off his hat and
set it on his bunk, “that the water used to supply our rooms comes from tanks
set beneath the train?”
“Yes, Monsieur Cassan said as much when he welcomed us
aboard.”
“And did you also know that there is a service ladder that
passes alongside them, so that they may be reached and worked on more
effectively?”
“That…makes sense…”
“And might I add,” Camille went on, his smile growing a bit
wider, “that all of the tanks are connected? So that if, say, the train is
heading downhill, the water within the tanks surges to the front of the train,
leaving some of the rear tanks less full. Likewise, as we ascend, the tanks in
the front of the train would empty, if there was not sufficient water within to
keep them replete.” He tilted his head slightly, pinning Anton with a
heavy-lidded stare that might have seemed lustful, had the subject matter been
otherwise. “We entered the foothills late last night. We’re ascending steadily
now, and when I tested the faucets in the Viscount’s private bath, they barely
ran at all. The tank beneath his suite is likely less half full.”
“Are you…wait.” Anton shut his eyes for a moment, breathing
away the tension in his shoulders and considering the issue at hand. Camille
was leading him, teasing him with answers, but he could discover them on his
own. “You think that Viscount Bonaparte was shot from below.”
“It’s the most logical conclusion from his death miasma.”
“Which means you think that his attacker had to be beneath
his car. Actually within the water
tank, which would be all right, since there was apparently room to breathe.”
“Each tank has a maintenance hatch in the top of it, large
enough for a limber person to enter.” Camille’s smile dimmed a bit. “But I
haven’t yet determined how whoever it was withstood the heat of the water
within the tank. From what I understand, the spell keeping it warm is powered
by the steam engine, so as long as the train is moving, the water must be hot.
Almost boiling hot.”
The sense memory snapped into place in Anton’s mind, the
wince that came from unrelentingly chill water on his hands. “But it wasn’t hot
last night,” he said. “I remember, I had to relieve myself and the water from
the taps…it was cold. It stayed cold.”
“Interesting.” Camille sat down across from Anton in one of
the little sitting room chairs. He looked slightly odd, folding his long body
into it, but he didn’t seem to care about the spectacle he made. “How, do you
think, would a person manage that?”
“The easiest way would be shutting down the heating elements
of the central spell, but that would be permanent unless you were the
thaumaturge who wrought it in the first place. Seeing as we have hot water
today, the next best thing would be a temporary glyph drawn on the tank itself.
It would have to be big, and it wouldn’t last for long, but…” Anton thought the
problem through a bit more. “If it were in chalk, you might have, oh, five
minutes? Wax would be a bit better, but on a hot tank I wouldn’t risk it.”
Camille’s smile was back in full force. Anton, so unused of
late to obvious approbation, basked in it. “Well-reasoned,” he said. “The next
thing to do, then, is to confirm that this is the case.” He stood up and put
his hat back on, then held a hand out to Anton. “Are you ready to do a bit of
climbing?”
Anton almost reflexively took the hand before his brain
caught him with him. “Climb―wait, you want to―”
“Of course. We can’t waste any time.”
“But the train is still moving! And there’s actual snow on the ground outside now.” Spring
hadn’t yet caught up to this part of France.
“Then it will be bracing. Come now.” Camille wiggled his
fingers and Anton rolled his eyes, then accepted the hand up. Even with the
assistance, his head spun a bit as he got to his feet.
Camille frowned. “Are you unwell?”
“Just hungry.” Anton managed a smile. “I’ll go gallivanting
beneath the train with you, but after that we’re ordering something to eat.”
“Understandable.” Camille stared at Anton in silence for a
long moment, before Anton realized he was still gripping the man’s hand.
“My apologies,” he muttered, feeling an unflattering blush
spread across his cheeks. “We should go.”
“We should, yes.” Camille didn’t hurry, though, continuing
his perusal of Anton’s discomfort until it had gone beyond the bounds of simple
rudeness into something that might, possibly, be fascination. But that was
ridiculous, and Anton was starving.
“Shall we, then?”
“Yes.”
The passengers knew better than to push and pull at them now
as they moved, although several of the other consuls, including Olivier, shot
them dark looks. As they reached the front of the train, Camille led Anton down
the little hall that led to the engineer’s booth. “The only way to access the
ladder that leads to the bottom of the train is through the booth,” he
explained as they squeezed up to the front. The air was colder here, evidence
of less insulation, and the noise of the engine was far louder. “That is where
the shooter must have descended as well, unless he or she is capable of some
remarkable feats of acrobatics.”
“Which is possible, with the right spells,” Anton said.
“Possible, but rather a lot of work to go to when the
easiest thing is to use the mechanical device provided. If spellwork was used,
then it could have been used to trick the engineer into not seeing them.”
“Or he might be in collusion with the killer,” Anton
offered.
“Not something we can overlook, but I’ve spoken to the man,
and his apprentice, and they both seem genuinely astonished by the turn of
events.” Camille shrugged slightly, then rapped on the door to the engineer’s booth.
It opened a moment later, revealing a slight young man, hardly older than a
boy, in the baggy striped uniform of a train’s conductor. “H’lo, Lordship,” he
said, bobbing a little bow as he got out of the way. “Da, Lordship’s back!”
“Good, good.” The actual conductor in charge of the train
was only a few inches taller than his son, and brown from the sun that shined
through the glass at the front of the booth. “The faster you find what you’re
looking for, the faster you gents can be out of my booth, beggin’ your pardon,
Lord,” he said briskly. “It’s a mite cramped up here for two—four’d lead to
bloodshed in minutes.”
Camille smiled, unoffended. “We won’t be long, sir. If you
could open the trapdoor for us?”
“Aye, course.” Rather than reaching down and picking up a
panel, though, he pressed down on a pedal. Anton heard something clang, but he
couldn’t see it. “You’ll want to head out the left door here,” the man
continued. “Hold onto the rail nice an’ tight, and if you need help, call for
Bert.” He ruffled his son’s hair. The lad jerked his head back, but he was
smiling. “Be careful, sirs.”
“We shall be.” Camille set his hat aside again, and
indicated that Anton should do the same. “Come on then.”
Anton tried to keep the astonishment off his face, but he
knew he hadn’t succeeded well enough, the way Bert was softly snickering at
him. He steeled himself and followed Camille out of the booth, and immediately
grabbed onto the polished brass rail with both hands. Bloody hell, it was cold out here. Camille was already
rounding the front of the train, stepping carefully down to the nose of the
machine, where a neat round hold that Anton hadn’t even realized was there had
suddenly appeared.
“Why is this out here?” Anton demanded, shouting over the
noise of the wind as he picked his way along the rail.
“Space considerations—the luxury is for the passengers, not
the workers,” Camille shouted back as he levered himself through the hole
feet-first. “Do hurry up. I need your eyes on this.” Then he was gone, leaving
Anton dangling against the side of the train in the wind by himself. He glanced
back up at the little booth, where Bert waved cheerfully as soon as he saw him
looking.
“Ridiculous,” Anton grumbled, but he followed suit. There
was indeed a ladder beneath the train, less something to climb along though,
more something to scoot his back against as he slowly made his way. The noise
from the engine was deafening, the heat of burning fuel and steam from the
water tank a strange dichotomy to the cold he felt on the side that wasn’t
closest to them. He made his way laboriously, carefully, and by the time he got
to Camille, who had politely made room for him ten feet back, he was more than
done with the whole endeavor.
“Any sign of a glyph or sigil?” Anton asked as he cast his
eyes along the side of the main water tank. The dark, linked contraptions
extended down as far as his eye could see, but this was the largest by far.
“Not that I can tell,” Camille replied. “But it might be that
I’m looking with the wrong sort of eyes.”
Wrong sort of…oh.
It was one of the earliest things a thaumaturge learned, and one of the few
which didn’t take any sort of equipment: aura detection. The ability to see something
magical, even if it wasn’t evident to the naked eye. Anton relaxed his jaw,
took a deep breath, and let his eyes wander. Nothing seemed to stand out at
first, but as he got slightly further into his trance, he realized—
“There.” He pointed. “Black chalk, it’s hard to see against
the dirt. It’s been imbued with something that diminishes its aura as well, but
I can make it out. A freezing glyph.” Large and powerful and rather sloppy.
“Freezing? Wouldn’t that result in no water at all?”
“Not from chalk,” Anton replied. “It can’t contain the power
well enough. It would chill things off, but the heat would return almost as
quickly as it left.”
“Interesting.” Camille nodded once. “Give me a moment to
confirm.” He vanished further down the ladder, and Anton took the opportunity
to close his eyes. His headache was coming back, getting worse. He needed food,
and tea, and a few minutes to catch his breath. He’d be lucky if he didn’t tip
over into a migraine at this point.
He didn’t even notice Camille’s reappearance until the man
was beside him, their bodies pressed together. Camille looked at him tensely,
but only said, “We had better get back inside.” He helped Anton along,
steadying him when necessary, until they were both upright at the front of the
train again.
God, the headache was excruciating.
It was all Anton could do to hold on. Camille’s long fingers closed over his on
the rail, keeping his grip firm. “Come on,” he murmured. “Just a little bit
further, come on.” They shuffled along the train together, but by the time they
got to the door Anton felt like his head was going to split in two. Which was―not
from a headache. It was the resonance spell, which meant…
He put it together almost too late. Anton jerked his eyes
toward the far door, the entrance to the booth, which was open just a crack.
The muzzle of a gun protruded into the space, and neither Bert nor his father
had seen it. It swiveled toward him and Camille, and Anton reacted violently,
ramming his shoulder into Camille so hard they both almost fell from their
precarious perch, trying to get them out of the doorway and the sites of that
deadly weapon.
BANG.
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