The Tank: Chapter Six, Part One

Notes: This is a little on the short side today, but my time has been at a premium lately (my honey's on a work trip, so the kidlet's all mine right now). Still, have some h/c followed by some angst!

Title: The Tank, Chapter Six, Part One

***

Chapter Six, Part One

The chaos that ensued was almost ferocious in its subtlety.

Questions were asked—too many questions. Had anyone noticed when the Vicomte was shot? Had they detected any other shots, or was it just the one? How had the bullet hit so accurately? Was it merely luck? Had the original target been someone else, or anyone at all? What had really happened inside the car just after the explosion rocked it off its tracks?

Anton could have answered some of these questions, but his offer to cast a spell on Voclain’s body and discover when exactly he’d died was met from his party with cries of, “It’s useless, all you’ll see is a bullet strike him in the chest!” and “I would rather not watch my gentlewoman break her neck, thank you,” and a particularly pitiful one from Deschamps that was mostly the word “no” repeated over and over, interspersed with “I cannot bear such a thing again.”

The other thing Anton knew that these others didn’t, and that he had no intention of bringing up with anyone, including Dr. Grable, was the fact that there was a spell out there that could give bullets this kind of accuracy in only one shot. Anton didn’t know how far the magic in the palimpsest had been spread, but he wasn’t going to be party to informing previously ignorant parties of it if he didn’t have to. The fewer people who knew about that spell, the better.

It was late, and getting quite cold in the mountains. People from some of the other cars, men better accustomed to the environment, set out walking in both directions to bring help and warn incoming trains that the track was unusable. People took shelter in the ruin, and those with a modicum of a talent for easing pain worked among them, setting a bone here, bandaging a wound there, and hunting down enough laudanum to dull the intense discomfort of those who were damaged inside. There wasn’t enough of it, though. Not nearly.

The train had been carrying a hundred and fifty-seven passengers. Only a hundred and twenty-two of them had survived the initial roll, and every hour seemed to bring a new moment of tragedy.

Citing a bit of experience with healing—although Anton had no good spells for serving the living, only the dead—he left his august party and headed for the common section of the train. He did what he could, which wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. Still, his bag at least came in useful—one of the travelers was a priest and thaumaturge, whose skillset revolved around the relief of suffering in body, mind, and spirit. Anton gladly handed over his stores of silver shavings, iron pellets, gold dust and powdered sulfur so that another person managed to avoid the horrible, all-consuming agony of lying awake through the experience of their own death.

He resolutely didn’t think about Camille. It was therefore a complete and utter surprise when he actually found the man.

“Anton.”

The hand on his shoulder made Anton spin around where he knelt, awkwardly attempting to shield the priest’s thurible from the wind as he doused the latest sufferer in incense. When he saw who it was, his mouth went dry and his feet fell out from under him.

“Camille…” Anton could barely speak his name. He really was here, he was alive. After everything that had happened over the past hour, it hardly seemed possible.

“Feel free to take your rest, my son,” the priest murmured, his rosary now clasped between his hands. He was hardly older than Anton, but he had the same calm aura about him that Cardinal Proulx did. “I’ll be engaged here for some time yet. Comméndo te omnipoténti Deo, caríssime frater, et ei, cuius es creatúra, commítto…”

Camille helped him off the ground, and a moment later Anton was in his arms. He closed his eyes and held on tight, pressing his face to the crook of Camille’s neck and just breathing, breathing. He felt the rush of his lover’s blood beneath his sensitive lips, heard the strong beat of his heart, and for a moment, just a moment, he let himself be weak. Thank god you’re here. “Why are you here?” he asked once he had enough control of his vocal chords to do so.

“Because I need to get back to Paris,” he said. “And because you were on this train, and I preferred to remain as close to you as possible for as long as I could.”

The sense of well-being he felt from hearing that was almost enough to melt the shard of question that suddenly speared Anton’s mind like shrapnel.

“Do you know the members of my party?” he asked quietly, pulling back a bit so he could look at Camille’s face.

Camille nodded. “I know of them all, although I’ve only met two of them in person.” He grimaced. “I’m afraid I’ll have to make myself known to them at this point, although I greatly prefer not to.”

“Why is that?”

“Revealing myself to those who have some influence around the Imperial Court is something I try to avoid if at all possible. The less they know of me, the less they’ll be able to presume they can control me if I end up having to investigate them.”

Anton took a bracing breath. “Is one of the men you knew Vicomte Voclain?”

Camille looked a bit puzzled. “I did, very informally. Why?”

“Because…he’s dead.”

Camille stilled. “Is he now.”

“He was shot.”

Anton didn’t have to say anything else. Camille was clever, much cleverer than he, better at putting the pieces of a criminal puzzle together. That such a shot was, in all likelihood, magically assisted, and that of everyone on the train, the only two people who had come into contact with such weapons that Anton knew of were himself and Camille. That Camille had no qualms about killing, if he needed to, and indeed that he had been prepared to do so to another member of the aristocracy. That in the confusion of an event like this, it would have been possible to fire without being seen.

Camille took a step away from him. “I would never allow that—” he pointed at the man the priest was speaking prayers over “—to result from a mandate or investigation of mine. Nor any of these pointless deaths.”

Anton had hurt him. How deeply, he didn’t know, but he already regretted it. Of course Camille wouldn’t let innocents be hurt if he could help it, much less ally himself with the Dévoué  in anything. “I know that, I do, I’m so—” he began, but Camille shook his head stiffly.

“Let us return to your party,” he said, his voice as cold as the rising wind. “For I have several things of which to inform them.”

All the irons, so many fires!

Hey darlins!

Here's a quick update on me, just so you know where I'm coming from lately, writing-wise. I'm trying to make this word-thing work for me while I'm juggling grad school, my lovely but EXTREMELY ENERGETIC kidlet, and being a decent wife, mom, and person at the same time. So!

I just subbed a story I've been working on for four freaking years to PitchWars. If you don't know that name, don't worry about it, it's just something I'd really love to get into. Basically you query four mentors you'd like to work with with your first chapter and some other book info, and if they're interested in helping you try for an agent/publication, it's a BIG DEAL. It's also hugely popular and I have no clue how I stack up, but I'm trying to think about other things.

I'm writing a cracky little myth retelling for my master's work right now (yeah, it's an MFA, I'm doubling down) and that's fun, but hard to focus on.

I'm trying to get writing jobs on Upwork like nobody's business, and it's extremely hit-or-miss.

I'm trying to get hired to write serial fiction for an online subscription service, and trying to get a contract to write some short fiction for a company that wants tie-in stories for their tabletop games. Cool, right?

I'm trying to edit other people's work, probably for not enough money, but I need the experience and I love it so much.

I'm trying to write a chapter for my next coauthored book with L.A. Witt.

And I'm writing the current blog story. And trying to republish my backlist from Dreamspinner.

I'm busy as hell, but also super anxious about everything right now. I'm going to go workout this afternoon and see if I can beat some of the nerves out of myself. How are you guys? How's life?

The Tank: Chapter Five: Part Two

Notes: More story, yay! And longer than usual, and definitely more action that we've seen for a while. Also, Anton should just stop taking trains altogether, he's clearly cursed.

Title: The Tank: Chapter Five, Part Two

***

Chapter Five, Part Two

The change happened so fast, Anton didn’t have a chance to stop himself from falling. One moment the train was chugging along, heading southwest on a decline as it passed through a narrow valley in the Bernese Oberland, and the next…

The noise was bad enough, a sharp crack followed by a rattling boom that penetrated Anton’s teeth, but it was accompanied by a sudden lift that sent everyone in their car, for a moment, into the air. Anton hung for a breathless second, with just enough time to turn his eyes away from the window he was hurtling toward before he impacted it.

Glass shattered against his cheekbone, and he felt something in his face crack along with it before his shoulder took on the burden of preparing the path for the rest of him. Even as the window vanished, the train rolled. That shouldn’t be possible, Anton thought to himself before he realized that he was airborne yet again. Only this time, he was outside the train. He’d passed right through the window frame, and flew through the air until he hit—a tree? A needle-covered rock? Something that broke his fall and nearly broke his spine as well.

Anton crashed to the ground, the air gone from his lungs, and watched as the train, all eight passenger cars, completed a second roll to the left. The engine was a smoldering mess, completely destroyed—but by what?

Magic? An explosive? Anton struggled to push up onto his hands and knees. The way his back screamed at him for it was slightly reassuring—at least he could still feel things, and his vital organs didn’t seem compromised. He tried to get to his feet and failed. Or maybe it’s too soon to know that. It didn’t matter—he could wallow in his own pain later. Caroline was on that train. Camille was on that train!

Anton staggered a few steps forward, one hand cradling his ribcage, then stopped. There was a shadow ahead of him that shouldn’t be there.

It was an odd thing to notice, but ever since he began deciphering truth from pictures that were little better than smoke and spirit, he had learned to pay attention to the way light moved. Things might get muddled in a building, with artificial light to confuse things, but out here there was nothing but the setting sun to cast a shadow, and all of those should be facing the other way. So it wasn’t a shadow, then. It was a…

“Look at you.”

A person. The man peeled away from the tree he squatted behind, taking a few small steps toward Anton. He was swathed in dark clothes, baggy and indistinct, and his face was covered in ash. “Never seen a fellow fly like that before,” he said. His French was oddly accented—an Alsatian dialect, perhaps? “The fact that you can even stand, much less move, is proof that God loves you.” He pulled a knife out from beneath his shirt. “But not enough to save you from my eyes, or my blade.” He took another two steps forward, his knife glinting menacingly in the red light of the sunset. “Now you—”

Anton pulled out the tiny Deringer he’d taken to wearing in his jacket after his last talk with Camille, cocked the hammer, and fired his shot dead into the man’s face. It was a small caliber bullet, and if his attacker was wearing armor of some sort beneath his camouflage the round might not penetrate, but there was no shield protecting his gaping mouth, now dripping blood like a faucet. Brains spattered the trees behind him, and after a moment he slumped to the ground.

“Apparently God’s still on my side,” Anton muttered. He took a deep breath, winced, and tried not to look at the ruin of the back of the man’s head as he stumbled past the body, desperate to make it to the train. Was it an ambush by the Dévoué? Were there more grey-garbed men stalking the wreckage of the train for passengers to murder even now? Anton had some of his spell equipment on him, but none of them would be much good offensively, unless he counted the wooden ball in his left vest pocket…but honestly, how useful would that be up here, in a fairly remote mountain pass with no villages? He needed to—

A second explosion rocked the ground, only this one sounded more like a swarm of metallic bees being released at high speed. Glinting orange sparks shot high above the train before crashing down again, trailing their light like spears of fire. As soon as they hit the ground, they shot straight out in all directions. Anton heard screams, expected to scream himself—he was standing, he was moving toward the train, how would the magic distinguish him from an attacker?—but the light passed right through him, harmless.

That amount of deadly precision had to be the work of Dr. Grable. He, at least, was still functioning. It was a tremendous relief to Anton—he wouldn’t yet be called to use his talents to kill. He gulped and thought of the man behind him. To kill again, at least, and that hadn’t been talent, that was pure luck.

He pressed on over the rocks, past small shrubs and straight toward the smell of gunpowder. Orsini bombs, perhaps? Whatever had managed to roll the train, it had been powerful. He stumbled toward the private car, now a broken wreck. “Caroline!” he shouted, his anxiety bursting out of his chest. She had to be all right. “Caroline!”

It wasn’t until he saw her crawl out of another broken window, coughing but managing to get herself to her feet, that Anton realized he’d just given himself away. Why should he care about her in particular, other than because she was one of the only women in their party? Why should he be so forward as to address her by her first name? Idiot, idiot…

The odds were good that no one had even heard him, so surrounded were they with cries and tears and shouts. Caroline heard, though. She met his eyes for a moment, and her free hand clenched over her heart as she saw him, her eyes closing briefly. Thank God, he saw her mouth. Perhaps she and his attacker had a point after all.

“Fucking hell,” a familiar voice groused from above. Anton saw Dr. Grable standing on the toppled train, a silver wand glowing like a brand in one hand, the other one clutching the wooden leg of an elongated cocktail table. It seemed to be all that was keeping him on his feet—he was listing heavily to one side, like his left leg couldn’t support him. How had he even gotten up there?

“Sheer bloody-mindedness,” Dr. Grable said, and Anton realized he’d spoken the last part out loud. “You survived, then. Excellent. Get into the cabin of our car and check on the others while the young lady and I do a little protective thaumaturgy on what’s left of this rubble.”

“It will be all right,” Caroline chimed in. “I’ve got plenty of materials for the basics.” She had her holdall with her—smart.

“I—yes, I can do that.” It helped to have an order to follow, now that he knew Caroline was unhurt. It was the tether he needed to keep from running off to the other passenger cars, searching for Camille. There were plenty of people in a muddle over there right now already, and Anton was no healer—he would only get in the way. He crawled in through the same window Caroline had exited from and looked around, marking where their company lay, then moved to each of them in turn.

Cardinal Proulx was unconscious, and judging from the size of the knot on his skull, likely to have a terrible headache when he awoke, but he was breathing freely and no limbs looked to be contorted. Monsieur Deschamps was similarly unconscious, although he seemed to be coming around. His wrist was likely broken, or at least very badly sprained, but Anton could detect no other obvious maladies. He moved to the second half of the car, where the news was less good.

Caroline’s companion was dead, her neck very clearly broken. She’d probably died in the initial explosion, as the twist of the train had thrown them all about the cabin. And Voclain…

Well. He was dead, that was evident. But it probably wasn’t the crash that had killed him.

It was far more likely the bullet lodged in his chest that had done that.

The Tank: Chapter Five, Part One

Notes: Back to The Tank! Have some introductions, enjoy the wine, prepare for chaos!

Title: The Tank: Chapter Five, Part One

***

Chapter Five, Part One

It was just as well that Anton had packed when he did, because before the sun set he, Grable, the three principle representatives of the emperor and their entourage were on their way to Paris via a private train car. Not an entirely private train, thankfully—Anton didn’t think he could have taken that. The private car was stressful enough, for a variety of reasons.

The men sent by the Emperor to coerce—er, persuade—them to Paris were a disparate lot. One of them was a clergyman, a cardinal in fact, his blood-red robes making him stand out like his avian namesake among the dark, crowlike garb the rest of them wore. He was an older man, with a severe face but a surprisingly approachable demeanor. Anton, who was disinclined toward religion on moral grounds, nevertheless found His Eminence Cardinal Proulx to be a thoughtful, pleasant person who was more curious about his thaumaturgy than condemning. The relationship between God and magic played out in fraught ways at times, both politically and philosophically, but the cardinal was nothing but polite. Anton intended to corner him for a discussion of the church’s position on supporting the empire’s violence against its own indigenous populations when they had a moment.

The thaumaturge that accompanied the party wasn’t much of a conversationalist, to be honest. Monsieur Deschamps appeared to be a ritualist type—“Lit up like a cathedral at Christmas, he’s got so many magical devices on him,” Dr. Grable had remarked—and while that was interesting to Anton, the man didn’t seem very inclined to discuss the craft.

“I prefer not to speak about them,” was all Deschamps said when Anton tried to bring his devices up in conversation once they were settled in their car. “As long as I’m the only one who knows what they are, no one will be able to counter them all.”

Anton had chuckled. “Are you worried about an assassination attempt, then?” he asked.

Deschamps had scowled in return. “You have no idea what I’ve been through,” he declared, gripping the silver triquetra pendant dangling around his neck so hard his knuckles turned white. “I won’t have my protections dismissed by someone who’s never put his life on the line for the greater good before! Good day, sir!” He had retreated, leaving Anton completely nonplussed. Whatever had happened to the man, it had left him rather on edge.

The final imperial representative was a vicomte, because of course he was. There was no escaping the grasp of the aristocracy when the emperor himself had sent the delegation. Vicomte Wilhelm Piotr Swartzman Voclain had an estate outside Strasbourg, hence a very strong motive to keep the empire whole—Strasbourg was technically still in the “heart” of the French Empire, but it would be one of the first to chip away in real unrest, a way for dissenters to strike at Napoleon’s most powerful allies.

Vicomte Voclain was charming, personable, and about as genuine as a fish sporting fur. He was handsome, a bit taller than Anton and broad through the shoulders and chest, very fit, and also very industrious when it came to picking and choosing his company. He had taken one look at Anton and immediately deduced that they had nothing to talk about, and apart from a brief and genteel greeting hadn’t looked his way since. He seemed wary of Dr. Grable, for all that he had been sent to Zurich to persuade the man to his cause, and he was very clearly uninterested in moralizing with the cardinal or putting up with Deschamps’ fluttering nerves. So he’d found another person to keep him company.

“That is too clever!” Caroline exclaimed from the other side of the car, a glass of wine in one hand, the other resting on the vicomte’s arm. Anton glanced her way and grimaced. Her prediction that she could find a way to finagle herself down to the capitol had come true. She had undoubtedly taken one look at Voclain, determined him to be her ideal target, and persuaded him into doing exactly what she wanted in less than an hour.

Her retinue had been dismissed to another car, with the exception of an older woman who was her “travel companion,” sitting back and knitting quietly. The presence of the other lady was meant to encourage chasteness between the married Caroline and the decidedly rakish Voclain, but her presence didn’t seem to be deterring the vicomte a whit.

Voclain smiled a vast white smile. “You would have thought it twice as clever if you could have seen it for yourself, my lady.”

“I have no doubt of that at all. It’s so rare to find a gentlemen such as yourself paying such close attention to the comings and goings of his own estate, sir.”

“I’ve never understood the English need to reduce all important labor to the realm of servants,” Voclain declared. “If I am to be the lord of my manor, then I must know every aspect of its workings. How else will I know if I am squeezing enough blood from my stones, no?”

“How indeed!”

This sort of entitled prig is exactly why the empire is careening toward an uprising, Anton thought uncharitably to himself. If he’d been alone with Caroline, it was the sort of observation he’d have enjoyed sharing with her, but she’d clearly been very careful not to give away their connection. He appreciated that. Having given her a “no,” she was handling it gracefully. He only hoped she wouldn’t get too ambitious with her spy-gathering.

What a joke. That woman only knows how to be ambitious. In that case, he wished her much joy of it, because he wouldn’t be assisting her.

The only bright spot in the entire process so far, apart from having an assured income for a time, was the glimpse Anton had gotten of a man getting onto the public part of the train when he’d boarded earlier—a man who looked, at least from behind, very much like Camille. Was he returning to Paris already? Was he doing it because he wanted to be close to Anton, or because he had already been summoned home by his masters? Or did he have another destination in mind, one that would have him leaving the train well before the three-day journey to Paris was over?

Anton didn’t know, but if he had to be satisfied with so little of Camille, after he had just had so, so much of him, he would do his best.