The Dark Volume

“Alchemy,” said Aspiche.

Fochtma

“According to the Comte,” continued Aspiche.

Fochtma

“They are a matter of fact,” Aspiche snapped.

“The Comte's writings are the ravings of a madman,” replied Fochtma

Fochtma

“Or… for another example… these books…”

“Books?” asked Rawsbarthe i

“Prominently described in the notes. Apparently a most singular exploitation of the… acquisitive… properties of indigo glass.”

“I would not know,” said Rawsbarthe. Aspiche remained silent.

“Not that I have seen such a thing,” Fochtma

“What is it?” asked Rawsbarthe, with concern.

“Rather, why is it?” chuckled Fochtma

“Does this mean you have accepted the Duke's commission?” asked Rawsbarthe.

“It does indeed, sir. How could I refuse his Grace's personal invitation?”

“Excellent,” said Rawsbarthe. “Welcome news. Our situation—”

Aspiche cleared his throat.

“Colonel?” asked Fochtma

“I am sure his Grace will cherish your dedication,” said Aspiche. “But I wonder if… for the time being… the three of us might keep word of your… discoveries between ourselves.”

No one spoke.

Rawsbarthe sniffed. “Ah, well… yes, that seems to me a rather… interesting… and prudent suggestion. Especially as Mr. Fochtma

“Unknown and provocative,” said Aspiche.

“Provocative and powerful,” said Rawsbarthe.

“Mr. Fochtma

“Why should I object to that?” replied Fochtma

“Then we have an understanding?”

“I believe we do. I will share my immediate findings only with you two gentlemen, and the three of us together will determine… further steps.”

“It is sensible,” said Rawsbarthe.

“It is.” Chang could imagine the greedy smile on Fochtma

A hand rapped sharply on the glass cover above Chang's face.

“And what is this large thing?” asked Rawsbarthe, his voice only inches away.

Chang looked up to see the hand now rubbing on the glass, as if to clear away the darkness and peer more clearly inside.

“Do you know its purpose?”

“Not until I've done more study,” answered Fochtma

“Should we not open it and look?”

“If you are keen to do so,” replied Fochtma

Rawsbarthe's hand moved to the edge of the glass and gave it an exploratory nudge, realized how heavy it was, and then put both hands upon it, ready to push harder.

“It was where the Comte had the woman,” said Aspiche.

“What woman?” asked Fochtma

“His Oriental harlot. Angelique. Something had been done to her, she became ill. He kept her alive there, to reach Harschmort—you see the brass boxes, and the tubes that feed inside. Blue water was pumped through them, thick as glue.”

“She was ill?” asked Rawsbarthe.

“The Comte called it an ‘imbalance of heat’ or some such.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died.”

No one spoke. Fochtma

Rawsbarthe plucked his hands away as if the coffin had become a hot stove.

“Indeed, yes. Besides, we have more than enough to occupy our time.”

CHANG WAITED to make sure that they'd closed the steel door behind them before he raised the glass top with both hands. He knew by the car's rocking gait that they had left the tu

There were immediate questions he needed to answer—where the black car had been placed in the whole of the train, how many dragoons were aboard and where—and there were decisions to make, most importantly whether he ought to accept his fate and take his inquiries to Harschmort directly or do his best to escape the train while it was still close to the city. Chang stretched his shoulders—tight after his time in the coffin—and turned his neck, the bones answering with an audible click. Fochtma

The door the three men had used to enter and exit led to a railcar of passenger compartments—Fochtma

Ahead was another passenger car, the flaring sunlight preventing him from seeing anything inside. Chang crossed the jouncing platform and pressed his face against the window. Coming straight toward him was a red-coated dragoon, wearing his brass helmet, in that very instant glancing down to take something from an inside pocket. He would look up and see Chang. Chang spun and launched himself onto the narrow metal ladder bolted to the passenger car. As the door opened he flattened himself against the vibrating ladder, the tracks racing past below his feet.

The dragoon stepped out onto the platform, a half-smoked cheroot in his mouth, saber knocking against the door, the horsehair crest of his helmet whipping wildly in the wind. In his gloved hand was a pewter flask. The marks on his collar and epaulettes showed a Captain's rank… then Chang saw the fair whiskers slipping out from beneath the brass helmet, pale as corn silk—it had to be his adversary from the north, the very Captain who had evaded him in the forest and in Karthe and in the darkness of Helliott Street. What was he doing with the black car—alone, and apart from his commanding officer? Or was he just nipping whisky?