"I have let you in this house," said Happerty again. "But I must know more who you are."

"I am exactly what I seem," Chang replied. "I do not care two pins for your master-I am not interested in harming him, if that is what you ask. Or harming you-or I would already have done so."

There were no other servants-no crowd of footmen at call to throw him out of doors. Had they all gone? Or been sent away?

"It has been four days," said Happerty at last, with a sigh.

"And to your mind, when you last saw him, did he expect to be gone?"

"I do not believe so."

"No valise? No pocket of ready cash? No changes to his social calendar?"

"None of those things."

"And where is his place of business?"

"Mr. Leveret travels to the different gun-works throughout the week. But that day..." Happerty hesitated.

"Can he defend himself?" asked Chang.

Happerty said nothing.

"Your employer is in danger," said Chang. "Henry Xonck is an imbecile and Francis Xonck is dead. Forces more powerful than they, thus very powerful indeed, have made your master their target."

Chang found his eye caught by the grain of the close-shaven skin on the underside of Happerty's jaw, reminding him unpleasantly of sliced salmon. The way it rubbed against the white starched collar, Chang expected to see a greasy pink stain. Then the old servant cleared his throat, as if he had made a decision.

"Mr. Leveret had an appointment at the Palace."

"Is that normal?"

"Such appointments are a regular consequence of government contracts, though Mr. Leveret never appeared himself-they were the province of Mr. Xonck."

"Henry Xonck?"

Happerty frowned. "Of course Henry Xonck. Yet in Mr. Xonck's absence-the quarantine-Mr. Leveret was summoned, to present delivery time-tables related to sh.o.r.e defenses."

"Deliveries by way of the western ca.n.a.ls?"

"I only keep Mr. Leveret's house."

"Do you know who he met at the Palace?"

"Apparently he never arrived. They were most insistent he appear. An officer came. Quite beyond all decorum and without any further explanation, his men searched the premises for Mr. Leveret, despite everything I might do to persuade them otherwise!"

Happerty had become more animated, describing the disruption of his own domain. Chang nodded in sympathy. "But who was he meeting? At the Palace?"

"Mr. Leveret's calendar names a 'Mr. Phelps,' of the Foreign Ministry-itself a thing that makes no sense for coastal defenses. I do not believe Mr. Leveret had ever met with him before."

Happerty gestured, affronted, beyond the archway. In the far room a window had been cracked, the fine lace curtains lay on the floor in a heap, the expensive Italian floor tiles had been scratched...

"Do you recall the officer in command?" Chang asked.

"It is my duty to recall everyone. Colonel Noland Aspiche, 4th Dragoons."

Chang recalled the looping scars from the Process around Aspiche's eyes, the temporary disfigurement an apt sign of the man's internal distemper. Though he had hated Trapping's corruption, Colonel Aspiche had been seduced by the Cabal with ease. Chang was sure any remorse lay curled like a worm within the Colonel's conscience, making him that much more severe in executing his new masters' agenda.

"Two more questions, and I must go," he said, "though I am in your debt, and will do my best to find Mr. Leveret. First, did your master ever visit Harschmort House?"

Mr. Happerty shook his head no.

"Second-in the last fortnight, did you ever see his face discolored, a scarring around the eyes? Or was he ever absent for some days at a time when such a condition might have healed without your knowing it?"

Happerty shook his head again. "Mr. Leveret is a prompt man with regular habits, dining at home each night at half-past six."

"In that case, I will ask a third question," said Chang, his hand on the crystal k.n.o.b of the door. "You are a man who pays attention. Are you acquainted with Mrs. Eloise Dujong?"

"She is the widow," said Happerty. "Mrs. Trapping's woman."

"Would Mr. Leveret know her?"

"Mr. Leveret is most attentive to social nuance."

HE WAS forced to cut through the Circus Garden, a district he preferred at all times to avoid and found especially onerous in his presently battered appearance. His path was momentarily blocked by a coach of young ladies, and Chang was stung by the trust coc.o.o.ning them, even to the color of their merry hats, the blitheness-in a city of filth and smoke and blood and tobacco juice and layered grease-that allowed anyone to wear anything the color of a lemon meringue.

In his hurry, he'd not gone the extra streets to enter hidden through h.e.l.liott Street, and he was jostled down Stropping's main staircase into what appeared to be an especially restive and hostile crowd of travelers... but then he saw a line of constables at the foot of the wide stone steps, barking at people to form lines and group themselves by destination. What in the world was this? Chang paused, as angry bodies pushed past him-people muttering at the constables, constables answering the travelers with sharp shoves. What was more, beyond the constables he picked out pockets of red-dragoons scattered across the whole of the terminal, with each little crimson band led by men in Ministry topcoats-in the midst of a search the scale of which Chang had never seen in a lifetime of crime and its consequence. He was shoved forward, swept down by the crowd's momentum, waiting with rising dread for a constable to pick him out. Just before the foot of the stairs Chang muttered a sudden apology, as if he had dropped his stick, and crouched below the shoulders of the travelers around him, scuttling quickly ahead and past the hara.s.sed constables. He kept low until he reached the cover of an advertising kiosk, and then carefully took stock of his predicament.

Rawsbarthe, while knowing clearly who Chang was, had not been searching for him-perhaps it was the same with the men here. Even if the constables knew Chang from the Captain's description, he could not merit this. Could things actually be so desperate that the Palace would so openly search for Charlotte Trapping or even Leveret-as if they were criminals? But the constables did not even seem to be searching. Rather, they were positioned to quell unrest amongst the people themselves. What else had happened in the city? He remembered the newspapers-but one always ignored the newspapers, they were written for fools. Was it possible their shrill warnings had been real?

He looked up at the clock-it was just before noon-and then beneath it. There was no sign of the Doctor or Miss Temple-nor, for that matter, Eloise Dujong.

THE MEETING place was extremely exposed, and he had no desire to linger. He inched up on his toes, trying to determine if the search was directed at trains coming or going from a particular place. Along the southern platforms, to Cap Rouge and other coastal resorts he had never seen (Chang took some satisfaction at how freezing the wind would be at this time of year), roamed a pair of dragoons, with one portly man in black standing in place while the soldiers marched back and forth. For the entire bank of western platforms, which would have included Tarr Manor, the detachment of dragoons had been expanded to six.

It was noon. Since his allies would arrive from the north, he made his way to the clock by a looping path that brought him close enough to the northern platforms to see that each of these trains had its own black-clad functionary, with at least an entire squadron of dragoons arranged between them. Neither the Doctor nor Miss Temple would have the knowledge-or the sense, honestly-to slip out the side door to h.e.l.liott Street. They would be taken. And yet... a train from the north had apparently arrived-he could see a small line of disembarked pa.s.sengers under scrutiny, but he did not see Svenson or Miss Temple, nor did he see anyone being dragged away. Chang took up his position at the clock, wondering how long he could realistically expect to stand unnoticed, and in which direction, when he was noticed, he would flee.

He gave them three minutes-any more would be idiotic-and berated himself for setting up a rendezvous that had become a trap for anyone credible enough to trust him. The seconds ticked by. The constables came near with their charges. He could hear soldiers calling above the train whistles. Enough. Chang stalked abruptly into the thickest part of the crowd. As long as he was there, his time could be far better spent with the last quadrant of trains, those going back and forth from the east-toward the coastal ca.n.a.ls, and Harschmort. He rose to his full height. The red and black coats of his enemies were laced through the swirling crowd as sure and as hard as whalebone in a woman's corset.

A heavy hand gripped his right shoulder. Chang spun and raised his stick. Before him stood Colonel Aspiche, bawling out to the red-coated troopers behind him.

"Dragoons! Arrest this man!"

Chang knocked away the Colonel's arm, but the moment when Chang might have landed a kick or chopped the handle of his stick into Aspiche's throat was lost in his shock at the man's appearance. Where before the Colonel had been hale and fierce, now his eyes were shot through with blood, his skin was lividly blistered around both nostrils, and his close-cropped grey hair had gone entirely white.

The dragoons surged forward and Chang dove away into the crowd. But the simmering anger he had witnessed on the staircase had been inflamed, as if the Colonel's cry had tarred Chang as a scapegoat for every humiliation and inconvenience that had been inflicted on them. He heard shouts and insults and knew-he had his own experience of hostile mobs-that any moment some angry idiot would try to bring him down, and then a dozen others would follow suit. He seized an elderly man by the arm and yanked him squawking into the path of whoever might be behind. He heard the ring of sabers being drawn, Aspiche shouting at the crowd to make way, the screams of women-he had no idea where to go, he could not see-another scream, but then he bulled through to an open area of the terminal floor, the people shrinking away and pointing. To hesitate was death- Chang flung himself forward in a dead run toward a gap between two waiting east-bound trains.

Blocking the way stood a man in black and another four dragoons, their backs to the commotion, intent on something down the track. Aspiche roared out for Chang to stop. The Ministry man turned, paled, and flapped his arms at his men-but Chang measured the distance in an instant, they were too far away, he was moving too fast. He slammed into the Ministry man, screaming upon impact to further terrify his quarry, seized his black lapels and spun him, limbs flailing, into the dragoons at his heels. Chang sprinted for the nearest train car, diving beneath and crawling furiously out the far side, tearing his trousers on the gravel, up on his feet as the soldiers fell to their knees in pursuit, emerging in another corridor between two trains. He had gained perhaps five seconds of distance. More soldiers appeared at the head of this corridor's platform, shouting, pointing-Chang broke into a run away from them all.

The train he'd crawled beneath had just arrived-that is, its engine faced the platform-but the other train, on his right, was preparing to leave Stropping, and Chang dashed alongside, toward its steaming engine. Without looking back he dove beneath it, scrambling out the other side.

The row of track before him was empty. Chang ran at an angle toward the next train over, painted yellow. He considered doubling around-back to the terminal-or climbing into the train through a window, just to get out of view. But what he needed more was distance. Another twenty yards and he dove under again. On the other side of the yellow train, Chang began to sprint: the train beyond it was in motion, leaving Stropping, its distant front end disappearing into the black tunnels at the station's edge. He glanced over his shoulder- no dragoons.

He reached the train just as its final car swept by. He leapt between the tracks proper, running hard to catch up. The train was gaining speed but so was Chang. His gloved fingers just brushed the rear rail. He looked up to see a figure in the caboose's doorway, wrapped in a hooded black cloak. It was his a.s.sailant from the train compartment in Karthe. The man's arm lashed down, a blue spike in his hand. Chang let go before the blow could land and nearly stumbled onto his face. The man stared malevolently at Chang as the train disappeared into the tunnel, his hood opened by the wind. Or maybe that was wrong-maybe he had wanted Cardinal Chang to see his face. Chang bent over, gasping for breath, hands on his knees, as any number of nagging questions began to fall into place.

Francis Xonck was still alive.

SOME DISTANCE behind him, but still closer than he would have liked, a determined pair of dragoons emerged from under the yellow train. Chang broke into a ragged run, following Xonck's train into the dark tunnel. At the very least it would serve as a place to turn and set his own ambush. With any luck, the dragoons would simply give up once they saw him go in-as well they ought to, for the tunnels were insanely dangerous, with tracks crossing each other without any warning and trains screaming out of nowhere from every direction. He'd no desire to enter it himself, and only hoped the pa.s.sage of Xonck's train would keep these particular tracks clear for at least the time it took to lose the dragoons.

But the tunnel was farther away than it seemed. By the time he reached it, Chang was winded and the darkness echoed with the sounds of other trains. What was worse, the dragoons had not stopped. Instead, the ones in front had paused, allowing the rest to catch up- some ten men in all, sabers out, forming a line between the tracks. Chang spat out another curse and pulled off his gla.s.ses, stuffing them into the inner pocket of his coat. He could barely see a thing. He held his stick out before him to find the tunnel's wall, hoping for an alcove to hide in. Instead, he tripped over a half-buried stretch of unused track and fell to his knees. He groped for his stick and looked back, blinking. The line of dragoons raced directly toward him, moving faster than Chang had antic.i.p.ated. He found the stick and plunged into the darkness, landing hard on the tar-soaked stones. A train roared past-inches away, it seemed, though he knew this was but the speed and violence of its pa.s.sage. In the doorway of its final car stood a conductor with a lantern, illuminating for a teasingly brief instant the vaulted tunnel where Chang crouched.

One line of tracks veered into a deeper side tunnel. It was the sort of place that might be a trap-even the best ambush would not catch Aspiche and all of his men-but Chang was drawn to it anyway on the chance of another side exit, and an easy escape. Once he'd stumbled in, however, the side tunnel's isolation became its own difficulty, for the blackness was total. Chang felt his way, knocking with his stick, wasting time. He could hear the dragoons calling to one another and then, shadows playing about the cavern, saw with a sick realization that they had fetched lanterns. They would pick him out like a rat cornered in the pantry.

But the flickers of light at least showed him where to go. He broke into a reckless run as the neglected side cavern echoed with the approach of another train. Yet instead of roaring past, this train broke speed to actually enter the cavern. Knowing there were only seconds before he must be found, Chang sprinted toward the curving cavern wall, the bricks black with soot. The wall was a series of arches, each one penetrated by a set of rail tracks, all fanning out from a central spur. Chang ducked inside the nearest arch and flattened himself against the wall. The cavern had become much brighter, both from the train-now easing its way slowly and backwards into the vast hall-and the dragoons waving their lanterns. Chang retreated farther, and was suddenly surprised to see the lantern light reflecting back. His alcove archway was not empty, but exactly designed to house-as it did now-a detached train car.

He edged between the train car and the filthy wall. The dragoons came nearer. Chang flung himself down and rolled beneath the car. He felt for the cross-braces above and hauled himself up off the ties, wedging his boots to each side and wrapping his arms around the cables. In a matter of seconds his tunnel was bright with lantern light. Chang held his breath. The gravel crunched as two soldiers marched the length of each side of the car. Their light pa.s.sed by and left him in a momentary shadow. He released the air in his lungs and carefully inhaled. The men came back. They thrust their lanterns beneath the car, but Chang remained suspended just out of view. The light was withdrawn. He heard the soldiers walk on to the next tunnel.

Chang slowly lowered himself onto the bed of rail ties, listening to the sounds in the cavern, feeling the pressure of the wood and gravel against his back, and the cool, foul air of the cavern on his face. What if he merely died where he was? How long until his bones would be discovered? Or would they be taken apart by rats and scattered across the whole of the tunnel?

He peered past his boots. The light in the cavern was moving again. Divested of its cars, the engine had reversed direction back toward the station proper. In its wake came the smaller bobbing glows of the individual dragoons. Chang relaxed on the wooden ties-he would wait another few minutes before moving-and turned his mind to more useful matters. Francis Xonck was alive. Colonel Aspiche was diseased. There was growing unrest in the city.

In hindsight, it seemed stupid not to have recognized Xonck during their struggle in the train compartment at Karthe, and his reappearance was a reminder that Chang could take nothing for granted when dealing with the Cabal. For all he knew, not a single person had perished aboard the dirigible. But then Chang recalled the severing of Lydia Vandaariff's head and the Prince of Macklenburg's legs, and then Caroline Stearne floating facedown in the rising flood. The servantry always died.

Chang rolled out from under the rail car, brushing at his coat from habit. Barely able to see a thing-but suddenly curious-he walked, one hand against the wall, to the car's far end. Chang patted his hands across the platform, and found a metal ladder welded to its side. He climbed up and felt for a waist-high railing of chain around the platform's edge. He threw a leg over it and ran his hands across the door. It was metal, cold, and lacking any handle.

Chang retraced his way to the car's other end, finding an identical platform, ladder, and flat metal door. He pulled the glove from his right hand and ran it over the cold surface. His fingers found the depression of a key hole.

He fished out a ring of skeleton keys, sifting through them by feel for three particularly heavy and squat specimens he had acquired in trade from a Dutch thief named Ruud, after Chang had secured him a hiding s.p.a.ce on a smuggler's ship to Rotterdam. Chang had more than once contemplated discarding them, annoyed by the weight they added to the ring and having only a thief's word as to their value. He brought the first key to bear with the keyhole, but it would not go in. The second key slipped inside, but did not turn. He jiggled it free with some effort and no little irritation. The third key went in-again the fit was tight-and turned to the right. It did not move. With another burst of impatience, Chang turned the key sharply to the left. The lock caught and the key spun a complete circle, rolling the bar free with a m.u.f.fled clank.

THE INTERIOR of the car glowed blue from a hundred bright points, as if he had wandered into a grotto of fairies. He stood inside the Comte's specially fabricated car. Chang leaned to the closest glowing array-bulbs of blue gla.s.s set into a hanging rack, drilled with holes the size of the Doctor's monocle. Similar racks were hung along each wall of the open room. Chang wondered why, with such a supply of gla.s.s, the car had been sent to storage, and in such a relatively public s.p.a.ce. Perhaps because the order had come from the Comte, and no one yet dared to countermand him? Were the tunnels under Stropping parceled out to the wealthy to store their private cars? Was the old Queen's own silver anniversary coach, made at such public expense (for a figure so dyspeptically viewed) gathering soot but another stone arch away?

Chang left the door ajar-the last thing he wanted was to be locked in by yet another mechanism he didn't understand-and stepped to a glowing rack of gla.s.s. It held perhaps thirty bright bulbs and reminded Chang of an array of ammunition for an imaginary weapon. If this was just-refined blue gla.s.s, there would be no memory imprinted on it, merely the substance's own raw, untreated properties ... of which Chang had no real idea. Each hole was covered by a disk of clear gla.s.s, held in place by a thin metal ring. Chang frowned. Was the metal copper... or brighter than that, more distinctively... orange? Chang dug a fingernail under the metal ring-the instant of pressure conjuring the image of his entire nail peeling hideously back-and popped both the metal ring and the clear disk out of place. With his gloved hand, he extracted the bolt of blue gla.s.s, the size of a very large bullet-for elephants perhaps-and completely smooth and symmetrical.

Against his better judgment, Cardinal Chang slipped it into the pocket of his coat. In an afterthought he put the orange metal ring in with it. The clear gla.s.s cover he fit back over the empty hole.

The car's interior had been designed to resemble an elegant parlor: windows with tasteful sashes and drapery, carpets and stucco moldings, with the appropriate furnishings-all nailed down-an a.s.sortment of fauteuils and chaises and spindle-legged sideboards. Chang sneered at the desire to at all times be accompanied by the familiar. Did not the pleasure of having one's own railcar lay in its being exclusive and unique? The decor ought to be proudly unsuited to anyplace else, expressing the soul of this new environment of privilege. Instead, he saw the trappings of staid comfort, a train car styled on the anteroom of a gentleman's club-or, he sneered, a dirigible fitted with sofas. New places ought to be platforms of discovery, not merely venues for drinking port in a chair.

Not that Cardinal Chang drank port, but poverty of means did not contradict his conviction regarding his enemies' poverty of mind. And yet... the railcar was the work of the Comte d'Orkancz, hardly a slave to conventional taste. He looked around him more closely, and the interior began to take on a certain irony, precisely because of its ba.n.a.lity. Now he saw the staid interior fittings were all an arrogant black-the carpet, the walls, the loops of stucco, even the upholstery- as if the comfort and security they projected was itself a source of wicked, contemptuous pleasure. The Comte was an artist, and he saw the world in terms of metaphor-however dark his sensibilities, the worlds he created remained expressions of beauty and wit. The elegant chaise was fitted with leather restraints. The wide, soft fauteuils bore lacquered trays that folded out like square wasp wings, where one might lay out food, drink... or medical implements.

Chang's amus.e.m.e.nt stuck in his throat. A ventilation grille had been set into the ceiling, and at his feet, in a pristine square of slate, lay a metal drain. The square of slate was edged with a thin band of orange metal, the same orange metal that ringed every bulb of gla.s.s. He looked up. The ventilation grille as well. And the stucco molding, running the entire circuit of the car, bore a line of orange the width of an infant's finger along its upper edge.

He took a breath and then sharply exhaled. The air in the railcar nearly vibrated with dread. On the far end of the room was a low wooden cabinet, its top wide enough to serve as a desk for examining the doc.u.ments sequestered within its many thin drawers. To his right stood a more unusual fixture, braced at either end by mechanical standing cabinets-the same species, but not full-grown, as the bra.s.s-bound kiosks the Comte had used in the cathedral tower to transform his three women to gla.s.s. These versions bore fewer black hoses and bra.s.s switches, but the sight of them made Cardinal Chang's throat go dry. The black hoses ran into the side of the large object that lay between them, a high metal box the shape of a large coffin, with a curved lid of thick gla.s.s. This was where they had kept Angelique.

The gla.s.s cover was smoked and he could not see in. With a grimace Chang set his stick against the box, replaced his glove, and lifted the cover carefully with both hands, looking down with revulsion. The interior of the coffin, for he could call it no other thing, was lined with black rubber. Its center depression was dusted with a small ring of sediment, like the sigil of a parched, departed sea, the salts of her body-of whatever had been done to her-the waters all having dried away. His eyes flicked quickly about the box's interior-more tubes, and holes where liquid or gas had been pumped inside. Chang dropped the cover loudly back into place, his own breath coming raw with anger. He stalked to the cabinet, pulling open the drawers one after another, pawing the papers inside, until he realized he was not seeing them at all. He ought to feel none of this-it was nothing he had not seen before, nothing he had not resigned himself to bear. Chang pulled out his gla.s.ses. The blue glow made him squint.

He sorted the cabinet's contents with a grim concentration. One drawer was given over to the plans for the railcar itself, others held purely alchemical formulae-all of it in the same hand, a.s.sumedly the Comte's. Next came designs for various small machines. Here the Comte's notations were augmented by another hand, some pages attached with pins to others that were more technically detailed. These bore a different notation in the corner. Chang held it up to his eyes: a stamp of several horizontal lines, each of which was initialed. It was a way to track production, Chang realized-these were all designs for machines that had been made. The top lines were all initialed "Cd'O"... the second line-perhaps referring to the mechanical details, was initialed "GL" or "JC"-Lorenz or Crooner, engineers from the Royal Inst.i.tute, recruited by the Comte to construct his fever dreams in iron and bra.s.s. A fourth line bore simply a stylized mark, identifying the Xonck Armament Works-indicating where the fabrication had been done-but the third line, in every instance, was initialed "AL" ...

Every machine had been made for the Comte d'Orkancz by the Xoncks. The construction itself had been completely overseen by Alfred Leveret.

Chang went back to the case. Three drawers had been emptied. He a.s.sumed he would find specifications for the great cathedral tower, and for the creation of the gla.s.s books, but they did not appear. The rest held more alchemical scribbling, half-legible and meaningless to anyone save d'Orkancz. He shoved the last drawer home, and heard the rustle of something caught in it. Curious, Chang reached to the back of the drawer and found a balled-up piece of vellum, as if it had slipped out of the drawer above... one of the drawers that had been emptied. Chang carefully smoothed it out on the cabinet top.

It was smaller than the rest, and depicted a device the size of a black-powder pistol. The design was executed entirely in the hand of the Comte d'Orkancz, and labeled "marrow sparge"-an insidious term that meant nothing to Chang. There was no Xonck stamp in the corner. Had this implement been fabricated? Or did it exist solely in the Comte's ecstatic brain?

With a sudden curiosity Chang studied the tool's dimensions, and wondered-trying to recall the impression set into the velvet-if this, or something very like it, might have fit in the Contessa's mysterious trunk. He could not say. He stuffed it into the inner pocket of his coat.

NO DOUBT there remained more crucial information about the workings of the gla.s.s, but Chang knew it was beyond his own understanding. He wished Svenson were there-at least he understood the medical issues. It seemed inarguable that in the Comte's absence whoever did best understand the gla.s.s must destroy their rivals. Chang strode to the door, but then paused at a sudden impulse of responsibility. Working deliberately he began to dig the orange metal rings from one rack of gla.s.s, stuffing one after another into his pockets. He'd no idea of their value, but Svenson might, and if they gave any protection whatsoever, it was worth his hauling them around.

He abruptly looked up. A noise outside the car. Chang stepped to the door, listening carefully. There were voices, bootsteps. Without hesitation he eased the door closed, sealing himself in, and looked around the room, hating every inch of it, hating the fools outside who had trapped him.

The entire car lurched and Chang was nearly thrown to his knees, grabbing a rack of gla.s.s to stay upright. He cursed the black-painted windows and the thick steel doors. He could not hear a thing. The car shook again, and then settled into a regular rhythm. Chang wanted to spit with frustration. The black car was being collected. He was a prisoner.

HE COULD drag the chaise in front of one door and use the squat cabinet to block the other, but this would turn the situation into a siege, which must end in his death. He wondered where the car was being taken, and by whom. Could it be merely trainsmen executing an order in which they had no personal interest? Such men would hardly care if Chang were to slip out and vanish into the shadows of Stropping... but if there were dragoons, if the car was being added onto a train chartered and occupied by his enemies, any appearance would be the end of him. There was simply no way to know.

The movement stopped. Then the black car shook at an impact from the other side. It was now bracketed between cars. The car resumed its movement, rising to a regular jogging motion as the train took up speed. Was it possible that the front of the car was attached to the coal wagon? Could he slip out that way and hide, while they were still in the tunnels? Before he could sort his thoughts further he heard a key being thrust into the lock. Thanking fate for the difficulty of the lock itself Chang strode to the coffin and flipped up the lid. Bile rose in his throat. The lock was turning. If he fought them he would probably die. Did it matter? Chang tossed his stick into the box. He swung himself in flat on his back, shuddering at the vile feel of the soiled black rubber, and pulled the smoked gla.s.s cover into place. He could see nothing through it. Then the door to the black car opened and Chang poured all his will into silence.

THE FIRST thing he heard was a whistle, low and under someone's breath.

"Indeed," observed a hard voice somewhat thickened with phlegm. "The construction is... unique."

"We are to retrieve what we came for and that is all." This was a thinner voice, also male.

"Don't be such a woman," the hard-voiced man snarled. "Mr. Fochtmann must make an estimation-it is the entire purpose of our errand."

"It is not our entire purpose," replied the man by the door. "There are materials to gather, doc.u.ments to find-"

"Don't be a fool," growled the hard voice, "and step inside."

Chang could hear footsteps as someone came farther into the car, and then knuckles rapping against the gla.s.s lid of the coffin. He gripped his stick, ready to draw the dagger and slash upwards. With a good first cut he could scramble out before these two were on him- At once Chang started-the thin voice-it was Rawsbarthe, the Ministry man he'd found at the Trappings' house, he was sure of it! And the hard voice... could that be Aspiche? The tone was clotted, and Colonel Aspiche had looked very ill...

"I have no wish to come between you gentlemen," said a third voice, smooth and diplomatic. This was the third man, the one who had whistled-Aspiche had said his name: Fochtmann. "Indeed, though I have been summoned by the Privy Council-"

"By the Duke of Staelmaere," corrected Rawsbarthe.

"Of course-by his Grace himself. Yet whether I may be of service to the Duke remains to be seen. Though I know of him, I am unfamiliar with the precise, ah, practical... achievements of the Comte d'Orkancz, though their scope is evident just from where we stand."

"You are a colleague of Doctor Lorenz," observed Aspiche, as if this were evidence enough.

"Certainly," replied Fochtmann. He rapped again on the curved gla.s.s, directly above Chang's face, as if gauging the thickness. "Though in truth more his rival. I am curious... is Doctor Lorenz aware you have contacted me?"

Neither of the other two men answered until, the moment having become awkward, Rawsbarthe muttered, "It is, ah, possible that Doctor Lorenz is dead."

"Indeed?"

"It is, more precisely... probable."

"Does that change anything?" Aspiche's hard tone was obliquely threatening.

"No change at all," replied Fochtmann smoothly, adding with a smile Chang could not see but knew was there, "save perhaps the size of my fee."

At this Fochtmann stepped away from the coffin-chest and began taking formal stock of the room, calling notes or instructions to Rawsbarthe, who seemed to be writing them down. Between these calls and the sound of Fochtmann's rummaging, Chang was unable to make out the private conversation between Aspiche and Rawsbarthe, low and under their breaths..."Bas...o...b.. a.s.sured me"..."depletion of the quarry"..."dispatched vessels"..."no word from Macklenburg" ...