Fochtmann fell silent, a slick clicking indicating that he was occupied with a rack of the gla.s.s bullets. Chang heard Aspiche remark quietly, "You say he asked about me? About my health?"

"He did, Colonel," replied Rawsbarthe, "and rather implied that your being alive was a surprise."

"What the devil does he know?" snarled Aspiche, and then sneezed loudly and moistly, twice. "My apologies-this d.a.m.ned... condition-"

"It is seasonal, I think," sniffed Rawsbarthe. "The shifting weather- as the days become warmer, one's body is never prepared."

"I am sure you are right. And these wretched chills..."

Fochtmann resumed calling out figures-perhaps the number of gla.s.s bullets, or their estimated weight, or-who knew?-the purity of refinement. The man's tone remained cheerful with each detail: Chang became certain that Fochtmann and Lorenz were the bitterest of enemies, and that Fochtmann's presence signified a desperation to understand the science of the slain Comte. Chang smiled at being that odious man's executioner, and causing so much trouble for so many who deserved it.

Fochtmann's investigations moved to the large cabinet, sorting through the same papers Chang had so recently ransacked.

"And all this time I thought Lorenz was a fool," Fochtmann whispered. "Even if the ideas belonged to d'Orkancz, the construction is magnificent, delightful!"

"Delightful?" asked Colonel Aspiche.

"What other word for such cleanly made machines?" cried Fochtmann. "They can be improved-my own revisions already suggest themselves-but the flow, the clarity of..." The man chuckled merrily. "Of power! And you are certain Lorenz is dead?"

"It is likely," said Rawsbarthe. Fochtmann cackled.

"And you promise me, it is only Lorenz-of men at the Inst.i.tute, in industry-who knows of this, this vein of... of..."

"Alchemy," said Aspiche.

Fochtmann snorted.

"According to the Comte," continued Aspiche.

Fochtmann exhaled in pointed exasperation. "While the basic properties of the gla.s.s alone are beyond question-"

"They are a matter of fact," Aspiche snapped.

"The Comte's writings are the ravings of a madman," replied Fochtmann. "A madman with some small sense of insight. One sees the approving notations of others-engineers, architects of science- and so one studies that insight more scrupulously than the mania would suggest. These machines, this very railcar-one cannot gainsay concrete results..."

Fochtmann paused.

"Or... for another example... these books..."

"Books?" asked Rawsbarthe innocently.

"Prominently described in the notes. Apparently a most singular exploitation of the... acquisitive... properties of indigo gla.s.s."

"I would not know," said Rawsbarthe. Aspiche remained silent.

"Not that I have seen such a thing," Fochtmann went on easily. "Indeed, 'book' may merely be a term for compiling knowledge. Every visionary has his own vocabulary, and such terms are always strange to those outside its understanding. What is significant about the mention of book, of course, is how as a device it embodies the capacity of indigo clay-in an explicit indication of function. Indeed, many of the major machines seem to employ these 'gla.s.s books' in their actual workings. But then again, as a man of science, one looks for clues! You gentlemen will see yourselves, in this very car, the prevalent inlay of orange metals-an alloy made to very exact specifications-around the ceiling, between the floor tiles, around each piece of gla.s.s..."

"What is it?" asked Rawsbarthe, with concern.

"Rather, why is it?" chuckled Fochtmann. "The effect is deliberate-could it be solely in the service of beauty? Where is the serious intent? I cannot say-you must give me time to read before we arrive-I will take these papers to a compartment where I may commune with my own thoughts."

"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 Fochtmann.

"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. Fochtmann has made clear the value of this-what is the word?-lode of unknown science."

"Unknown and provocative," said Aspiche.

"Provocative and powerful," said Rawsbarthe.

"Mr. Fochtmann?" asked Aspiche.

"Why should I object to that?" replied Fochtmann. "I should hardly expect the Queen's own brother to attend to every small detail."

"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 Fochtmann's lips. "Yet this material is copious, and we have very little time. If you gentlemen would excuse me..."

A hand rapped sharply on the gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s, 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 Fochtmann.

"Should we not open it and look?"

"If you are keen to do so," replied Fochtmann, "by all means."

Rawsbarthe's hand moved to the edge of the gla.s.s 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 Fochtmann.

"His Oriental harlot. Angelique. Something had been done to her, she became ill. He kept her alive there, to reach Harschmort-you see the bra.s.s 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. Fochtmann cleared his throat. "On the chance- seeing there is much we do not yet understand-that her illness might be... catchable..."

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 gla.s.s top with both hands. He knew by the car's rocking gait that they had left the tunnels under Stropping and were crossing open country. He extricated himself, one long leg at a time, from Angelique's coffin, replaced the lid, and crossed to each window in turn, all equally shuttered in black-painted steel. Not that he needed to see a thing-Chang knew he was being taken back to Harschmort.

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. Fochtmann might not have wanted to deal with the coffin when his arms were full of papers that piqued his curiosity, but he would certainly do so upon arrival. The black car would be studied, perhaps even dismantled, as a means of explaining the Comte's science. This might begin even sooner-it was at least another hour to Harschmort. He needed to leave immediately.

The door the three men had used to enter and exit led to a railcar of pa.s.senger compartments-Fochtmann had said as much-so Chang crossed to the opposite door and took out his keys. Unless a dragoon had been posted on the outer platform, it was highly unlikely-with the noise of train-anyone would hear the turning of his key. Still, it was with a deliberate slowness that Chang twisted his hand until the inner lockings caught. He s.n.a.t.c.hed up his stick before opening the door, ready to strike at anyone there. No one. Chang stepped into the roar of the train track, the wind flapping his coat around him.

Ahead was another pa.s.senger 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 bra.s.s 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 pa.s.senger 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 bra.s.s 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 h.e.l.liott Street. What was he doing with the black car-alone, and apart from his commanding officer? Or was he just nipping whisky?

It was not the whisky. The officer peered back where he'd come- pressing his face to the gla.s.s (helmet clicking at impact), just as Chang had done against the glare-before crossing to the metal door. Chang wondered he had not been seen, but knew that where one did not expect something one often neglected to look. The dragoon stuffed the flask back in his tunic, and came out with something else... a large metal key. He inserted it quickly into the black car's lock, standing casually so anyone who happened to see him might think he was merely smoking. Chang heard the snap of the bolts in the door... but instead of pushing it open, the officer merely sealed it shut again and then tucked the key back in his tunic.

The dragoon turned and saw him.

The soldier's hand shot to his saber hilt. Holding tightly to the ladder Chang kicked both legs at the Captain, one sharply to his chest and the other across his jaw, knocking him back into the metal door and then, with a dangerous stumble, into the rail of chain. Abandoning his attempt to draw his weapon, the man desperately caught hold with both hands to prevent toppling over. The kick left Chang hanging for a sickening moment by his hands, boots just above the implacably deadly wheels. He caught a leg on the lowest rung and tried another kick-but the Captain, his face red where Chang's boot had landed, s.n.a.t.c.hed hold of Chang's ankle and yanked hard to pull him from the ladder to his death.

Chang held fast. The Captain pulled again, grunting aloud, boots slipping on the metal platform. Chang held, less certainly, and then, because he could not withstand a third pull, let go with one hand and stabbed his stick like a blunt court sword into the Captain's face. The officer flinched and swore aloud-blood welling under his eye. Dangling by one hand, Chang swung his other boot in a sweeping kick that caught the officer square on the ear, bouncing his bra.s.s helmet onto the trackside and the man again into the rail of loose chain, where he over-balanced and began to jackknife off the platform.

Before he could fall, Chang shot both legs forward and wrapped them tightly around the fellow's neck. The Captain leaned perilously forward, suspended over an abyss of rushing rail track, the chain caught uselessly below his waist, his open hands pawing the air. It seemed as if he must fall, but Chang held strong, looping both arms tight around the iron rungs, grimacing with the effort. Neither man moved, the train roaring around them. Then the officer carefully twisted his head to meet Chang's gaze. He said nothing, but his eyes burned with hatred and with fear.

"Whose key?" called Chang, loud enough for the man to hear above the wheels.

"Yours, if you want it," sneered the Captain. "Of course, if you drop me-"

"I have one." Chang dug his heel hard into the man's jugular. "Where did you get yours? Aspiche?"

"Leveret."

"You searched Leveret's home. Does Aspiche know you have that key?"

The man spat. "If he knew, why would I be out here on my own?"

"What about the woman?"

"What about her? No one knows where she went!"

Chang's question had been about Mrs. Marchmoor, not Charlotte Trapping. But he nodded, playing along.

"Where do you think she went?"

"We can have this chat perfectly well on the d.a.m.ned platform," the officer grunted. "I can feel your b.l.o.o.d.y legs slipping. We may well be of use to one another."

"You're a liar."

"My point exactly," the Captain wheezed. "You have caught me out on forbidden business... the advantage is all yours..."

The man's point was echoed by a growing ache in Cardinal Chang's arms. With a grunt he heaved the Captain back toward the platform.

The man wavered, his fair hair blowing around his face, then caught the chain and dropped safely to his knees. By the time he looked up Chang had vaulted onto the shaking platform and pulled apart his stick, the dagger held ready at the level of the Captain's eyes. The officer looked past Chang at the compartment door.

"Not the best place for a private conversation," he called.

Chang ignored this. "Why were you in that car at all? Why not in the back, with your betters?"

"Would you trust them-my betters?"

"If I were you-or your betters' master?"

The man shrugged, as if the question answered itself.

"What is your duty here?" asked Chang, impatiently.

"What was my duty in the north?" the Captain replied. "As one says in the Latin, ad hoc."

The man's features were boyish, but his eyes were hard, as if too early disillusioned by the temptations available to his station.

"A great deal has changed in the city since we both left it," said Chang.

The man shrugged again. Chang nodded at the key in the man's tunic.

"But I suppose change begets opportunity."

"Have you seen their faces?" replied the Captain, with a wicked smile. "My G.o.d, by the smell alone-very soon there will be gaps in the upper echelons. And every gap needs filling."

"You were telling me about the woman."

The officer smiled, rubbing his throat. As he did, Chang noticed the man's face seemed more pale than it had in the woods, only days earlier. Fatigue? Or was he sick too, without knowing it?

"Mrs. Trapping has disappeared."