"We're not even on the train yet," Henry reminded him.

"I know," Adam muttered. "I'm just saying."

"This is going to be difficult," Henry warned. "We have to be careful we don't give ourselves away, like back in the kitchen."

"What are you talking about?" Adam asked.

"I don't think we're very convincing servants," Henry admitted. "There's the bowing, for one thing. Remember how Professor Turveydrop could tell the difference? We have to be rough about it, no matter if we're bowing to a lord minister or just Mr. Frist."

"Okay," Adam said slowly. "What else."

"No saluting," Henry continued. "And if you have to serve tea, stand by the door until you're dismissed."

Adam nodded.

"And speaking," Henry went on, suddenly realizing how very many things had the capacity to go wrong. "We have to sound a bit, you know, uneducated. Ugh, this is going to be a disaster."

"But you've done all of this before, mate," Adam reminded him.

They paused for a minute to rest their hands from carrying the hamper, and a crowd of serving boys in Knightley school livery trudged past them on the other side of the road, heading back up to the school. Henry and Adam ducked their heads. When the boys had pa.s.sed, they picked up the hamper and continued on.

"Yes, but I had nothing to hide," Henry explained. "So what did it matter if I sounded a bit posh? It's not my fault the orphanage priest drilled elocution into me with a birch rod." Henry bit his lip, realizing what he'd just shared. "And if we have to eat with other members of the serving staff, roughen up your manners," he said as an afterthought.

"I think I'm getting a blister," Adam complained.

"Good," Henry said. "We could use some of those."

"You're mental sometimes, you know that?" Adam muttered.

Avel-on-t'Hems was a small, quaint village left over from medieval times, with a narrow street of disreputable shops and a crumbling, dingy church that made Knightley's chapel seem like a cathedral in comparison.

The train station was across from a rather seedy pub with two ancient jousting lances crossed over the front door and three tall, crooked chimneys. The Lance, Henry thought, the pub where Ollie went to fight.

Henry and Adam straggled onto the platform and eagerly set down the hamper, which felt as though it were filled with encyclopedias, not tea and sandwiches.

"Worst morning ever," Adam complained, picking at a rapidly forming blister.

"Don't," Henry chided. "That only makes them worse."

The platform was empty, but a small gleaming steam engine chortled on the tracks.

"I'm starving," Adam said. "Seeing as how we missed supper." Henry opened his mouth to protest, but Adam grinned and continued, "But I guess that a growling stomach adds to the charade?"

Henry grinned. And at that moment a stocky, disheveled lad of around sixteen poked his head out of the door to the station. Through the door, Henry could just see a small waiting area lined with benches.

"You boys with the envoy?" the lad demanded.

Henry nodded.

"Well, come inside an' wait with the rest of us," the boy said, holding open the door.

Henry and Adam exchanged a nervous glance and then followed.

"I'm George," the boy said.

"Er, I'm Henry and this is Adam," Henry said, and then wondered belatedly if they ought to have given false names.

"Well, it's goin' to be a b.l.o.o.d.y 'orrible train ride," George said over his shoulder. "I went on the last one. Best drink yer fill before we're off."

George settled onto a bench near another boy around their age, who had a face like a rat and was nursing a silver flask. George grabbed the flask from the boy and took a swallow before holding it out to Henry.

Henry and Adam exchanged an uneasy glance.

George laughed uproariously at Henry's and Adam's expressions of panic.

"Aw, Jem an' I are just makin' fun of ya," George said. "Here, take it."

He thrust the drink at Henry, who took a cautious sniff and then grinned. It was coffee. Even though Henry didn't particularly feel like sharing a flask with Jem and George, he knew better than to refuse. He forced himself to take a sip, and then pa.s.sed it to Adam. "Want some?"

Adam made a face.

"It's coffee," Henry said.

"Nah," Adam mumbled.

"Aren't we supposed to wait on the platform?" Henry asked.

George shrugged. "Mr. Frist can't leave without us. Relax, Knightley boys."

Henry and Adam jumped. "Sorry?" Henry asked, hoping he'd misheard.

"Yer uniforms," George said. "Yer from up at that fancy school."

"Er, right," Henry said.

"Dunno how you stand it, servin' boys yer age wot never had to lift a finger in their lives," Jem said.

"It's not so bad," Adam said. "They mostly ignore us."

Jem and George were both from the village. George did odd jobs at the Lance, and Jem was a shop boy for a local boot maker. It would just be the four of them, and Mr. Frist, who was in charge.

"Course some o' the gen'lmun will have their personal valets, but they're senior staff so we'll be servin' them, too," George said as Mr. Frist pushed open the door, tapping his pen impatiently against his notebook.

"Hurry up, boys," Mr. Frist snapped, turning on his heel. "Keep to schedule."

George and Jem hurried after Mr. Frist, and Henry and Adam followed nervously.

"Managed to get four, have we?" Mr. Frist muttered, making a note.

"Yes, sir," the boys chorused, Henry and Adam a bit too posh once again.

Jem and George snickered, and Henry elbowed Adam, who shrugged.

"George," Mr. Frist snapped. "You know the drill, so you're in charge of the others. Make certain everyone changes into their livery before the train leaves the station."

"Yes, sir," George said.

"Now stow your things in the servants' car and get to work," Mr. Frist ordered, closing his book with a resounding thwack and stalking off to have a word with the conductor.

18.

THE NORDLANDS EXPRESS.

How do I look?" Adam asked, pulling at his neck cloth. "Ridiculous," Henry said. "Oi, you look worse," Adam protested. "At least my waistcoat fits."

Henry frowned at his reflection in the window of the servants' car and adjusted his waistcoat, which admittedly was slightly too small, not that it could be helped. It was strange seeing himself dressed as a lackey, with a crisp white neck cloth and silk hose and short breeches.

The livery had come from Parliament Hall, along with Mr. Frist, who was some sort of junior secretary acting as a liaison. It was rather extravagant, Henry had to admit, but then, it was just a show for Dimit Yascherov. After all, South Britain couldn't very well send a political envoy to the Nordlands with servants dressed in mismatched and ragged shirtsleeves. No, South Britain meant to flaunt their cla.s.s system in the faces of those who had done away with it.

George looked up from where he sat on a crate, carving slices out of an apple with a pocketknife. "Want a piece?" he asked.

Henry's eyes narrowed as he realized what had happened. "Did you get that apple from my bag?" he demanded.

George shrugged and continued carving.

"Don't go through my things," Henry said evenly.

"Oho, th' high an' mighty Knightley servant's givin' me orders," George mocked.

"Listen, Knightley. George here's in charge, an' I think you owe 'im an apology," said Jem.

Henry folded his arms, his too tight waistcoat stretching uncomfortably across his back, and made no move to apologize.

"Just do it, mate," Adam whispered anxiously.

"No," Henry said.

The train rattled noisily over the tracks, but if anything, the car seemed too quiet as Jem reached inside his waistcoat and pulled out a glittering knife. He advanced on Henry with a nasty grin, brandishing the blade. "Sure yeh don' want to reconsider?" Jem whispered, pressing the dull side of the knife to Henry's cheek in warning.

Henry stiffened, realizing what a horrible mistake he'd made.

"Jus' drop it, Jem," George warned. And then the door to their car banged open and Mr. Frist stood there gaping at the scene before him.

Jem scowled and lowered the knife.

"What's going on?" Mr. Frist demanded sharply. "Nothin', sir," Henry answered before George could speak up. "Just cuttin' a loose thread on my waistcoat."

George regarded Henry suspiciously, and Henry held back a smirk.

"Got it," Jem sneered, snapping his knife closed.

"Give that 'ere, Jem," George said, holding out his hand for the knife.

Jem scowled but gave George the knife.

"The train's ready to depart," Mr. Frist said, consulting his ever present notebook. He a.s.signed each of the boys a car to serve. Adam was given Lord Priscus's car; Jem got the two secret service knights, Sir Fletcher and Sir Alban; and George was a.s.signed to someone called Lord Hugh.

"And you, what's your name?" Mr. Frist asked, pointing to Henry.

"Henry, sir."

"Your waistcoat's too small," Mr. Frist snapped.

"I know, sir. This one fit the best."

Mr. Frist frowned. "Very well. You'll take the front car containing the Lord Minister Marchbanks, his secretary, and their valet."

Henry paled.

"Is there a problem?" Mr. Frist snapped. "No, sir," Henry said despairingly. It was just his luck to get stuck waiting on his friend's father all weekend.

When Mr. Frist left, everyone breathed a sigh of relief, and Adam shot Henry a mournful look, as though he rather thought he'd gotten the worst of it, serving the former headmaster.

"Why didn't yeh turn me in?" Jem demanded.

Henry shrugged. "Better friends than enemies?" Henry suggested.

"Poncy Knightley servant." Jem shook his head in disgust.

By midmorning the train was hurtling through the towns on the outskirts of the city, their buildings dense and their church spires competing to see which could stretch higher.

Henry hobbled toward the train's galley in his ridiculous buckled shoes that, just like his waistcoat, were half a size too small.

Thankfully, Lord Marchbanks was too busy speaking with his secretary to pay much attention to Henry. Lord Priscus was another story, however. The retired headmaster kept Adam dashing about for extra cushions or hunting up a copy of the Royal Standard, which never printed stories about the Nordlands.

As Henry took down a tea service and began to arrange it on the narrow counter, the door slid open to reveal a rather frustrated Adam.

"How's it going?" Henry asked, folding napkins.