The Dark Volume mtccads-2 Read online

  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, assumedly 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 Institute, recruited by the Comte to construct his fever dreams in iron and brass. 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 assumed he would find specifications for the great cathedral tower, and for the creation of the glass 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 glass, 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 glass 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 glass, 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 glass 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 glass 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, documents 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 glass 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 Stäelmaere,” 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 glass, 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…“Bascombe assured me”…“depletion of the quarry”…“dispatched vessels”…“no word from Macklenburg” …

  Fochtmann fell silent, a slick clicking indicating that he was occupied with a rack of the glass 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 damned… 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 glass 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 Institute, 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 glass 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 glass.”

  “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 ‘glass 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 glass…”

  “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 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 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 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 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 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. 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 glass 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 passenger 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 snatched 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 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?