maintenance of Drift.
The whistle blew ahead. Once, and then again, a shrill and mournful sound.
Heat and sadness.
There was so much noise: the clatter of metal wheels running on metal tracks, the shrillness of whistles and the animal growls of steam.
So much noise, and yet so little.
That thought gave him pause.
Where was everybody?
Surely people should be walking up and down the train. Children exploring, folk gossiping, or even someone snoring. But he had not heard a thing.
Too quiet.
Too hot and too quiet.
The door handle rattled as the train jolted round a bend, as though someone was trying it, turning it, soft and slow, so as to be barely perceptible. A Verger, perhaps.
It rattled again. Violently.
David jumped, looking around for some sort of weapon.
He shook his head. Just a few rough spots on the track, that was all. He was being paranoid.
He took a deep breath and stood up. Then crept towards the door and flung it open. The hall was empty; lights flickered along its length. He poked his head through the doorway; nothing grabbed him.
David carefully observed the aisle from the rear carriage door to the front.
No one.
No movement.
He waited a few breaths, then stepped into the hallway closing the door behind him, after checking that Cadell was asleep – and he was, dead to the world, another tear tracking down his face. David considered waking him and decided against it. He’d be gone a minute or two, no more.
He walked to the cabin next to his and put his ear against the door. Silence. He opened the door slowly. The cabin was vacant.
And the next. And the next after that.
He turned to stare back at his cabin. Just one more door, then he could give up and go back. He swung it open. A porter sat within, dressed in his uniform, looking down at his hands. He blinked, turned towards David, and smiled.
“I can’t remember why I’m here,” the porter said. “It’s a little cool, don’t you think?”
David was about to say that it was anything but cool, then thought the better of it. The porter shivered; looking at him was enough to make David feel cold.
“Have I seen your ticket?” The porter asked.
“Yes,” David said, and hoped that the lie sounded believable.
The porter’s eyes narrowed. “I think I’d better see it again.”
“It’s here somewhere,” David patted his pockets, then remembered Cadell had them. “Um, it’s back with my-”
The porter slapped his hand down on the seat. “It is of utmost importance that the passenger keep his ticket with him at all times,” he said, his voice rising alarmingly in pitch. He frowned. For a second, David caught a glimpse of some sort of shadow leaking from his lips, and then it was gone. The porter raised a hand to his face. Tapped his head. “There’s all sorts of buzzing going on in here.” He made an odd snorting sound that David took some time recognising as laughter. “It’s all right, come in here, with me. Just having a joke.”
“I think I better get my ticket.” And wake up Cadell. David didn’t like what was happening at all.
“I said it’s all right. Sit with me.”
“I better get my ticket, after all there are rules.” He wished his paranoia had extended to waking the Old Man up.
David took a step back.
The porter bounced to his feet and strode towards him.
“I said it’s all right.” Something slipped from between his teeth. It fluttered moth-like, then dropped, the porter tried to snatch it out of the air and missed. “Odd, but it is too cold.” His voice was a whisper. The porter was out the door, blocking David’s path back to Cadell.
Another moth tumbled, dead, to the floor where it sprayed a little dust. The porter bent down, picked it up, and put it back in his mouth. “Much too cold. Now, come here, there’s things I can do. Things I can put in you. Just come to me, eh.”
David did nothing of the sort. He turned on his heel and ran fast as he could, towards the dinning car.
Whatever had gotten into the porter, he did not want in him.
The rain poured down, hot fat droplets driven north by wind and Roil. The engine of the Dolorous Grey raged and roared, blasting heat and noise against the driver’s face. His lips peeled back in a rictus of pure joy. The train had never been pushed so hard or fast. He felt connected, utterly connected with Roil and engine, furnace and fire and speed.
And it was glorious.
“On with you, lads!” he roared at his men feeding the steamer. “On with us all, to the heat and the dark and the cities what dream.”
Heat. They had to keep their bodies hot. Here, they were in a fortunate situation, but those behind, in the carriages. So new to this, and having to deal with the comparative cold, he pitied them a little, poor, new-sprung things.
If worst came to worst, body heat was enough, but the hotter the better, and the closer one came to the Roil: the easier it was to think clearly. The easier it was to hear the Roil’s voice.
One day all this would be theirs. In his mind, he could see the land as it had been and would again, swallowed and warmed by the Roil, its glorious croon echoing, echoing in his skull. But, for now, they could only visit, briefly and madly, this chillier Roilless place.
It was just too far away from the Roil itself. The Dreaming city’s commands were too fractured: nonsensical.
From the cabin behind came a growl, then something else snarled in reply.
“Settle,” the driver whispered. “You will get your run, in the dark and in the heat.”
The snarling stopped, though it took its time about it.
The driver stared into the rain. The Roil two hundred miles south, roared in his blood, a violent glorious siren song.
Faster, he had to drive the engine faster.
DOLOROUS GREY, 170 MILES NORTH OF THE ROIL EDGE
Was the train running faster? It took a corner and jolted, David stumbled through the door to the dining room hall, ready to shout out a warning.
He stopped, mouth agape.
Maybe this had not been such a bright idea after all.
It was the poetry that disturbed him, and the music, utterly unlike anything he had ever heard. No, everything about this room disturbed him. It was off in the way the world was off after a day or two straight without Carnival. Two fiddlers played loudly, and in an odd tempo, coming to abrupt halts and sudden bursts of quiet and crescendo.
Fiddlesticks, toothpicks, drown ’em in sweet
Shadows are singing. Shadows are singing
Buried in me from my nose to my feet
‘orrible ‘orrible cascading shoes
‘orrible ‘orrible singing with youse.
Moths in the cradle. Served with a ladle.
Shadows are singing. Butterfly’s eaten eaten my brain.
The smoky dining room was, like the rest of the train, far too hot and almost airless. Bodies pressed together
