The Dark Volume

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 God, 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.”

“So has Leveret.”

“Leveret's a dull clot. He will be as obvious in his hiding place as a schoolboy crouching under a table.”

“Is Charlotte Trapping a clot?”

“Even more than Leveret! She is a society widow. She is marooned—she has no skills. The powerful brother has lost his mind, and the other brother… has vanished.”

“Along with the Contessa, and everyone else on the airship.”

“Quite a tragic journey, that,” said the Captain. “A comprehensive loss for the nation.”

Chang studied the man's face, as he knew the man studied his. The Captain had been in the train yard along with Chang—it was entirely possible he too had seen the Contessa and Xonck. In fact, he must have seen them—why else would the Ministries be searching Stropping with such vigor?

“As you say… there may be opportunities… Mrs. Trapping—” The Captain spoke carefully.

“What can a woman matter?” Chang interrupted. “Especially her?”

“The Privy Council believes Mrs. Trapping matters a great deal. Makes a fellow think…”

“Think what?” asked Chang, stepping closer.

The dragoon glanced at the knife blade and then up to Chang, girlish curls framing a mirthless smile. “That the Privy Council has lost its head.”

“Get out your key.”

CHANG TOSSED the dragoon's saber behind him on the chaise. He looked into the open coffin where the Captain lay, arms tucked tightly to his sides, face set with displeasure.

“What is your name?” asked Chang.

“Tackham. David Tackham.”

“They will find you when we arrive, if not before.”

“I assure you, it is not necessary—”

“It is this or cutting your throat,” said Chang.

“My point being, such a choice does not have to be—”

“What do you know of this Fochtmann?”

Tackham sighed. “Nothing at all. Engineer—invented some useful… thingummy.”

“And Rawsbarthe?”

“Another Foreign Ministry stick insect. Why the Duke entrusts such weak tea to do his bidding—”

“Where is Margaret Hooke?”

“Who?”

“Mrs. Marchmoor.”

“Who?”

“Where is Charlotte Trapping?”

“As I have told you—”

“Who is Eloise Dujong?”

“I've not the slightest idea—”

“Then where is Captain Smythe?”

Tackham was taken aback and smiled, unsure of the question's intent.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Captain Smythe,” snarled Chang. “Your brother officer.”

“Yes, of course—I just don't know why you would be asking, of all people!”

“Answer me.”

“Captain Smythe is dead. Shot in the back and strangled where he lay—on the roof of Harschmort House, before the airship went aloft. Shot and strangled by you, according to every account I have heard. Assuming you are the infamous Cardinal Chang…”

Chang was no longer listening. He dropped the glass lid into place and shot the bolts, trapping Tackham inside. Perhaps the man would be able to kick his way free. Chang did not especially care.

THE LIGHT in the next car was all wrong—brighter than it should have been. Chang craned his head around the wall of what he assumed was the first compartment, only to see that the compartment was not only empty of people, but of seats and luggage racks as well. Moreover, the walls between this compartment and the next two had been knocked down. Chang silently crossed this opened space, and craned round again to find another three compartments enlarged into one. This new room was cluttered with boxes and occupied by a man in a black coat, sitting with his back to Chang at a table of stacked crates piled high with notebooks. Chang did not move… and neither did the man. Chang stalked closer, slipping the dagger from his stick. The man's face was pale, red around the nose and eyes. A crust of blood lined his nearer ear. He rocked gently with the motion of the train, upright but quite asleep.

If the train was going to Harschmort with so much empty space, its aim must be to collect whatever of the Comte's scientific paraphernalia still remained. What would prompt such an expedition, and on such a scale? It could not have been the return of Francis Xonck— Aspiche and his men had orders to collect the black car before Xonck arrived at Stropping, probably even before Tackham could have confirmed Xonck was alive. Chang imagined all the titled and moneyed adherents the Cabal had suborned for various schemes, all waiting greedily, desperate for the orders that would make them exceedingly rich and powerful… and yet it was clear, from the soldiers controlling Stropping Station and the reclamation of the black car, that something was happening. Was the plotting of Aspiche and Rawsbarthe part of it? Or were they already the first sign of rebellion?

There was one more compartment. Going to it would put Chang in the line of sight of the sleeping man, but even if the fellow woke, who could he call for help?

Chang peered around the wall. Curled on the far seat lay a girl in a lilac dress, perhaps eight years old, and next to her, his head having sagged into the girl's lap, a boy of five in a black velvet suit. The near row of seats held a still-younger boy, in a matching suit, save he had kicked off his shoes. He sat next to another sleeping man in a black coat with a sheaf of papers on his lap. Chang tilted his head to see the man's face: fair, with a pale waxed moustache, just enough like the dip lomat Bascombe to spark contempt. The face bore no signs of the degenerative pallor. The man's fingernails, however, were splitting and red. Another look at the man's face—the eyelids were noticeably gummed—and Chang stepped back from view.

These were Charlotte Trapping's three children.