The Dark Volume Part 17

Svenson snapped with exasperation, "Alone amongst your fellows? Mr. Potts, what does that tell you? What do you think has happened to them?"

Potts chuckled greedily. "They are unluckily blundering about the woods, while I capture-from your own description-the prime quarry of them all!"

"Quarry? Not ally? Not mistress?"

"It can be none of your concern."

"You tempt fate to speak before you have her in hand."

"Not in the slightest." Potts smiled. "If I read these signs correctly she is gravely ill. Your proud villainess has been reduced to killing children. Speaking of which..." From his pocket the man extracted a large naval revolver, the black metal gleaming with oil. "You will give me what you found."

The large revolver was an unlikely weapon for the dapper Ministry man, one that required strength to be accurate, given the recoil, or simply a knowledge that anyone he was likely to shoot would be at point-blank range. It meant that either Potts was a cold killer or that he was ignorant of firearms altogether.

"I will not," said Svenson, nodding to the sleeping men around them. "You will do nothing."

Potts hesitated and then stuffed the weapon away. Svenson breathed a sigh of relief for the lack of bloodshed, but in the same moment knew he was dealing with a dangerous fool.

"It is not the time," sniffed Potts, officiously. "And as you say, the business is not finished. But do not doubt me, Doctor. If you try to escape I will shoot you dead-no matter who sees it."

POTTS SHOVED more wood onto the fire, and Svenson took the opportunity to excuse himself, aware that the other man would have the pistol trained on his back the entire time. He stumbled to the bird-stinking hut and relieved himself in its shadow. When he returned, Potts had lain down next to the fire, his eyes closed. Svenson smoked a last cigarette, tossed the b.u.t.t into the embers, pulled the peacoat more tightly around him, and shut his eyes, the gla.s.s book in its sack at his side.

When he opened his eyes, the hut was dark. The stone pit still smoked but the fire was dead. Mr. Potts was gone. Svenson's hand went instantly to the sack, felt the weight of the book-but it wasn't right, it wasn't smooth. He opened it up, could not see inside, and with an instant's hesitation thrust his hand in and touched not gla.s.s but a rough block of stone. With a snarl, he scrambled to his feet, winding the sack around his hand so he could swing the rock like a mace.

He did not have far to walk. Mr. Potts stood in the center of the clearing, under the cloud-shrouded moon. He was not holding the book. Had the fool dropped it?

"Mr. Potts," Svenson whispered. "Mr. Potts!"

Potts turned, eyes unfocused, as if unable to place Svenson yet knowing he ought to. The man's chin was streaked with a dark film, and Svenson wrinkled his nose at the smell of bile.

"Where is the book, Mr. Potts?"

"Who?"

"Not who, what! The book! Where is it?"

In response, Mr. Potts whimpered and rubbed his eyes. His hand was smeared with black liquid.

"Potts-yes, of course-I remember."

"Where is the book?" Svenson reached out to shake the man's shoulder. Mr. Potts smiled weakly, but his eyes were wild.

"Most important is the quality of paint-the chemicals ground into the paint to make colors-every chemical in life possesses properties-"

"Mr. Potts-"

"Chemical properties, fundamental energies!" whispered Potts, abruptly terrified, as if this was a secret he did not care to know. "One might even ask if there is anything else to life at all!"

Svenson slapped Mr. Potts across the face. Potts staggered, blinked, opened his mouth, but found no voice. He looked into Svenson's eyes, blinked again, and the words came out in a fearful croak.

"What... has... happened?"

"Mr. Potts-"

"Who am I?"

"Where is the book, Mr. Potts? Where did you leave it?"

But Mr. Potts was biting his trembling lip, attempting to not cry.

Svenson dragged Potts to the roofless shed. He shoved Potts in and snapped a match to a candle stub-another ring of blackened stones, travelers' rubbish, with the far end of this shed also blocked off with planking, another shaft... and there, the canvas sack. It was empty.

"An important problem is viscosity," whispered Potts.

"Tell me!" hissed Svenson. "Where is it?"

Now the man was sobbing. "She was only a girl. I have a daughter myself..."

Svenson wrinkled his nose with distaste. A new draft in the open shed had filled it with a tell-tale reek... was it from Potts or the shaft? The planking had been pulled away and then hastily pressed back into place, but at the simplest touch-as Svenson himself proved with a tug-the boards came off. The reek of indigo clay rose even stronger. He thought of the blue vomit in the privy...

"Mr. Potts... you are confused and frightened, but in no danger. You must help me find the book if I am going to help you-"

But Potts shook free, stumbling into the yard. He pointed to the larger shed, where the other men still slept.

"They are doomed," he whispered.

A sudden spike of fear shot the length of Doctor Svenson's spine. He strode past Potts-the candle going out-and then wheeled around, digging without apology in the man's pockets and pulling out the revolver. He entered the larger shed, c.o.c.king the hammer with his other hand... each man seemed to be where he had left them, undisturbed by Mr. Potts' babbling. Svenson sighed with relief, then looked back. Potts had dropped into a crouch, hugging his knees and muttering. The Doctor's attention was taken by a shadow in the far corner, near the blocked-off shaft. Was someone else awake? Keeping his eye fixed on a darkness he could not penetrate, Svenson dug with his free hand for another match. He struck it and looked down at Bolte. A glittering line of blue like the drag of a paint-clogged brush across the man's throat.

Svenson dropped the match with a start. He raised the pistol toward the shadow in the corner, only to see it swell in size before him. He fired, the sound impossibly loud, but the shadowed figure-a man in a cloak?-darted to the side and was on Svenson before he could shoot again. A shocking blow knocked the Doctor down, the pistol flying from his hand. He groped to his knees, shouting to wake the others-the shadow was between him and the outside yard-and took another hideous blow to his shoulder, toppling him back again. Utterly dazed, Svenson felt himself picked up by the lapels of his coat. He looked into a reeking, dark-lipped, dripping mouth, a pale face whose eyes were wild. The Doctor was thrown with savage force through the wall of planking, a rag doll tumbling down into the shaft.

HE AWOKE with his head pointing downward and his legs above in an uncomfortable tangle. Something pulled at his hair and he very carefully reached down to it, probing the area with half-numbed fingers. A gash had opened on the side of his skull, not too bad, but it had bled and the blood had dried. How long would that have taken? He was terribly cold. His head throbbed cruelly, as did his shoulder and the left side of his rib cage. He feebly groped around him-damp rock and earth, a steeply angled slope. He felt for a match, wondering how many he had left, but could not find the box-had it flown from his pocket? Svenson looked above him... a fretful penumbra of light, yards above. He listened, heard absolutely nothing save his own ragged breath, and began, with the grace of an upended turtle, to turn his body and climb.

He reached the first of the broken boards that had accompanied his fall and carefully brushed them aside, mindful of the noise, but more convinced that his attacker was long gone. When he emerged into the roofless hut he saw the men of Karthe as he had left them. In the stark day, each huddled shape held a poignance he could not endure: they had been slain in sleep.

The bearlike form of Mr. Carper lay curled like a snuggling child, a glittering orchid of blue gla.s.s blooming from his jugular. Svenson staggered to the yard and saw the sprawled body of Mr. Potts, the man's chalk-white face smeared with greasy, stinking black film. Svenson sat down with his head in his hands and tried to think of simply one thing he could do.

He washed the blood from his hair with one man's water bottle, and took another's to drink. He located the pistol amongst the bodies. The gla.s.s book was gone.

He had no real idea of the time-he had not thought to purloin Mr. Bolte's pocket watch-and the heavy clouds did not aid his attempt to guess it. As he descended, the fog stayed with him, lurking over each new valley and preventing any long-range view that might point his way with more confidence. He simply followed what seemed to be the trail, and trusted it would deposit him back at the stand of black rocks. Even when the Doctor attempted to pay attention to the path, his attention wandered within minutes-back to the ravings of Mr. Potts, and to the face he had seen in shadow.

It was Francis Xonck, he was sure-though terribly, terribly altered by exposure to the blue gla.s.s. Xonck had slain the village grooms, the boy and his father... and all these men. Could a single book be so precious? Svenson scoffed-measured against human life, a hot breakfast would have been more precious to Francis Xonck.

But now... what had happened to him? Xonck had been shot in the chest on the airs.h.i.+p... days ago. Could he have saved himself with a spike of blue gla.s.s, desperately inserted to cauterize the wound? The airs.h.i.+p had been flooding-the only option was death. Yet if the gla.s.s had saved him then, it was killing him now, by agonizing, disfiguring increments.

And what was the book-merely the nearest Xonck could s.n.a.t.c.h up in the final moments on the airs.h.i.+p? Or had he chosen it deliberately? Mr. Potts had looked inside it and been deranged. From what Svenson had witnessed at Harschmort, most of the books were populated with the memories of the rich and powerful... what dignitary's memories could have so terrified Potts? Could his rambling about chemicals and viscosity relate to ordnance-powder and explosives? Could the missing book contain the memories of Henry Xonck, the arms magnate?

HE STOOD once more in Karthe, doors shut tight, smoke pluming from chimneys and stovepipes, its people unaware of all those they had so recently lost. His conscience gnawed at him, but Svenson was exhausted, hungry, cold, and full of his own aches. That very night was the next train-had he missed it? Xonck would surely be on it too. Svenson told himself this was more important than speaking to widows-it was a way to make the deaths matter.

He pa.s.sed by the inn with a curious frown... its door hung open. He hesitated, then forced himself to walk on-Mrs. Daube's grievances were not his concern. But then on his right came another open door... a darkened hut... he had been inside-the body of the boy's father. Was that so strange? The family was dead, and the place had not been tidy... but Svenson walked even faster, into a loping half-jog to the end of the village road, suddenly sure that he was already too late. Ahead of him in the hills, a wolf howled. Doctor Svenson reached the narrow road to the train and began to run.

THE WAY curved through a small collection of unused ore cars, and their cold emptiness struck the Doctor as another omen, like the yawning doorways, of something gone wrong. The muddy road gave out onto the graveled yard and Svenson finally saw the tracks themselves and the waiting train, its engine building up steam: two pa.s.senger cars, and all the rest either open-topped cars filled with ore, or boxed carriages to carry goods.

Before him were men with lanterns, cl.u.s.tered about a figure on the ground. At Svenson's call they turned-suspicion and anger on their faces. Svenson raised both hands.

"I am Doctor Svenson-I was here yesterday with Mr. Carper and Mr. Bolte. What has happened here? Who is hurt?"

Without waiting for a reply he sank to his knees, frowning professionally at the bright quant.i.ties of blood pouring from a deep gash across the fallen man's face. He s.n.a.t.c.hed a rag from the hand of a trainsman and pressed it down hard on the wound.

"Who did this?" the Doctor demanded.

A half-dozen ragged voices began to answer. Svenson cut them off, realizing that the attack had already accomplished its purpose-to distract every pair of eyes around the train.

"Listen to me. There is a man-dangerous and determined to be aboard this train when it leaves. He must be found." Svenson looked down at the injured man. "Did you see who attacked you?"

The cut across the fellow's cheek was deep and still bleeding... still bleeding-the man had not been cut with blue gla.s.s. The man tried to speak between gasps.

"Came from behind me... no idea..."

The Doctor pushed the cloth against the wound and then seized one of the other men's hands to replace his own. He stood, wiping his hands on his coat, then drew the revolver.

"Maintain this pressure for as long as you can-until the bleeding slows. It will have to be sewn-find a seamstress with a strong stomach. But we must search-a man, and also quite possibly a woman..."

The trainsmen were staring at him, almost quizzically.

"But we already found a woman," one said.

"Where?" Svenson sputtered. "Why didn't you say so? I must speak to her!"

The man pointed to the first compartment car. But another reached out and opened his palm to Svenson. In it he held a small purple stone.

"She had this in her hand, sir. The woman's dead."

Four. Corruption.

MISS TEMPLE did not make a sound. She could not tell if the shadow in the doorway-hissing in ragged gasps-was climbing in or not. The Contessa's hand tightened hard across her mouth.

There was a shout from outside, from the trainsmen. With the barest sc.r.a.pe of gravel the shadowed figure was gone. Miss Temple struggled to peek but the Contessa sharply pulled her down. A moment later came the sound of more bootsteps, jostling bodies in the doorway, mutters about the G.o.dawful smell-and then, like the sudden crash of a cannon, the door to the goods car slammed shut. Another agonizing minute, for the woman was nothing if not careful, and the Contessa at last released Miss Temple's mouth.

Miss Temple spun so her back was against the barrels and raised her knife. Her heart was pounding. The car was dark as a starless night.

"Wait now," whispered the Contessa. "Just a few moments more..."

Then the entire train car shook, jolting Miss Temple and the barrels behind her, then settled to a regular motion as it gathered speed.

The Contessa laughed out loud. Then she sighed-a pretty, sliding sound.

"You may put away your knife, Celeste."

"I will not," replied Miss Temple.

"I have no immediate interest in harming you-I am not hungry, nor am I especially disposed to make a pillow of your lovely hair."

The Contessa laughed again and Miss Temple heard her rummaging in the darkness. Then the Contessa lit a match, and set it to a white wax candle she had wedged into a knothole in the car's plank floor.

"I do not like to waste them," the Contessa said, "but a little light will aid our... negotiation. The journey will best be served by a short-term mutually beneficial agreement."

"What sort of agreement?" hissed Miss Temple. "I cannot imagine it."

"Simple things. An agreement whereby, for example, we trust each other enough to sleep without fear of never waking."

"But you are a liar," said Miss Temple.

"Am I indeed? When have I ever lied to you?"

Miss Temple thought for a moment, and then sniffed. "You are vicious and cruel."

"But not a liar, Celeste."

"You lied to the others-to the Comte and Francis Xonck! You lied to Roger!"

"I did not need to lie to Roger, my dear-no one ever did. As for Francis and Oskar, I will admit it. But one always lies to friends-if you had friends you would know friends.h.i.+p relies on that very tradition. But lying to enemies... well, it lessens one's spark."

"I do not believe you."

"You would be a fool to believe me. And yet, I am offering a bargain. While we share this train car, I will not harm you."

"Why not?"

"Because I do not need anything from you, Celeste. What I need is sleep. And sleep in a cold train car will be more restful if we are not barricaded behind barrels of fish oil ready to kill one another. Truly, it is a civilized gesture-a logic beyond morals, if that speaks to you."

Miss Temple s.h.i.+fted slightly-one of her legs was getting a cramp, and the sweat on her back had cooled. She could feel the weight of her exertions waiting to fall. If she did not sleep well she would slip back into her fever.

"Do you have any food?" she asked.

"I do. Would you like some?"

"I had a perfectly fine supper," said Miss Temple. "But I expect I will be hungry again in the morning."

The Contessa smirked, and for the first time Miss Temple saw the woman's sharp spike had been ready if their conversation had gone another way.

THE CONTESSA removed a small cork-stoppered bottle and a handkerchief from her bag. She tugged the cork free and tamped the cloth over the bottle, tipping it once to soak a small circle. Without a glance to Miss Temple she wiped her face and neck as deliberately and thoroughly as a cat giving itself a bath. Miss Temple watched with some fascination as the woman's face slipped through so many guileless formations-shutting her eyes as the cloth dabbed around them, stretching her lips as she swabbed around her nose and mouth, lifting her jaw as she swept the cloth-resoaked-up and down her throat and under the collar of her dress.

"What is that?" Miss Temple finally asked.

"An alcoholic tincture of rosewater. The scent is horrid, of course, but the alcohol a welcome enough astringent."