Smoke and Steam: A Steampunk Anthology

by Karen Garvin

  “A foster?” The ticket master’s voice caught Herbert’s ear. “Travel by train? Alone? With medical supplies? Into Leore?” The man shook his head.

  “He’ll be given the proper command,” Alc. Wakefield assured him, “but I have more orders to fill by the ‘morrow than I can make in one night, and his master had to depart to tend to his wife.”

  The ticket master snorted. Herbert glanced about to see if anyone had overheard. Most of the crowd had left, though the train whistle hadn’t sounded that close by. There was a woman at the far end of the station sitting with two small children. One knot of black tail coats, top hats in hand, murmured among themselves close by. But no one looked towards the ticket booth.

  Three prim ladies, their waists cinched tight, bustles swaying, passed by. They gossiped loudly and didn’t look over. Even if they had heard, Herbert doubted they would demean themselves to discuss a foster. He averted his eyes before they caught him staring. Fosters had been whipped for that. Though ¬Alc. Wakefield and Dr. Kipling wouldn’t, the ladies could demand it. After all, being a foster wasn’t much better than being a slave.

  “I’m not saying the foster can’t have a ticket,” the station master’s voice rose. “I just want to witness the foster given the command.”

  “But, I swear to you upon my license,” Alc. Wakefield countered, “that Herbert is trustworthy.”

  “No command, no ticket.” The ticket master sat back and crossed his arms.

  No, Herbert corrected his thought as the train whistle blasted again, being a foster was being a slave. Maybe slightly better than being a magi’s slave in Brunzid, but still a slave. And to think his Donostian parents had sent him to Seguribar to avoid that fate. But, sometime after the Separatist Revolution the foster program had gone from giving non-magi children a safe home, to enslaving them. And no one had bothered to inform their magi parents in Donostia or the escaping slaves of Brunzid.

  “Your arm please,” Alc. Wakefield sighed as he turned to Herbert. “We must make this official, though I hate to do this to you.”

  Herbert transferred the heavy bag back to his right hand. He shook his left arm, letting the plain leather bracelet fall to his wrist. He lifted it up to Alc. Wakefield.

  “I know you are trustworthy,” Alc. Wakefield muttered as he took hold of Herbert’s wrist, the bracelet under his hand. “Dr. Kipling knows you are trustworthy. Why cannot the rest of Seguribar think the same?” The man shook his mop of grey hair and pressed the bracelet against Hebert’s skin.

  “Egin,” the alchemist began and the bracelet warmed, an indication that Herbert must do what came next. “Deliver held filled medicine bag Dr. Kipling. Orain,” he completed using the odd syntax of spell casting.

  The warmth faded and Alc. Wakefield let Herbert’s arm go. The doctor wiped his hand on his pants multiple times while glaring at the ticket master.

  “Fine.” The man leaned forward at last. “Good enough I suppose.”

  He handed a ticket through the bars. Alc. Wakefield took it and handed it to Herbert. Their steps echoed once more as they moved towards the platform doors.

  “Well that’s done.” Alc. Wakefield stopped, glancing at Herbert. “The train will be here any moment, and I have many things to attend to. Hopefully, you will get a seat.”

  Herbert nodded as the alchemist departed. He was more likely to ride on top of luggage than be given a seat.

  The platform outside the station was filled with the departing convention goers. Silhouettes of a stethoscope, crossed scalpels, or mortar and pestle upon arm bands denoted their status. This one a doctor, that one a surgeon, and over there an alchemist. Not a one spoke to Herbert as he passed. Their glances were brief, just long enough to notice his lack of band, or the leather bracelet on his wrist. It had been the same at the medical convention. Even the wait staff hadn’t acknowledged Herbert’s presence. No alchemist, surgeon, or doctor wished to share their information with him.

  The cold wind of Lake Doloman whipped down upon him when Herbert reached the far edge of the platform. He stood upon its granite surface, a few feet from the edge, watching the tracks. He found their concern over his hearing information ridiculous. What would he, as a foster, do with it? It was not as if he had the means to set himself up as their equal. But, Herbert sighed, he had used knowledge gleaned from his stay with Alc. Wakefield to help fellow fosters.

  Those in the medical profession swore an oath, he knew. An oath that said they would up hold the ethic to help any in need. When Alc. Wakefield had to return Herbert to the government for re-sorting, he learned that any did not include fosters. He watched five die of colds that if treated, would not have turned into deadly pneumonia. And during those long two years working in a textile mill he watched injuries become infected and render fosters crippled because they would not be given even the simplest of treatments.

  Herbert hoped that this winter he could stay with Dr. Kipling. But he knew the cost of the medicines he carried would hinder the doctor’s ability to pay the winter fee. Apparently even foster labor cost something more than just giving them the barest of food, clothing, and shelter.

  What had been a dark spec in the distance, was now a round dot. Drawing ever nearer the train billowed grey coal smoke as its whistle pierced the air. The tone of the crowd beside Herbert changed as they moved into more organized groups. Herbert stepped back as men in blue pinstriped overalls stepped up, carts loaded with baggage.

  “What’s this?” A cart bumped Herbert, who stumbled towards the tracks. “A foster, traveling alone?”

  Herbert turned to face the worker. “I am bringing supplies to my Master.” He noted the man’s deformed ear and tilted stance.

  “Supplies eh?” The cockeyed man eyed the bag. “Anything valuable?”

  “Ian, leave the foster alone.” A tall clean-shaven man, yanked the other’s suspenders. “We have work to do.”

  “Train ain’t even here yet,” the cockeyed one grumbled. He glared at Herbert. “Better protect those with your life, foster.”

  As if Herbert had a choice. The bracelet he wore, once given an order, would kill him if he tried to disobey it. There were no shades of grey in the foster world. You did what you were told, or you died. And if you were lucky enough to not die, you’d be whipped. Herbert rolled his shoulders. He’d been near whipped to death upon his arrival. He still had scars across his back to remind him. At least the scars on his face had been obtained honestly. He’d overheated a conical flask and the resulting explosion had sent hot glass shards everywhere. Thankfully, Alc. Wakefield had felt a whipping wouldn’t be necessary. He was right. Herbert never made that mistake again.

  Another whistle pierced the air.

  The train was now a mass of gleaming black. Polished iron chugged towards them at a speed Herbert once thought impossible. But Seguribar had things made with metal and gears and cogs that rivaled the crystal and stone creations of the magi world. The breaks squealed as the massive beast slowed down. Herbert winced as the train whistled once more.

  He side stepped another cart, moving further from the tracks as the deadly front wedge barreled past. Its pointed shape with concaved triangles cleared the tracks of stones, logs, cows, even people. A train only stopped at the stations to pick up passengers or cargo, whichever made the company money. The cylindrical engine puffed out smoke as its enormous boiler made steam to turn the wheels. Similar engines were used for smaller vehicles, but the steam train was massive. It was double Herbert’s lanky height and that was before it was welded to the frame that held the giant metal wheels.

  Throwing a shadow onto the platform the engine let out a massive sigh of steam. The bar that turned the wheels locked in place and set them squealing against the tracks, slowing down the train. Sun filtered into Herbert’s eyes again as the coal car moved by, its pile of black rock depleted below visibility.

  Copper springs dampened the rocking of the train for the first-class car. The sides were made with highly polished
dark wood imported from Donostia and inlaid with the gold, three-cog, logo of the Doloman Railway. Red velvet curtains pulled tight against the windows obscured the upper-class customers.

  The scent of bacon caught Herbert’s nose as the steel galley car rolled by. It made his mouth water. But it was not for him. Nor, he suspected, was it for the second-class passengers. First-class got a full breakfast. Second-class had to suffice with bread and cheese. All others would need to fend for themselves. Herbert had already had a small fare of porridge.

  Second-class cars were a dingy copy of first-class. Wool instead of velvet, mixed wood instead of the deep single grain. Herbert had seen second-class his trip here with Dr. Kipling. The seats were padded, with trays that could be dropped from the back of the seat before you. But he’d been ushered back to use a wooden fold down chair in the baggage cars.

  The train had slowed enough for Herbert to see individual windows. Faces peered from some and Herbert tried not to stare. A wave of pink caught his eye. The round face of a girl transitioning into womanhood pressed against the window pane, her pink lace covered hands waved. As her eyes caught Herbert’s, she smiled and waved harder.

  Despite himself, Herbert smiled and waved back.

  She covered her mouth with one of her gloved hands. Scandalized or giggling, he wasn’t sure.

  Herbert dropped his hand and tried to move his bracelet up his arm to where it might not betray him. Breathing in deep, he coughed, and breathed out again. He hoped for a quiet ride alone with the baggage.

  ****

  “Is this our stop?” Prince Andrew pulled back the red velvet curtains to peer at the station. Only flat grassy plains dotted with farms and shrubs could be seen. The mountains had become closer though. Station must be on the other side.

  “No.” Mr. Winston sighed. “Have you paid no heed to the conductor’s announcement and your lessons? We are in Aquair.”

  “Yes, of course, Eastern Aquair.” Prince Andrew sat down as the curtain fell back in place.

  Everyone in this cabin seemed to want them closed, keeping the car in a dusky twilight. As comfortable as these seats were, and as capable as they were of allowing a person to fully recline, Prince Andrew had had enough of this journey.

  “And we’re not stopping here,” he grumbled.

  “No, we spoke with those of Aquair on the western train.”

  Prince Andrew nodded as he shifted in his seat once more. The Magistrates of Seguribar had granted him permission to take this tour. He was beginning to regret it, except that his mother, Queen of Donostia, had urged him to do something with his idle time. Now if the Segurians were keen on sword fighting, Prince Andrew would know exactly what he would be doing, but they were fascinated with these contraptions called guns, forever saying a bullet was faster than magic.

  Guess it was a good thing Prince Andrew had no magic then, even if it meant he’d had to live in Lower Leore since he was ten. At least his mother came to visit now and again. Though he secretly wished he could have foster parents like he heard others had. But still there had been amazing things on this tour.

  He’d met many inventors. All looking for funding, of course. But they had such enthusiasm, that Prince Andrew had to smile as they talked, though he didn’t understand any of what they said. He ought to pick one to fund. But which would be more fun, underwater exploration or air travel? There was supposed to be a city at the bottom of the lake, but even the Magi had not yet taken to the sky.

  “A drink, Your Highness.” The serving maid held out a napkin topped with fizzing red juice in a champagne glass.

  Prince Andrew eyed her as he took the drink and napkin with a smile. She was pleasantly full. Her corset was cinched in enough to denote her waist, but not so much as to be ridiculous. And Prince Andrew had seen some ridiculously tiny waists. He kept his hands on hers, his eyes traveling to her face. Her cheeks were slightly tinted and she glanced to his traveling companion before looking at the prince and winking.

  Letting go, Prince Andrew sat back with a sigh. He watched her hips set her petite bustle to swaying. Again, just enough to be stylish, but not so ridiculous that Prince Andrew thought there was a serving tray strapped to her bottom. He carefully sipped his cranberry fizz. Jolting to a halt, the train stopped, his beverage splashing on his white shirt. Annoyed, the prince dabbed at it. Pulling the napkin away he noticed a note.

  He glanced at Mr. Winston. The man was engaged in some business paper or other. Prince Andrew read the note.

  Make your way to the back once we cross the canal. I have a proposition.

  His body pulsed with heat. He hoped it was the kind of proposition he wanted, and not some play to get him to fund some poor inventor. Half had been scheduled appointments, but once word got around that he was thinking of being a sponsor, they came out of the wood work. He’d been accosted by this inventor and that inventor the whole trip. But none had come via notes from a winking young woman.

  ****

  Chaos erupted as soon as the train stopped. Herbert stood as out of the way as he could while baggage was unloaded and loaded. The crowd surged back slightly as the passengers began to debark. There were shouts as people greeted those they knew, or those they were picking up. It was only a few, and soon the conductor was calling for boarding, one car at a time. Herbert waited as the occasional doctor came rushing back to verify his cargo had been stored properly. At last the conductor reached the baggage car.

  “All On Board, Third-Class!”

  Herbert glanced around and it appeared he was it for third class. He stepped forward to the conductor. The man’s eyes gave Herbert a once over, resting on the bag, his right arm, and then his scared face. The man wrinkled his nose.

  “Ticket and papers.”

  Herbert dug both from his pocket and presented them. The conductor took them gingerly, using only the tips of his fingers to hold them. Herbert hoped a gust of wind would not tear them from the man’s grasp. Without those papers he was as good as a dead foster.

  Waiting for the conductor to be finished, Herbert hoped the train wouldn’t leave without him. That would certainly be a foster’s luck if it did. But he wasn’t anyone who could make the conductor speed up the process. There were still some bags being loaded, items being carted down from the second-class cars. Herbert suspected they’d run out of overhead storage.

  The conductor sighed as he handed the ticket and papers back. Herbert quickly took them and stuffed them back in his pocket.

  “Get on board and stay put ‘til we reach the station. I don’t want to see your face or find you begging for food. Understood?”

  “Yes, Sir.” Herbert nodded.

  Herbert clambered onto the platform between cars, while the conductor moved back into the last of the second-class cars. Hebert opened the baggage car door. The cockeyed man who had confronted him before sat in the front. He grinned and snickered. Herbert moved further back. But most jump seats were blocked by bags. Between the conference and annual migration of the gentry, the car was filled with luggage.

  The train whistle pierced the air as it lurched into motion. Stumbling, Herbert caught himself on a trunk. He swayed as he made it to the other end of the car. One jump seat was free, though luggage was piled around three sides. Herbert sank into it as the train picked up speed. He kept tight hold of the bag in his lap. To let go, would mean punishing shocks.

  A thud behind him made Herbert turn. It was followed by two more. He quickly turned back as the back door opened. Three men, all in the railway’s pinstriped uniform, entered. A quick glance and he was certain they’d been the same ones on the platform. While he hadn’t traveled by train much, he was certain baggage handlers didn’t travel with the train. Given they’d jumped on after the train left, he suspected they didn’t work for Doloman Railway.

  “Well foster,” the clean shaven one grinned at Herbert, “guess they think you are luggage eh?” He laughed as did his two men. “Now get up, I got a hankering for a seat.”

>   Suppressing a sigh, Herbert rose.

  “And I recommend you find yourself a hidey hole,” the man stated as he sat, “rather than another seat.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The men chuckled, one of them ribbing the speaker till he slapped the man with a ‘shut up’. Herbert ignored their antics and moved forward again. A hidey hole? If that wasn’t code for the fact that they were up to no good, he didn’t know what was. Still Herbert knew it was better to be compliant than ask for reasons.

  The cockeyed man limped back. Herbert flattened himself against the stacked travel trunks. The man stopped and faced him.

  “What’s in the bag, foster?”

  “Items for my master, sir” Herbert replied, avoiding the man’s eyes.

  “What kind of items?” The man reached for the bag.

  “Medical supplies, sir.” Herbert kept tight hold of it, giving as little information as possible. The rules of the foster bracelet commanded that he did not lie. If he lied, there would be shocks. Enough lies and he would be dead, just as he would be dead if he let go of the bag for too long.

  “Well, open it,” the man demanded his hands trying to pry it away from Herbert.

  “I can’t, sir.”

  “Like blazes you can’t!”

  The man jerked, pulling Herbert over. Herbert stumbled, nearly planting his face into the floor, but he kept one hand on the bag. The man jerked it again and Herbert’s grasp slipped. Herbert held onto the luggage, pulling himself up reaching for the bag that the man held away from him. As the seconds ticked by, Herbert could feel his bracelet warming, warning him of what was coming.

  “Please, sir, I was commanded to take it to my master.”