by Emerson, Ru
“Oh, yeah, sure,” Chris mumbled. His eyes strayed toward the screen; he could hear Ariadne, her voice still heavy with sleep. “Think about the last time the lady and I were alone,” he said, even more quietly.
Edrith laughed. “You mean when you were snatched off the Podhru docks?” He kept his voice low, though it didn’t carry far at the best of times. “Well? Neither of you murdered the other.” Chris glanced at him, startled. “Also, you worked with each other so you could escape Casimaffi’s ship. I call that progress, you know?” Murder. I never said word one to anyone about Ariadne’s little—ah—hobby. If Eddie had somehow learned—but his friend’s face reassured him; Eddie was just pulling his chain, the way he always did. Not—hinting at anything. Yah. Wonder how he’d feel if he knew the lady had deliberately stalked and murdered five noble dudes in French Jamaica—followed ‘em down the kinds of back alleys he and I very carefully avoid, then stabbed ‘em dead? That the knife she wears next to her knee isn’t just her idea of costume jewelry? Eddie knew about the knife, of course; probably everyone in Rhadaz did by now, the way gossip spread. But the rest—well, Eddie wasn’t going to find out about all those dead French Jamaicans. Like I could talk about it anyway.
He was still surprised that Ariadne had told him why she carried the knife that night aboard ship. It wasn’t the kind of thing she’d spill to just anyone, and it wasn’t the kind of information guaranteed to warm a new husband’s heart. Then again, he hadn’t given her any choice, he wouldn’t have let her take his place out on that deck with that knife without a damned seriously good reason.
All in all, they’d needed each other that night; his skills and hers both got them out of a potentially deadly situation alive and unnoticed. She’d have drowned before ever reaching shore, without Chris. And Chris, who’d never killed anyone, let alone with a very sharp, long, ugly knife—all right, so there was a chance I’d’ve got lucky and taken out the dude on deck in total silence; more likely I’d have made a mess of it and we’d both be dead by now. His thoughts shied away from that ugly little moment: holding his breath while a totally and unnervingly silent Ariadne climbed up the ladder and vanished onto the deck, himself crawling onto the deck at her gesture a few, mere quiet moments later, and finding a dead man under his hands.
Great, he told himself. Think of something else, okay? Like who had wanted them badly enough to call for am ambush in Podhru, snagging both of them neatly off the Emperor’s own docks, evading the guard and running for open ocean. The ship was easy enough, Casimaffi’s Windsong, but old Chuffles wasn’t the murdering kind. He didn’t like CEE-Tech, Chris cut into his business, and unfortunately, he was the kind to sell out. As to who’d hired him, though, the list was entirely too long: Ari’s father, Henri Dupret—the men trying to bring Zero into Rhadaz—Duke Vuhlem, who was actively involved according to Lialla. The Americans, the French, the English, any of whom might be behind the trade in Zero. Someone else? Pick a card, any card, he thought gloomily.
Poor Ariadne. They’d done nothing but run since she’d left her father’s house with Chris; she probably hadn’t had a good night’s sleep the whole time. Probably hadn’t had too many back home, of course: With Dupret for a father… And Dupret wasn’t the only one like that. No wonder all those women in French Jamaica had formed their murderous secret society. Hey. Whatever works. Women’s Sewing Circle and Terrorist Society, you betcha. You can bend over backward until you fall on your face, like Mom did all those years she got pounded by the Amies and Chucks, and it won’t get you squat, except more bruises. In a society like French Jamaica’s, where there wasn’t even a police force—well, it wasn’t like Henri Dupret and his fellow noblemen hadn’t created their own little hell, so it served ‘em right.
He blinked; Edrith sat on the edge of the seat across from him, waiting. “Yeah, sorry, Eddie; I was thinking.”
“Nothing pleasant, from your face. Don’t tell me about it. Shall I get you a table?”
“Uh—table?” Dinner, dummy, he reminded himself. “Oh. Table. Sure. Make it an hour from now, I’m a mess and I bet the lady’ll want to change.”
“The lady will change what?” He jumped, and his heart thudded wildly in his ears. Ariadne had come from behind the screen and stood in the center of the room so Dija could flounce out wrinkled dark skirts. She pressed the back of one hand against her mouth, yawned neatly. Her hair hung loose, a wonderful blue-black mass of curl, a thick, cloudy frame for the narrow, honey-dark face and near black sleepy eyes. God, I love that hair, and she almost cut it all off. Gotta remember to get Jen that curl-your-hair junk this trip out for stopping her. One chance to run his hands through it…
“Change—ah. Thought you might like real dinner in the dining car,” Chris managed, and held his breath.
She considered this briefly, smiled. “I would like real dinner, thank you.” A little stilted but friendly enough. The truce, or whatever it was that had started back on the Rhadazi south coast with both of them dripping wet and half-drowned, was apparently still holding. Chris smiled back, got to his feet. Edrith was already at the door, curtain pulled back and his hand on the heavy latch.
Chris pulled out his watch. “Okay, Eddie, make it an hour, if they can fit us in—or whatever. Give me time to comb my hair and all.”
“Hair.” Ariadne held out a long handful of her own and eyed it in disgust as Edrith nodded and slipped into the passageway. Dija caught hold of the fingers, pried them open, and deftly scooped the tress back over her mistress’s shoulder.
“An hour, madam,” she said. “That is barely time, if you wish more than a ribbon here, to hold it back.” She gestured tying a bow at the back of her own neck; Ariadne cast up her eyes, shook her head, and allowed herself to be led back behind the screen.
Chris turned the gas lamp up another notch, shuddered at the ornate brasswork and the gruesome patterned velvet paper behind it, and set his bag on the plush bench. Somewhere in here, probably right at the bottom, there should be one last set of clean socks and a change of underwear. He scooped them up, pulled his good clothes off the hook behind the curtained inset in the wall that was his and Eddie’s “closet,” and went into the windowless little bathroom.
“Bathroom—right. Except no bath,” he grumbled. Bath was possible, of course, but it meant a lot of hassle: a tub set up in the middle of the main room, buckets of water poured into it—and moving everyone else out of the private car until the bather was done. Even Ariadne had passed on it, and sponged down in the bathroom. There wasn’t any such thing as a shower, of course. “Damn. Every time I think I’m adjusted, something like this hits home. I’d kill for a cool, hard shower and a bar of red soap.” He poured water into the basin, dumped a facecloth in it, and fished the jar of washing powder from the curtained shelf beneath the basin. “Ahhhh—forget that, all right?” At least there was water, an indoor toilet, and a separate little room with a door to enclose them and separate them from the main room—which was more civilization than he’d found in a lot of places, this end of the world. He scrubbed his face, rubbed his beard, and decided it didn’t need shaving yet. “On a moving train? Like you would,” he told his reflection in the gilt-edged mirror. He splashed cool, fresh water on the back of his neck and fought his way out of grubby linen and into clean fresh socks and trousers.
The shirt was trouble; after banging his elbow twice on the edge of the mirror, he swore and edged the door open a fraction. No one in the main room. He cleared his throat. “Um—I’m coming out of the bathroom to put my shirt on, okay? So you know.”
A silence. “Ah-c’est bien.” Ariadne’s voice sounded odd—like she was trying not to laugh, maybe. More like she’s embarrassed, he decided. He came into the room, pulling the shirt on. Well—so maybe his own face was pretty red at the moment, too. He sat on the edge of the seat he’d occupied for most of the last five days, so the high back was between him and the screen, and fumbled the shirt together, swore, and rebuttoned it properly. A quick glan
ce toward the screen; trousers undone, shirt tucked in, trousers fastened. He sighed faintly, pulled on the vest, and sat down again to knot his tie.
“Decent again,” he announced.
“Merci.” A moment later, Dija crossed the room and went into the bathroom, emerging with the jar of soap, pitcher, and the basin. She carried them back behind the screen; Chris could hear soft voices, splashing, the rustle of fabric and other, more obscure sounds.
“Ah—yeah. Think I’ll step out into the corridor to wait for Eddie, all right?” He didn’t wait for an answer; the latch clicked behind him and he leaned against the door, blotting his forehead with the back of his hand. “Right,” he mumbled. “You’re married to her, you know? So—how many days of riding around Bez, Sikkre, Zelharri, and Andar Perigha, camping out every night? All those nights in Khamal’s house, one night in a smelly ship’s cabin and washed up on the rocks, together, soaking wet—how many nights getting from Bez back over to Fahlia and how many on this damned train? Jeez, guy!” Well, but—He sighed and stared at the dimly lit ceiling. “Gilt trim and cherubs, ech. Yeah. Well, but. Camping’s one thing; this is almost like sharing the same bed or something.” Intimate. He could tell when she was simply changing her shirtwaist, when she was changing other—gods. His face felt very warm.
The latch moved under his hand; Dija leaned out as he turned and briskly announced, “She is ready.”
“Wow—fast work,” Chris said. Movement down the corridor—Eddie coming back in the next car. “Hang on,” he added, “I’ll be right in.” Dija inclined her head and closed the door. “All set?”
Edrith nodded. “There’s room to spare in the dining car; they said any time you wanted to come. Think they’re glad to have someone to feed, actually.”
“Okay. So if you and Dija want to—”
“You and Ariadne need the time,” Edrith said firmly. “Dija and I will do fine here, thank you, and after all, the food is the same.” He pulled the door open and stood aside to let Chris precede him.
Ariadne wore dark red, the one good dress she’d kept out of her baggage; another of those fancy things her father had ordered from France for her. Yeah, what a jerk. But he has good taste, gotta admit. The skirt was silky stuff that flared delightfully when she moved, and stopped just short of her ankles; the top was snug sleeved, edged at the throat in darker red ribbon and at the elbows in deep rose-patterned lace. Dija had somehow managed to get her hair into a coil at the top of her head and fastened it with gold combs. It made her look taller and elegant, but even younger than her twenty years; the red complimented her honey-dark skin and blue-black hair, her near-black eyes. Her cheeks were flushed—skillfully applied cosmetic, perhaps, though Chris couldn’t remember her wearing that kind of thing. The silver-and-opal ring that he’d bought for her in Sikkre was on the marriage finger, her mother’s ring gleamed on her left hand on the index finger. She held out the skirt with one hand, eyed him sidelong. Chris nodded enthusiastically.
“Wow. You look great.” She smiled and suddenly looked much more relaxed. Like it mattered what I thought, or something? “That’s color’s great on you, Ariadne.”
“Merci—I mean, thank you, Chris.” He held out his arm, rather self-consciously; she took it and let him lead her into the corridor.
They walked in silence; Chris kept her fingers tucked between his hand and vest, and she seemed content to leave them there. The next car was the empty one, he recalled; like their own, it had a narrow corridor down one side and a private room on the other. The sole door was darkened, the car utterly still. They went on, through the canvas-covered doorway and onto a platform crossing the gap between cars, into the common-class car he and Eddie would probably have taken if they’d been alone. Three middle-aged men—French-Gallic mercantile class, by the looks of them, Chris decided with relief: not the kind to worry about. Two sat with their wives, and another, much older, snored resoundingly, his shaggy, bearded head tipped against the window. One of the women eyed him in distaste, let her gaze shift as Chris and Ariadne walked through the car. She studied the younger woman’s gown avidly. Ariadne smiled faintly, but the other woman didn’t notice; her attention was all for dark red silk and rose-patterned lace.
The other woman was arguing with her husband as she dug through a hamper, slapping napkin-covered dishes on the low table fixed to the wall and hissing at him in furious French while he studied a map, to all appearances oblivious save that his color was high.
Two people missing—Eddie said seven. Chris slowed and looked around. Ariadne gazed up at him, her eyes suddenly wide. Hey, don’t worry the lady, idiot. He smiled, picked up the pace again. Probably in the bathroom or whatever coach class had. Or in the dining car. Whatever. Eddie’d seen them and passed them, that would have to do.
They reached the end of the car; Ariadne slipped under the canvas as Chris held it aside for her. She stopped on the platform and looked at the solid dining-car entry and her shoulders were tight, her eyes wary. Ariadne glanced back at him; he brought up a smile and nodded. “There are two other passengers, they’re probably in there eating. But I swear Eddie checked the whole train thoroughly before I even suggested this. He says we’re all right.”
“I know you and he would do that.” Her smile wasn’t much better than his felt. “I only—”
“I know. Way things have gone for us lately, I don’t blame you a bit for worrying.” He squeezed her fingers. She brought her chin up and tightened her grip on his hand.
“It is just—one cannot see before going in there. But luck changes,” she added defiantly. “Everyone says so.”
“Well—yeah. Why not? And just about our time for that, I’d say.” He led her across the platform, through the swinging door and into the dining car.
Wow. Chris blinked as they stopped just inside the car and waited for the attendant to come for them. This was ornate, at least as fancy as anything he’d seen anywhere, including Henri Dupret’s study. There was one other passenger in the car, a man at the far end, facing them and deeply engrossed in his newspaper and the soup he was spooning rapidly into a heavily bearded face. Chris glanced at Ariadne, who eyed the man carefully, then shook her head. No one I ever saw before, either. Good. One point for our side.
He waited until they were seated, until the waiter had returned with a tray bearing shallow plates of soup and a wine bottle, two tall, brilliantly cobalt blue glasses. Ariadne tested the wine, shrugged. Chris cleared his throat. “Ah—any chance I could get juice instead?” The waiter shook his head; Ariadne spoke then, in low, rapid French. The man nodded, left, and returned moments later with a flask of orange.
Chris drew the thick napkin across his lap, poured orange into his glass, and sipped. “Mmmm. Great, no sugar. Thanks.”
“Of course, Chris.”
He waited for her to begin, as much to see which of the near dozen utensils she chose for eating soup as for mere politeness. Jennifer had beaten proper American table manners into him over the past couple of years, but he was willing to bet she’d have been taken aback herself by the array of dinner weaponry set out here.
The soup itself was cold, a very pale green—he assumed cream, tasted both melon and hot pepper, but the rest was too subtle to figure. All good stuff, whatever it is. Ariadne ate rapidly and he followed suit.
Several excellent courses later, he set aside an empty ice dish and blotted his moustache. Ariadne swallowed wine and sighed happily. “That was excellent. Thank you.”
“Yeah. Definitely edible.”
“I worried to leave that chambre. It was—not so bad as I feared, to venture outside.”
“I know, first step’s the hardest.”
She let him refill her glass, glanced down the car. They had it to themselves, at the moment; the waiter had gone back into the kitchen at the far end, and the other passenger had finished his meal and left a while earlier. “How far—how long until we reach San Philippe?”
He drew out his watch, frowned at i
t, finally shrugged. “I think about half a day, not more than that.”
“Half a day. To simply walk from this place into the open—”
“You and me both,” Chris said. She frowned, shook her head. “I mean, I feel the same way. But Eddie and I are going to work on it tonight, figure out the safest way for us to get from the end of the train line to a ship.”
“I know you will. Thank you.”
“Well—sure.” Silence; a friendly one, Chris decided. Ariadne finished her wine and patted her lips with the thick cloth napkin. “Ah—I sent that message up to Jennifer and Afronsan. About what you said, your father and his friend?”
“Sorionne,” Ariadne said. “They—you think they can find who causes the trouble for Rhadaz by what I said?”
“Sure hope so. You don’t remember anything else at all about that night? What they said, or any clue of who—?” She shook her head. “Well. You know, I thought maybe if I picked your brain, you know, asked some questions, you might remember something one of them said, anything at all—if you don’t mind, I mean—”
“Mind? You know how I feel. But that night—I was not so close to my father and Sorionne, and Sorionne’s nephew was at my near elbow, chattering the whole meal.”
“So much for that,” Chris said gloomily. “Still—Sorionne. What does he do for his money?”
“He has fields in sugar, like my father.” Ariadne frowned, thought for some moments. “And mines—some new metal, I cannot recall the name, but my father had a little piece of it. It is pale and very light in weight; the French have not yet managed a way to work it though they have a supply of their own. But both the Mer Khani and the English have been at his door for it.”
“Metal.” Chris drove a hand through the hair at his temples and thought furiously. What metal in that end of the world? This wasn’t exactly history and maps, not his field at all. Except… Metal and pale and lightweight? “Aluminum?” he asked. “Ah—right, wait, good old junior-year chemistry, bauxite?”
