by Eric Brown
‘ So people have told me,’ I said.
‘I take it you go to Charybdis to watch the boat race?’
‘It takes place soon?’
‘In less than a week.’
I considered the prospect of watching the race in which four years ago my father had met his end. ‘In that case I’ll certainly be there,’ I said. ‘And you? Why do you go to Charybdis?’
He was a couple of seconds before replying, giving the impression that he did so with reluctance. ‘Work,’ he said at last, and would grant no more.
The covered concourse outside the station was full of waiting travellers. Families sat in circles around their possessions, bed-rolls, trunks, and bundles of anonymous oddments. Curled figures, covered from head to foot in blankets, slept despite the constant hubbub of conversation and the strident cries of food-vendors.
A melee of citizens jostled before the ticket counter. I did not relish the prospect of joining the fray. Blackman must have noticed my apprehension. ‘Wait here.’
He strode off across the concourse. I was surprised to see that perhaps a dozen individuals scurried to intercept him. Some remained at a respectful distance, palms pressed together and raised to their foreheads; others diffidently reached out and touched him as he brushed past, then touched their fingers to their lips and scurried off. When he approached the counter, the crowd there parted to allow him through, individuals bowing and backing away. Within seconds he stood before the grille, a barred opening hardly reaching the height of his chest, and a minute later he returned with the tickets. ‘All the single berths were taken,’ he said. ‘I took the liberty of booking a stateroom. I hope you have no objection to sharing?’
‘Not at all,’ I said, producing my money pouch. He waved it away, smiling. ‘One of the advantages of belonging to my guild is that one rarely pays for anything.’
‘Why . . . thank you,’ I said, thinking that with this saving I would be able to remain on Tartarus a little longer.
We passed through an arched entrance into the station. Baudelaire being the terminus, there were six platforms serving as many rail lines which branched out and crossed the continent in every direction. Only one platform was occupied by a train, its multiple carriages diminishing into the distance. Crowds promenaded up and down, preparatory to boarding the carriages for the long journey west.
I had expected to find steamtrains, but there was no chuntering of antique engines to be heard, and no great grey plumes filling the station. Nor were the rails as I had expected: they were arranged in a V formation, with one on the ground and two in the air, supported on a solid timber frame. If the rails were bizarre, then so were the carriages. Each coach, perhaps twenty metres long and five broad, was constructed of timber like a miniature galleon, with four central wheels where the keel would have been on an oceangoing vessel. A long beam, terminating in a wheel at each end, crossed the top of each carriage and ran upon the outer rails. I counted twenty such bulbous carriages before the perspective got the better of my eyesight.
‘But what kind of engine can pull such a train?’ I asked of my companion.
‘No engine as such,’ he said. ‘Or rather engines of flesh and blood. Come.’
We strode along the platform. The carriages closest to the entrance were the first-class staterooms and private berths; then came the second-class carriages - through barred openings I made out two-tier bunks on either side of a central passage. The six carriages at the very front of the train were third-class: each narrow compartment consisted of four-tier timber bunks, rude and unpadded. I was aware of a foul stench, and assumed that it issued from these lowly carriages - before Blackman touched my arm and pointed ahead.
‘The vench,’ he said.
Perched upon the empty rails which emerged from the cover of the station were perhaps two dozen huge birds - then I looked again and saw that they were not birds at all, but some scythe-beaked, sweep-winged creatures less avian than saurian. They stood perhaps three metres tall - and when one beast creakily unfolded its wings I judged their span to be of some ten metres - and they put me in mind of nothing so much as prehistoric pterodactyls. Each vench was chained by its right leg, and each chain was attached to the forward carriage of the train. The stench that attended these creatures came from the prodigious droppings piled beneath the makeshift perch.
‘This team of vench will take us as far as the third station, some two hundred kilometres inland,’ Blackman informed me. ‘Then a fresh team will take over.’
I stared at the creatures, which were stropping their bills on the tracks and giving vent to eerie, high-pitched caws of impatience.
‘On Earth,’ I said, ‘we have fusion-powered trains. The journey would take but two or three hours.’
Blackman smiled, tolerantly. ‘Tartarus is not Earth,’ he said. ‘The planet has been governed by the Church for nigh on a thousand years. Early on they proscribed all devices mechanical, deeming them unnecessary to the well-being of the people. The only machines on the planet are in the employ of the Church itself.’
I considered mentioning the hypocrisy of this, but decided to hold my tongue. For all I knew, Blackman might have been a believer.
We walked back along the platform to our carriage. I was about to climb the steps which ascended to the stateroom when Blackman touched my arm. ‘Look who joins us.’
I turned and followed his gaze. Crossing the platform towards the train were two men hauling a large chest between them. Something in the shape and demeanour of the taller of the two was familiar - and of course I recognised the chest from the alleyway.
I stared at Blackman. ‘You knew?’
‘Simplicity itself. There is an illegal but growing trade in Messengers. Criminals from the next province along the track pay well for them as pets, and worse.’
‘Messengers?’
‘The winged faerie creature captured by these two villains.’
‘Are they human?’ I asked.
‘Who? The villains or the Messengers?’ Blackman laughed. ‘I suggest that the kidnappers are less than human - the Messengers more than. They are a race of beings genetically engineered many millennia ago, and have little truck with regular humans.’
I wanted to ask Blackman if he belonged to a similar, engineered race - but at that moment my attention returned to the kidnappers. I had noted a familiarity in the taller figure, and now I realised it was not merely through seeing his silhouette in the alley one hour ago. As the two men passed us, staggering with their burden, I gave a strangled cry.
‘Buzatti!’ I murmured to myself, and then, ‘I know him. Or rather I’ve met him briefly.’
As the two men bundled the trunk up the steps of the neighbouring carriage, I told Blackman of my foolishness the day before.
‘So as well as effecting the release of the hapless Messenger,’ he said, ‘we must also reimburse you to the tune of some ten thousand new credits.’
Having stowed away their treasure, the two men emerged and stood on the platform. They shook hands, payment was exchanged, and the shorter villain took his leave. Buzatti returned to his carriage.
There was a bustle of activity along the platform as a uniformed official swung a lantern and yelled an incomprehensible cry. The passengers hurried to their respective carriages and doors slammed shut. I followed Blackman up the steps. Our chamber occupied half the carriage, with a lounge on one side and a room containing two beds on the other. Blackman indicated a flight of steps, and I followed him to a railed area on the roof of the carriage.
Ahead, the vench were relinquishing their perches on the rails and flapping with lazy grace into the air. The chains attached to their legs pulled taut, and a tremendous jolt passed through the carriages. Slowly at first, and then with increasing speed, the train left the station and trundled on raised tracks above the streets of Baudelaire. Silhouetted against the orange light of night, the vench presented a stirring sight. They flew in layered formations affected by the length of the chains that connect
ed them to the train. The first arrow-head flight of eight was perhaps just thirty metres from, and level with, the forward carriage. Above them, and twenty metres in front, were yet eight more prehistoric creatures - and above and beyond them a further eight, their wings working in vast, slow-motion sweeps. From time to time one of their number called out a high, piercing cry.
We remained upon the upper deck for an hour, as the train left the outskirts of the city and plunged into the jungle, the vegetation dark beneath the fiery sky.
Midnight arrived, and the events of the day caught up with me. I said good night to Blackman and made my way to the bed-chamber. I took a shower in a crude cubicle in the corner, and then retired. I was almost asleep when Blackman entered the room and sat on his bed. From a vial he took a pill and swallowed it dry, then lay down fully clothed. Within seconds he was asleep, his breathing even.
Despite the drumming of the wheels, I too soon fell asleep. I was awoken only once, by a red glow that emanated from across the room. I opened my eyes and blinked at what I saw. Blackman sat cross-legged on the floor next to his bed. Leads cascaded from the slits in the back of his jerkin, and were attached to a small black box he held on the palm of his right hand. Where before the wires that covered his body had been silver, now they glowed red like heating filaments and surrounded him with a roseate aura. He sat like this for a long time. At last I fell asleep again, and might have dreamed the episode.
* * * *
Bright sunlight filled the chamber when I awoke the following morning. Blackman was not upon his bed, nor was there any sign of his black box or leads. I dressed and stepped into the empty lounge.
As I climbed the narrow flight of stairs leading to the top of the carriage, I was hit by the intense heat of the sun directly overhead. Evidently I had slept till midday. A railed walkway connected each carriage, and the fifth carriage along was covered by a large white awning, in the shade of which travellers sat around a dozen tables. I noticed Blackman at a table by himself, a drink and a plate of food before him. At the sight of this I realised how hungry I was. I made my way along the swaying aisle, holding the rails with both hands. We were travelling at a fair speed along a section of track high above the surrounding tree-tops. For as far as the eye could see in every direction the jungle rolled away like a vast green ocean.
I entered the welcome shade of the dining carriage and joined my travelling companion. He was eating a plate of bread and sectioned fruit and drinking iced tea. ‘Sinclair, you’re up at last. I trust you slept well?’
‘Well, but too long. I feel heavy-headed.’
Blackman laughed. ‘A meal will see you right. Waiter!’ he called, and a red-jacketed steward hurried over with a menu. I indicated my friend’s plate and ordered the same.
I sat back and scanned my fellow diners. They appeared well-dressed and dignified, with the privileged air of the upper classes. There were several couples taking lunch beneath the awning, and a group of men playing a board game at a corner table.
‘No sign of Buzatti,’ I whispered, ‘or whatever his name might be.’
‘He breakfasted earlier. I exchanged pleasantries with him. His story is that he is a traveller in exotic merchandise, which I suppose is true enough. He is heading for San Sebastian, two days away, and is still using the nom de guerre of Buzatti.’
My meal arrived, and I sampled the strange local fruits. As I did so I considered what I had seen in the early hours, and thought of questioning Blackman. I decided against it; although companionable enough, he seemed reluctant to discuss personal details.
After the meal, he suggested a stroll to the front of the train, and despite the heat I agreed. Every fifth carriage was covered by an awning, and in these oases of shade I paused to regain my breath while Blackman, seeming to relish the heat, stood beyond the awning with his charred face tipped towards the sun.
We arrived at the very first carriage, which thankfully sported a canvas cover. Ahead, the three formations of vench were dark, leathery shapes against the blue sky. We were trundling along high above the jungle, our passage agitating flocks of birds which rose from their tree-top nests in whirlpools of multi-coloured plumage.
Blackman pointed across the jungle to our right. ‘Observe the towers protruding through the canopy - and there are more.’
I made out tall, dark spires and minarets. ‘A city?’ I asked.
‘Once, a long time ago. Those are the remains of a temple complex built by the alien race native to Tartarus aeons past. The Slarque became extinct long before the first human exploration ship discovered the planet.’
In silence we observed the passing scene for a further fifteen minutes. I marvelled at the miracle of finding myself here, on a strange world in a sector of galaxy so far from Earth. I considered the amazing fact that six years ago my father had passed this way, on a rendezvous with destiny.
Blackman laid a hand upon my arm, his touch as dry as embers. ‘Don’t look now, but our friend takes the air on the next shaded carriage. Excuse me while I further gain his confidence.’
He stepped from the shade and strode along the jolting walkway, to where a white-suited Buzatti gazed out across the jungle. I made myself comfortable against the rail and turned my attention to the view ahead. Beyond the labouring vench, on the far horizon, I made out a hazy line of mountains, their snow-covered peaks appearing to float above the surrounding cloud like icebergs in an ocean. This range, I knew from studying the map at the hotel, overlooked the vast, inland Sapphire sea; Charybdis clung to the foothills on the far slope of these mountains, a sprawling town straddling the river Laurent.
Later, after Buzatti had departed, I joined my friend. He stood in the sunlight before the awning, while I sat on the rail in the shade.
‘Did you learn any more?’ I asked.
‘I suspect that he told me nothing but lies. I’m meeting him for a drink on the dining carriage at sunset. I need to gain his trust before I make my move.’
‘To save the Messenger? What have you planned?’
‘As yet . . . nothing. We have two days to act before Buzatti reaches his destination - time enough and more.’ He closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sun.
I left him to it, returned to the dining carriage and ordered iced tea. For the next hour or two I admired the view, observed my fellow passengers and read a news-sheet printed in Baudelaire - the novelty of actually reading news on paper spoilt by having to wrestle with the over-sized pages which flapped like sails in the breeze.
We took a late lunch together, consisting of black bread, ripe yellow cheese and a salad drenched in spiced oil, washed down with a strong red wine as thick as syrup. After two glasses of the stuff my head was spinning. I felt the urge to talk.
I gestured expansively at the passing jungle. ‘A little over a month ago I graduated from university, after two years studying Twenty-second-Century Renaissance art. Just a week ago I set sail for Tartarus.’
Blackman smiled indulgently, contemplating his glass. ‘What of your parents? What did they say when you announced your plans?’
‘My mother is dead,’ I said.
‘And your father?’
‘He too.’ I sought to check my tongue with a long draught of wine. I wanted to explain my mission on Tartarus, but I found myself unable to do so without declaring my innermost emotions to someone who was, after all, no more than a stranger.
‘Were you close?’
‘To my mother, yes.’ I shrugged. ‘We were together until I was fourteen and left for university. To my father . . .’
I hesitated. It seemed not quite right to admit to Blackman that I hated my father.
‘My father left when I was six,’ I said, ‘and never came back. I remember very little of him - but what little I do recall, and what I’ve learned about him since . . . lead me to believe that we would never have seen eye to eye.’
I changed the subject. ‘And you?’ I asked. ‘Do you have a family?’
‘The
nature of my existence precludes attachment,’ he said, as if to discourage further enquiry.
I ventured, ‘You mentioned that you were going to Charybdis to work?’
‘That is correct,’ he said. ‘I will act as the eyes of a ship in the annual race.’
‘The eyes?’
‘The underwater hazards of the river change from year to year. A ship needs a Blackman to plot a safe course.’
I nodded to myself. I wanted to know how long the Guild of Blackmen had been serving as the eyes of the ships, and if my travelling companion might know anything about the fate of my father. I wondered, paradoxically, if the reason I did not question Blackman then was that I was secretly afraid to learn conclusively that my father was indeed dead.
I finished my wine. It was late afternoon; the sun hung above the jungle horizon, one hour from setting. As I did not want to be around when Buzatti returned for his rendezvous with Blackman, I excused myself, stumbled back to the stateroom and slept.
