by Frank Tuttle
I shook my head. “Nope. We gather everybody in the dining car tonight. We make damned sure they all know there’s somebody aboard crazy enough to stab a Watchman in the throat. That ought to be enough to keep honest folk from wandering the cars alone.”
“Might just,” said Evis.
The doors to the bar car were flung open, and a covered luggage cart was pushed through them. I knew what lay below the pristine white sheet, and I knew where it was bound—the shipping car behind the caboose.
Evis must have caught the scent of blood, because the tips of his fangs showed briefly. “You have absolutely no idea who is responsible? Not even an unfounded suspicion?”
“No such luck,” I said. “All I can tell you is that they’re smart and fast and mean.”
“Knives tend to be messy,” Evis said as the cart drew close to us. “No sign of a struggle at all?”
“None. The wound looked like it was meant to sever his voice box, render him mute. I’m guessing the killer stabbed him, held him still while he died, and then just let him drop.”
“Efficient,” said Evis. “But the killer would be stained with blood, no matter how fastidious they were.”
“You would think so,” I said. “Looks like someone would have noticed a blood-coated fiend strolling the gangways. Not many places to hide.”
The pair of conductors shoving the cart along banged their way through the back doors. “Mind if I have a look at the deceased, before we start the floggings and the torture of the passengers?” asked Evis.
I rose. “Be my guest,” I said. Gertriss and Darla remained seated. I reflected that we were splitting off along gender lines, just like kids on a playground after a squabble. “We’ll be right back. Please don’t get murdered in our absence.”
Darla rolled her eyes. Gertriss sighed heavily.
Evis and I followed the dead man through the door.
“So,” I said as we stepped onto the bar car’s rear platform and squinted in the sun. The endless grassy plain rushed past us, weeds bowing in the train’s sooty wake. “The wedding back on?”
“Hush, for shit’s sake,” muttered Evis, hurrying across the iron grate that held us a few feet above the rushing tracks below.
The Western Star rattled and clanked her way west. Soot and sparks from the engine reached us nearly at the rear. I held my hat down and trotted after Evis, who was gracious enough to hold the baggage car’s door open for me.
I paused, letting my eyes adjust to the dimly-lit car’s packed interior.
Evis, with his careful vampire eyes, was already seeing clearly things that were mere blurs to me.
“So it’s true what they say about railroad funerals,” he said loudly.
Gruff voices called out in reply, urging us, among other things, to get the hell out of private railroad property.
“Your property is my property,” I called out, heading for the men and the grim burden they bore. “Remember me? Captain Markhat. This is my associate, Captain Prestley. That’s two captains, and even one of us outranks the both of you, so let’s all smile and shake hands and be friends before I start filing obstruction of Army business charges. Think I’m bluffing?”
Evis sauntered alongside me, grinning. He wasn’t nearly as scary as he used to be, before his miracle medicine took hold, but he was still halfdead and that came with a peculiar unsettling intensity of gaze that he turned full on the nervous conductors.
“No, sir,” said one.
“Sorry, sir,” added the other. “It’s just this business, you know. Everyone is on edge.”
Evis nodded agreeably. “You’re just doing your jobs, gentlemen. We’re not here to make them more difficult than they already are.” He pointed to the iron coffin they were struggling to open. “I thought the special coffins were merely rumors.”
The taller of the pair, a gangly kid named Boonan, spoke in low tones. “We try to keep it a secret,” he said. “But, well, there was an incident, last year.” He swallowed hard. “A, um, you know—a halfdead.” He paused, going wide-eyed.
“A halfdead. Like me. Go on, son. I’m not here to bite you.”
“Well, one turned. On a westbound train. There were casualties. So now, we, um…”
“So now you seal anyone who passes, no matter how or why, in an iron box,” I finished. “Which is then dropped off at the nearest Black House.”
“It’s for the safety of the passengers,” Boonan said. “And the train crew.”
“I’d have suggested just such a practice, if you weren’t already employing it,” Evis said. “Remove the cover from his face and neck,” he added.
I raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. If Evis had an angle, he had more than I’d come up with.
Boonan complied. Evis studied the dead man’s staring eyes and wounded throat for a long moment. “Thank you,” he said. “He does not appear to be infected with vampirism. Nevertheless, I’m sure we’ll all feel better once the corpse is secured.” He stepped back, withdrawing a discreet distance into the gloom while the conductors hurriedly screwed down the six massive lid-bolts.
I followed. The constant rhythmic bump-bump-bump of the train’s steel wheels on the rough tracks drowned out our conversation.
“You’ve got something on your mind,” I said. “Spill it.”
He reached into his coat, found a pair of cigars, stalled while he trimmed the butts and lit his.
“The House keeps dossiers on corrupt Watch officers,” he said. “Complete with sketches.”
“Oh no,” I replied. “He in your files?”
Evis shook his head and handed me my cigar. “No. It might have simplified matters, had he been. I might have known his particular vices.”
Evis struck a match. I pushed the tip of my cigar into it and sucked fire.
We puffed for a silent moment, watching the conductors screw the lid down tight.
“I know why Gertriss left,” he said, softer than a whisper. His eyes blazed briefly in the match light. “Finally. I know.”
“Do tell.”
“I prepared messages, before I underwent the first treatment,” he said. “In the event I failed to survive. Yours was delivered as instructed. Hers was—modified.”
“Modified? How?”
“She was told I would be removed from my position with the House if our liaison persisted,” he said. “She was told I would be murdered outright if she repeated the warning.”
In the corner, the men used hammers to strike their wrenches. If it took two men to seal the dead man’s box, it would take twice that to free him.
“Why?” I asked.
He puffed. I could see the muscles in his jaw work, see the hand that held his smoke tighten into a fist.
“The House has prejudices of its own,” he said. “Had I turned her, she would have been accepted. When I refused…”
I nodded. “Damn. So where does that leave you two?”
He blew out a perfect smoke ring. “On a train, headed west,” he said. Something like a smile crossed his lips. “How in blazes did Mama Hog—”
The Western Star bucked, sending both of us flying, careening into stacks of crates. Evis kept to his feet, but I wound up on my ass, scrambling for handholds in the dark.
Iron bit iron with an ear-splitting howl. The car shook and wobbled, slowing abruptly, wheels lifting and bouncing on the tracks.
Boonan and his partner charged past, heedless of the bucking and yawing. “They’re hard braking!” he shouted. “Something’s wrong!”
Evis snatched me to my feet. “Ever seen a train wreck?” he yelled before vanishing like a well-dressed shadow.
I followed, cussing and barking my shins on every piece of luggage west of Rannit.
Chapter Seven
The bar car was pandemonium.
Shattered glass and spilled booze covered the floor. Half the occupants had their faces pressed to the windows while the other half made for the door.
Darla and Gertriss, bless them,
were back to back by the door, pistols drawn.
“We didn’t do it,” I yelled, over the din. “Evis. Follow the crowd. Keep an eye out for long thin knives or people sneaking into sleeping compartments. Gertriss. Watch Evis. Darla. With me.”
Evis nodded and charged the door, Gertriss on his heels. Darla took my hand and we followed, shouldering our way through the crowd.
By the time we reached the platform between cars, the Western Star was stopped. Her steam engine still chugged, and her funnel still belched smoke, so I was at least reassured we hadn’t exploded. Yet.
I shoved a pair of hesitant riders aside and put boots on the gravel track bed. Darla hopped down after, and together we sprinted past the stopped cars, watched the whole time by rows of worried faces.
Gravel crunched behind us. I turned to see a small mob of brave souls following in our wake, led by the stumbling clown. He saw me turn and honked his red nose at me, nearly tripping from the effort.
The Western Star was nineteen cars, not counting the tender and the locomotive. I was huffing and puffing by the time we drew even with the engine, and unable to cuss when I saw what lay ahead.
“What the hell?” said Darla, who wasn’t even panting.
A mastodon, the biggest one I’d ever seen, was sitting on the tracks, waving its hairy trunk back and forth between its monstrous yellow tusks. And I do mean sitting—its back legs, all forty tons of them, were folded so that the beast’s wide ass was planted across the tracks.
The mastodon’s musk was so powerful my eyes began to burn, and I had to struggle not to gag. Horseflies buzzed thick about us.
“Those are Trolls,” said Darla, lowering her revolver and hiding it behind her skirt.
I nodded. Flanking the mastodon was a pair of Trolls, also seated, remaining still and silent in what I understood to be a Trollish gesture of friendly respect.
Huddled in a nervous mob at the locomotive’s blunt prow was Engineer Stoddard and a pair of sooty toughs I assumed were coal shovelers.
“Trolls and their horse,” I said.
“Why would they park their horse on the tracks?” Darla asked.
“Because they can park it anywhere they damn well please, I suppose,” I said. Engineer Stoddard turned, saw me, and smiled the kind of smile one reserves for delivering bad news to people you don’t like.
“Well, there he is,” he barked, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve already sent for the basket of apples. You get to deliver it. That’s the Watchman’s job, dealing with Trolls.”
His burly fire-men snorted until Darla let them see her revolver.
“Apples?” I asked. “Why apples?”
Stoddard shrugged. “Because they like apples. How the hell should I know? They’re Trolls, they don’t make no sense. They stop the train. You give them apples, let them talk Troll bullshit until they get done. They move their Troll horse, and we waste a half a damned day getting back up to speed. That’s the job, fancy man. Now it’s your job. Here’s the apples.”
Rowdy came charging up, dragging one side of a bushel basket of apples while another conductor dragged the other.
“I’ll go with you, Captain,” Rowdy said.
“Hell you will,” snarled Stoddard. “That’s a Watch job. You’re with the C&E. Get back to your car.”
“Go on, kid,” I said softly. “I can manage.”
Darla stepped up and shot a killing glare at the engineer. “I’ll take this side, dear,” she said. Her revolver had vanished as quickly as a magician’s trick rabbit. “We wouldn’t want to impose upon the C&E by asking them to do a man’s job, now would we?”
I grinned and grabbed the other handle. Engineer Stoddard’s face turned the vibrant red of a ripe tomato.
“No indeed, wife,” I replied. “I’m sure they’ve got a full day of cowering to do.” I tipped my hat to the railroad men as we passed them. “Mind you don’t soil your underbritches, gentlemen.”
If they had any retort, the Western Star herself rendered it inaudible with a long billowing discharge of compressed steam.
Gravel crunched behind us, as the clown raced to catch up. “Don’t mind me,” he said. “Don’t worry about the Trolls, either. They’re friendly.”
“How do you know that?” asked Darla.
“Because we ain’t dead,” he replied. “Here, I’ll go first.”
And he did, charging up to the larger of the two Trolls before breaking into a clumsy, bumbling dance.
“That is either the drunkest man I’ve ever seen, or the bravest,” said Darla.
“Both,” I replied. The apple basket was heavy. We took our time, so I got a good look at both Trolls before stepping within smiting distance.
The rightmost was typical Troll—a towering mass of muscle and fur decorated with foot-long talons and piercing Troll eyes. He was naked, save for a cargo belt and an ornamental necklace made from weathered human skulls, each missing the lower jaw and strung together through ragged holes on each side of the cranium.
The Troll on the left was half the size of the other. His fur was dark, almost black, and though his eyes were every bit Troll warrior, they darted about constantly and something like a grin shaped his toothy maw.
“Is that a child?” whispered Darla.
“I think so,” I replied. “Unusual. They’re shy about bringing their youngsters around humans.”
The adult Troll started clapping in time to the clown’s ridiculous dance. “Ho, ho, ho,” it boomed, followed by a string of wet Troll words that might have been a cheerful greeting or a graphic description of the dismemberment to come.
We dragged the bushel of apples as close as I dared. “Greetings, Walking Stone,” I said, taking off my hat. “May your shadow fall tall and your soul grow to meet it.”
The Troll nodded but kept clapping. The railroad clown danced gamely on, gasping for breath but, by the Angels, keeping his too-large shoes shuffling in the gravel.
“Show him an apple before I have a stroke,” muttered the clown. “I can’t keep this up all damned day.”
Darla snatched up a ripe red apple. “For you and yours, Walking Stone,” she said, holding the fruit aloft. “A gift, given in friendship.”
The Troll ended his claps with a bellow and a laugh.
The clown dropped to his knees and vomited. Both Trolls erupted into fresh gales of laughter.
“It is good to be greeted with mirth,” boomed the adult Troll, in passable Kingdom. “We accept your gifts.” He switched back to a Trollish gargle, and the smaller of the pair marched forward, careful to keep his mouth closed and his fangs hidden.
“We are indeed a mirthful folk,” I said, as the Troll youngster approached. “Mirthful, friendly, and mostly unarmed. My name is Markhat. This is my wife, Darla.”
“I’m Jiggles,” said the clown, still mopping his chin with his filthy sleeve. “Pleased to meet you all, yer lordships.” He gave his false nose a desultory honk.
The elder Troll nodded. “We saw the wounded sky, and knew a hurried iron horse approached,” he said. “My son Iron-in-Legs wished to see his namesake, before we quit these lands.”
The Troll kid took the basket from Darla with a wink. He shoved a handful of apples in his maw and started chewing them before he turned and took the basket back to papa.
“Named after a train, is he?” I replied. “Well, that’s a first. Tell you what, Walking Stone. Why not bring your son on the train, let him have a closer look? He could even blow the whistle. Would he like that?”
The Troll tilted his head at me, and for an awful moment I was afraid I’d unwittingly delivered some dire insult. But then the Troll laughed and exchanged a few words with his son, whose responses were somewhat hampered by his mouthful of half-chewed apples.
“That would indeed be an honor,” the adult Troll replied at last. “Although our agreement with the iron road men does not extend to such liberties.”
“It does today,” I said, while Darla tried to shush me
. “The iron road men will do as I say. Isn’t that right, dear?”
“I sincerely hope it is,” Darla said.
I made a sweeping gesture toward the Western Star. “Please, be my guests,” I said. “Bring your horse, if you wish. Our tender car has great big water tanks. He may drink from those.”
Darla bit back a snort.
“That is indeed most generous,” replied the Troll. He turned, and bellowed to the mammoth. It replied with a loud, clearly annoyed sigh and rose from its haunches to lumber up behind the Trolls.
I turned. “Follow us, friends,” I said, and I set off at a good clip.
“Mister, you should have been a clown,” said Jiggles. “You’ve got the damned mouth for it.”
“Never got the hang of juggling,” I replied.
“That engineer is going to be livid,” Darla whispered. “No wonder we’re never invited to parties.”
“Merely doing my part to establish trust and cooperation with our Trollish brethren,” I replied. Indeed, as the thunderous tromping of the mammoth and the Troll’s happy booming conversation reached the Western Star, dozens of faces turned our way. Most of the crowd milling about outside the train cars made their way hurriedly back inside.
Stoddard was the only man standing by the time my impromptu parade reached the locomotive.
“This is Engineer Stoddard,” I said, turning to face the Trolls. “He drives the hurried iron horses. He is delighted to meet you both, and he welcomes you aboard his train with open arms and a smiling, eager heart. Isn’t that right?”
“What the hell—” Stoddard began.
“Furthermore,” I added, “he invites your mighty horse to slake his thirst from the C&E’s complimentary and no doubt sparkling water. See that the tank car’s water cover is removed, Engineer Stoddard, that’s a good man.” I pushed the sputtering engineer aside and gestured for the Trolls to climb aboard. I’ve not spent much time around mastodons, but this one either knew the word water or his snout functioned as an exceptionally keen nose, because he was already pacing beside the locomotive, exploring its intricate workings with his trunk. “Follow me, gentlemen. Mind your heads. The opening may be a bit low for Trollish persons.”
