by Stephen Hunt
‘The winds are only strong to carry us home,’ said Sheplar. ‘That’s carved on the temple walls. I never understood what it meant until I found myself riding a train so far from Rodal.’
Jacob cast his eyes over the town, locating the tip of the radiomen’s guild near the centre. ‘Let’s head to the radiomen’s hold. Might as well make a show of getting our “mysterious updates” on the slavers’ position.’
‘You know,’ said Wiggins, ‘your “secret” source is really scratching at Major Alock.’
‘You think the guardsmen would follow us if they knew we were chasing nothing more than wood magic? Hell, the king would probably have asked if Arcadia’s most secure head hospital had four spare cots with a sea view.’
‘Hell, Pastor, we’re crazy enough to be far-called. The king’s mad enough to back us, and the major’s mad enough to follow us…’
‘I’m not mad yet,’ said Jacob. ‘So far, I’m just mildly irked.’
‘You think I’ll be alive when you lose your temper?’
‘I surely do hope so, Constable.’
Sergeant Nix peeled off from the milling troops and walked towards them. The only one in the company who had been anything other than taciturn towards the civilian members of the expedition. The sergeant looked a long lost twin for Wiggins – including his height, but what the man lacked in stature, he made up for in orneryness. Two people wide and, despite his age, fit enough to drag a plough behind him. A midget among giants, he must have turned mean just to survive among the royal guardsmen. The sergeant adjusted the angle of his bush hat against the sun, a gap-toothed grin directed towards Jacob. ‘You know, I’m sure we’ve met before, Pastor. Just can’t place the where and when of it.’
Jacob shrugged. ‘Unlike Constable Wiggins, I’ve never ridden with the cavalry on the eastern frontier.’
Wiggins just laughed. ‘And you sure ain’t spent any time sitting on Northhaven’s pews, or any other church, unless it be the house of the holy hangover.’
‘You got that much right, Stumpy.’
‘Well, Sergeant.’
‘Well, Constable.’
‘That over there is the Railway Hotel and those windows on the ground floor belong to the Railway Tavern.’
‘And that sounds like a plan.’
‘An hour only,’ said Jacob. ‘Otherwise you had better hope that the local mounted police are hiring.’
‘An hour?’ said Wiggins. ‘Hell, I thought I had a few years left just now.’
Paying for a private suite on the train had proved a good investment of Benner’s money… spacious enough to accommodate all four travellers, and not part of the military carriage. Jacob sat on the sofa’s upholstered leather in the first of three connected cabins. In front of him stood a small fold-out table. The cabin had been converted to its daytime configuration, beds tucked away behind the oak panelling. Situated on the train’s third storey, their cabin’s window was high enough to peer over the endless forests passing by. Sheplar and Khow played cards, a gask game with rules that seemed too complicated for common pattern minds to comprehend. But the Rodalian pilot would nod and smile, repeating each new explanation of play and expansion of the rule-set as if he had known them all along and was only having to be reminded.
A knock at their door sounded and Jacob slid it open. A cabin steward stood waiting in his blue-and-gold uniform behind a cart with four covered meals. Their tickets to Talekhard included food from the dining car, to be taken in the restaurant carriage or served in their cabin. Jacob was glad for it, now. Railway lines stretched across millions of miles. Too long to provision for even a small part of the journey with a single delivery; so the trains took on supplies as they rolled, favouring local dishes. It was said the rail guild’s chefs ran the best kitchens in the world, and what they’d served to date hadn’t made a lie of that boast. It was the same young man who’d served them all week. Every time Jacob saw the apprentice steward, he had to stop himself from wincing. Could’ve been Carter here working the guild routes in safety, if Mary and I hadn’t tried to hold on to him so damn tight.
‘Good afternoon, Father,’ chirped the boy, oblivious to Jacob’s grief. He pushed the cart inside and went over to their four large cardboard tickets, hooked to the wall, punching them with an extra hole to indicate another meal delivered. He glanced down at the folding table in front of the window where Wiggins had his pistol in pieces, the constable meticulously cleaning each piece.
‘You preparing for Dog-rider Pass, sir?’
‘What’s that, son? You fixing to run a whippet race down the corridors to liven up our journey?’
‘No race, sir, though things might get livelier than anyone cares for. Before we reach Talekhard, the line leaves the country to bypass the highest peaks. We cut through a corner of the Kingdom of Ivah. That’s bandit territory.’
‘And these bandits ride dogs?’ asked Jacob.
‘Mega-wolves as big as horses, Father, but that’s not why they’re called dog-riders. The bandits are like your friend here—’ He indicated Khow. ‘But even more twists on the spiral removed from us. Fur, long snouts and red eyes. Their faces look like dogs if you squint at them right. Not the friendly kind, though. They’re cannibals and they’d have all of us for a meal quick enough, if they could.’
‘Do soldiers patrol the railway line in Ivah?’ asked Khow.
‘The Queen of Ivah’s dragoons perform that service, sir. Although the land’s sparsely populated, more bandits than villagers. We should be fine. A train of our length is usually left alone…’
Wiggins pushed a brush through his gun’s rotating cylinder. ‘My daughter once owned a terrier, black as the space between the stars. A right sweet little fellow he was.’
‘If there’s one thing the dog-riders aren’t, it’s sweet,’ said the steward, lifting the lids off their meals. ‘They’re bloody savages. But they’re smart enough to know that sentry ports on a carriage means we’re running with a barracks car in the train. They don’t like guns. Their tribes don’t have the art of metal working – spears and clubs tipped with flint are all they have to attack travellers with.’
‘Not that I’m complaining, mind, given how good this tastes. But how come your food always smells of corn chowder?’ asked the constable.
‘The hot plates are part of the engine car, sir. Everything from the kitchen smells of oil.’
‘That’ll be why, then.’
Halfway through serving, their steward spilled a splash of gravy as the train began braking hard.
‘Next stop is a day away?’ said Jacob. We don’t need delays.
Sheplar Lesh opened the compartment’s window and leaned out, the sound of the train’s engines dwindling to a sigh as it slowed. ‘Signal flags are being raised over the lead car.’
Their steward abandoned the meal cart and poked his head out too, reading the pennons. ‘Says there’s a rail missing ahead. We’ll need to stop, then take out one of the rails behind us to replace it.’
‘Missing?’ said Jacob.
‘Stolen,’ said the steward. ‘Some traveller caravan riding around with bootleg trade metals in the back of their wagon, I’d guess.’
‘Fools if they are,’ said Wiggins. ‘If they’re caught, the guild mark will be placed on their heads. Nobody willing to trade with them or their descendants for as long as there’s earth to roll over and air to breath. Might as well sign up with a gang of outlaws now.’
The steward returned to the cart. ‘It’ll take at least an hour or two to swap the rails out and re-test the line, sir. You might want to stretch your legs after you eat.’
Jacob groaned inside. Every hour lost was another hour for his son to be carried further and further away. It feels like I’m losing him, Mary. God forgive me, but it feels like our chances of success are being stretched thinner and thinner. Every day we lose is another day for Carter to be worked to death by the slavers.
A stairwell close to their suite led down through seco
nd class, steerage and cargo. Jacob took the stairs to the doorway and climbed down from the halted carriages. The train had stopped in the grasslands of a wide valley. At least they were clear of the snow in the high passes. It had only been a few weeks ago when the plough at the front of the train had been running into drifts the engine car couldn’t cope with. All the passengers had been forced to disembark, shivering in the cold under as many layers as they carried, helping to clear a passage with shovels. At one point they had come up behind a goods train in front of them, and they’d had to clear its route and then dig their own train free too.
Fifty feet away from the halted train, Jacob could see the ruins of an overgrown village, little more than grassy mounds. A few mossy rocks to indicate people had once lived there, a light green patterning in the meadows indicating where streets had once run. Wild goats chewed brambles on the mounds, eyeing the resting train and its disembarking passengers with suspicion. It was at times like this that the immensity of the world shook Jacob. Good grazing land that had once supported families, long abandoned and swallowed up by the infinite for reasons that were dust now. Will the land devour our cause without trace too? All this way, and we haven’t even crossed the border yet. Everything that’s left of me is slipping through my fingers, lost to the world, further and further away each day.
Jacob rubbed a hand through his dark curly hair, feeling his sweat from the sun. His legs creaked as he walked forward, ligaments cracking. I’m getting old. And what I’m doing isn’t an old man’s game. He decided to take a stroll before climbing back on board and headed for a copse of trees, five minutes from the ruins of the village. As he got closer, he saw the trees masked something older than the village’s remains. A stone circle, menhirs rising twelve feet high. The trees hid their ancient presence. Everywhere you went in Weyland, other nations too, similar stone circles could be found. Jacob pushed through the undergrowth to see if these stones matched the others he had come across. Just the same. Dark obsidian-like stone, polished enough to see your face reflected on its surface. Their bases lay overgrown with lichen, but above the reach of the grass, the rune-covered menhirs seemed invulnerable to the depredations of time, weather and nature. But here’s something that doesn’t look familiar. The grass inside the circle had been blackened and burnt, as if someone had reached down and stamped the circle’s interior with a giant branding iron. Jacob touched the ground. Warm, even in the glade’s shade. Maybe travellers set up shelter here, recently? Possibly the same rascals stealing rails off the track. These ancient circles were fey places. Jacob felt a cold shiver pass down his spine. That feeling only faded after he pushed his way out of the trees’ half-light. The sun floated hot in the sky. Fellow passengers from the train waded through the long grass, men and women dotted around the valley like farmers in a field. With a single glance back to the copse and what it concealed, Jacob cursed his superstitious hackles for a child’s fear and headed back to the train. There was something of a commotion sounding on the other side of his carriage as he arrived. Jacob slipped under a walkway joining two carriages to discover the argument’s source. Aha. Two train guards blocked the passage of an old man. He sported a scraggly white beard which could’ve nested robins in its growth. The stranger carried a stout walking staff, but he wasn’t using it to threaten the men, merely resting his chin against it while the guards manoeuvred themselves to stop the stranger reaching the carriage’s steps.
‘Back you, back,’ growled one of the guards.
‘Isn’t this man a passenger?’ asked Jacob.
‘Wants to be, Father, but without the botheration of paying,’ said the guard. ‘He came walking down from the side of the valley when he saw our train halted. Watched him with my own eyes. Just an old beggar.’
‘A beggar!’ said the old man, his voice filling the meadow. ‘Damn you for a rapscallion, sir. You are no better than a hellhated foot-licker. Do you not recognise Sariel, the Prince of Players? I am a bard! A noble recounter of tales!’
‘Well, you can recount them to the next caravan you come across, friend. Guild rules – no panhandlers to ride on board and disturb paying passengers.’
‘It must be a thousand miles to the next town,’ said Jacob. ‘You can’t just leave him out here.’
‘He walked here well enough in the first place, didn’t he? With the berries on the bushes and the mushrooms in the forests, he’s probably feasting fine every night. And rules are rules.’
‘What about the traditions of salt and roof?’
‘Father, the guild of rails only has one commodity to sell. Passage. If I let him on board free, I figure I’ll owe a refund to the other three thousand souls on our train. This is the express to Talekhard, not a mercy mission.’
‘How much?’ sighed Jacob.
‘We haven’t stopped at a guild station, Father, and our other passengers still have their sense of smell…’
‘If the train master asks, I’ll vouch that he got on at Brinkdalen. You can split the ticket money between you and pay for a couple of nosegays.’ Jacob jingled his wallet. ‘We’re still in Weyland, gentlemen, these shillings of mine are tested pure by the national mint.’
‘The old fool rides steerage, and your silence, or it’ll be my job.’
‘Steerage and meals, and my discretion can be thrown in for free.’
‘Done. You’ve more money than sense, Father.’
‘For once, I think you’re right. I’m having a cathedral raised back home, boys. I’m feeling flush.’
‘Ah, sweet charity,’ smiled the old man, pumping Jacob’s hand. ‘You will surely end up sitting on one of the synod’s golden thrones for your kindness.’
‘I believe I’ve been punished enough already, Mister Sariel. Up the steps with you, old fellow, before one of the guild’s journeymen catches you and decides your ticket’s invalid.’
‘You have a fine deep tenor, Father. A northerner I would say, Northhaven perhaps?’
A bard’s ear for detail at least. ‘Of late, I have been. You visited the town?’
‘Why, of course,’ Sariel enthused. He climbed up before Jacob, taking the side door into the cargo level. ‘Northhaven’s like a second home to me.’
Was like a first one to me. ‘You can’t have visited recently. All the way out here, you must have been hiking for a good few years.’
‘No indeed, Your Grace, I was carried here a short time ago by a giant eagle. Wild Pohierax, a monarch among birds who has reason to remember me kindly. Pohierax bore me most of the distance, calling to his friend the moon as we flew.’
‘Just Father Carnehan, if you please. No “Your Graces”. I’m not an archbishop yet.’
‘Are you not? A disgrace, Your Grace, if not a travesty! God is surely weeping over that cruel offence. Tell me, good sir, where does this train of ours travel?’
‘Talekhard’s the end of the line.’ Jacob glanced around the cargo chamber. The oil lamps hanging from the ceiling weren’t burning, but there was enough natural light slanting in from ventilation slats. Bundles of sacks marked with merchants’ crests lay piled around the space, a maze of crates to navigate and the passengers’ racked luggage sitting safe behind a locked cage. Things could be worse for the tramp; it could have been a livestock wagon he bedded down in.
‘Ah, the great free port of Talekhard, the town that goes to sleep every night to a lullaby sung by a thousand rotors.’
‘You know your geography, Mister Sariel. But I guess you don’t have much calling to use aircraft, not with your feathered friend Pohierax.’
‘Ah, it must be said that my acquaintance with matters geographical is no accident. I shall share with you a confidence, Your Grace.’ Sariel stopped amongst the crates. ‘I was not always a bard. Once, many years ago, I served as the royal mapmaker to King Butembo. I was a cartographer without equal. The king had married a thousand wives and, sadly, he dismissed me after we quarrelled over which of them was the most beautiful… Yakini or Nabila. It was an impossi
ble choice.’
‘Never choose between beauties, Mister Sariel.’
‘Will they really bring me food, do you think?’
‘With what I’ve just paid for your passage, they had surely better.’
Jacob left the tramp brushing down the cargo netting and rearranging crates and bales to make himself a cot. Jacob returned outside, content to sit on the grassy mounds and watch the rail being removed from behind the train and bolted down in front. After an hour or so of peace, he returned to his cabin. The steward arrived back with water and fruit, clearing away the dishes. Wiggins had finally relented and joined in the game of cards with the other two.
‘They’ve finished swapping the rails,’ said Jacob. ‘We’ll be moving soon.’
‘Just a little bit longer, now, Father,’ said the steward. ‘One of the passengers stumbled across the missing rail in the meadows up ahead. Damnedest thing. It’d been ripped out and cast aside. Train master has ordered it to be re-laid behind us before we leave.’
‘Ha,’ snorted Wiggins, flipping a card down on the folding table. ‘Couple of young bucks must have stolen it; probably caught hell when their caravan chief discovered what they had done. Tossed the rail quick and rolled off at a gallop before the next patrol turned up. What do you think, Pastor?’
‘I was wondering whether flying by giant eagle would be quicker than passage on an aircraft.’
‘Depends on what kind of bull you’re feeding it.’
‘That was my line of thinking too.’
Jacob opened his bleary eyes, a couple of seconds to remember where he was, blinking away the sleep and placing his position in the world. A first-class compartment on the express to Talekhard. He felt a pang of disappointment. For a confused second, he had thought himself at home in the rectory. Mary by his side, Carter down the corridor and all that had happened a bad dream. Her presence had seemed so vivid. Hell, I guess this must be the bad dream, then. And I’m still living it. If the light outside was any guide, it was early morning. Apart from Khow, the others still lay asleep in their connecting cabins. The gask, though, was sitting on the floor cross-legged, his mind lost to meditation and the calculations running through his mind. We’ve stopped; the train’s halted again? Jacob asked Khow if he knew why they had halted, but the gask just shook his head. When the gask was like this, Jacob could have cut off one of his fingers and the twisted man would be hard-pressed to notice. He stuck his head out of the compartment’s window. Thick dark-green forest. And a smell… a foul one that Jacob recognised. A lot like the ravening of Northhaven.
