House of Reeds

The Gemmilsky House Gandaris, "Bastion of the North"

Crouched in darkness, Colmuir squinted at the view from one of the perimeter spyeyes. This one was focused down on the front gate from a realspruce tree, where the Jehanan soldiers had found the portal held closed by more than a simple wooden bar. Their commander – even at this range, staring at a reptilian face mostly obscured by black rubber goggles, the master sergeant could pick out an officer – waved his men back, then stepped smartly away. The entire gate structure shivered as the tank approached, cobblestones cracking under heavy treads. The armored behemoth – Colmuir counted one main gun, four cupola-mounted machine guns, some kind of grenade launcher on the turret and a smoke dispenser – ground down the lane, stopped, chuffed diesel smoke, and rotated ponderously on one set of treads.

"Just a moment," the master sergeant whispered. "He's at th' gate now."

The rumbling of dual engines carried even through the tiny microphone on the spyeye, as did the grating scrape of dozer blades emerging from the front of the machine. Gears shifted, generating a violent rattling sound, and the tank rolled forward, belching exhaust, and slammed squarely into the gate.

"Go!" Colmuir growled, feeling the ground shake. He thumbed a glyph depicting a conical mountain belching flame. In the spyeye view, he saw the front gate shatter, torn off its hinges by the weight of the tank. The stone pillars on either side of the entrance shuddered, but stood firm until the armored shoulders of the machine ground into them. Then ancient granite split, spewing dust and the entire structure collapsed backwards. The tank rolled up over the debris, treads spinning and crashed down on the other side. Jehanan soldiers darted into the opening, automatic rifles at the ready.

Two Imperial Marine issue Fougasse antipersonnel mines hidden in the verge a dozen paces back from the gate detonated as the tank rumbled past onto the lawn. Each popped up from the hedge to chest height and blew apart. A shockwave of flame, choking smoke and fingertip sized needles smashed across the Jehanan infantry. The invaders were thrown backwards by the blast and their body armor, uniforms and exposed scales were shredded by the glassite projectiles. Wherever the needles punched through scale into flesh, they splintered into wicked monofil buzzsaws, shredding muscle, ligament and bone. The entire lead squad crumpled in a spray of blood.

The Jehanan officer cursed, ordered his men to hurl grenades into the foliage and led the second squad onto the grounds at a rush as soon as the blasts had cleared the way.

In the sub-basement of the house Dawd knelt between a sump pump and the old boiler, a blazing white-hot spark howling between his hands. Limestone flooring volatilized, boiling up around him in a dusty cloud. At the far end of the room, Colmuir had his back turned, attention wholly focused on his remotes. Tezozуmoc stood between the master sergeant and the cutting beam, hands over his ears, desperately wishing for a drink, any kind of drink, even the barely refined gasoline the natives liked so much.

Dawd shifted his knees, drew the engineering tool back around to complete the circle and felt the stone and brick give way. The circular opening collapsed, spilling bricks and dust into a hidden pit. The edges glowed a dull red where the beam had sheared them to a glossy smoothness. The Skawtsman kicked the rest of the debris away.

Four meters below, a dry sewage tunnel was now filled with the litter from his efforts. Gemmilsky had installed new pipes and a modern sewage recycling module in one of the gardening sheds. The previous owner, however, had been forced to pump all of his waste into the common city drainage. During construction of the new house, all of the old sewage, water and power adits had been sealed up with brick, plaster and a new coat of paint.

"Clear!" Dawd called to the prince and the master sergeant. He squeezed himself down into the opening, hung by his hands for a moment and then dropped down into the old tunnel. The sergeant's combat visor switched into infrared, he glanced both ways and saw the passage was empty. "Come on, mi'lord. We've got to move quickly."

The prince swung over the edge, closed his eyes, muttered a prayer to the Beneficent and Merciful Jesus and dropped into the Eagle Knight's waiting arms. Dawd set the young man down in a rubble-free section of tunnel and tapped his comm. "Master Sergeant? Let's not be waiting about!"

"Just a second, lad. There's a wee bit more work to be done."

Colmuir rotated one of the spyeyes to scan the horizon. The aerocar which had brought them to Gandaris had departed at first light to deliver Mrs. Petrel and her ladies to the palace and return with 'refreshments.' The master sergeant assumed the use of kujenai troops to attack the mansion meant Clark, the aerocar and the civilians had all been seized by the kujen. He was waiting until the last moment, hoping the corporal would reappear.

The sky was overcast and gray and threatening a day of drizzling rain. There was no sign of the aerocar. Colmuir muttered six and a half kinds of curses to himself, tapped the last glyphs on his fuse screen and scurried to the pit.

A muffled series of thuds and booms filtered through the roof of the sub-basement. The old foundation groaned, feeling the house above shift and sway. A distant crashing sound followed, and the lean Skawtsman imagined the entire portico toppling onto the tank and trapping the metal behemoth in a ruin of double-paned windows, marble statuary and triply-varnished lohaja-parquet flooring. He slapped two bomb packs on either side of the opening, gave them twenty minutes to live and dropped down into the darkness.

An hour later, Dawd used his combat knife to saw through the bar holding a sewer-grate closed and, after listening cautiously, stepped out into a domed, brick-lined roundabout deep under the center of Gandaris. His Fleet medband chirped politely, informing him of excessive levels of methane, carbon dioxide and airborne bacteria in the newly entered atmosphere.

"Oh, gods of my fathers," the prince exclaimed, splashing clumsily into the grand sewer. "This place smells…urk… oh god…" Tezozуmoc doubled over, nearly falling into the stream of dark brown effluvia streaming towards the river, and added a gagging heave of yellow bile to the greater collection of Gandarian waste. Dawd seized him by the upper arms and waited for the boy to finish his business.

"Excellent nose for navigation, lad." Colmuir closed the gate to the dry tunnel behind them and replaced the bar. "You've got a fix on the airport, then?"

"No airport in Gandaris, Master Sergeant." Dawd consulted his comp, which had been keeping track of the twists and turns in the sewer system. "Or we'd have landed there when we arrived… That's odd, we've lost any comm signal but ourown. The jamming must have gotten worse." He shook his head in dismay. "If Clark managed to escape with the aerocar, he won't be able to raise us, or find us, unless we're out in the open as he flies over, waving the locust-flag of Chapultepec over our heads."

"That won't happen," the master sergeant said, peering over Dawd's shoulder. "Options?"

"We could walk about a thousand kilometers to Parus," the younger Skawtsman said, tabbing up a map of Gandaris and the greater valley. The city spread up a series of terraced hillsides from the banks of the Kophen to reach the embrace of the higher peaks. The far side of the river was subdivided into agricultural plots, and then bisected by the railroad running southeast towards Bandopene. "We could steal an aerocar, if there was one to steal, and be back in Parus tonight."

"What…" The prince spat and cleared his mouth. "What about calling for someone to come and pick us up with a combat shuttle?"

"No comm," Dawd replied, shaking his head. "Or we could find a place to hide out, sit tight…"

Colmuir considered the map, removed a tabac from a half-crushed paperboard case, smelled the cigarette and put it back. Then he nodded to himself. "We take the train."

"What?" Dawd stared at him, surprised and horrified at the same time. "We'll be arrested at the station!"

"The train?" Prince Tezozуmoc frowned. "Wait a moment…wasn't someone saying something about the train the other day? About…oh, who was that?"

Both Eagle Knights stared at him expectantly, but the young man shook his head, bemused. "Huh. Nothing." He rapped his head with his knuckles. "Empty as a gourd! I've forgotten who it was. Don't mind me."

"We don't," Colmuir said in an offhand way. He gave Dawd a tight little smile. "Now, laddie, you haven't lived until you've jumped a train, as my da would say. And he jumped one or two in his time. Now, which way t' the station?"

Dawd made a sour face, hitched up the assault rifle on his shoulder, consulted his comp and pointed up a tunnel spilling a slow, turgid sludge into the main sewer. "That way."

A gloved hand reached up, grasped hold of a marble lip around the urinal and Dawd heaved himself up and onto the floor of an empty restroom. The chuffing sound of a steam engine mixed with the hooting and warbling of Jehanan adults echoed in through high windows. The sergeant glanced around, making sure the large, stone-floored room was empty, and knelt to take the prince by the arms and hoist the boy up. Colmuir scrambled up through the wide-mouthed opening – Jehanan bathrooms were well appointed with ornamental stone, delicate carvings and elegant fixtures but consisted solely of a deep pit to raise tail over – and took a moment to let himself breathe cleaner air. The sharp smell of hot metal, coal dust and hundreds of natives rushing about trying to get aboard the afternoon express train filled his nostrils and he beamed a smile of relief at Tezozуmoc, who was batting at legs dripping yellow-green ooze.

"Ah! Much better." The master sergeant considered their appearance and his smile faded. "Now, we must make ourselves presentable enough to cross the tracks and get aboard a luggage car – Dawd you think these faucets will work?"

The sergeant was at the doorway, peering out into the waiting hall with a perplexed expression on his face.

"Sergeant Dawd? Can you hear me?"

The younger Skawtsman shook his head, breaking out of something like a daydream and nodded. "Yes, Master Sergeant. I'll have a look at the faucets – but you should scope this…"

Grumbling to himself and waving the prince to stand beside the marble sink lining the wall – and out of the line of fire from the entrance – Colmuir edged up to the door and looked out. At first, all he saw was a melee of Jehanan – young and old alike, all dressed in harnesses hung with flowers, long narrow sun-hats and gaudy drapes and accompanied by a great deal of luggage in woven bags and heavy-looking steamer-style trunks – surging past. And then, much as the clouds might peel back from the mountaintops looming over the city, a troupe of monks in very tall, saffron-colored hats stamped past and he saw, waiting patiently beside the number four track schedule board, Mrs. Petrel and her two young ladies with no more luggage than their handbags, traditional Imperial festival clothes over flesh toned skinsuits and Army-issue umbrellas for parasols.

The Resident's wife seemed entirely composed and perfectly at ease. None of the Jehanan rushing about, hooting and trilling and warbling in their alien tongue, seemed to pay her the least attention.

Colmuir pursed his lips and wished he had a fresh pack of tabacs to hand. He looked back to the prince, saw Dawd had affixed a length of hose from his duty bag to the nearest faucet and was sluicing the sewer ooze from the boy's legs, made up his mind to escape the train station somehow and looked back in time to have his heart lurch into his throat.

The auburn-haired of the two girls accompanying Mrs. Petrel was hurrying through the crowd, directly towards the bathroom, with a very determined expression on her face.

"Ah that's torn it," Colmuir cursed, stepping back out of sight. "Dawd, get that hose on me swift-like, we've company coming t' dinner."

The master sergeant had managed to clean off his gear, though his uniform legs and underlying combatskin were still dripping wet when the girl strode into the bathroom and took the sight of the three of them in with a frown.

"Do you have any other clothes," she said, in a brisk tone very reminiscent of her mistress. "Capes or something to drape about all your…guns and tools and things?"

"We do," Tezozуmoc said, while both Eagle Knights were goggling at the audacity of a rather prim-looking Nisei girl barging into the gentleman's restroom. The prince tapped Dawd on the shoulder. "Sergeant, do you have a rain-cape in the back pocket of your gunrig?"

Dawd blinked, nodded and turned to let Tezozуmoc unseal the pouch and drag out a rain poncho. "They're autocamo -" the sergeant started to say, but the prince had already turned the poncho inside out and found the little control panel woven into the waterproof fabric.

"Very useful," Tezozуmoc said cheerfully, using his thumbs to switch through the settings, "if you'd like to just sit quietly outside of headquarters and, ah, have a smoke or something…" He winked at the girl, which made her stiffen slightly. "Big enough for two, most times."

The rain cloak settled into a dull pattern of interlocking brown and yellow-green triangles. The prince swung the garment around Dawd's shoulders, drew the hood mostly over his face and snapped the bottom straight. The sergeant stared down at himself and realized the young man had chosen a pattern close to the coloring of Jehanan scales.

"You too, Master Sergeant." Tezozуmoc nodded to Colmuir and then looked at himself. The Fleet skinsuit he'd donned in the house was dull black, like most Imperial garments, and had its own autocamo capability, but being skin-tight, made him look far too human in outline.

"Miss." He looked at the Nisei girl. "Does your mistress have any local money?"

The Parus Express shuddered into motion, the linkages between the cars drawing tight one by one, clouds of steam and coal-smoke billowing up against a glassed-in ceiling. In the next to last car, Colmuir squeezed into a reserved compartment and immediately drew the window curtains closed. The clashing of wheels on the tracks drowned out all other sound until the door slammed shut behind Dawd.

Then something like silence – save for the swinging rattle of the train car itself, and the assorted sighs of relief from the six humans in the compartment – settled around him.

"Now," the master sergeant said, sitting down beside the prince, "that was some quick thinking, mi'lady."

Greta Petrel smiled at the Eagle Knight and carefully removed her hat from the high, coiffed, hairpinned and gelled pompadour she had elected to sport for the festival. "Nonsense, master Colmuir, I always reserve an entire compartment for myself and my young ladies. Otherwise," she glanced in amusement at the Nisei girl and her Anglish companion, "we would be forced to endure the company of reprobates, villains and men with sacks of smelly ham sandwiches."

"Or those who smoke," the Nisei girl said, glaring pointedly at the master sergeant, who had just fished the last tabac from the crushed box in his vest pocket. "There is no smoking."

"Mei," Mrs. Petrel said, leaning a little towards the master sergeant and smiling faintly, "has asthma."

"Your pardon, miss," Colmuir replied, licking his lips and returning the tabac to its box. "Wouldn't want t' be a bother, now would I?"

"Not at all," Mrs. Petrel said. "You are very, very welcome company. I was afraid the Lord Prince had fallen into the hands of the kujen and his fellow conspirators."

"A conspiracy?" Sergeant Dawd glanced at the prince, who was sitting between him and Colmuir, now dressed in flowing native robes and a wickerwork sun hat which hid his entire face behind a long visor designed to protect the snout of a Jehanan matron from the fierce sun. "Just in Gandaris, or…"

"I expect the whole of the Five Rivers has risen up." Mrs. Petrel said, turning sideways so Mei could undo her hair. "There have been rumors for months of a secret cabal among the native princes – a society called the moktar – which is devoted to expunging the taint of Imperial thought, goods and presence from Jagan." She sighed with relief as the last of the pins came out. The white streaks sweeping back from her temples emerged as she shook out her hair.

"We have never been terribly welcome here," she said, turning back to Colmuir. "They will do their best to drive us off-world. I'm sure kujen Nahwar hoped to snare the lot of us – the Lord Prince included – once we'd arrived for the festival of the Nem."

Tezozуmoc laughed softly, face still hidden under the long hat. His hands were clasped tight on his knees and he'd said nothing from the time they rushed him out of the bathroom, across the platform and onto the train just as it prepared to pull out of the station.

"Wanted again," he said, most of the bitterness leached from his voice by an aftertone of adrenaline. "I should let them take me – I'd have some use then, as a bargaining chip between princes and the Empire."

"No, dear," Mrs. Petrel said, shaking her head. "Your purpose is doing what you've already done today, seeing your sworn men are looked after. And now – though I'd imagine master Colmuir is about beside himself with the added risk – you've three dainty Imperial ladies to see home safely as well."

This did not please the prince at all, who fell silent and slumped back into his seat, hiding behind the hat. Dawd tipped back the corner of the drapes over the window and watched carefully as the train picked up speed out of the station and began rattling down the tracks leading out of the town. The rail line crossed over a bridge; a thoroughfare passed below and the street was filled with a huge mob of Jehanan marching up towards the center of town, waving banners and placards over their heads. The sergeant guessed the crudely drawn figures on the wooden boards were supposed to be human, though most humans he knew did not have two heads or breathe fire.

"We've cut it fine," Dawd said to Colmuir and Petrel. The sergeant was beginning to shake a little bit, coming down off the steady adrenaline and combat-drug high he'd been on since the door of the prince's dressing room exploded. "But if the train doesn't stop until Parus, we might make it."

"Oh." Mrs. Petrel made a dismissive motion with her hand. "I've taken this train before – last year when the rains were full on – there are stops in Bandopene and Takshila, but I'm sure we'll be fine. They'll only check our ticket once after we've boarded. The conductors are very discrete – we shan't be asked again."

Really? Dawd kept his opinion to himself, though he guessed Colmuir would be of much the same mind. Then we'll have to shoot our way off this train at one station or the other…

Mindful of these realities, the sergeant set about checking his weapons, cleaning the last of the sewer sludge out of his equipment and trying to look impassive and professional while two rather attractive young ladies sat no more than a meter away and watched him – or were they watching the prince? – with unsettling interest.

Several hours later, the train jerked into motion again at Bandopene and Dawd let himself relax from hair-trigger readiness. Behind closed velvet drapes, the noise of the hot little hill-station echoed loudly, and every footstep in the passage made him tense. Colmuir stood poised inside the closed door of the compartment, automatic in hand, watching a longeye feed of the corridor, until the train doors closed at last.

Mrs. Petrel's calm demeanor proved warranted. No one bothered them save an elderly conductor who checked their tickets just outside Gandaris. To Dawd's eye the Jehanan had seemed oddly unsurprised to find a compartment full of humans on his train. But with the second station falling away behind them, the younger Skawtsman let himself relax a bit. Feeling the train rattle up to speed and boom hollowly over a bridge, he ventured to part the window curtain again and peer out.

Decaying slab-sided buildings lined the tracks. There were no windows and the wooden siding was turning gray and black with age. Tall brick smokestacks rose above sooty tiled roofs and the Skawtsman closed the window, disheartened to be so distinctly reminded of the industrial neighborhoods where he'd grown up. Alien worlds are supposed to be exotic and beautiful, he thought. Filled with never-before-seen vistas and unimaginable grandeur, not shuttered mills and tumble-down factories and fences of spikewire like Pollokshields.

"Well," Colmuir said, drawing the attention of everyone in the hot, stuffy compartment. "That's a bit of luck, I'd say. By my comp, we'll be in Takshila by dark and then overnight t' Parus."

"If nothing happens in Takshila," Dawd said cautiously. The sergeant turned to Mrs. Petrel, who had spent the day sitting quietly, cooling herself with a silk hand-fan bearing a hand-stitched image of Mount Tahoma rising above interwoven clouds and stands of pine. Both of her young ladies had fallen asleep in the heat, though now they were stirring, woken by the renewed movement of the train. "Mi'lady, a thought strikes me… What happened to Corporal Clark? Didn't hetake you to the station?"

Petrel's face tightened slightly and her eyes seemed to darken. "We walked – or rather, ran – to the station, Sergeant. Corporal Clark delivered us to the temple of the Immanent Sun quite early. The processions and prayers and ceremonies to greet the solar deities' first light upon the newly ripened Nem begin at a dreadful hour. But then he took off for the palace to secure more refreshments for the prince and for dinner. After that…" Mrs. Petrel sighed and shook her head slowly. "We've neither seen him nor the aerocar."

"Ah, now, that is too bad." Colmuir grimaced. "If he went t' the palace, they'll have seized him and the aerocar. Poor sod."

Mrs. Petrel folded up her fan. "If he was not taken unawares, he might have escaped. But where would he go?" She nodded to the Anglish girl, who had come quietly awake. "They sent men to arrest us at the dawn ceremony, but the captain of the soldiers fell to arguing with the head priest. Cecily noticed the dispute and we were able to slip away. Then I thought of the train…"

Dawd rubbed his nose, beginning to feel nervous. These girls see quite a bit, I would guess. A bold set of ladies these are, larking about on an alien world in their Sunday best. He pursed his lips, a nagging thought surfacing.

"Your pardon, mi'lady, but…you had train tickets for today? How did -"

Mrs. Petrel smiled whimsically, unfolding her fan in front of her face. The compartment was growing hotter with every kilometer they sped south. "I believe in planning ahead, sergeant."

"But -" Dawd fell silent, seeing the lady's eyes tighten slightly and feeling Colmuir's glare. He shrank back into his seat, wishing he hadn't asked so many questions. He was guiltily aware of the master sergeant warning him, more than once before, to keep quiet and mind his manners. "Your pardon, mi'lady. It's none of my business."

Mrs. Petrel nodded politely and began fanning her face again. Colmuir settled back into his seat, one hand still on his Nambu. Both Mei and Cecily closed their eyes and the sound of the train wheels clattering along the tracks and the jingling sway of the car and the susurration of people breathing filled the silence.

The prince, still sound asleep, began to snore softly, his head leaning against Dawd's shoulder.

Bloody hell, the Skawtsman grumbled to himself. I've never been able to sleep on trains. He snuck a look at his chrono. Another four hours until we reach Takshila. And our comms are still jammed. Poor Clark. Doubt we'll see him again…

Then Dawd closed his eyes, Whipsaw cradled in the crook of his left arm, right hand resting on the hilt of the combat knife strapped to his leg, and tried to rest.

The Parus express reached the outskirts of Takshila just after sundown and began to slow in preparation for stopping at the main rail terminal. The train engineer, however, saw that the skyline was lit by widespread fires and a pall of heavy smoke lay over the city. The sprawling slums lining the railroad approach were relatively quiet. Very few Takshilans had ever seen an asuchau human, but rumor of the kujen's war had permeated the city within minutes of the first bombing attack on the Mercantile Exchange House. The usual traffic of heavy wains piled with ceramics and bundles of flowers and stacks of fresh-cut lumber, runner-carts, tikikit buses and crowds of busy Jehanan out and about, shopping and bartering, was noticeably lighter than the engineer expected.

All of this made him wary and he kept one eye-shield peeled for warning lights along the spiked barricades lining the tracks. As a result, as the express slowed to barely twenty kilometers an hour, he caught sight of a diversion indicator light and swing-board at the first spur line. The engineer depressed the main braking lever, felt the entire train shudder at the squeal of brake linings on massive iron wheels, and leaned out as the express chugged onto the secondary track.

Seeing the warning light relieved some of the engineer's fears – the fires silhouetting the khus rising at city center were centered around the train station – and he had no desire to plow a sixteen-car train into a mob on the tracks or through a burning station. He eased up on the brakes, let a little steam build and the express settled out onto a straightaway.

The train chuffed past a rail yard traffic tower overlooking a section of cargo sidings, but though the engineer waved at the lit windows, he did not see anyone inside. This was puzzling, but not entirely out of the ordinary. The express rattled through the warehouse district at a modest clip. Inside the comfortably hot driver's compartment, the engineer hooted at his second, who bent over a laminated diagram of the rail network in and around Takshila. After a moment's scrutiny, the junior engineer warbled back, pointing at the map.

The engineer nodded, soot-stained snout bobbing, and prepared to reduce speed. He bled steam from the boiler, slowing the clattering wheels. The secondary track began to curve off to the south and the map showed a tunnel at the edge of town, just before the spur rejoined the main line. Tunnels were a dicey business sometimes, particularly if there was trouble in the city and the railroad temple guards were distracted by fires or rioting.

The engineer leaned out again, snout into the rushing air, and made sure the huge glassed-in lamp on the front of the train was burning, illuminating the pair of iron tracks snaking away into the darkness. One claw was firmly on the brake lever. In his twelve years of service, the engineer had seen stray molk on the tracks, short-horns daring the rushing speed of the wheels, even brigands trying to pry up the rails themselves. His mouth gaped, breathing in the tepid, smoky air of the city rushing past.

The train slowed, spitting sparks into the darkness, rumbling and swaying as the incandescent glare of the main lamp was swallowed by mossy brick walls. Steam and smoke boiled back, suddenly trapped in the tight confines of a tunnel. Car after car vanished into the side of a long ridge cupping the southern side of the city.

The tunnel mouth was faced with slabs of imported granite and a builder's plaque had once surmounted the capstone of the arch. The plaque was long gone, stolen by local crook-tails, but the railway easement itself was lined with spiked wooden barriers to keep looters, children and animals away from the tracks.

This had not, however, stopped two figures from cutting through the barrier with a monofilament saw. Now, as the end of the train came into view, the larger figure scrambled up the gravel easement, long kheerite-style cloak flapping around her legs as she ran alongside, grasped the step-rail up to the baggage car and swung aboard. The second figure jogged beside the train, gasping for breath, and then a clawed hand reached down, seized forearm-to-forearm and dragged Parker aboard.

Inside, by the dim light of a yellow bulb, the pilot coughed a little and untangled his cloak, leaning against a stained wooden wall. Outside there was nothing but darkness as the train clattered through the tunnel.

"See – wheeze! – very simple. Easy as pie. Anyone could do it."

Magdalena wrinkled her flat black nose and drew the cowl of the cape down over her eyes. The duffel bags on her back made standing difficult in the narrow passage. Most Jehanan were a little larger than a human, but they didn't have a hump of heavy comp and surveillance equipment strapped to their backs either.

"Yes, I can see this." The Hesht twitched her long, tendril-like whiskers. "Now where do we lair up? Not so many places to hide on a train…"

"Didn't I say I had everything covered?" Parker grinned, face bright with sweat. "You are a cat of little faith! You'd think, after diverting the train worked, you'd begin to believe in me…"

"Hrrr! We were blessed by the Huntress herself to find a switching station unguarded. The trouble in the city has driven all these groundcrawlers into their holes…"

Undaunted by her pessimism, Parker dug into his jacket, tossed away two crumpled tabac boxes and drew out a paper envelope. His eyes twinkled with delight. "And you just wanted to wait near the apartment…See, train passes! All we need to do is find a seat."

Magdalena beckoned with her paw, examined the papers and sniffed loudly. "Forgeries, I suppose. Or stolen…"

"They are not!" Parker snatched them back. "I paid good solid shatamanu for them. The only problem is…" The train rumbled out of the tunnel and suddenly everything grew a little quieter without the reverb of walls outside. "…they're not reserved seats. So we might have to stand."

"I see." Magdalena's lips curled back from her shiny white teeth. She stuck out her tongue, testing the humid, warm air. "At least my tail won't freeze to the door of the baggage compartment this time."

Parker scowled, crossing his arms. "That was not my fault. Anderssen decided we should take that night train!"

Maggie started to hiss, then restrained herself. She was very tired. "Enough. I will lead, you will follow and we will find seats, if any exist on this benighted contraption."

The Hesht turned, squeezing the duffels through the doorway into the passage running down the side of the train. Every time she swung her shoulders, the bags jammed against the wall, which made for slow going. Parker hitched up his own duffel bag and followed along behind.

He wondered, as his legs acclimatized themselves to the swaying motion of the train, if Gretchen had managed to escape the city, or even the monastery. Oh god, what if she's waiting back at the apartment right now? What if she's been captured?

But there was no way to tell and no way to go back. He wasn't even sure the voice blaring in his earbug had been hers, but what else could he do? It was enough to keep from falling as the train shuddered into a long curve, heading down out of the hills towards the plain of the Phison.