“Alchemy,” said Aspiche.

Fochtmann snorted.

“According to the Comte,” continued Aspiche.

Fochtmann exhaled in pointed exasperation. “While the basic properties of the glass alone are beyond question—”

“They are a matter of fact,” Aspiche snapped.

“The Comte's writings are the ravings of a madman,” replied Fochtmann. “A madman with some small sense of insight. One sees the approving notations of others—engineers, architects of science— and so one studies that insight more scrupulously than the mania would suggest. These machines, this very railcar—one cannot gainsay concrete results…”

Fochtmann paused.

“Or… for another example… these books…”

“Books?” asked Rawsbarthe innocently.

“Prominently described in the notes. Apparently a most singular exploitation of the… acquisitive… properties of indigo glass.”

“I would not know,” said Rawsbarthe. Aspiche remained silent.

“Not that I have seen such a thing,” Fochtmann went on easily. “Indeed, ‘book’ may merely be a term for compiling knowledge. Every visionary has his own vocabulary, and such terms are always strange to those outside its understanding. What is significant about the mention of book, of course, is how as a device it embodies the capacity of indigo clay—in an explicit indication of function. Indeed, many of the major machines seem to employ these ‘glass books’ in their actual workings. But then again, as a man of science, one looks for clues! You gentlemen will see yourselves, in this very car, the prevalent inlay of orange metals—an alloy made to very exact specifications—around the ceiling, between the floor tiles, around each piece of glass…”

“What is it?” asked Rawsbarthe, with concern.

“Rather, why is it?” chuckled Fochtmann. “The effect is deliberate—could it be solely in the service of beauty? Where is the serious intent? I cannot say—you must give me time to read before we arrive—I will take these papers to a compartment where I may commune with my own thoughts.”

“Does this mean you have accepted the Duke's commission?” asked Rawsbarthe.

“It does indeed, sir. How could I refuse his Grace's personal invitation?”

“Excellent,” said Rawsbarthe. “Welcome news. Our situation—”

Aspiche cleared his throat.

“Colonel?” asked Fochtmann.

“I am sure his Grace will cherish your dedication,” said Aspiche. “But I wonder if… for the time being… the three of us might keep word of your… discoveries between ourselves.”

No one spoke.

Rawsbarthe sniffed. “Ah, well… yes, that seems to me a rather… interesting… and prudent suggestion. Especially as Mr. Fochtmann has made clear the value of this—what is the word?—lode of unknown science.”

“Unknown and provocative,” said Aspiche.

“Provocative and powerful,” said Rawsbarthe.

“Mr. Fochtmann?” asked Aspiche.

“Why should I object to that?” replied Fochtmann. “I should hardly expect the Queen's own brother to attend to every small detail.”

“Then we have an understanding?”

“I believe we do. I will share my immediate findings only with you two gentlemen, and the three of us together will determine… further steps.”

“It is sensible,” said Rawsbarthe.

“It is.” Chang could imagine the greedy smile on Fochtmann's lips. “Yet this material is copious, and we have very little time. If you gentlemen would excuse me…”

A hand rapped sharply on the glass cover above Chang's face.

“And what is this large thing?” asked Rawsbarthe, his voice only inches away.

Chang looked up to see the hand now rubbing on the glass, as if to clear away the darkness and peer more clearly inside.

“Do you know its purpose?”

“Not until I've done more study,” answered Fochtmann.

“Should we not open it and look?”

“If you are keen to do so,” replied Fochtmann, “by all means.”

Rawsbarthe's hand moved to the edge of the glass and gave it an exploratory nudge, realized how heavy it was, and then put both hands upon it, ready to push harder.

“It was where the Comte had the woman,” said Aspiche.

“What woman?” asked Fochtmann.

“His Oriental harlot. Angelique. Something had been done to her, she became ill. He kept her alive there, to reach Harschmort—you see the brass boxes, and the tubes that feed inside. Blue water was pumped through them, thick as glue.”

“She was ill?” asked Rawsbarthe.

“The Comte called it an ‘imbalance of heat’ or some such.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died.”

No one spoke. Fochtmann cleared his throat. “On the chance— seeing there is much we do not yet understand—that her illness might be… catchable…”

Rawsbarthe plucked his hands away as if the coffin had become a hot stove.

“Indeed, yes. Besides, we have more than enough to occupy our time.”

CHANG WAITED to make sure that they'd closed the steel door behind them before he raised the glass top with both hands. He knew by the car's rocking gait that they had left the tunnels under Stropping and were crossing open country. He extricated himself, one long leg at a time, from Angelique's coffin, replaced the lid, and crossed to each window in turn, all equally shuttered in black-painted steel. Not that he needed to see a thing—Chang knew he was being taken back to Harschmort.

There were immediate questions he needed to answer—where the black car had been placed in the whole of the train, how many dragoons were aboard and where—and there were decisions to make, most importantly whether he ought to accept his fate and take his inquiries to Harschmort directly or do his best to escape the train while it was still close to the city. Chang stretched his shoulders—tight after his time in the coffin—and turned his neck, the bones answering with an audible click. Fochtmann might not have wanted to deal with the coffin when his arms were full of papers that piqued his curiosity, but he would certainly do so upon arrival. The black car would be studied, perhaps even dismantled, as a means of explaining the Comte's science. This might begin even sooner—it was at least another hour to Harschmort. He needed to leave immediately.

The door the three men had used to enter and exit led to a railcar of passenger compartments—Fochtmann had said as much—so Chang crossed to the opposite door and took out his keys. Unless a dragoon had been posted on the outer platform, it was highly unlikely—with the noise of train—anyone would hear the turning of his key. Still, it was with a deliberate slowness that Chang twisted his hand until the inner lockings caught. He snatched up his stick before opening the door, ready to strike at anyone there. No one. Chang stepped into the roar of the train track, the wind flapping his coat around him.

Ahead was another passenger car, the flaring sunlight preventing him from seeing anything inside. Chang crossed the jouncing platform and pressed his face against the window. Coming straight toward him was a red-coated dragoon, wearing his brass helmet, in that very instant glancing down to take something from an inside pocket. He would look up and see Chang. Chang spun and launched himself onto the narrow metal ladder bolted to the passenger car. As the door opened he flattened himself against the vibrating ladder, the tracks racing past below his feet.

The dragoon stepped out onto the platform, a half-smoked cheroot in his mouth, saber knocking against the door, the horsehair crest of his helmet whipping wildly in the wind. In his gloved hand was a pewter flask. The marks on his collar and epaulettes showed a Captain's rank… then Chang saw the fair whiskers slipping out from beneath the brass helmet, pale as corn silk—it had to be his adversary from the north, the very Captain who had evaded him in the forest and in Karthe and in the darkness of Helliott Street. What was he doing with the black car—alone, and apart from his commanding officer? Or was he just nipping whisky?