Quartz (32 page)

The thought comforted him somewhat. Sable began to hum, a soft crooning whose tune he could almost place. The headrest was soft and yielding and as he pressed down upon it, the scent of crushed herbs rose up around him.

He had just enough tension left to jerk at that smell, to open his eyes and gaze into Sable’s unfathomable dark gaze, watch her mouth move as she sang, before sleep claimed him.

The hiss of steam and blast of whistle startled Rafe awake. He tried to stand and hit his head on the ceiling. When the worms of light stopped crawling in front of him, he realized he was alone. The chair was still. Sable Monarique was gone.

He touched the lumps in his pockets. The Keys were still there.

The noises from outside, though, indicated activity. The thud of boxes, the indistinct shouts of men. A far-off whistle tooted—ferry or train? The floor rattled and a roar engulfed all other noise. Metal squealed as brakes were applied. A train, then. Rafe gingerly lifted a corner of the curtain and peeked out. There was not much to see besides a barricade of boxes, but the several-storey cavern with its overhead lights and iron galleries was the Oakhaven train station. So far, Sable seemed to be keeping her promises.

But where was she?

Sable didn’t show, but her two chair-bearers did. They hoisted the sedan onto their shoulders with rather more vigor then they ought to have, considering that it was occupied, and brought it out from the concealing embrace of the boxes. Rafe planted his hands on the sides to steady himself as he tried to pretend he was a feather.

“You there! What do you have? Has it been inspected and cleared?” The tone of the voice was fussy and puffed up with self-importance.

One of the chair-bearers rumbled apologetically, “It’s Mistress Monarique’s chair, sir. She won’t travel without it. Public chairs give her a headache. Ain’t made right.”

The official snorted. “Well, having to deal with her and all her baggage gives me a headache. Put that down and let’s have a looksee, shall we?”

The chair was put down rather ungently, but then it was supposed to be empty.

Rafe sank deeper into the seat in a futile attempt to make himself disappear, or blend into the seat. He hoped the official was blind, or at least very near-sighted, but his luck didn’t seem to be running that way recently.

“What seems to be the problem, Officer?” Sable’s voice was like golden honey. “
Surely
there is no trouble over me taking my chair aboard my private train?”

Rocquespur’s private train, more like. Rocquespur’s attachment to her must be great for her to speak so.

“Well, no, ma’am. It’s just that I have to inspect and clear everything…”

“But of course, Officer, and I have been making sure all my servants are doing their best to assist you and your people.” Sable was slightly breathless; Rafe could just imagine the adoring megalamp look she was bestowing upon that hapless bureaucrat. “In fact, one of your people just looked over the chair, did an exhaustive search, even going so far as to move all the cushions in case a fugitive were hiding underneath. How absurd, really, since I was just in there not too long ago. In fact, here’s the-oh!” Sable drew in an exaggerated breath. Rafe was hard-pressed not to snort. She had probably put her finger against her rounded lips, to better show them off. “The stamp must have fallen off! It can’t be too far away, Officer. I’ll send someone to look for it.”

“Oh, well, there’s no need, ma’am. Why don’t I just…?”

“Oh, but there is, Officer! I’ve already paid my duties on this item and Rocquespur will be
so
angry with me if I have to present him with another bill! I don’t know, but money just slips through my hands, and I’ve already outrun the banker this month.” Sable’s voice drifted away. “Come, let’s look together.” She probably had the official clutched by the arm.

“Ah, ma’am, there is no need. Here, why don’t I give you a new stamp right now, and you can be off?”

“Truly?” Sable sounded as if she couldn’t believe that such a paragon of kindness as the customs officer existed.

“Truly.” Paper ripped. “See, here is your stamp.”

“Oh,
thank
you!”

The chair moved again. The bearers took wide steps from platform to train and set it down in a cargo compartment. They left without a word, leaving the door open.

Rafe exhaled his relief.

For one moment, things seemed to be going right.

Then police whistles echoed in the station. Wil’s voice, magnified through a loudspeaker, spoke, “The station is closed. No trains are allowed to leave until checked. Shut down your engines.”

Rafe scrambled out of the chair and into the compartment. Through the opening, his eyes locked with Sable’s, frozen on the platform. He yelled at her, “Hurry up! Get on board!” She nodded, and ran down to the engine. Rafe, peering around the edge, saw her
ahimet
grasps her by the arms and pull her on board.

Good.

Confused passengers and officials milled around in confusion. Members of the Guarda Royal in dark uniforms were just taking up positions in the galleries and the exits.

We still have time.

Rocquespur’s train let out a shrieking whistle, and jolted to a start. Rafe started to shut the sliding door, then paused.

Isabella raced down the platform, followed by five members of the Guarda Royal in chest plates and helmets, scattering porters and dodging baggage. Before he knew what he was doing, Rafe reached out and shouted, “Here! Grab my hand!”

Isabella veered sharply and ran at him. Her hand found his and he grabbed it hard even as the train hooted and picked up speed. She sprinted to keep up. Wil shouted, words booming and indistinct. One of the Guarda Royal whipped out his pistol and took aim.

“Almost there!” Rafe held on to the door frame with his other hand, braced himself, and pulled Isabella onto the train. Bullets whizzed over their heads as they tumbled together in a heap on the floor.

Rafe sat up. The station grew blurred, but the last thing Rafe saw was Wil’s face as he ran up, still holding the loudspeaker. Their eyes met for one hard moment, then darkness flashed by—a tunnel. The train charged into the open air. Buildings whizzed by, obscured in the cloud of steam, and all the commotion of the station was scraped away by the rasp of train wheels on tracks.

Isabella got to her feet. “They tracked me. They must’ve been watching the house. They got clever and I got stupid.” She said it matter-of-factly, and not to Rafe, but to Sable who’d come in, a frown between her eyebrows.

“You’re welcome,” murmured Rafe, rubbing his shoulder. “I don’t think it’s dislocated, thanks for asking.”

Isabella didn’t deign to reply. She strode out of the cargo compartment with Sable.

Rafe stared for a moment at Oakhaven flying past, wind whistling through the open door. “I think,” he remarked to the chill night air, “it might be more peaceful in this compartment.”

Then he wrestled the door shut, threw the bolts, and went after the women.

He caught up with them in the dining car, carpeted in plush purple velvet with heavy gold draperies. Two tables draped in white linens and chairs carved out of ebony wood stood on either side.

He stopped Isabella with a hand on her arm. She turned to face him; her moon dagger appeared into her hand as if from nowhere.

“The truth now, if you please, Isabella,” said Rafe. “Have you been working with Rocquespur all this time? And why did she put on the song and dance about not believing in the Tors Lumena?” He nodded toward Sable, who stood back, arms crossed, watching with head-tilted interest.

Isabella gave an odd little laugh. “Oh, Rafe. I’m not
working
with Rocquespur. Or for him or even against him.” She moved his hand off her arm with a strange gentleness.

“I
am
Rocquespur.”

L
EONIUS
G
RENFELD SAT STILL
and quiet in the king’s Council Chamber, head bowed, while damage reports flowed to him in an endless stream. The mage lights were off, and the only illumination came from portable lanterns, their orange glow small and sullen. Roland, enraged at having been locked out earlier, was down in the Machine Room coaxing the low-functioning Primary to deploy its diggers and haulers, and keep the city running. Tristan had been confined to his room. Dewfleur, the First Minister, had had a nervous attack, and Mercersmith, Minister of Internal Affairs, had quietly melted away without Rocquespur to guide him.

That left Leo as the highest-ranking government official in charge.

And he could only sit here while a hoarse runner from the largest Oakhaven agri-caves, not far from the city, brought the worst news of all. Seismic activity had cracked several of the quartz columns and destroyed many caverns, including a roof fall that had blocked off the main cavern.

Seismic activity that Leo had caused when he attempted to activate the mage defenses in the Assembly building with the Renat Keys.

Leo clenched his bandaged hands, then hissed at the pain and opened them up again.

“Sir.”

Leo raised his head slowly, as if it were a block of stone and he didn’t quite know how it had gotten on his neck in the first place. His vision blurred and he blinked furiously before the visage of Captain Wilem Strongtree of the Guarda Royal swam into focus.

“Sir. The king asked me to report back to you. We watched the Marquis of Rocquespur’s house and saw the young silver-haired woman leave it in a secretive manner. We tracked her to the train station.”

“But she got away.”

“On the Marquis’ private train, with the actress and courtesan Sable Monarique.” The young captain paused. “Rafael Grenfeld was with them.”

Leo could not help his wince. The captain stared straight ahead at the plaster decorations in the wall, withdrawn behind his mask of cold duty.

He’d been a friend of Rafe’s.

Rafe who was a traitor to the Crown and his country. Rafe who had stolen the Renat Keys from him as he lay helpless in the basement of the Assembly building.

At least his nephew had not left him to die down there. A bitter laugh bubbled out through Leo’s lips, a small choked sound.

“Sir?” The captain shifted his gaze downward.

Leo straightened his shoulders. “And Rocquespur? Have you searched his house? Arrested him?”

“No, sir. The Marquis was not in his house. We’re searching his other properties in the city, but the list is extensive.”

Leo made a dismissive gesture. “Then he was probably already on that train that got away. What about Verney? My clerks found enough discrepancies in the records to be certain he’s not been entirely honest in his dealings.”

“Commander Risewater has had men posted around his house.”

Leo nodded once, sharply. “Arrest him. We have enough on him to send him to the Citadel for a very long time, if not the hangman. He’ll tell us all he knows about Rocquespur’s business in return for a lighter sentence. Squeeze him until he sings, Captain.” He felt old, but there was grim hard weight in his chest, as if his heart had turned to stone. His brain sharpened into focus.

“Seize Rocquespur’s domestic assets. I will make sure that our allied states know how strongly we want our extradition treaties honored. And send messages to our generals. They are to attend me at once.”

“Sir?’ Astonishment cracked the man’s weary emotionless façade.

“It becomes even more important to secure Ironheart quickly and hold our borders against Blackstone.”
And send an expeditionary force into the Barrens. No one except Oakhaven is getting that thrice-scorched Tors Lumena.
Leo’s mouth twisted.

Fire leapt into the captain’s eyes. Not hope, not confidence, but something more desperate and more vengeful.

If Oakhaven fell, then she would crush her enemies beneath her as she did so.

R
AFE HAD BEEN ON
government trains before—both the rundown army trains with soldiers packed like fish in a barrel, and the Royal Train that Roland never used but was made available to high-ranking functionaries—but never one as sleek and luxuriously-appointed as this one. The rails sang under the well-oiled wheels and the inevitable jolting was more of a soothing rock. The interior was carpeted in a plush purple of an unfortunate shade. Magemade lamps, scalloped semicircles of warm yellow light, illuminated the rooms and corridors, and the furniture was made of real wood, dark and heavily carved.

Isabella and Rafe were currently occupied in taking apart one such piece of furniture to feed the train’s firebox, necessitated by their hurried departure and the fact that the fugitives dared not stop to resupply.

Rafe looked around the well-appointed guest quarters. “Not a bad mode of travel. Especially for the man who has constantly opposed the building of rail lines through the Outer Fells.”

“Mmm hmm.” Isabella made a noncommittal noise from the inside of the shell of a desk she was dismantling with Rafe’s pocket knife. Or maybe it was a “Shut up already.” It was hard to tell with the two long screws she held between her lips.

A desk leg came loose in Rafe’s hand as Isabella unscrewed. She spat the screws into an ornate silver bowl. “This train,” she said, gesturing, “was the plaything of the previous Marquis. Rocquespur merely inherited it.”

“It belonged to your father, you mean.”

Isabella hesitated. “Yes.”

Rafe cocked his head. “You say ‘the Marquis’, not ‘my father’. You say ‘Rocquespur’, not ‘me’ or ‘I’.”

Isabella twitched her shoulders, as if shrugging off his words. Or the persona of the Marquis. “I may be him, but he is not me.”

“I’m sure it makes sense to you.” Rafe leaned his head back against the closet door, inlaid with shells, bumpy against his scalp. “I’m sure you need to differentiate between your two identities, to keep all your stories straight, if nothing else. But it does seem to me that you’re avoiding personal responsibility.”

Isabella went still, the alert dangerous stillness of a fighter. “What do you mean?”