With some reluctance, he looked over his shoulder. ‘How will you get back?’ he asked Carlito.
Carlito glanced at the raft he was standing on. It was noticeably smaller than the vessel in which they’d begun their journey. ‘I will walk. A few days, I will be back with Rodolfo.’
‘What about your raft?’
He shrugged. ‘They only last one journey.’
Aubrey understood. He shook the man’s hand and Carlito disappeared back upriver.
Aubrey straightened his dripping jacket and staggered toward the lights. A few minutes later, the Transcontinental Express rumbled into the town, slowing for the tiny village. Aubrey ran hard as it rattled through a series of switches. He sprinted alongside, sure-footed in the dark, and swung up with the sort of cavalier deftness that comes after staring utter annihilation in the face and surviving it.
The rocking of the train and the warm blanket nearly made Aubrey nod off. With an effort, he listened to George and his mother take turns in explaining how worried they’d been.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again after they ran out of ways to make him feel guilty for having been thrown off the train.
‘Good,’ George said and he sat back, arms crossed.
‘And what do we do now?’ his mother asked. ‘Are those people still on the train?’
Aubrey yawned, stifled it. ‘Send one of Tallis’s people to see. He can liaise with the conductors and train officials.’
‘You’re not worried about them?’ George asked.
Aubrey thought that he’d had a surfeit of worry in the last few hours. ‘All I really want to do is sleep.’ His fatigue-muffled brain lumbered through a number of thoughts. ‘No. Must compile a report first. Get it to Craddock. Or Tallis. Or whoever it is today.’ He looked at his mother. ‘Or should I go straight to Father?’
‘You’ll go straight to bed.’
‘I agree, old man,’ George said. ‘Any report you try to write tonight is likely to be three parts nonsense. Plenty of time for clear thinking in the morning. We’re not due to arrive in Fisherberg until eleven o’clock.’
‘Code,’ Aubrey mumbled. His head suddenly felt very heavy. Or had it somehow turned to iron, attracted to the magnet concealed in the armrest of the chair? ‘I’ll have to work up a code to use.’
‘I’m sure the embassy in Fisherberg will be able to help,’ Lady Rose said.
Aubrey studied her for a moment, the time it took for him to make sense of her words. Finally, he nodded, which was a mistake, one that sleep had been waiting for. It enfolded him and he didn’t resist.
Aubrey woke feeling groggy, but a fine breakfast revitalised him enough to spend an hour feverishly writing an account of the bizarre encounter with the Veltranian rebels. George and Lady Rose both wisely left him alone, retiring to the lounge car and only returning when the train reached the outskirts of Fisherberg.
Fisherberg was a fine old city that was making a determined effort to be a dominant modern city. Aubrey put the finishing touches on his account – folding it up and patting it into an inside jacket pocket – in time to see that the train had slowed and was making its way along the bank of the Istros River. The riverbanks here seemed to be totally devoted to factories which were competing to see who could belch out the most smoke, with a subsidiary competition in foulest-smelling wastewater discharge.
He wished Caroline were with him. Not for her company, he quickly reassured himself. Her knowledge of Fisherberg would be useful, that was all. She’d know if the factories were a recent development or not. She could be a handy guide. Helpful, in a practical way. And he couldn’t be chided for seeking her company on that basis, could he?
Having convinced himself of this – and he told himself he was hard-headed and rational on this score – he tried to estimate how many factories they were passing. It was heavy industry here, obviously, and no doubt it was part of the Chancellor’s grand plan for Holmland. He wondered how many of them were making arms and weapons.
George strolled in. ‘Remind me never to play whist with your mother again, old man.’ He peered out of the window.
Aubrey stretched. ‘Ah, yes. I should have warned you.’
‘She’s a demon. Wiped me out conclusively. Would have been embarrassing, if anyone had have been watching.’
‘The lounge car was empty?’
‘A veritable ghost car.’
‘Hmm. It makes me wonder how many people have managed to slip off this train en route.’
‘Very mysterious. Now, where are we staying in Fisherberg? Somewhere with a good table, I hope. Lunch is just around the corner.’
‘Father insisted we stay at the embassy. And don’t worry, Quentin Hollows has assured us that he has an excellent Lutetian chef on staff.’
‘Hollows? He’s the ambassador? Good chap?’
‘He’s one of Father’s old friends, from the early days in the House. He can be trusted.’
Quentin Hollows had been one of his father’s earliest appointments after he won the election last year. He’d recalled the previous ambassador – Sir Wallace Bannister, a notorious timeserver and crony of Rollo Armitage – and replaced him with someone who could actually speak Holmlandish. Apart from that useful skill, Quentin Hollows was an outstanding political strategist who had helped Darius Fitzwilliam in his campaigning. He was the sort who was useful to have in the capital of the most warlike nation on the Continent, the nation that was shaping up to be Albion’s foe. He was also a natural diplomat; Quentin Hollows was not about to put his foot in anything.
‘Excellent, excellent.’ George rubbed his hands together. ‘I’ll help you then. I enjoy packing.’
George’s packing was instructional. Mostly it consisted of roaming around Aubrey’s sleeping compartment and slinging items at the trunk in any order, as they came to hand. After that, it was simply a matter of sitting on the lid of the trunk until it could be latched shut. ‘That’s why trunk lids are built so solidly,’ George explained as they stood to one side and let the porter ease his trolley under the edge of the compacted luggage. Aubrey thought that if the trunk did give up and disgorge its contents, the result could be dangerous, as well as embarrassing. He wasn’t looking forward to explaining how the porter’s head injury was caused by flying underwear.
In the hustle and bustle of the Central Fisherberg station, Albion embassy officials were waiting on the platform. A tall, distinguished-looking man dispatched officials to take over from the porters who were grappling with the luggage. Then he approached Aubrey’s mother, who was thanking the attendant who’d taken care of them on the train. The official wore a dark blue suit in the modern style, with a striped tie that Aubrey thought belonged to one of the better squash clubs in Trinovant. He took off his hat and gloves and handed them to an obviously less important official. ‘Lady Rose?’
Aubrey’s mother immediately brightened. ‘Quentin! It’s good to see you. How is Fisherberg treating you?’
He took her hand in both of his and held it for a moment. ‘Fisherberg is a fine town,’ he said. ‘Holmlanders are naturally generous, you know, and hospitable.’
‘I’ve always thought so. If it weren’t for politics...’
She left the thought unfinished, but Aubrey could see the guarded expression on Hollows’s face. ‘Now,’ he said, plainly changing the subject. A train on the next platform screeched a warning whistle and started to pull out in a cloud of steam. ‘I haven’t seen your son for years.’