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It didn’t sound as if Sylvain Caleb Fowler would want to go home anytime soon.
An Old Acquaintance
John Reckless couldn’t wait to get back to Albion. The ferry crossing was certainly not an experience he was looking forward to, but the island had for a long time now been the only place he’d called home. Albion had given him protection when he’d been so broken he feared he’d never put the pieces together again. It had given him the appreciation he’d been thirsting for since his life in another world, and a wife who worshipped him. Who cared that she loved a fake face?
So many reasons to be perfectly happy. Why wasn’t he? Nobody is happy. That answer usually silenced the inner voice that kept pestering him with such questions. John had always been good at ignoring it, anyway.
His return was going to be celebrated with elaborate pomp. After all, he was bringing the news Wilfred of Albion had been hoping for. John felt flattered to be the “great hope” for the King, and the uniformed protectors who came with that role might have been annoying at times, but they were also very comforting. One of them leaned in the carriage window to tell him they were three hours from Calias. His breath smelled so strongly of garlic that John had to struggle not to avert his face. There were more ferries from Dunkerk to Albion, but John had insisted on crossing from Calias because Dunkerk was in Flanders, which had been occupied by the Goyl two months earlier. The commanding officer of his guards tried to lecture him that even the Goyl had enough respect for international law not to attack an official convoy of the King of Albion. But what did John care whether a young upstart officer thought him a coward? He knew he was one, and four years locked in a dungeon was surely a good reason to be cautious. Flanders had been an easy prize, especially after Albion’s shipment of weapons had ended up at the bottom of the sea. A strange situation, to have been the one who’d not only designed the flagship but the planes that had sunk it. As though he were playing war with himself.
Meadows and apple orchards drifted past the carriage window. John decided to forget politics for a while. Lotharaine was such an enchanting country, and they drank and ate so much better here than in Albion. Even the Walrus secretly employed a chef from Lutis, and his Lotharainian wine was as well guarded as his treasure chambers. John opened the basket Crookback’s servants had packed for his journey: goose paté with just a hint of swan fat, stuffed Witch-frogs, leaf-gilded mille-feuilles. Opening a bottle of red wine in a jolting carriage was not an easy feat, but the first sip was going to make the effort worthwhile. They’d even wrapped a crystal goblet in Lotharainian linen for him. The only pity was he thought he saw Arsene Lelou’s pointy-nosed face in the dark red wine. He downed the whole glass as though it could wash away the memory. “The Albian secret service may not be as omniscient as its reputation suggests. Jacob Reckless survived the sinking of the fleet.”
So he still had two sons. Good. Granted, he hardly ever thought of Will. Jacob had always been his favorite. Will had been Rosamund’s. He’d married her for her illustrious ancestors, and by the time he’d actually fallen in love with her, it had been too late. Not that she hadn’t loved him still, but he couldn’t bear the love he constantly betrayed. He’d disappointed her, and himself, time and time again. He was never the man she’d seen in him.
More wine. Memories be gone. Away with her face, which he still remembered all too well. He had a recurring dream in which they reconciled, and she always looked as young as on the day he’d met her.
Heavens, the bottle was already half empty. And? He was going to vomit it all over the ferry railing later anyway. John brushed a fly off his nose. His fingers still remembered the other nose, fleshier, straighter. Who would’ve thought his fake face could fool even his own son?
The carriage bounced and stopped abruptly. John’s wine spilled over his tailored shirt. This was another thing he’d discussed with Crookback. Progress required good highways. John was picking some snail paté off his lap, when his hands went numb with fear.
Shots.
John ducked under the window and peered outside. The soldier with the garlic breath was lying next to his horse, his face shot to pieces. There was no sign of th
e other soldiers. John’s trembling fingers tried to pull the revolver from its holster. He’d improved the weapon in ways that weren’t visible from the outside, but it still couldn’t fire more than six shots.
The young man approaching the carriage wore a well-tailored greatcoat and didn’t look like a highwayman, but maybe he was one of those who dressed like lords and pretended to be protectors of the poor. Travel in Albion was no safer than in Lotharaine, and John had fallen prey to robbers like him twice before. For years he’d been trying to convince the Walrus to raise a tax to finance armed patrols along the highways.
“Monsieur Brunel.” The stranger greeted him with the hint of a bow while he trained his pistol on John’s head. “Thierry Auger. My pleasure.”
Monsieur Brunel...He knew who John was. That wasn’t good. Put the gun away, John! He was a decent enough shot, but not very fast.
Ransom. Of course. That’s what the stranger wanted. Money for the famous engineer who’d taken Albion to the pinnacle of modern times. John’s mouth was as dry as parchment. He’d always had a very physical reaction to fear. John moved to open the carriage door, even though he could barely feel his own legs. But the young robber shook his head.
“Stay where you are, monsieur. Your destination has changed, but your mode of transport will remain the same.” A highwayman who spoke fluent Albian, though with a heavy Lotharainian accent. Monsieur Auger was so young he probably hadn’t been growing his beard for long, but his confidence spoke of some experience in highway robbery.
A man who suddenly appeared next to Auger was much older and less groomed, though just as well dressed. This was obviously a profitable trade.
“Get in there with him,” he ordered Auger. “But watch out he doesn’t try to jump.”
Thierry Auger did as he was told. He picked up John’s pistol from the floor of the carriage before taking the seat opposite. John could hear more voices outside, but he couldn’t make out how many robbers there were. They’d picked their time and place well. Even the fields were deserted. Behind the fence, where the blood of the dead soldier had turned the grass red, a very disinterested cow was ruminating away, and in the distance, church bells had started chiming to complete the idyll.
The carriage turned around. Through the window, John could see two men dragging another of his uniformed guards off the road. He looked as dead as the first one.
“Where are you taking me?” Not only did fear make his body go numb—it also started producing embarrassing amounts of sweat. But his mind stayed surprisingly clear, as though disengaging from the sweating, trembling coward who was staring into the pistol of a boy.
Thierry Auger lit a cigarette. Crookback had made them fashionable, but this one smelled different from the ones the King smoked. Witch-leaves, if John’s nose wasn’t mistaken. They grew all over these woods.
“We’re off to Flanders,” Auger said. “I see you have some food. You’ll need it. It’s a long drive.”
He wouldn’t reveal more, no matter how much John asked. The voices outside didn’t all speak with a Lotharainian accent. John thought he could make out some Lombardic sounds. The older man who seemed to be the leader sounded more Leonese.
They passed the Flandrian border at night. When John saw the Goyl at the tollgate, he nearly leaned out the window to beg the Lotharainian border guards for help. The Goyl had a garnet skin, considered to be volatile. One of John’s prison guards had been a garnet Goyl.
Stop it, John! Your kidnappers are humans.
But why were they taking him to Flanders?
The guard on the Lotharainian side cast a bored glance into the carriage and waved them on. Maybe John should’ve screamed, but Auger gave him a warning look. He’d draped his jacket over his pistol, but it didn’t take too much imagination to assume it was pointed at his stomach. John had once seen a man die from a shot to the stomach, one of the prisoners of war who worked in the underground factories of the Goyl. No. He didn’t scream for help. He even managed to look the garnet Goyl straight in the eye. He’s seeing the face of Isambard Brunel, John.
