Heart of Light (19 page)

“Mr. Farewell, notify me of the train schedule as soon as may be. And now, gentlemen, if you'd leave me to myself?”

SHAKE AND RATTLE

Nigel had to admit he was excited. The admission
surprised him, because had the experience been described to him back home, he would have presumed it would be dismal or squalid. Certainly not something he'd like. But here he was, on a cheap night train surrounded by working-class men from Cairo, rumpled-looking Europeans of unknown provenance and even tribesmen, some in loincloths, some in what looked like colorful tunics, holding spears and staring around with faint disapproval. And instead of feeling scared or humiliated, Nigel felt exhilarated by the unfamiliar surroundings.

They'd traveled through the night and through the day, then through both again, crossing a landscape that seemed nothing but blighted desert and sun-blazed sands. They'd slept a little in their seats and gotten up now and then to walk around. They were walking around now, or at least standing in a clear space at the end of the carriage.

His only concern, through the days and nights, was Emily's view of him and her comfort. His constant attention to her throughout the trip seemed to be softening Emily's perception of him—to such a point that Nigel dared approach her occasionally and invite her for a walk to the open space in the center of the carriage: a spot devoid of seats, where people could stand and stretch their legs. He rather liked those walks.

The train rocked beneath his feet, reminding him of crossing the Channel in stormy weather. But even in this space, the windows were shut tight against the outside. The air was too confined and smelled of sweat and dirty clothes. Men and women jostled together under the uncertain, vacillating magelight above.

Emily looked pale. But then, she wouldn't have the same reaction of thrilled excitement he had. Emily had been gently brought up, and for her this must be a strange conveyance, and uncomfortable, indeed.

She stood next to him, sometimes stretching a gloved hand toward his arm to balance herself. She clutched her parasol tightly in her other hand. Why she was holding a parasol in the dark of night was something that Nigel could neither fathom nor ask about. He supposed it was one of those things women did, like embroidering cushions: activities that must satisfy some profound need for ritual, but which left men—and all those not initiated in the feminine rites—baffled.

She wore a dark dress of some sturdy fabric that should make her look governessy and unremarkable. Instead it highlighted her exotic beauty. Nigel asked himself how Peter could possibly think she'd go unnoticed, here or anywhere else. Hers was the type of beauty that men must stare at and remember.

“Emily,” Nigel started, whispering in her ear, breathing in her scent, feeling more in love with her than ever. “Emily, I meant to tell you—”

“Nigel?” she asked, turning her dark blue eyes toward him. It was the first time she called him by his given name since she'd found the true purpose of their travel.

She'd pulled her hair back severely from her face, but all that did was reveal her delicately sculpted features and make her sapphire eyes all the more startling. And the dark dress and hat she'd chosen for this arduous travel made her skin appear all the more golden, her unlined face all the younger. Nigel stood by her, interposing his body between hers and the bodies of those pressed all around.

“Emily, I meant to tell you . . .” He reached for her hands and she let him hold them, warm and soft, between his. “I regret not telling you about . . .” He looked around, making sure no one else was near enough to hear him.

There were a few natives, but not too close. Indeed, the only one close enough to them was Peter, who had walked after them, doubtless moved by a wish to guard the woman he referred to as
the lovely Mrs. Oldhall.

“Only loyalty to country and queen,” Nigel went on, “kept me from telling you what our true mission was. And yet I think it was an error, and I beg your pardon.”

Emily looked at him, and for a moment her eyes seemed full of wonder. “I believe you, Nigel,” she said.

Nigel's heart swelled. He wished he could take Emily in his arms, right here and now, and reassure her of his regard, but he didn't know what to do. So he just smiled at her, and she at him, and then they both turned away. Emily looked down, and Nigel looked around, slightly embarrassed for letting his affection show in public in such a way.

He stared at Peter, not knowing where else to look. Besides, Peter was acting oddly. He seemed to glance about with an anxious expression that Nigel didn't think would either endear them to their cabin mates nor help keep their presence here secret. And he had coughed once or twice, and looked distinctly unwell, as though his stomach hurt him. Nigel hoped that Peter was not about to fall ill now.

“This is not as bad as I expected,” Nigel said, and smiled at Emily, who blushed and looked away again. “I had thought the trip would be more uncomfortable. But it's jolly good fun, really. All these people . . .” He spoke in a half whisper, looking around, though he was sure that no more than one person in ten in this conveyance would understand even the rudiments of English. “Do you wonder where they're going, Emily? What they're doing?”

As he spoke, he looked curiously at the man nearest him, a tribesman wearing what appeared to be a toga made entirely of some spotted pelt. Leopard? Had the man hunted the beast? Nigel tried to imagine hunting a beast and making clothing from it, but he could not. Oh, sure, he'd participated in fox hunts, but those were orchestrated, polite affairs. And no Englishman in living memory had torn the bloody pelt off the poor beast and draped it, gory and barbarous, about himself. At least no Englishman that Nigel would acknowledge.

Even Nigel's infrequent trips to the more rundown parts of Cambridge had not prepared him for a life this different from his own. He wondered what it would be like to be the tribesman with his sharp spear and his pelt. Nigel could never imagine going up against a wild beast, hand against claw, anger against tooth. Unless, of course—he cast a look at Emily, standing beside him, lovely and sweet—unless Emily were in any way threatened

He emerged from devout contemplation of his wife to find Peter staring past him, glowering with visible distaste at something at the back of the carriage.

Worried that somehow the enemy would find them, afraid of looking back and seeing a contingent of men in hyena skins, Nigel followed his gaze. At the back, pressed in a tight group that looked somehow defensive, were ten or fifteen English soldiers in distinctive red coats. Carrying their rifles, they huddled together and looked around with just the same kind of hostile glance that Peter was giving them. Two of the young men wore white bandages, one around his head, the other around his arm. The bandages looked grimy, and were dark with bloodstains.

Looking back at Peter, he realized that Peter's glare was not so much hatred or hostility as a confused mixture of annoyance and pity.

He looked away from Peter and toward Emily again. “It is not so bad, my dear, is it? Not so bad as you expected?”

She tilted her head slightly, as though considering. Then she smiled a little. “Not so bad,” she said. “Probably not so bad as it will be once we arrive, and have to brave the jungle with beaters and carriers.” She shivered.

“But it is exciting, too,” Nigel said. He held on to her arm, reassured that she'd smiled at him. “It will just be an adventure. Something to tell our grandchildren about.”

The train rocked and rattled. People held on, steadying themselves by holding on to straps affixed to the ceiling. Their bodies swayed with the train, as though they'd been long accustomed to this mode of transportation. Their conversations mingled many languages, a mélange of nationalities.

“Look at that group of soldiers in the corner,” Nigel said. “How young they are! Probably no more than seventeen, eighteen. And here they are, in a strange land, doing their duty for the empire.”

Emily turned to look and Nigel looked toward where Peter had been standing, but he was not there anymore, having been swallowed by the mass of bodies pressing close. With his black hair, he was not as immediately obvious in this crowd as a blond Englishman might have been. Yet Nigel would have thought that Peter was tall enough to stand above all others. Of course, the space was lit only by a couple of cheap, vacillating magelights, which must have been cast off by some more upscale enterprise. They projected a faint, waxy glow that left lots of dark corners and secret places.

He looked toward their seats, across the carriage, but they remained empty. Seats were by number only and conductors walked along the train at intervals, ready to tear from his seat anyone who had one of the cheaper standing tickets and who should be so foolish as to occupy another's place.

Nigel squinted against the shadows, but he still could not discern Peter. He turned back to Emily. “And look, those Arabs there,” he pointed to some men in caftans, near the front of the carriage. “I believe that one is a conductor, a ticket inspector, one of the company men. See that badge on his tunic? Probably every three days he does this route, back and forth. Does he have a wife in Cairo or Port Said? Or one in each place?”

Emily giggled and Nigel relaxed. This reminded him of their courting days, when he'd walked with Emily and talked to her of everything and anything, including what he imagined and what he thought. Things he'd never told anyone else.

“How would it be to be him?” Nigel asked. “How would it be to traverse these great distances every day and to live in two countries, two cultures? What a distance there must be between Khartoum and Cairo, in mode of living, not just land.”

Suddenly the train lurched, like an animal leaping.

The door to the carriage—a sliding door opposite them on the other side—flew open. Women screamed, men cursed. As the carriage lurched upon the narrow track, everyone seemed about to slide out the door, but someone—one of the stout Arabs from the front—launched himself at it, pushing over and around and through groups of people. He reached for the door and brought it closed.

“Nothing to worry about,” he said in Arabic, obviously disregarding the fact that not everyone on the train spoke that language. “The latch gives sometimes.” The noise level in the carriage increased, but it was reassuring noise, as those who understood Arabic translated the conductor's words to those who didn't.

“He says the latch gives sometimes,” Nigel told Emily.

Emily smiled. “Very exciting, Nigel, but—”

The carriage rocked under them again, as the spells faltered. A woman screamed. A baby, until now invisible in the crowd and the gloom, let loose with a piercing wail.

The carriage trembled, then the train stopped and rocked in place, first to one side, and then to the other, then started to tilt dangerously toward its left side.

“The moving spell,” Nigel said, while at the back of his mind he tried to calculate his chance of fixing it by the power of his magic alone till they were safe. Until Emily was safe.

Only, of course, a train required far more magical power than Nigel had. To move the vast machinery of gears and iron parts, it required half a dozen magicians all united in mind and spirit. Emily might have enough power, but Emily couldn't use it. And then there was Peter. Nigel looked for Peter and couldn't see him.

Something beneath the carriage groaned. The carriage's wooden walls rattled and trembled, as if it would fall apart. It continued to tilt on its side, slowly. People crushed against each other. The magicians must be holding the train upright, yet it still tilted.

Emily threw her arms around Nigel. She was breathing quickly, shallowly. “Nigel,” she said. “Nigel, we're going to die.”

“Nonsense,” he said, but his own heart sped up.

The carriage rolled till they were all pressed against the right side, and then it started rolling to the left.

The Arab conductors shouted excitedly, all at the same time, so loudly and so enthusiastically that Nigel could not understand what they said.

“Kiss me,” Emily said, her voice breathless, her breath hot against his face. “We're going to die. Kiss me!”