The Hounds of Winter, Chapter Five: Connections Past and Present

Sunday, 20 Feb 1870
Club Car, Belgrade bound train
En route to Bucharest
8:30 pm, local time

"Pardonnez-moi, ces sièges sont pris?"

Quentin's drawl cut through his mostly correct syntax, but the meaning was clear. Gheorghe Panculescu looked up from his book with mild surprise but waved at the seats in silent invitation. Quentin pulled the chair out for Josephine and waited until she'd settled before he launched into enthusiastic conversation, apparently oblivious to the other man's desire to continue reading. The conversation seemed random, but it was not. Travel turned to clothes, then turned to the man's SGE ring and thence to a spirited discussion of mathematical models of building truss work and the relative load bearing merits of rounded versus triangular constructs. Soon, a deck of cards was produced and an offer of brandy was accepted.

"Enjoy your cards and brandy, James, dear," Josephine said as she rose and planted an affectionate kiss on Quentin's cheek. "I have no wish to intrude on your fun."

Pity, she thought as she turned away. That was a good Cognac on the table.

While she had no doubt the brandy would have been sublime, Josephine had other fish to fry. She had Panculescu's compartment to search through. With the air of a woman bored by male conversation, she exited the car confident that Quentin could keep Panculescu occupied. She briefly considered donning male disguise for the task, but decided against it. It required time that she could not spare. She paused only long enough to grab the Dubroni before pushing on to her target.

If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well/It were done quickly.

The lock was a mere formality and Panculescu had obligingly left a single jet flickering low. It lit the compartment well enough to slip inside without bumping into the furnishings but the Dubroni would need more light. Josephine cracked a window, pulled the shades, raised the gas, and got to work. Forty-five minutes later, she had gone through the entire compartment and had nearly exhausted her supply of plates. She repacked the Dubroni, returned everything to its original position, and left.

Quentin returned to the compartment to a faceful of chemicals. He found half a dozen glass plates propped upright on the compartment sofa and Josephine busily sketching something in her notes. Eyes and nose stinging, he shut the door and locked it before the smell could drift into the corridor. "Crack open a window, will you?" he asked, flopping into a chair. "I'm not sure that stuff isn't explosive."

Given the aroma of brandy and scotch coming from him, Josephine wasn't sure he wasn't flammable himself. She swept him with a look, noted the signs, and thought some fresh air would do him good. She opened the window a few inches to a stiff breeze of mountain air mixed with a hint of coal smoke.

"How did it go?" she asked, returning to her work. Under her pen, the insignia from Piefke's stickpin took shape.

"Well, I gotta say that the man knows his engineering, but his card skills are somewhat lacking." Quentin shrugged out of his coat without getting up, fished a sizeable pile of coins and a few bills from his pocket, and dropped it on a side table. "At a penny a point, I could almost fund our little expedition if I set my mind to it." He fixed Josephine with a suggestive glance. "So, what did you find? Or should I torture it out of you?"

"Business before pleasure, Quentin." Nevertheless, Josephine gave him a secret little smile as she held out her finished drawing. "I found this amongst his things. Also these," she added, handing him the transcripts she'd made of letters she'd photographed. "Panculescu is better connected than we thought. They've military and government officials involved in their little plot. Read for yourself. It's all there."

Quentin quickly eyed the transcripts, but he didn't know all the people involved and he was just tipsy enough that his eyes kept sliding off the words. "I'll take your word for it. I'd say we should take this to the authorities, but I am not sure who that would be nor do we know that they aren't implicated on some document you didn't photograph."

He set the transcripts aside and took a closer look at the bridge drawings. Calculations and slide rule work could wait until morning, but his first thoughts remained. "This design makes no damn sense," he muttered.

Josephine checked the plates and judged them dry enough to pack for safekeeping. She raised a brow at the plate Quentin currently squinted at. She handed him a square magnifying glass from the Dubroni kit, and resumed packing. "How are they nonsensical?" she asked.

"The structure's strong enough to drive half a dozen trains over it simultaneously but it's only wide enough for one track. Also, why so damned boxy? Looks like some kid drew it. The guy I was playing cards with would have made it ... I don't know ... better. At least better looking."

He peered at the drawing again. "Maybe they don't trust the steel. Or they plan to move something else over it."

"The steel?" An idea began tickling Josephine's brain, elusive when she tried to see it. She let it tickle a moment more, knowing that actively pursuing it would only make it disappear. "Under what circumstances would they not trust ...? Oh."

Eyes round as the idea burst forth, she dove for her files.

"What are you lookin' for?" Quentin put a hand on her shoulder.

He tends to drop his "g's" when he's tipsy, she noted absently as she quickly leafed through her files. His hand was a pleasant weight, however, and she didn't shrug it off. Going down through the sheaf of papers to the correct date, she found what she was looking for and slid it free. "'Elem use energy stop,'" she quoted the telegram she'd received from Dionysius Beignet. "'Also stable steal'. Steal equals steel. Quentin, the manganese they've put into the steel has thaumaturgical properties, perhaps as a stabilizing element for magical energy. That bridge, therefore, must have a magical use we have yet to discover. And that use might be …."

Frowning, she slipped away from Quentin's hands to the table where her current notes lay. "No … no …," she murmured, shifting the sheets to the side as she looked for the one she wanted. "No ... Yes," she said as she found the paper she searched for. "The Colonel wanted us to investigate the growth of an arcane cult in Romania. This transcript of a letter I'd photographed mentions it." Turning to face Quentin, she read, "'Be not convinced that this is a whim of dilettantes in the aristocracy nor the ramblings of old generals longing for their glory days. Be assured that the Impaler will rise again.' The Impaler, Quentin. Vlad the Impaler, from the tales. If this is correct, we may be facing much more than we'd expected."

"Maybe I missed something but how does poor bridge design or bad steel bring us to this Vlad Impaling gentleman? I am assuming he's dead, right? Otherwise why would he be 'rising again.'"

"Forgive me. My mind is racing too fast for me to explain properly." She sighed and leaned against the table, closing her eyes as she gathered her thoughts. "So, from the beginning. Before we left London, the Colonel drew me aside and told me a little more about the cult activity that we're to investigate …"

 ***

Thursday, 17 Feb 1870
The Colonel's private study
Diogenes Club, London
11:30 P.M., GMT

Colonel Fleming exhaled tendrils of smoke, studying Josephine through the haze. That American fellow she'd vouched for had gone ahead to make his arrangements and that suited the Colonel's purposes rather nicely. What he had to say was for her ears alone. He would trust her to inform her partner as she saw fit, but for now he wanted to keep the information between them.

"How much of the folklore do you remember from your travels with William?" he asked.

"Any number of tales, sir," Josephine said, sinking deeper in the fireside chair. She wasn't surprised by the Colonel's question. She'd learned long ago that any and all subjects under the sun were fair prey for discussion and possible application in their line of work. "Evil Eyes and charms for protection. Witches. Werewolves. Demons. Warriors and Kings. Hedge Magics and Dark Magics. Why?"

"You've forgotten vampires," the Colonel said gently through a puff of smoke.

"Ah. So I did." Josephine folded her hands in her lap. "There are several reputed to have come from the area in the distant past. Elizabeth Bathory. Vlad Tepish, nicknamed The Impaler. Farther afield, the Greeks and the Slavs have their Strigoi. There must certainly be others, though their names escape me for the moment."

The Colonel snorted softly through his nose, making the pipe smoke scatter.

"Never underestimate the power of myth and the lure of magic, especially amongst those who feel powerless. Romania has been chafing under the thumbs of foreign masters for many centuries. Austria's granting of Transylvania to the Hungarians is a sore point in the growing Romanian Nationalist movement. It is not enough that Moldova and Wallachia united as a Principality. There are those who would have Transylvania united with the Principality as well. Despite this, the Ottomans have suzerainty over all three, which the Nationalists would give much to abolish. They lack only a common goal, a figurehead, or even a myth to unite them. Warrior Kings and Martyrs. Legends of returning Glories … They are all fertile ground for the seeds of revolution. I believe that a cult sufficiently steeped in a person or an event undeniably Romanian has the ability to unify the dissatisfied and give the Nationalists the power to take control. Are they poised to unleash a cult like Rembecki's against the world? Do they have the resources to do so? What are their plans for Europe? These are what I wish you to investigate."

 ***

"… So you see, this bridge, the cults, the superstitions, the politics … They are all connected," Josephine said as she paced the confines of their compartment. "We need to find out which are in play, where they intersect, what they intend. We need to inspect that bridge. It's been connected to Thaumaturgical materials and properties and to at least one political movement through Panculescu's connection to Brezeanu. Your own assessment that it is not built properly for its apparent function makes me think that it ... that I've …." Josephine shook her head fiercely and turned away to stare at the night outside the windows, arms crossed, hands balled into fists. She'd pulled her pocket watch as she paced and held it in her left hand, its chain looped in her fingers. Her thumb rubbed it absently as she said softly, "I don't have all the facts. I can almost see where this is going but … but it keeps shifting in my head. I cannot make it solid. I cannot grasp it. It's … maddening."

Quentin put his hands on Josephine's shoulders and looked her straight in the eye. "Perhaps we don't need to know the whole picture yet. We've got Panculescu to follow. We know he's near the center of all this and we can follow him until the picture becomes clear." He gave her a friendly leer. "Our engineer friend isn't going anywhere. I suggest we get to bed."

It was good advice. The pace of the past three days had been hard and moreso since boarding the train. Josephine wrapped her arms around Quentin and breathed in the scent of him. Odd, she thought, how he could make the world fall away. She released him before she could lose herself and turned back to her notes and drawings. "I should put these away. I'll join you in a moment."

Monday, 21 Feb 1870
7:30 a.m., local time
Josephine and Quentin took their breakfast three tables from Panculescu in the dining car. The Romanian gave them a friendly nod as they entered but did not invite them to join him.

"Perhaps he is still smarting over his losses?" Josephine murmured as Quentin pulled out her chair.

"He can try and win them back if he wants to but I'm guessing no." Quentin gently pushed her chair in and took a seat opposite.

Josephine studied Panculescu's reflection on the coffeepot once the waiter had poured their cups. Slight and scholarly, he didn't seem the sort to engage in nefarious activity. She blew on her coffee to cool it and took a sip. Viennese roast was robust and fragrant and would wake her up right smartly. Good. I will need it, she thought as she felt the coffee taking hold. Quentin had insisted that they rest, certainly, but not before some vigorous activity once they went to bed. The memory made her smile into her cup as their order arrived and as she ate, she watched him.

Quentin was a man who tackled breakfast much like he handled anything: with a focus and thoroughness that underscored his physical nature. That wasn't to say he was not sensible or intelligent. Though Josephine had observed him chafing under the circumspection of clandestine work, Quentin handled himself well. He was, she decided, better suited to dealing plainly and decisively, and yet was flexible enough to adapt as the situation required. He also provided a good counterbalance to her own methods and though she normally worked alone, she found she enjoyed their partnership.

"Penny for your thoughts," she heard him say.

"Not for sale," she said over the rim of her cup. "Though I'll freely share them. I—."

"Kronstadt Kronstadt in fünfzig minuten," the conductor announced as he entered the car. "Kronstadt, meine Damen und Herren. Fünfzig minuten."

In her head, Josephine automatically heard: Kronstadt in fifty minutes, Ladies and Gentlemen. Fifty minutes. In the coffeepot's silver sides, she saw Panculescu rise, his breakfast half-eaten.

"We clear on when and where?" Quentin asked quietly, having seen their target move.

"Yes," Josephine said quietly back, gathering herself with a twinge of regret. Time to go. Closeting herself with Quentin had been wonderful but her duty was adamant … and so was she. "I will see you there."

Kronstadt, Transylvania
Austro-Hungarian Empire
8:30 a.m., local time

They split up once they stepped off the train. Josephine had bound up the majority of her files, reports, and the Dubroni plates in a sturdy package to mail to the Colonel's agent-in-place in Strasbourg. Walking into the station's Post Office, she played the part of a tourist abroad, prattling on about the many wonderful things she'd seen, and addressed the package to her Aunt Sophie. She slipped the staff two Maria Therese silver thalers as an inducement, imploring them to take special care of it. The staff smiled a little more sincerely afterward. Satisfied that she'd fixed herself in their minds as a flighty female and therefore no one of consequence, Josephine sought out a place to carry out her next task in private. Mrs. James Henry Lee of Virginia had to disappear. From this point forward, Josephine could ill afford that particular persona.

A man's profile caught her eye on the street outside and under cover of adjusting her hat, she took a closer look. Jacob. It's been a few years, but that is Jacob Sobieski. Perhaps it was a stroke of luck or perhaps God had decided to smile upon her but Josephine didn't question it. It had just cut her errand list in half. She revised her plans in a flash and by the time he'd reached the corner, Josephine was covertly following him …

"Josephine." William stuck his head into the wagon she shared with the DuBourgs. It was their turn to tutor her and she looked up from the puzzle box they'd set before her. Outside the crickets sang in the soft spring twilight and behind William the campfires were glowing. The wagon rocked as he climbed aboard and rocked again as another man followed him. The DuBourgs bustled in the tight space to gather two more mugs for tea and by that, Josephine knew this wasn't a mere interruption of her lesson for chores, but something else entirely.

Jacob Sobieski was a theoretical mathematician and a master of seven languages. As such, his could have had a position at any respectable University across Europe. As a Jew, however, his options were rather more limited. Not that his religion mattered one wit to her or William. His skill set was his passport into their society and his innate discretion made him a valued irregular agent. Jacob was also an able teacher and Josephine was eager to learn. When William judged her proficient enough for his purposes, Jacob concluded the lessons and left the way he came: without a fuss but with a firm handshake and a nod ...

Josephine followed Jacob to a district of row houses for wage workers and craftsmen. The neighborhood was shabbier and the lamp posts stood farther apart. Despite the daylight hour, shadows fell long and deep in the gathering snow. When Jacob turned onto a side street, Josephine quickened her pace and rounded the corner just as he mounted the steps of a building one door away. Aware that her attire marked her above the class of the neighborhood, she closed the distance and called out softly from the bottom step.

"Excuse me, sir," she said in Alsatian-accented German. "I am looking for Isaac, the old shoemaker, but I am afraid I have taken a wrong turn. Might you point me the way to him?"

Josephine had to give Jacob top marks. He didn't bat an eyelash when he recognized her but immediately responded with the proper confirmation phrase.

"Alas, Isaac passed away several months ago from consumption," he replied, his German that of an educated Viennese. "But my wife knows his widow. Please, my lady, won't you come in?"

Three minutes later Josephine was settled before a warm stove and his wife was putting the kettle on for tea. Their apartment was cozy and neat consisting of one main room and two interior doors. Books lined the walls and sat with potted plants on the windowsills. In the space not taken up by books, Josephine saw evidence of a woman's touch: a picture here, a cabinet of dishes there, needlework and doilies on the furnishings. No sign of children, however; no toys, clothes, or sounds announced their presence. Good. Josephine was certain she had not been followed but preferred not having helpless innocents involved if things went badly.

"It has been some time, my dear," Jacob said once the cups had been poured. "Are you here with Clockwork?"

"Seven years," Josephine agreed. "And no, I'm from the London office."

"Ah. And how is Himself?"

"Still Himself," Josephine said, eyes crinkling with a suppressed smile. "And demanding as ever, which is why I am here."

"I am at his service. And yours," Jacob said with a nod, the gesture gracious and businesslike at once. "What do you need?"

"Could you translate these?" Josephine pulled the few documents she'd held back, transcripts of some of the papers she'd photographed on the train. "I cannot read them but the lettering is accurate."

Jacob pulled a pince-nez from his waistcoat pocket and perched them on his nose. With the silvering hair at his temples, he looked more like a school master than the man she remembered. "Romanian," he said after a long look. "Execrable grammar, but it is not untranslatable. When?" he asked, looking at her over the rims of the pince-nez.

"Now."

"Give me an hour." Jacob's lips twitched with amusement. "If you can manage the wait?"

"I can."

"Anything else?"

"I need to change."

"Mariska will show you where."

Jacob's wife patted Josephine's shoulder and tilted her head toward the rear. Josephine rose and followed her to the bedroom. Smiling her thanks and gently turning down any assistance, Josephine shut herself in and unpacked her valise. When she emerged, Jacob glanced up once and refrained from commenting on her appearance. He merely resumed translating and Josephine read the sheets as he completed them. When she was done, she leaned back in her chair with her teacup under her chin, the wheels in her head spinning as she absorbed the information.

"Not your usual kaffeeklatsch," Jacob said when the silence grew long. "And now London is involved. I am grateful, but in truth I wish they'd sent someone else."

Josephine slid a look at Jacob, eyebrow raised.

"I did not know your father as well as some," Jacob continued. "But I knew him to be a brave man and good. His daughter should not also be forced to throw her life away as a warning to others."

"Jacob." Narrowly watching his expression, she asked, "Are you warning me off?"

"Is this not warning enough?" Jacob asked and tapped the translation for emphasis. "Magistrates, Lords, and the military are implicated in this. There have also been rumors of disappearances, not so many here, but more across the border in the Principalities. I've been told that the Governor suspects an insurrection and has quietly telegraphed Vienna for troops."

"So Vienna is aware?" Josephine rearranged the landscape in her head, drawing new connections and mapping her path through it.

"They are aware that the Romanians in Transylvania are near revolt, but this?" Jacob waved the papers dramatically. "This, they are not prepared for and I dare not lay odds on the lengths the people behind this will go to achieve their goal. I know only that they have shown themselves undeterred in their pursuit of it. If you have any sense, you would go back to Strasbourg. Better still, England."

"You know I cannot."

"I said the same to Spectacle." Jacob looked at her with a mixture of resignation and anger.

"Then you should know you are wasting your breath," Josephine said softly. Her father had accepted the price of duty. So had she. Disappointed that Jacob had used a private pain from her past to sway her, she fastened her gaze on him and understanding bloomed between them. She rose, picked up her bag, and shook his hand. "Thank you."

Jacob released her hand with a nod and fed the papers to the fire, stirring them with the poker as they caught and burned. Without turning around, his shoulders bowed by worry and work, he said, "Take care, my dear."

Josephine cast one last look at her tutor's back and left without a word. There was no need to linger. They'd already said their goodbyes long ago.

Kronstadt
Day
Quentin turned his collar up and tried to look inconspicuous. Tracking game in the woods is a lot easier than tracking a person in a city, particularly when the person knows what you look like. The cold and slowly falling snow helped. Everyone was bundled up, but Quentin's size and mannerisms made him stand out, even when he was merely walking.

Tracking the supplies had been easy enough. A few friendly words and some brandy to one of the French porters had verified that all of the steel and explosives were being put on heavy wagons and transported to a town called Barcow or Backow, depending on who you asked and from there to another town called Eugenie or Yugeny. Panculescu had hired every teamster in town to get his steel and explosives delivered. He wasn't being shy about it.

The man was a bit more circumspect about where he went in the city. He went first to the Telegraph office at the train station, and thence the town square and a massive cream-colored gingerbread of a building that also served as the Town's Post Office, Town hall and police station. Quentin very nearly lost him there, but found him again as he exited and headed next door where several prominent lawyers and businessmen had their offices. Around nightfall Panculescu made his way to a private residence on the outskirts of town. The snow had started falling faster and it was time to meet up.

Kronstadt
6:30 p.m., local time
The Luggage Office at the Train Station had a night guard on duty. Josephine spied Quentin tipping the man as he claimed his trunk. She waited until Quentin was underway before catching up with him with a low whistle.

"There you are, old man," she said, pitching her voice an octave lower. She strode up in her male garb and clapped him on the shoulder. "I've walked half this bloody town looking for you."

Quentin's eyes narrowed for just a moment until he recognized the woman in drag. "Why Joe, I'll have you know that I am yet in my prime and plan to be for several years yet. I see you've updated your wardrobe again."

Josephine's mustache twitched, betraying her amusement. She flicked the lapel of her long leather coat. "It seemed the thing to do." She gave the world beyond the station a curt nod and stepped off the platform without waiting for a reply, trusting Quentin would follow her. "I got us rooms."

Quentin looked at Josephine dubiously. "Rooms?" he said quietly. "That's a bit disappointing. Anyway, I think we may have work tonight. Our friend has friends with a house in town. We may want to look them up."

"Capital idea," Josephine said, looking at Quentin and checking the station behind him. No one following. Good. "The rooms looked a bit dodgy anyway. Lead on."

11:30 p.m., local time
Quentin stamped his feet, trying to keep warm. What's taking her so long? He paced to the railing of the stone tower and back, keeping an eye on the townhouse down the wooded slope below where Panculescu had gone. He and Josephine had watched the others arrive from that vantage point and as they were clearly gathered there for a meeting, Josephine had slipped away to see what she could find. He'd already witnessed firsthand her second story work and knew she was capable but by his reckoning, it had been nearly an hour since she'd left and he was beginning to worry.

The townhouse below was mostly shuttered and dark but lights glowed here and there despite the hour. Built of the typical stone and tile of the area, it was situated on a triangular corner, taking up the entire block and rising three stories above the street. It backed up to the wooded slope where the tower Quentin occupied stood. A small stream ran at the base of it, separating the two. Four inches of snow covered everything. It shone in the light of the last quarter moon turning the scene picture postcard perfect but Quentin wasn't fooled. Ice would be hiding beneath the white, treacherous to the unwary. Icicles gleaming off the eaves provided ample proof of that.

Three stories is a long way to fall …

Snow crunched behind him and Quentin spied Josephine mounting the steps to the railing where he waited.

"Anything?" he asked.

"Nothing," Josephine shook her head, shifting freshly fallen snow from the brim of her hat to her leather-coated shoulders. Her hands were nearly frozen from climbing, despite the gloves she wore, and she rubbed them briskly to restore them. "Whatever they discussed, they spoke in Romanian."

"Well, we know who they are. We know where they're going," Quentin drawled. "What say we get somewhere warm?"

HOW TO SPEAK FRENCH

Pardonnez-moi, ces sièges sont pris? = Par-dohn-neh mwah, say see-ehzh sohn pree = Forgive me, these seats are taken? Sound clip

HOW TO SPEAK GERMAN

Kronstadt, Kronstadt in fünfzig minuten. Kronstadt, meine Damen und Herren. Fünfzig minuten. = Krohn-shtahdt, Krohn-shtahdt in foonf-zig mee-noo-ten. Krohn-shtahdt, mine Dah-men oond Hair-ren. Foonf-zig mee-noo-ten. = Kronstadt, Kronstadt in fifty minutes. Kronstadt, my Ladies and Gentlemen. Fifty minutes. Sound clip

kaffeeklatsch = kaff-fee klach = an informal social gathering at which coffee is served. Sound clip

---

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