The Hounds of Winter, Chapter Six: A Bridge Too Far

Tuesday, 22 Feb 1870
Kronstadt, Austro-Hungarian Empire
12:30 a.m., local time

The pension was dark save for a single candle burning in the front window. Josephine and Quentin came in off the street into a narrow entrance hall. Stairs led up to the floors above, the landing taking up most of the space. The draft from the door made the candle flame dance and the shadows jumped high and low. Under the bend of the stairs, the doorman dozed behind the desk on tilted chair. Pigeonholes gaped empty behind him and keys gleamed dully on their hooks. He woke as they came in and brought his chair down with a thump. Without a word, he pulled a key and slid it across the desk. Josephine took it with a silent nod and mounted the stairs.

Their room was three floors up and faced the street. Frost clouded the windows, glowing softly from the street lamps outside. Josephine shut the door, threw the lock, and turned up the single gas jet. In the corner sat her valise and Quentin's trunk. Once she'd verified that they hadn't been tampered with, Josephine removed her hat and pulled the pins holding up her hair. Dark brown tresses tumbled past her shoulders, an incongruous contrast to her male garb and mustache.

"That's better," she sighed. "Damned pins were giving me a headache."

Quentin started to remove his coat and then thought the better of it and began adding kindling to the small cast iron fireplace instead. "Well, at least it'll keep your mind off the draft. I'll have a fire going in a moment."

Josephine slipped her arms around him from behind. "There are other ways of keeping warm," she whispered in his ear, her mustache brushing him gently.

"And we'll be getting to those by and by," Quentin said, striking a lucifer. He set the match to the kindling and began blowing to spread the flame. "With any luck."

"Fortune favors the bold." Josephine chuckled and shifted to help with the fire.

"I've noticed," Quentin drawled, sliding an appreciative look at the woman beside him. "Do me a favor? Lose the lip ferret. I'm not kissing you with thing on your face."

Thursday, 24 Feb 1870
Wooded countryside
Near Ungheni, Moldova

Josephine and Quentin set up their bivouac overlooking the bridge. All around them was the snow-bound forest, cloaking their camp which sat short of a low ridge. The bridge lay beyond it on the plain below. Two pack horses for supplies and two for riding sufficed to get them to their current site. After they'd cared for the horses, Quentin set up the tent and Josephine saw to the campfire. She made sure to place it so the ridge hid it from view.

"That's enough."

Elsie's tone brooked no argument. Madame DuBorg gave Josephine a sympathetic nod and moved on with the stew pot and ladle. Josephine gauged what she had in her bowl. Three bites, more or less. At least it was hot. She tipped it steaming into her mouth before it had a chance to cool, put up with it scalding her tongue, and quit the mess tent.

Cold training was underway, the third day of it. That morning it had started to snow, making good on the threat that had hovered overhead for a week. They'd relented and called her in from the woods to shelter under the wagons for the duration. She wore a single layer of clothing under an old greatcoat, no gloves, and a pair of boots whose soles leaked. She had a sharp knife but little else. No tent. No fire. No water but what she could melt. Hot food once a day and begrudgingly little of it. She hunted to supplement what they gave her but Josephine's snares had yet to yield anything. This deep into winter there was little edible forage that the animals hadn't already stripped from the landscape.

Josephine licked her bowl bare, filled it with clean snow, and retreated under the wagon. She'd made a pallet of conifer branches thick enough to keep her off the ground. Josephine curled up on it, drawing her limbs into her greatcoat for warmth and tucking the bowl inside to melt the snow. She'd have enough to drink in a little while and she stared into the night as she waited.

Was it like this for her father, she wondered. Not for the first time she wished he were there so she could ask. All she had were her memories of their long walks when she was a child, during which he told her tales of adventure and cunning. He'd couched them in terms of long ago and far away, but Josephine was coming to realize they were thinly veiled accounts of his own life as a member of William's troupe… of his life as a spy.

They'd restrict her access to hot food next, she knew. Then the wagon would be denied her, regardless of the weather. Probably the boots would go next. And so on, removing an asset at a time, until she survived on what she could forage, make, or steal. Take care of her, her father had said the morning he rode away and never came back. That and, Stick to the plan, Jo. You know what to do.

Food, she thought. If her traps were still empty come morning, the first thing she'd steal would be food …

"You know," Quentin drawled. "For someone who considers herself 'a woman of action' you sure do spend a lot of time in your head."

Shaking off her memories, Josephine returned to the present. "You were saying?" she asked, even as her head caught up with her ears.

Quentin drove another peg into the frozen ground. "I was saying that we need to get this tent put up and get over to that bluff if we want to be in a good spot to observe the river tonight." He looked at her and grinned. "Or words to that effect. Also, do you have the rest of the pegs?"

Josephine left the fire and pulled the pegs from the pack. She eyed the tent appreciatively, spinning one of the iron pegs by its hook round her finger, before handing the lot over to Quentin. "Good job," she said. "Damned sight better than some I've had over the years."

"Well, your Colonel pays well, and the smith seemed happy enough to take our money."

The smith hadn't been the only one grateful for their custom. Josephine and Quentin had spent a fair amount of coin to outfit themselves properly for a fortnight in the open countryside. Two men on a winter hunting excursion was their cover story and it did much to allay any suspicion over their purchases and presence outdoors. Josephine helped with the last of the tent pegs, tying up the lines with the ease born of much practice.

"So …," Quentin leaned in close. "Where were you?"

"Istanbul," Josephine said, a truth and a lie, tightening a line. "I was there on the Colonel's business once. The Turkish coffee was rather strong." So had been the agent's surprise when she arrived at the meeting they'd arranged …

"As-salamu alaykum." Josephine said, pulling down the face cloth of her man's headdress, revealing what the male robes did not. "Peace be unto you."

The agent blinked and then quickly recovered.

"Wa alaykumu as-salam. And unto you peace," the agent replied, his voice low. "Cover your face. Your attire is forbidden. If you should be found out, it will go badly for you."

"If I am found out, I will know who betrayed me. And Lantern would not be pleased," Josephine said but did as he asked. She sat at the low brass table and nodded at the coffee laid out for two. "Shall we discuss business?"

"… I got the job done," Josephine said, finishing up the tale. "The Colonel was able to use the information to England's advantage. That's all that mattered."

"Well, I don't know whose advantage this will all be, but I do think strong coffee is in order. We got a long night ahead of us."

Friday, 25 Feb 1870
Eastern bank of the Prut River
02:37 a.m., local time

Finding a spot to view the construction site had proven more difficult than Quentin expected. The land flattened and the trees thinned near the river. The ground was little more than flint and sand. Nothing substantial would grow in such soil, so it didn't. No undergrowth and flat terrain meant limited opportunities for concealment so they hid behind the wall of an abandoned farmhouse about a quarter mile from the site.

In the ensuing hour the cold bit deeply into his fingers and nose. No worse than a good hunting trip, though.

Josephine passed him the metal flask of coffee she'd tucked under her coat to keep it warm and got the binoculars in return. She trained them on the bridge hoping to spy something useful. She traced over the trusses and followed the dusty track to the small construction camp on the near side of the river, but saw little else. At two days past the last quarter, there wasn't much light from the moon and after a solid minute of searching, she gave up and settled beside Quentin to give her eyes a rest.

"Nothing is moving out there, not even an owl," she said, taking the flask back. She sipped the lukewarm coffee and slipped it under her coat again. "Not that I expected to find them toiling away by torchlight but still … Everything we'd found to this point suggested that they were in a hurry."

Quentin looked up and gauged the hours until dawn. "Give it another 20 minutes. If we don't see anything by then, we'll slide down for a better look."

Josephine checked her pistol, felt it carefully, and confirmed it fully loaded. Her rifle was already tucked across her lap and she could tell by its weight it was likewise prepared to fire. "Just say the word."

As Quentin had suspected, fog soon started lifting off the surface of the river, sending wisps and tendrils spreading towards the shore. Though not as heavily as he would have liked, the fog, along with the angle of the moon, would somewhat obscure their approach from prying eyes, assuming there was someone looking.

He gestured for Josephine to follow and they made their way towards the bridge using such cover as was available: scrubby trees and the low bank. It struck him again that this was a poor location for a bridge. The river was broad and slow here and the ground by turns was wet sand and boot-grabbing marsh. The bridge piers would have to be sunk impractically deep if they were to avoid shifting downstream the first time the river flooded.

As they approached the construction camp Quentin kept his eyes and more importantly his ears open to any signs of workers or guards, but found no signs of either, nor were there work lights of the sort he'd have expected had this construction been going on in his homeland. Nevertheless, they skirted the camp reached the bridge without being seen. They crouched in the shadows thrown by the end posts and while Josephine kept a sharp lookout for anyone approaching, Quentin examined the bridge.

"What do you think, Quentin?" Josephine whispered. "You've more expertise in this area than I have."

"Well, the truss work is similar to some of Eiffel's work in Paris, but a lot boxier. It does match the plans we saw though." He paused. "Did you hear that?"

Josephine frowned, closed her eyes, and listened intently. Somewhere in the distance she heard a faint murmuring sound, rising and falling in what she realized was the inflection of chanting. It was too far away to distinguish the language or the words yet the overall effect was ... eldritch and strange. The chanting was drawing closer.

Opening her eyes, she said, "We need to hide."

Quentin scanned around at the limited options. He pointed at the nearest pier, "Let's duck behind that. If we crouch low on the river side of it, they won't be able to see us unless the walk past and then look back. The water's cold, but it shouldn't be deep."

They were able to keep their weapons above water, as the river only came halfway up the thighs. It was excruciatingly cold, robbing Josephine and Quentin of their carefully husbanded warmth. Josephine imagined she could feel her blood grow cool as the water flowed past her and she prayed whatever they were there to witness would commence shortly …

Josephine had been training steadily with the troupe when they dragged her out of her bed in the dead of night on one of the coldest months of the year to test her. She fought and kicked but failed to win free before they tied a bag over her head, bound her hands and feet, and threw her in the river. She broke ice going in. The shock nearly made her black out. In less than five seconds, her body was numb and it was hard to move. She'd last perhaps a minute more before the cold killed her … if she gave in to it. Lungs burning, struggling to stay conscious, Josephine gripped the knife she'd lifted from William and put it to the ropes …

Josephine shivered from the cold and the memories but kept herself hidden. The chanting was louder now and she saw a party of two dozen approaching. They wore dark robes with hoods that hid their features. Only their hands were visible, gleaming dully in the light of the waning moon. By their size and gait, Josephine ascertained they were men.

Metal glinted here and there in the party. Several carried small pots by their handles, while others carried lit censers steadily belching incense. An errant breeze carried it to her and she nearly gagged: the scent was like an abattoir in the heat of summer. Save for the soft chanting and the scrape of feet on the bridge—a mere two yards from her hiding place—the mysterious robed men made no sound at all. They quickly stood at several upright struts of iron and, dipping brushes into the pots they carried, started to paint odd symbols in a dark substance that nevertheless glowed faintly enough to be seen.

Movement caught Josephine's eye at the far end of the bridge. A guard leaned against the rail, half hidden by the truss work, his rifle shouldered at ease. He seemed completely unaware of what was happening right under his nose. As she watched, another guard arrived to join the first, buttoning his trousers. He took up his position, stamped his feet and blew on his hands … but was also oblivious to the activity on the bridge itself.

Complicit? Or bespelled? Josephine wondered. Not for the first time did she wish she could speak directly mind to mind. Silent communication would have been worth her place in Heaven. Instead, she could only place a questioning hand on Quentin's arm and hope he could see her expression.

Two of the robed men broke away and strode down the bridge with a purpose. As Josephine watched, they walked up to the two guards and with a motion that she could not quite see, ripped the guards' throats open. Blood sprayed high in moonlight and the guards crumpled. Their blood flowed with a mind of its own mid-air, forming symbols glowing with invisible colors that stabbed and twisted at the eye.

Josephine clamped her jaw shut against the bile in her throat, forced herself to swallow and stay silent, watching avidly for any clue that would tell her who these men were and what they meant to do. Blood continued to flow from the bodies, adding to the pattern taking form above them. A shape coalesced and she recognized the odd symbol from Pifke's stickpin. The pattern shifted sinuously and formed another shape, then another and another, each forming faster than the last, until it all blurred too quickly for Josephine to follow. The two robed men responsible for the guards' deaths raised their hands as if in prayer to the blood dancing overhead, swaying as if mesmerized by it.

Before Josephine could so much as move a muscle, the blood shrank in a trice to a pulsing point of blinding black wrongness … and with an invisible flash that nonetheless blinded the eye, it disappeared in a wrinkle of air that smoothed in an instant to the night sky.

One by one the other robed figures on the bridge turned back the way they came, the two blood-supplicants bringing up the rear. Josephine pressed against the pier with Quentin until all had passed by, then forcing her frozen body to move she climbed up the bank to watch their progress. All but the last two split off for what looked like a bunkhouse at the work camp. The final two went onward to town in a chaise parked alongside.

Josephine looked at Quentin and saw he understood. Without a word, they picked up their pace and followed them, wherever they might lead.

Townhouse, Ugheni
4:35 a.m., local time

Quentin had thought that they would lose them, but the carriage's pace had been slow, almost nonchalant, considering that the occupants had just committed two murders. He and Josephine were able to keep the carriage in sight while following on foot. The cult leaders, the two who had killed the guards and made their blood dance, stabled the chaise in the mews behind a modest townhouse of three floors and then went in. Quentin found an alley across the street to observe them. The windows were dark. The glow from the lamp they carried lit the windows they passed in turn, allowing Quentin and Josephine to follow their progress through the floors, until the lamp finally came to rest at a window sill under the eaves.

The light was strong enough to give them a glimpse of movement in the room within. Another lamp was lit inside, then another. From their vantage point in the street below, Quentin could discern shadows thrown against the ceiling inside. He felt Josephine stiffen and knew without having to look that she was avidly watching every move. So he wasn't entirely surprised when a moment later he heard her murmur in his ear, "I'm going in."

"How?" He pulled back deeper into the alleyway. "By knocking on their front door?"

"That will be your job. I will take the drainpipe up to the roof and thence to the window. When I'm in place, do something out here to draw them away. I'll go in." She moved for the street. "Just keep them occupied until I leave. I shan't be more than five minutes."

"No. Everything's coated with ice. Fallin's a death sentence." Quentin took her arm to keep her hidden. "We'll find another way. I've hunted men before. I can see they're settled for the night. They ain't goin' anywhere."

"And when the sun rises and the town wakes, what then?" Josephine shook off his hand but at least she remained in the shadows with him. "There will be servants inside and townsfolk outside and no way to hide our actions. We have to do this now, while everyone is still asleep."

"Look—," he began but she cut him off.

"I am an Agent of the Crown," she said, velvet over steel. "England is the Civilization's last defense against Dark Magic and its demons. I have fought them before and I will fight them again." Before he could move or say a word, she pinned him to the wall and kissed him deeply, pressing her body hard into his. Quentin wrapped his arms around her and memories of Paris, the train, and Brasov stirred his blood. He tightened his grip but she broke away and held his face firmly in her hands. Starlight slipped past the eaves high overhead and glittered in her eyes as she spoke fierce and low. "If I fall, leave me. If my life is the price of success, pay it. The mission comes first, Quentin. Swear it."

 ***

Quentin watched from the shadows across the street while Josephine made her approach to the drainpipe at the corner of the building. There's better ways of doing this. I don't care what the Colonel said. It ain't worth the risk of her getting caught or injured. Not that I was going to win that argument. He rubbed his lips. I did get a kiss out of it, though.

He shifted his stance and tried to stay warm while she climbed. I have to trust she knows what she's doing but I don't have to like it. There was much about this mission he didn't like.

That the chanting acolytes of Vlad the Impaler or whatever-the-hell-demon they worshipped were also the folks building the bridge almost made sense, almost. It wasn't like they were going to find teams of workers experienced in modern construction out in the mountains of Moldova. What made less sense was that they were willing to go out to that half-finished bridge in the middle of a frigid night.

For what though? To kill two strangers and paint symbols from their blood? To sing more songs? Dance just the right steps?

The inner workings of magic seemed intentionally obscure to Quentin, particularly when compared to the modern magic of physics, metallurgy, and mathematics that produced repeatable results that could be recreated by anyone at any time. Those would create the future, not the rattling of old bones and the chanting of hymns in dead languages to gods that likely never existed.

Quentin broke his reverie as Josephine made her way up the drainpipe, quick as a rat, to the third floor and thence carefully toward the sole window still lit.

Time to start the show.

Quentin briefly considered dousing himself with the last of the whiskey in his flask, but then reconsidered and drank it instead. Between the hiking, the river, and the running, he already looked and smelled the part of the vagrant traveler.

It took several minutes before the door opened. It was one of the killers. The other stood behind him menacingly.

"Gooden Abend, Sir," Quentin started in broken- and English-accented German. "Wo sind der Prostita—Prostitut-er? Die Whores?"

"Lasă!" the fist man yelled. "Departe cu tine sau, voi striga pentru poliție!"

"Bonne nuit les Messieurs," Qentine continued in slightly better French. "Est-ce pas le bordel? Ou sont les prostituees?"

At that, Quentin saw a brief flash as the second man drew a pistol. Well, at least he didn’t use blood magic. He threw his hands up in mock surrender.

"Camarades, Camarades, no need to get violent." He began backing away slowly. I hope she's had enough time, because I think this little pantomime only has another minute or so before it becomes violent. "I can take my custom elsewhere, if you are full up for the evening." He intentionally slipped and fell, rising only slowly, but keeping his eyes on the two men. "Aaahh … Quel chemin au pub?"

The second man waved his gun sharply. Quentin began stumbling up the street in the direction indicated, but kept a discreet eye on the men until they returned inside and closed the door.

Had Josephine been a catgirl like Evie, getting to the roof via the drainpipe would have been easy but for a human, it was hard. No stranger to hard work, Josephine made it to the third floor and gripping the sturdy gutters nailed to the eaves, she hand-over-handed herself to the first window and put her foot on the sill. No longer carrying her full weight, her arms sighed in gratitude. Josephine gave herself a precious second to rest then pushed on. The window she needed was the third one from the pipe. Snow and ice coated the gutters and Josephine was grateful for her gloves. They kept the ice from cutting her hands and delayed the moment when the cold would make her fingers too numb to work.

She slowed as she neared her objective. She didn't want the sound of her approach to alert anyone inside. Moving with exceeding care, she put one cautious toe on the thick stone sill and only then looked over her shoulder for Quentin. She gave him a single nod and watched as he left the alley for the front door. Fatigued by the long walk into town, the lack of sleep, and the cold, Josephine's body burned and trembled.

Not long now, Jo, whispered her father from memory and she silently answered him. Time enough for warmth in Hell, Father. I know …

She set her jaw and put the discomfort out of mind, staring at the stone wall inches from her nose and listening hard to Quentin's progress three stories below. To her right, she heard the cultists moving inside the room. Two of them, she judged by the separate locations of their footsteps as the ruckus downstairs startled them. No more than two, she decided, as she heard them leave to investigate. A door closed loudly and cut off the sounds of their passage.

Josephine listened for a few heartbeats more. No noise reached her ears. The light inside did not waver, unobscured by persons moving within. Josephine stepped full onto the windowsill and confirmed with her eyes what her ears already knew.

Clear.

One of her slim knives run between window sash and frame made short work of the lock and Josephine slipped inside. She crouched and listened. Quentin was doing his job downstairs. The door to the hall was closed.

Move.

Josephine locked the door from the inside, stripped out of her gloves, and got to work. Casting a swift eye over the room, Josephine's pulse quickened—she'd hit paydirt. In addition to numerous papers lying in plain sight, a map of the Continent lay spread on a worktable, its corners anchored by inkwells and one of the three lamps burning. Arrows drawn across the map suggested movement. Several cities were circled, their names underscored and surrounded by various symbols, amongst them the insignia from Piefke's stickpin. The rest were unknown to her, though a matching set was drawn in the map's margins accompanied by a language she did not recognize. There was a pattern to the symbols and Josephine suspected that they would unlock yet more information if she could but decipher their meaning. She had no time to spare for it, however, and she kept moving, culling the important papers from the chaff as she went. Josephine recognized names and places in German and French and English from Jacob's translation work. Her ear tracked the commotion below and she realized Quentin's ruse had gone badly.

Time to go.

She spied a cylindrical leather map case in the corner. Its lack of dust suggested it was where the map resided when not in use. She rolled the papers and the map tightly into the case, buckled the cover down tight, then clipped the case to her belt. The stair treads announced imminent arrival. She pulled on her gloves and climbed out the window. Josephine eased the sash closed and began her trip back to the drainpipe.

A hiss issued below. Sparing a glance downward, Josephine saw Quentin in the street. Without hesitation, Josephine let go the gutter with her left hand, stripped her glove off with her teeth in one smooth motion, and unclipped the map case bare-fingered from her belt. She dropped it to Quentin. He caught it.

Go, she mouthed the word, losing her glove to the street.

Quentin faded into the shadows and Josephine resolutely put her bare hand back on the gutter. There was no way to don her glove even had she retained it. Ice bit into her palm but she kept moving. She'd gained the first of the windows when the locked door was discovered. As the knob rattled furiously, Josephine replaced stealth with speed. She gained the second windowsill and pushed off for the third. Behind her, three hard kicks thundered on wood and the locked door slammed open.

Third window …

The map room sash sprang up with a clatter. A man leaned out, swearing in Romanian, his face lit eerily by the lamps within. Josephine flicked a glance at him and the gutter sliced her hand wide open as she stretched for the drainpipe. Josephine bit down a cry as she slipped, hanging full length from her right hand while trying for purchase with her left. Her fingers brushed the pipe. Her blood made her grip too slippery to be effective.

The gutter groaned under her weight and began pulling free. She jerked like a rabbit on a snare, wrenching her right shoulder as the gutter dropped nearly a full story, miraculously hanging by one corner. With nothing in reach of her left hand and her right hand going numb, Josephine spared another glance at the man in window … and saw the crossbow he aimed right for her.

Twenty feet, Jo. You can do this.

Without giving herself another second to think, Josephine kicked off the wall and launched herself backward through the air …

The ground came at her fast and hit her hard, slamming the wind right out of her. Josephine lay stunned, blinking stars, struggling to breathe. Spring rain fell incessantly, making her sputter and cough. She was wet, cold, and covered in mud.

"Again."

Elsie's voice was iron. Josephine hauled slowly to her feet and pulled herself up the ladder as ordered. Ten feet above the ground, she stepped onto the platform where William waited for her. He eyed her critically.

"Tuck up. Bend your knees when you land. Roll."

Before she could blink he shoved her off the platform. Josephine curled into a ball and righted herself, striking the earth feet-first …

She felt her ankle turn when she hit the street and she lost control of her landing, unfurling into a punishing body-slam onto the cobbles. Red and yellow flashed across her eyes as her head bounced on stone, stunning her as she struggled to get up. Excruciating pain shot up her right side, ankle to neck, pinning her where she lay.

Josephine spied Quentin moving in the shadows of the alley.

"Go-aarrghh—!" she roared at him, inarticulate from pain as she pulled a knife from her harness left-handed and threw it at the first of the men rounding the corner of the townhouse. Her gashed palm fouled her grip and her weapon flew wide. She drew another knife and then they were on her. Hands grabbed her, wrenching her shoulder, jostling her hip, ripping another scream out of her. Riding the tide of white hot agony, Josephine fought them with everything she had. Blood flew, not all of it hers. Her fist cracked on bone and her attackers drew back. Breathing hard, Josephine bared her teeth and braced for the last rush.

Go, Quentin, g—!

Then someone kicked her in the head and she knew nothing more.

HOW TO SPEAK ARABIC

As-salamu alaykum = Hello or Peace be upon you. Sound clip
See also, this

Wa alaykumu as-salam = And unto you peace. Sound clip See also, this

HOW TO SPEAK FRENCH

Bonne nuit, Messieurs = Bohn-neh nyoo-ee, Meh-syurs = Good night, Sirs Sound clip

Est-ce bordel? Où sont les prostituées? = Ess bor-dell? Oo sohnn lih pross-tih-too-way Sound clip

Camarades = Camarades = cam-ahr-hahd = comarades Sound clip

Quel chemin au pub? = Kell shoo-mahn oh pyoo-buh? = Which way to the pub? Sound clip

HOW TO SPEAK ROMANIAN

Lasă! Departe cu tine sau, voi striga pentru poliție! = Lah-sah! Dee-par-tay koo tee-nay sao, voy stree-gah pen-troo poh-leet-see-ay = Leave! Away with you, or I will scream for police! Sound clip For a better sound clip, paste the Romanian here

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