Leaving the suitcase was, in terms of practice, a fairly painless process. The coroners on duty-James Ennering, Gorud, two trolljrmen and three humans that Skinner didn’t know-offered her pleasant courtesies as she walked past the checkpoint unsearched. She handed in her ticket, went up to platform eight, set the suitcase down. Waited for a few moments, then left. All perfectly ordinary and simple activities that she had done many times before-speaking with people, carrying suitcases, offering tickets. Now, of course, these ordinary actions were wracked by paranoia; infusing every nerve-ending of her body with sheer terror and dousing her mind in quivering adrenaline, such that she was sure it must shine on her skin like a red beacon telling all passer-by that she was involved somehow, that she was guilty of clandestine activities, that she was suspicious. She found herself hoping, every time someone spoke to her, that they would notice her sweating, or her nervousness, and demand to search her bag. Every raised voice on the platform, every hurried footstep, became that of a dutiful coroner’s, double-checking the last of the parcels, about to expose Skinner and her complicity with the Vie-Gorgons. It would be a relief if James had questioned her more thoroughly, and if he only had, she’d have been pleased to give up and put down the suitcase-which had now become an abominable, impossible weight in her hand-so that she could go to prison and finally ease her troubled conscience.
None of these things happened. It was strange to hear the grand concourse devoid of its usual murmuring ambience, but travel was light today, as many were dissuaded by the sudden appearance of the Coroners. Of course, because the papers had all been seized, and publishing had all been suspended, it was impossible for Skinner to know precisely why such draconian restrictions had been imposed. All she could do was listen to the echoes of her footsteps as she approached platform eight, and wish that she were more suspicious.
Skinner stood on the platform listening. A chilly wind had come in from the harbor. This was common for early summer; the oppressive, sweltering heat wouldn’t come for a few more weeks. For now, though, if she hadn’t been maddeningly preoccupied with her own troubles, she might have enjoyed that pleasant balance between the warm sunshine on her face and the brisk, salty wind.
It might have struck her as unusual that there was no one else on the platform. Nor, indeed, did there seem to be any trains running at all today. She could hear one, several lines away, moaning steam and creaking, but nothing else. No passengers chattered, no businessmen shuffled their feet. If Emilia Vie-Gorgon’s cousin was waiting for his suitcase, he certainly didn’t seem to be waiting nearby. Delicately, to avoid attracting the notice of any other knockers, she began to canvass the area with her clairaudience, in a slow, spiral pattern that gradually migrated away from her body.
Rats scuttled on the train tracks. Near the station’s entrance, men muttered and made noise. That one train continued its symphony of weird train-noises. Nothing else. “Something’s wrong,” Skinner said aloud, startled by the volume of her own voice. She set the suitcase down and turned away; with great difficulty, she managed to keep an ear on the suitcase and track of where she was going.
“Everything all right, Miss Skinner?” James’ voice. “Get your errand taken care of?”
“I…yes. What errand?”
James hesitated. “I thought…didn’t Inspector Beckett send you out here? Or is it the kind of thing…” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “I understand if you can’t talk about it.”
“Beckett’s here?”
“No, ma’am. He’s on the train. With the Emperor.”
The Emperor…? “James, what’s going on?” The worry that had consumed her turned abruptly into a looming sense of catastrophe. Perversely, this seemed to actually calm her nerves; her body was less bothered by the threat of a real, imminent danger than it was by the illusory torments she’d composed for herself.
“You didn’t know? I thought Beckett…there’s been a plot against the emperor. We’re moving him to the summer palace at Dunhill. You’re not here for Mr. Beckett.”
“I…am. Obviously. But Beckett doesn’t tell me everything. Listen. There’s a suitcase on platform eight, I need someone to go and get it. I have reason to believe it may be dangerous.”
“Gorud,” James said. The therian was on his way at once. “How do you know about this?”
“I’ve been moving in unusual circles, lately. I…would like to avoid running the risk of slander, but I think I may know who is involved in the plot against the Emperor.”
“I…hold on.” James extended his clairaudience out; Skinner felt the whisper of it as it brushed by her own sensorium. “It’s Gorud. He says there’s no suitcase.”
“You need to get the Emperor off the train. Now.”
“It’s already left,” James said, panic creeping into his voice. “And the clairaudient baffles are up. I can try and reach Beckett-he’s in the last car.”
“Well, do it, for fuck’s sake,” Skinner snapped at him. “We need to stop that train.”