30. Yarrow Catches a Train and Meets OneTwo Fellow Passengers

30. Yarrow Catches a Train and Meets One or Two Fellow Passengers

Angel's Head overlooked the circular valley of Yellow Tower from the western rim. Lying just off the West Passage, it was a large face of orange rock, the features quite eroded, and through its hollow left eye, the train ran toward Black Tower. Yarrow reached it after perhaps half an hour of climbing. It would have been less, but she was exhausted, still covered in egg slime (which had dried to a clear, sharp-smelling crust), and had stopped to rest several times along the way. Her bag was heavy, her feet were stones, her head drooped like an overripe apple on the branch.

Behind the face was a platform with benches, and she gratefully flung herself onto one. With a groan, she stretched her legs this way and that, keeping a wary watch on the station. From where she sat, Black Tower formed an upright pupil in the angel's eye. Yarrow shifted in her seat and looked somewhere else. In the other direction was Red Tower, fuming. Across the track was another platform, where some people were sitting on benches and reading books or rocking babies or simply staring, as Yarrow was. Beyond that, Yellow's outer courts mounted up a hill, terrace upon terrace, to one of the old inner walls that still interrupted parts of the palace. Banners of the Lady fluttered from staves all along the wall. Something caught deep within Yarrow, and she looked away. The urge to cry had to be fought down.

There were no words in her mind for what she had done. Yarrow was stuffed full of songs and even fuller of lore, but no song or litany could help her understand. The Lady of Yellow Tower had been one of the five original Ladies. Citrine the Deathless, one of the sisters, shadowy figures of legend, builders of the palace, peerless creatures of fierce wisdom and power. Yet if they had relied so on the one lullaby to help them sleep, no wonder their rule ended. Or perhaps the Lullaby of Reeds had simply not been meant for that Lady. Or only for a young Lady. Or. Or. Or many possibilities, all of them some fatal misunderstanding. Yarrow had no way of knowing, and it galled her. She was used to knowing. Or rather, she was used to knowing the limits of her own knowledge. But what happened in the tower lay so far beyond the bounds of her life that she could only call it holy.

Holiness was a strange and terrible thing.

There was a whistle in the distance. The train was coming. Noiselessly, it slid along the track and came to a stop, steam venting from the blowhole in its helmeted head. It had no eyes, but perhaps it didn't need them with those great silver-scaled arms pulling it along, hand over hand. Surely it could feel its way where it needed to go. Strapped to the back of its neck was a white platform where a Brother of the Order of Transit held the reins, his blue robes tied with twine at the wrists and knees so as not to flap in the wind.

Behind the train's sleek head were seven or eight steel coaches, held together by clasped hands. Doors opened and passengers exited, carrying luggage, leading children, or just meandering, hands in pockets, toward the stairs. From the rearmost coach, porters in blue caps unloaded parcels and chests. Yarrow got up and moved on stiff legs toward the nearest door.

"Usually I hate Angel's Head," one passenger said to their companion as they passed Yarrow. "Always feels sick somehow. But today the air's different."

"Wind must've changed," said their companion.

Another Brother of the Order stood at the coach door, checking tokens for embarking passengers. His eyebrow cocked at Yarrow holding a Butler token, and his eyes took in her crusty robe with a frisson of disgust, but he let her on and wished her a pleasant journey.

The coach had double rows of benches with an aisle down the middle. Every surface was upholstered with worn, stained crimson velvet. About half the seats were empty, and Yarrow stopped short, fingering the strap of her bag. Could a person boarding a train take any seat they wanted? Did you just… sit down wherever?

"Keep moving," said the brother.

There was an empty bench near the center of the coach. Yarrow sat down and scooted over to the window. Ash and dirt streaked the glass, but there was a pretty clear view of the terraces. It would be lovely to see the rest of the palace as the train moved.

A pale-skinned person edged into the seat next to her, their head and upper body entirely covered with an upside-down red flower, their lower body bare. The petal nearest Yarrow brushed up against her and her bag, and she compressed herself into the side of the train. With a shudder and a whispery noise like a hand sliding over stone, they began to move.

The terraces slipped away. A vista of the Yellow mansions replaced them, crossed here and there by the inner walls. Between Yellow and Red, the South Passage cut its watery, bony path. The train was running along the hill that Yarrow had crested to reach the Schoolhouse. Though she was on the right side, and Grey Tower would be on the left, she might be able to get a glimpse of it as they went.

But the train turned down a viaduct, taking it into the lower districts of Yellow and toward the South Passage bridge. Her tower was lost behind crumbling golden walls. For a moment it stared at her through a window. Then it was gone. She blinked sleepily.

"Can you make your bag stop moving?" said her seatmate.

"Oh, I apologize," said Yarrow, shifting it away from them. The ride had been fairly smooth so far, but maybe they were touchy about personal space. Perfectly understandable.

The train came to a stop between a pair of stone hands. Some people got off and some people got on. How did you know when it was your time? Nobody had said where the train was, but the buildings were still yellowish, so she probably wasn't in Black yet.

"So where are you from?" said her seatmate.

"Grey Tower." Yarrow could not keep a touch of pride out of her voice.

"Huh. I didn't know anyone still lived there."

Didn't know—!

"We do."

Her voice must have conveyed some of her displeasure, for the flower said nothing as the train pulled out of the station and headed down to the bridge. Tilted buildings and overhanging roofs shadowed its way. Here and there a pigeon fluttered.

As it went over the South Passage, Yarrow looked down. The river shimmered beneath her. Its banks were piles of bones. A single crow perched on a stone and seemed to meet her eyes. She smiled.

Farther down, a hollowman—Tertius?—was splashing through the river toward a dark, gaping mouth in the deep Passage. Not Tertius: the tents on its back were russet. A pity. She would have liked to wave to Peregrine from up here. A twinge of homesickness made her grimace, though it had only been a little while.

"Your bag is moving again," said the flower.

"I'm sorry," Yarrow said, putting it on her lap. Wait—moving?

"You keep a baby in there or something?" said the flower.

"Of course not," said Yarrow. The bag wobbled and stretched.

"A pet?" said the flower.

"Not as far as I know." Her hand hesitated on the clasp. A small voice cried out from inside, muffled by the old leather. A locust, maybe? They sometimes tried to steal things, Arnica had said once. With her other hand ready to swat the interloper, she opened the bag.

Nestled among her extra robe and wimple was a small creature in a marigold gown. Its head was a four-sided spire of brownish stone lined with six tawny-golden eyes along each face. They blinked and looked up at her, and the cry came again.

It was unmistakably a Lady.

Yarrow stared as the Lady sat up, ran tiny, segmented hands along her bodice as if grooming herself, and began to cry. The noise was piercing, carried on a wave of vibration like the one that had filled Yellow Tower. Every passenger clapped their hands over their ears.

"Stop now!" said Yarrow. "Please stop!"

The Lady went on crying.

"Make it shut up!" said the flower person.

The windowpane cracked.

"I don't know how!" said Yarrow.

"For North's sake, put something in its mouth!"

"I don't even know where her mouth is, " said Yarrow, picking the Lady up by her waist like a doll. Turning her around, she saw no mouth at all. Maybe under her skirts? She flipped the struggling Lady upside down. The crying grew louder, and the crack spread over the window.

"Don't you even—" said the flower, but the crying had stopped.

A warm, wet cavity had swallowed Yarrow's thumb. Two sharp hands like grasshopper legs had latched onto her hand. When she turned the Lady the right way up, she saw that the base of the spire opened like a hinge, and inside was dark maroon flesh. The Lady's eyes swiveled to meet hers.

"I hate this," said Yarrow.