by Arthur Slade
He was thankful that there was very little light. He kept his face turned away so that she couldn’t see the monster he was becoming.
“My shape is—is changing. That is my affliction.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s hard to explain. You see, I can change my appearance. My body is contracting into a—a different shape. I’m not strong enough to stop it. The knot is growing tighter.”
He was surprised at how calm he sounded. His calves were cramping, his feet, each toe. Waves of agony that came and went, and he had to concentrate on staying still and stretching himself against the weight of his own body.
The rope tightened around his throat again, so he whispered desperately, “Griff, Griff, are you here? Can you loosen it?”
He waited, but nothing happened. Griff must have been watching Monturiol being interrogated. Modo shuddered. He knew Miss Hakkandottir’s methods. She had likely refined them further.
“Oh, Modo, I wish I could do something.”
“Just don’t watch me die,” he said.
“Oh, don’t be si mélodramatique!” Colette huffed.
He tried to picture a way out. What would Tharpa do? But it was like a Chinese finger trap—the harder he pulled, the tighter the knot became. Griff had known what he was doing. If only Modo could make his hands smaller and slip out of the ropes … but they were too tight and wrapped around in several loops. His only hope was to convince the guard to untie him.
“Sir! Sir! Miss Hakkandottir will be angry with you if I die,” Modo said.
The guard remained impassive, though his eyes flicked toward Modo.
“Yes, release him,” Colette pleaded.
“The prisoners shall not speak to me.” The soldier’s voice was dull; there was something wooden in his tone.
Modo swayed on his feet, his thoughts caught in a black vortex. He heard voices. Faces floated in front of him. Mrs. Finchley, was she here? And Mr. Socrates? And Octavia? He tried to reach for her, but his hands were tied behind his back.
“Modo! Modo!” Colette shrieked, waking him from his trance. He gulped, his lungs empty, and thrust himself a little farther forward.
“You stopped breathing,” she said.
“I—I didn’t mean to.”
“Keep breathing!”
Maybe there was a way, he realized: if he let his whole weight pull the rope. It was tied tightly, but it was old and thin and there were ragged strands here and there.
“I have a plan,” he rasped.
“A plan?”
“I’m going to pull the noose tighter.”
“What!”
“It’s the only way. Look, the rope is frayed.” Even as he said that, he saw that the worn portions weren’t that weak. “I’ll pull as hard as possible.”
“But if you fail, you’ll die!”
“I don’t have a choice.”
He took a deep breath. Was all this madness induced by lack of air? His thoughts were already slower, his back hunching. Here goes! He let himself fall backward so that the rope tightened around his neck, crushing his windpipe. His face, he knew, was going purple. The rope was now a perfectly taut straight line. He stared, willing it to break. His eyes bulged as he blinked back sweat. He couldn’t even swallow. He needed so badly to breathe, but his windpipe was closed. Dark spots pooled in his vision.
Now he was floating and felt light as smoke. He saw a young man hanging below him. That’s me! The world was fading. No! He wanted to shout. His blood was rushing in his ears, a sound like the raven wings of death. Somewhere Colette screamed his name.
He let out a gurgled cry. He was frothing, maybe even bleeding, he didn’t know. He pictured Octavia in her green dress and tried to step toward her.
The rope snapped and he fell to the floor. The noose remained tight around his neck. He still couldn’t breathe!
Then he was jostled by something near his neck, and he worried that rats were at his throat. His lungs expanded like a bellows, pulling in air as he faded in and out of consciousness. He sucked in a breath. Another.
“I used my teeth to loosen the knot,” Colette said. “I nearly dislocated my ankles bending over. Be thankful I’ve got good teeth. You look sick, Modo. Your face, it’s hard to see in the dark, but you seem to have bumps … .”
Modo used his last bit of strength to turn away from her. “It’s nothing. Nothing.”
Someone began clapping.
“Griff,” Modo said, almost spitting the name.
“You two have given a very exciting display. Very much so. You are not so great, though, Modo, remember that!”
“You are a …” Colette’s voice trailed off.
“I know what I am. Well, your good captain has been very uncooperative. She keeps her secrets well.”
Modo felt the knots around his wrists and ankles tighten again.
“That’ll hold you,” Griff said. “Well, it has been a busy day. I’ll be dining with my captain. Venison, I am told. And after that I’ll sleep the sleep of the just. Ta-hee!” The door opened for several seconds and then closed with a resounding thud.
37
Honor Among Spies
Modo lay on his side, his back to Colette. He breathed deeply and felt his spine curling in on itself. The hump was slowly rising: she would be able to see it soon enough, but better that than his face. Never his twisted, grotesque face. His wrists ached where the rope was biting into his flesh. Was the blood supply to his hands and feet being cut off? They tingled as though needles were poking them.
The door swung open and two soldiers dragged Captain Monturiol into the corner, where they tied her in a sitting position. Modo pressed his face against his shoulder, hiding most of it. Monturiol’s jaw was set, her hair bedraggled, and her eyes red-rimmed, but she shed no tears.
“Captain!” he said. “Are you well?”
She stared vacantly for a few moments, then ever so slowly turned to look at him. “Spies!” she hissed.
“That’s not true,” Colette said.
“It was the only bit of truth they told me.”
“Yes, it is true,” Modo admitted. He was glad he couldn’t see Colette’s reaction to his words. “We were only investigating. We meant no harm.”
“No harm?” she spat. “Infiltrators with golden tongues. I see your rash has returned, Mr. Warkin. Is that even your real name?”
“No.” He paused for only a moment before saying, “My name is Modo.”
“And am I to believe that the British, your masters, would not have acted in the same manner as these barbarians? You’re all cut from the same cloth.”
“We are honorable,” he said, knowing as he spoke the words that this was untrue. What would Mr. Socrates have done to get the secrets of the Ictíneo? The plans for New Barcelona? These were two gems that would shine bright in the crown of Britannia. He might very well have come here with several warships.
“There is no honor among thieves or secret agents,” Captain Monturiol said. “I should’ve left both of you to watery graves.”
They were silent for several minutes. Modo did not want to imagine what sort of torture Hakkandottir had put the captain through. She didn’t appear to be bleeding or terribly bruised, but they could have done anything to her. Tharpa had told him once that the Chinese methods involved the feet, since that part of the body experienced a deep, lasting pain. If anyone knew those sorts of tricks, it was the Clockwork Guild.
“Modo,” Colette whispered. “Can’t you turn over? Why do you have your back to me?”
“I am becoming deformed,” he said simply. “I don’t want you to see my face.”
“Ah, don’t be foolish. I won’t be alarmed.”
“I can’t,” he said. “Please leave me be. I must rest and catch my breath.”
“Fine,” Colette said. “Be stubborn.”
“There are no deformities in Icaria,” Captain Monturiol whispered. Then she closed her eyes.
Modo stole the occa
sional glance at her. She was sitting up ramrod straight, her breath a little labored, trying to hide her pain. She had a backbone of steel. This woman was, almost single-handedly, trying to create a new country. And she believed in it with such fervor she would sacrifice anything, even her own body. He doubted that the Guild had gotten a single word from her.
As he slowly shifted into his natural state, he wondered about this Icaria. Monturiol had said that everyone was welcome there, even cripples. And if anyone was crippled, he was. A hunchback! Forever! Mr. Socrates had told him many times, “You are deformed. You are ugly. Your unsightly countenance may seem unbearable now, but because of it the world will always underestimate you.” But what if Modo didn’t have to be underestimated? What if there was a place he could live without changing his shape? Where people wouldn’t lock him in a cage and charge a fee for others to stare at him? Could Icaria really be like that? He would never walk the streets of London as himself.
The room grew darker as the sun set and the moon lit the dirty glass of the porthole. It was likely only dinnertime, Modo realized. The sun set so much earlier this far north. He shivered. The hold was becoming a giant icebox.
Someone tapped on the door, which then swung slowly open. The soldier on guard gasped and pulled his pistol, but before he could fire or let out a cry, a fist shot out of the darkness and smashed him in the jaw. He crumpled to the ground. His assailant took a step into the room, squinting. He was bearded, dressed in an India rubber suit, and holding a speargun. The wan moonlight lit his craggy features.
“Cerdà!” Modo and Captain Monturiol whispered in unison.
“Ever-faithful, ever-ingenious Cerdà,” said the captain. “The pillar on which Icaria stands.”
“Don’t use such words.” A knife flashed and the captain’s bonds fell away. Cerdà helped her stand. “I received your SOS transmission. The Filomena brought us here. But we had to pedal the last kilometer, in order to approach silently.”
“Where is the Ictíneo?” Monturiol asked, rubbing her wrists.
“She is grappled to starboard, several meters below the surface. They now understand enough of her operation to move her back and forth. I fear one of our comrades must have broken under interrogation.”
“It is only to be expected—we are still flesh and blood.”
“What of these two?” He pointed his knife at Modo and Colette.
“They are spies,” Captain Monturiol said harshly. “Better to cut their throats as they would have done ours while we slept.”
“But we didn’t, did we?” Colette said.
“Only because you lacked the opportunity.”
“No,” Modo said. “You misjudge us. We are not your enemies. Take us with you. I—and Colette—have intimate knowledge of the Clockwork Guild.”
“We don’t need your knowledge.”
Modo stirred, moving into the moonlight so that part of his face was revealed. Monturiol and Cerdà recoiled. Good! He wanted to shock them, to test their Icarian principles. “You are dooming us to torture and death at the hands of that evil woman. I thought compassion was at the heart of your Icaria.”
Monturiol raised a fist. “You are not pure enough to speak the name Icaria. I offered you a place in a perfect society. My reward was to lose my most precious possession.”
“Quel drame!” Colette said. “But how many people have you sacrificed? Are we two more to be left behind?”
“You knew the risk of being spies.”
“Would your father leave us here?” Modo asked.
“Don’t speak of him!” she snapped. “Don’t!” She grabbed the knife from Cerdà and swung it toward Modo. He closed his eyes, was surprised when he felt the ropes fall from his arms and ankles. She had nicked his skin in several places. She stepped over him and he heard Colette give a few small pained grunts. Monturiol was obviously careless with the blade.
While she worked at Colette’s bonds, Modo jammed his numb fingers into his pockets and fumbled to retrieve his mask. He felt a hand helping him. Cerdà was bent over him.
“It is secure now,” he said. He lifted Modo up onto wobbly legs. There was nothing Modo could do about his hair, which would soon be falling out in clumps. Maybe the netting would hold it in place. Colette was beside him, looking as drained as he felt, but standing steady.
“We shall see what your words are worth,” Monturiol said. She still gripped the knife tightly, as if she might at any second plunge it into either of their hearts. “Do you swear to help us free the Ictíneo?”
“What do we receive in return?” Colette shot back.
“Your lives,” Monturiol answered.
“We need more than that,” Modo said. “Where will you take us once we’ve helped you?”
“I shall deposit you on Iceland. I cannot promise anything beyond that. So do you swear?”
“I swear,” Modo and Colette said together.
“What of our comrades?” Monturiol asked Cerdà. “They are locked up amidships.”
“We have a hard decision,” Cerdà said. “Only luck brought me to you—if we attempt to free them, we will wake up this hornets’ nest of soldiers and accomplish nothing. We do not have room on the Filomena for more than a few.”
She nodded. “The decision is clear. We must protect New Barcelona first and strive to release them later. We all swore oaths to defend Icaria. They will understand.”
Modo felt a tightening in his guts. All those comrades, deserted on this ship. He didn’t want to imagine how Hakkandottir would treat them.
Cerdà opened the door and looked about. Modo’s heart pounded—at any moment he expected Griff to laugh and their chance of escape to vanish. But Cerdà motioned them forward and soon they were climbing a set of stairs to the deck of the Wyvern.
Cerdà had left a grappling hook in a dark corner on the port side, only a few feet from the stairs. They silently climbed down the rope. Modo’s grip was weak and he feared he’d fall into the water below. When he set his feet on the deck of the Filomena the ship sank a little deeper. It was much smaller than the Ictíneo, more like a cutter than a ship. He followed Colette, squeezing himself down through the hatch and into the aft, each motion making the submarine ship rock in the water. The interior smelled moist. Comrade Garay was at the helm, one hand on the wheel, as he peered at the dials and switches. He nodded at Modo.
“Take a seat,” Cerdà whispered. “Both of you. Place your feet upon the pedals.”
They did as instructed.
“Comrade Garay,” Monturiol said, putting her hand on his shoulder, “please take us down ten meters.” The vessel submerged and they began pedaling away.
38
An Underwater Assault
The cramped quarters stank of sweat. After his recent escape, Modo was worried there wasn’t enough air, but he gulped in what he could. The Filomena was so small, the hull thin; all it would take was one sharp knock to crush it like an egg.
The ship creaked and Modo squinted at the shell. “This is made of wood!”
“Keep your voice down,” Monturiol whispered. “Sound travels underwater. Yes, it is olive wood, reinforced with rings of oak and sheathed in copper. My father was a cooper’s son, through and through. He learned to make barrels for wine and oil at his father’s side.”
“Is our intention to regroup at New Barcelona?” Cerdà asked.
“No,” Captain Monturiol said. “We strike now. Before they discover we are missing.”
“I brought four suits,” Cerdà said. “And helmets.”
“Then we will retake our ship,” Monturiol said.
“How do you propose to do that?” Modo asked.
“Just pedal, comrades.”
They maneuvered through the water as the captain stared out the front portholes.
“She must have the eyes of a cat if she can see through that murk,” Colette whispered to Modo.
Monturiol motioned to Comrade Garay. “To the surface,” she said. He pulled a lever and t
he ship rose slowly, but Modo could hear the scraping of gears, and he couldn’t shake the sensation that at any moment the Filomena might be blown to bits by cannon fire.
“I’ll help you get your ship back,” Modo said.
“No. I don’t trust you,” Monturiol said.
“How will you get into the Ictíneo? I assume you’ll want to open the hatch—either at the top or bottom. Cerdà is big, but you know I am the strongest one here.”
“He is correct,” Cerdà said. “He was able to tear open the Ictíneo’s top hatch. He is certainly stronger than I am. He’ll easily be able to open the ballast portal.”
“Modo won’t go without me,” Colette said.
Monturiol looked dubious but said, “Into your suits. You will not need the armor, only the India rubber; we’ll be riding on the back of the Filomena.” She patted Garay’s shoulder. “Comrade Garay, it will be your task to pilot the Filomena. I have faith in your skill.”
“I shall do my best,” Garay said.
“We shall come up underneath the Ictíneo,” said Monturiol. “There we will access the hatch, close the subhatches, and enter the pump room. Next we will overpower whoever is inside.”
They climbed onto the top of the Filomena. The Wyvern loomed a hundred yards away, soldiers patrolling its decks. The moon was just bright enough to light their outlines. Taut ropes ran from the starboard side of the ship into the water. The Ictíneo had to be attached at the other end, yards below the surface. Modo pulled on his rubber suit while balancing on one leg, aware that one misstep would send him plunging into the water. He had to work hard to get the rubber over his hump.
“We will only have the oxygen that is trapped in our helmets,” Cerdà explained quietly. “It will last about five minutes, if you breathe slowly. The magnetic palms in the gloves of our suits will allow us to cling to the Ictíneo’s side. Please put your helmets on now.”
The aquahelm was too tight, so Modo turned away from his companions and removed his mask. Because the rubber suit had no pockets, he stuffed the mask into his collar and pulled down the helmet, covering his face. He felt as though he were suffocating. After all he’d been through, would he really have the strength to open anything?