He stepped out onto the bridge, keeping his eyes on Mouse, and for a while everything was fine.
The wind picked up. A sudden gust hit him like those ocean squalls Bren had come to dread. He looked down again, just to reassure himself that his feet hadn’t gotten off track, and when he did, panic set in—the gusting wind had cleared the clouds, giving him a glimpse of the bottomless chasm.
“Steady, lad. You’re halfway home!” cried Sean.
Bren knew that was a lie, but he made himself look up, to find Mouse, but he couldn’t make his feet move again. Out of the corner of his eye he could see dark clouds blowing in.
“Come on!” Barrett called, barely audible over the howling wind.
“Get down on all fours,” said Sean.
Yaozu motioned for him to do as Sean asked.
“Bren, son, Sean and I don’t agree on a lot,” called Barrett. “But listen to him.”
Bren began to bend his quivering legs, hoping to find the bridge with his hands while keeping his eyes on Mouse. But his fear disoriented him. He couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t lean his hands onto thin air. So he looked down again, and immediately he had to shut his eyes. He grabbed the black stone and clutched it as hard as he could, but nothing worked. He had been a fool to think a magic stone could keep him from falling.
He heard Barrett call out, “Mouse, no!”
He opened his eyes and looked up. Mouse was running across the bridge toward him, and as soon as she reached him, she grabbed his hands and lifted him to his feet, and then she turned around and guided him, pulled him almost against his will, to the middle of the bridge. He wanted to stop, he wanted to resist her, but he just grabbed her hand tighter and kept his eyes on her the rest of the way, and then he collapsed on top of her when they reached the other side.
CHAPTER
19
THE ROAD TO AGRA
The rain came down so hard the elephants were having trouble keeping their feet. They were trying to climb a short ridge, but water was pouring through the branches and broad leaves of the jungle, hitting the ground with the force of a waterfall and melting the side of the ridge.
“Aziz, Aziz! Get up there and tie the chain!”
The young man who had come to fetch David Owen and Archibald Black from Bombay scrambled up the mudslide, clutching spindly branches for leverage, dragging a large, heavy chain behind him. When he made it to the top, he secured one end of the chain to the biggest tree he could find and threw the other end back to the mahout—the man giving orders.
The mahout took the other end of the chain and held it out to the lead elephant: “Pull, gajah, pull!”
The elephant took the chain in her trunk, pulling it taut as she attempted to use it as a winch.
Adding only slightly to the elephant’s burden was Archibald Black, lying facedown on the elephant’s back, his bony knees wedged against her hide, his arms clutching her neck like a giant crab. David Owen was on the elephant directly behind him, sitting upright, but only because he had thrown up twice over the side.
“Pull, gajah, pull!”
The elephant took one cautious step up the ridge, then another, her massive weight supported by feet the size of platters that flattened out the muddy ground, but the tree she was attached to was starting to give.
“Hasan, the tree!” said Aziz.
“Almost there,” replied the mahout.
The chain sighed, its heavy iron links stretching at the joints. The trunk of the stout neem tree creaked.
“Hurry!” cried Black, but no one heard him because his face was pressed into elephant hide.
The tree creaked again, longer and louder this time, and the elephant looked at her mahout out of the corner of her eye, as if to ask, Is this a good idea?
“Pull, gajah, pull!” came the answer, and so the elephant tugged on the chain again, and with a massive, splintering groan, the roots of the neem tree tore from the ground. The elephant slid back down the ridge, releasing the chain and trumpeting an alarm that drowned out Archibald Black’s cries for help.
“You’re okay, sahib, you’re okay.” It was Aziz, at Black’s side, helping him down from the elephant, who had knelt in the mud at the bottom of the ridge and refused to move. When he was on his feet, Black immediately teetered backwards against the elephant, resting there upright. Aziz then helped David Owen down from his elephant, walking the pale and nauseated mapmaker over to a stump to sit down.
“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” said Aziz, speaking to the mahout named Hasan. He turned to look at the small army behind them, mostly Indian men on foot, with half a dozen more elephants carrying all their cargo, including the four trunks of surveying equipment.
“You tell Akbar this isn’t such a good idea,” said Hasan. “I’ll just slit my own throat.”
“He had to know the rainy season was coming, didn’t he?” said Black, catching his breath while resting against the seated elephant.
“Of course he knew the rainy season was coming,” said Aziz. “He’s the emperor! Perfect time to survey, when the weather is so poor that the armies won’t come out.”
Black had never seen it rain so hard for so long. “There won’t be anything to survey before long,” he said. “India will just be one flat mud field.”
“Nonsense,” said Hasan. “A minor setback. We try again when the rain lets up.”
They made camp instead, hundreds of soldiers scurrying about putting up makeshift rain shelters.
“We could be surveying along the way,” said Owen, when he had recovered from his first elephant ride.
“The great Akbar is eager to meet you,” said Hasan. “Besides, you need more equipment, no? So that many people can help?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“It’s politics, David,” said Black. “McNally would do exactly the same thing. An official kickoff from his capital. Putting people to work, literally putting India on the map as a global power . . . it’s quite obvious.”
“No idle hands!” said Hasan, repeating what sounded like a campaign slogan.
Owen nodded. “How far is Uttar Pradesh?”
Hasan screwed up his face, doing the math in his head. “Eight hundred miles, give or take?”
Black and Owen looked at each other, seemingly thinking the same thing—they had gotten in over their heads.
“I’m sorry,” said Owen. “Sorry I dragged you into this.”
“You did nothing of the sort,” said Black. “I care about finding Bren as much as you do.”
“I don’t doubt that, Archibald, but this was a foolish idea. How were we supposed to find him, even assuming we hadn’t been more or less kidnapped by Akbar’s army?”
“Theories, investigation, inference,” said Black. “Of course we don’t know anything for sure. But we have solid leads.”
“That admiral never said anything about an island,” said Owen, who was twisting a filthy piece of his shirt in his hands. “What makes you so sure?”
“Certainty has nothing to do with it, David. But I trusted a very good book scout from Amsterdam who told me this Bowman had been obsessed with the idea that Marco Polo stashed a treasure on his sea voyage home from China. It makes sense. It may not be perfect, it may not be certainty, but it’s the best I could do.”
They sat silently for a minute or two, listening to the steady rain and at least one loud argument coming from among the soldiers.
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” said Owen.
“Stop being sorry,” said Black, standing up and brushing off his dirty pants, to little effect. “You need a distraction. Let’s check the equipment again.”
“We already double- and triple-checked—”
“It will do us good,” Black said firmly.
“Okay.”
They opened their four trunks in turn, each of which was padded like a violin case, with the surveying instruments fitted into velvet-covered cradles shaped to the particular tool. Owen methodically lifted and examined
each instrument, while Black went down an inventory list.
“Four theodolites.”
“Check.”
“Six quadrants.”
“Check.”
“Six compass pairs.”
“Check.”
On and on they went: barometers, thermometers, telescopes, and plotting scales; a heliostat, an aethroscope, a delineator, and something called a four-eyed glass perspective. There were also a half dozen pea-light lanterns and vials of lime to go in them.
The final trunk contained only the large wheel with the handle and counter that David Owen had demonstrated for Queen Adeline. Owen lifted it out and set it aside, then lifted up the velvet cradle, revealing a large, thick black book, covered in leather and bound with a pair of leather straps.
“Just wanted to make sure it’s still there,” said Owen. “Your admittance to that library.”
“The House of Wisdom,” said Black. “No ordinary library, I assure you.”
“And a Christian Bible’s going to get you into a Persian library?”
“It’s a Gutenberg Bible, David. One of the originals. My family were early backers of his movable-type machine. This is a family heirloom, and I assure you, their scholars will covet it.”
“I can’t thank you enough for being willing to—”
“Enough!” said Black. “Have you thought of a name for that yet?” he said, nodding at the large wheeled counting instrument.
“Not officially,” said Owen, replacing the velvet cradle over the Bible. “McNally wants to call it the Rand-About.”
“Clever.”
“I think surveyor’s wheel is nice and accurate,” said Owen.
“And dull,” said Black. “What about the Waywiser?”
Owen swatted away a mosquito. “A bit abstract, don’t you think?”
“Not really.”
“Bren would have fun coming up with names,” said Owen. “That boy’s imagination . . .”
“And here’s the thing, David. You needn’t worry about someone that resourceful. I believe that in my bones, and as you can see, I’m all bones.”
Owen half smiled, but the smile left almost as soon as it arrived. “Do you have any idea why McNally would have let him go like that? He could have stopped him . . . the admiral never would’ve taken him if he’d just . . .”
David Owen broke off, and Black awkwardly put a hand on his shoulder.
“I do have a theory, in fact. Think about it. Your boy was granted a rare opportunity—to go aboard a Dutch yacht, to learn where they sail and how, find out more about the people and the customs of the East and how the Netherlanders deal with them. And Bren’s brilliant mind would have captured it all.”
“A spy?”
“Nothing so cloak-and-dagger as that,” said Black. “But he must’ve known Bren would absorb everything he saw and heard. Of course, he couldn’t guarantee Bren’s safe return, but the upside more than outweighed the risk for Rand McNally.”
David Owen cursed so loud some of the soldiers stopped arguing.
“Maybe we should make the best of this and get home as soon as we can,” said Black. “Trust that resourceful boy of yours to survive.”
Owen nodded, then said, “Say, why don’t we see how well this thing works?”
Black arched an eyebrow. “A bit late for that, isn’t it? McNally’s already having more made to send over with the British team.”
“Oh, we tested this bugger thoroughly,” said Owen, “but there are no jungles in Britannia.”
“I guess . . . ,” said Black.
“Archibald!” said Owen in a half whisper. “I’m hatching an escape plan!”
“A what?”
“We walk off into the jungle, I distract them, and then you take off. Hide for a while, then make your way to Persia.”
“Are you out of your mind? There are at least a dozen things wrong with this plan. . . .”
David Owen had already set the wheel upright and begun walking east from their camp. When Aziz heard the clicking noise, he stopped what he was doing and ran after them.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Just over here,” said Owen. “We’re testing the . . . the Waywiser.” He winked at Black.
“You must not wander off!” said Aziz. “It’s dangerous out there.”
“We’re not going far,” said Owen.
“How dangerous?” said Black.
“Rebels, for one thing,” said Aziz.
“Rebels? You said Akbar wanted to survey during the rainy season because the fighting would stop,” said Black.
“Officially, perhaps. Still . . . there are tigers.”
“Actual tigers or is that a faction of rebels?” said Owen.
“Real tigers,” said Aziz. “Man-eaters!”
Black rolled his eyes. “Tigers are primarily nocturnal. They sleep most of the day.”
“Come with us,” said Owen. “Protect us.”
Aziz looked even more fearful. “If you insist.”
The Indian boy walked between the two Brits as Owen pushed the large wheel through thick undergrowth and sloppy mud. While the wheel was large, to more easily roll over bumpy terrain, it was also heavy, and they bogged down in the mud after fifty yards or so.
“Not to worry,” said Owen. “We just need to keep it clean. Help me, Aziz.”
They lifted the wheel and Owen made a big production of how clogged the mechanism was. While Aziz was trying to help clear the mud, Owen lifted his head at Black, encouraging him to go.
Black froze instead, then turned and tried to gingerly put his foot down, stepping noisily on a pile of twigs instead.
“It’s unstuck!” said Aziz, jumping up and putting the wheel back on solid ground. Black shrugged and the three of them pressed on farther, trying to avoid the worst of the mud. Owen went out of his way to dodge a puddle, and as he did so, the large wheel rolled over a fallen tree branch, breaking it in half with a crack so loud it silenced the birds.
All three of them stopped in their tracks, startled by the noise. In that brief moment of stillness, they heard a low growl, followed by a second, quieter snap. All Black saw was the orange face framed in black and white, and the heavy orange paw stepping forward on top of the now-broken twig.
“Don’t panic,” said Black, “but just over there is a—”
“Tiger! Tiger!” screamed Aziz, tearing off back toward camp, leaving Black and Owen standing there, too surprised to move.
The tiger sprang from hiding and crossed the distance between them in just a few lazy lopes. David Owen tried to run but found his feet sunk to the ankles in mud and promptly lost his balance. He fell backwards as the tiger leaped toward him, and he did the only thing he could—he used both hands to hoist the surveyor’s wheel up in the air. The tiger’s belly struck the wheel, spinning the predator off the edge and right over Owen, who still just lay there.
“Get up, David!” said Black, reaching to help Owen as the tiger collapsed into an ungraceful pile of stripes before righting itself and turning back to face its prey.
It approached more cautiously this time, unsure about this strange new weapon it was facing. Owen couldn’t hold the heavy wheel up for long, so he turned it handle first to the ground, using the wheel as a shield. Black stood behind him.
The tiger charged again, swatting at the wheel, spinning it madly and trying to clutch it with its massive paws but instead getting one paw caught in the rotating spokes. The cat howled and backed away, then leaped again, sinking its teeth into the wheel, a full-fledged attack.
“Now!” said Black. “Let’s get out of here!”
They took off running back to camp while the tiger continued to maul the surveyor’s wheel. It had already pulled the rim apart; broken spokes were everywhere.
They met a group of soldiers running their way—Aziz had obviously alerted them—who hurled spears at the tiger but failed to hit it. Instead the tiger left the wrecked wheel in a heap and ran off into
the jungle.
Black and Owen just stared at each other, each paler than usual and breathing hard. Finally, Black started laughing.
“Maybe we should call it the Tiger Shield,” he said, which got Owen laughing too.
“Good thing McNally’s sending more of those,” he said, clapping Black on the back as they headed back to camp with the soldiers. “And hello, one less instrument to keep up with!”
CHAPTER
20
THE DRAGON KING’S DAUGHTER
There was little conversation the next several days as Bren, Mouse, Sean, Barrett, and Yaozu crossed the land south of Lake Dongting. At first Bren had been relieved, like they all were, to be out of the mountains and forests, to be walking through wide valleys and plains of rice and tea farms, rhubarb and melon patches. But Bren couldn’t easily get over the terror he’d felt, the sudden loss of faith in things he’d come to count on.
It was growing cooler, too, and they had to shelter themselves numerous times from rainstorms. With few exceptions, they found the locals welcoming, willing to open their homes and share their food, especially while Barrett still had a few pouches of poppy seeds to trade. In small villages they also met craftsmen who were selling gowns, blankets, and the most beautiful silk Bren had ever seen. Not that he had seen much—fabric like this was only available to the wealthiest classes in Britannia—but he could immediately see why the entire ancient trade network between East and West had been called the Silk Road. Silk must have been the most coveted good imaginable to Europeans used to dressing in linen, or heavy, scratchy wool. Bren had immediately taken to the local clothes Yaozu had given them, and the fabric he was seeing here was much finer.
But it wasn’t just the quality of the fabric. The men and women working with it were so skilled they would have made Britannia’s Italian tailors jealous. Many of the pieces were elaborately embroidered with dragons, flowers, trees, birds, and other symbolic images. And then there were the jade carvers, the first sight of which made Bren instinctively reach for the black stone around his neck.
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