Empire of Ruins

by Arthur Slade

  This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2011 by Arthur Slade

  Jacket art copyright © 2011 by Chris McGrath

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Wendy Lamb Books, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in Canada by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd., Toronto.

  Wendy Lamb Books and the colophon are trademarks of

  Random House, Inc.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Slade, Arthur G. (Arthur Gregory)

  Empire of ruins / by Arthur Slade. — 1st ed.

  p. cm. — (Hunchback assignments ; 3)

  Summary: While on an assignment in Queensland, Australia, to discover the truth behind a powerful weapon known as the God Face, Modo, a teenaged, shape-changing hunchback living in Victorian London, battles the evil machinations of the Clockwork Guild and makes an astounding discovery—one that hinges on Modo’s true appearance.

  eISBN: 978-0-375-98359-7

  [1. Disfigured persons—Fiction. 2. Supernatural—Fiction. 3. Spies— Fiction. 4. London (England)—History—19th century—Fiction. 5. Great Britain—History—Victoria, 1837–1901—Fiction. 6. Australia—History— 1788–1900—Fiction. 7. Science fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.S628835Em 2011 [Fic]—dc22 2010053419

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  FOR TORI AND TANAYA,

  with all my love

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue - A Fierce Pursuit

  Chapter 1 - The God Face

  Chapter 2 - The Unexpected Guest

  Chapter 3 - Into Bedlam

  Chapter 4 - The Funeral

  Chapter 5 - The Key Master

  Chapter 6 - A Trusted Associate

  Chapter 7 - A Hidey-Hole Discovered

  Chapter 8 - An Uneasy Journey

  Chapter 9 - One Last Passenger

  Chapter 10 - A Game of Cricket

  Chapter 11 - Stop. Expendable. Stop.

  Chapter 12 - An Important Meeting

  Chapter 13 - The Horn of Africa Ball

  Chapter 14 - Interesting Scars

  Chapter 15 - A Thorny Fence

  Chapter 16 - Flushing Out the Enemy

  Chapter 17 - An Outlandish Request

  Chapter 18 - A Marvelous Piece of Workmanship

  Chapter 19 - Manning an Expedition

  Chapter 20 - Slippery Fish and Carrion Birds

  Chapter 21 - A Journey Ends

  Chapter 22 - The Rag and Famish, and Hades Acres

  Chapter 23 - A Shortcut Through the Sky

  Chapter 24 - Through a Spyglass

  Chapter 25 - The Lofty Heights

  Chapter 26 - The Solution for Closed Doors

  Chapter 27 - The Necessary Mask

  Chapter 28 - A Speck in the Darkening Sky

  Chapter 29 - The Sparrow and the Hawk

  Chapter 30 - Stupid, Stupid Fool

  Chapter 31 - A Swan Dive

  Chapter 32 - A Sudden Descent

  Chapter 33 - Looking Death in the Eye

  Chapter 34 - A Perfectly Fine Trophy

  Chapter 35 - A Touch, a Word

  Chapter 36 - A Now Dream

  Chapter 37 - Freshly Chewed Meat

  Chapter 38 - Cutting a Path

  Chapter 39 - A Swollen River

  Chapter 40 - The Temple

  Chapter 41 - Scope of Duties

  Chapter 42 - A Visage Revealed

  Chapter 43 - The Thrum Inside Her Mind

  Chapter 44 - Married to Adventure

  Chapter 45 - The Horus Stone

  Chapter 46 - Thinking Like an Egyptian

  Chapter 47 - Too Many Days Behind a Desk

  Chapter 48 - Promises Worth Nothing

  Chapter 49 - The God Face

  Chapter 50 - The People Who Fell from the Sky

  Chapter 51 - A Horrible Whisper

  Chapter 52 - An Uncontrolled Retreat

  Chapter 53 - Driving the Enemy Before You

  Chapter 54 - The Message

  Chapter 55 - One by One They Fall

  Epilogue - Homeward Bound

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  A Fierce Pursuit

  IN A QUEENSLAND RAIN FOREST, over ten thousand miles from London, Modo leaned his humped back against a strangler fig tree. He bound his handkerchief tightly around the stump of the little finger on his left hand. The saber cut had been clean, and he was surprised there hadn’t been much blood. The pain threatened to cloud his every thought. But he’d been trained to ignore pain, and so, with several deep breaths, he cleared his mind. He had other tasks to perform.

  The first was to test for broken bones. There were scratches and bruises, of course—one would expect that after falling from such a great height—but he systematically checked his bones and found all of them intact. The goggles had prevented his misshapen eyes from being poked out, and his thin wooden African mask had saved the rest of his face from any deep gouges. His hands had been burned to blisters from lifting the boiler, but they would heal.

  He did find a large thorn in his shoulder, and he grimaced as he pulled it out and tossed it aside. He’d been convinced as he fell from the airship and plummeted earthward that death was waiting for him on the rain-forest floor. But Fate had been kind. He couldn’t even attribute his survival to his acrobatic skills, because he had been screaming and flapping his arms all the way down like a frightened gosling.

  The sky, the sun, and the airship battle above were blocked by the canopy of branches, vines, and leaves. Even the rumbling of steam-powered engines had disappeared. He panicked a little when he thought of his companions. Was his fellow agent Octavia still alive? His master, Mr. Socrates? Were they even now dodging the gunfire of the enemy? He pictured Octavia wounded, and nearly burst out with a sob of fear.

  Snap to! he told himself. Keep the mind steady. Be in the present. Those were the words Tharpa, his weapons master, had drilled into him. Think about what needs to be done, not what you cannot change. Those words belonged to Mr. Socrates.

  Modo took stock of his surroundings—shrubs, woody vines, knee-high palm trees, larger palms, massive roots for massive trees—all completely unfamiliar. The forest was quiet, as though holding its breath. He imagined that his screaming, crashing arrival had surprised the wildlife. Here and there was the peep of a bird, or the hissing of a snake, as the jungle came back to life.

  He turned to the task of listing his useful possessions. He searched his pockets and belt pouch and came up with a knife, a packet of matches, a pocket watch, and a compass. He took the goggles off and saw that one glass lens had been shattered. His khaki clothing was adequate for now, though he had no idea how cold it would become at night. He guessed it would be warmer than sleeping in the drafty balloon car. At least the compass would allow him to discern his direction. In a front pocket he discovered a graham wafer. He munched a quarter of it.

&nbs
p; Modo knew very little about Australia—only that there were many poisonous creatures that could bite you and then you’d die within the hour. “Just avoid them,” he whispered. “You can get through this, old pal.”

  The insect and animal noises were growing louder. Bolder. Some of the hisses seemed to be coming closer. He felt as though a thousand eyes were watching his every move.

  At least they won’t recoil in horror from my face, he thought. Animals and insects couldn’t perceive ugliness. And still, he couldn’t take off the mask. He required its protection.

  As the minutes passed he became more aware of his many aches and of the rumbling in his stomach. He’d need to eat more than a cracker in the next few hours. He could break off a stick and tie his knife to it with strips of clothing to make a crude spear. He wouldn’t want to take on a wild boar, but a rabbit would do just fine. Or a kangaroo.

  That thought gave him pause. He wouldn’t eat a kangaroo, would he? It would feel wrong to kill anything that stood on two legs and could stare you in the eyes. He didn’t even know if there were any kangaroos in this part of the country.

  Then he noticed that the forest was quiet again. He instinctively held his breath, let his heart slow so that he became only ears and eyes. An owl hooted. An odd sound in the daylight. The noise had come from many yards behind him. A screech rattled the branches fifty yards to his right. Could it be a monkey? Oh, he should have studied what animals lived here! Surely Darwin or some other naturalist had written about the flora and fauna. Another hoot. There was a quality to the tone of it that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. At first he thought it was just a natural reaction: fear making his heart speed up. Then another hoot, even closer.

  They were humans masquerading as animals! He was certain of it! They were sending messages—probably surrounding him.

  As he pulled his knife from its sheath he heard a hiss race past him, and a small thud. He turned to see a quivering spear sticking out of the fig tree. He jumped forward as three more spears missed him by inches. His attackers were on his left, so he ran, pell-mell, to his right, breaking through overhanging branches.

  Savages! Mr. Socrates had spoken of such tribes on the journey. On Caribbean islands, in Africa, and here in Australia. According to the penny dreadfuls they killed for pleasure and ate the flesh of fellow humans. Cannibals!

  It was important not to panic; panicking would only lead to poor decisions. He tried to hear over his own crashing and panting. No footsteps behind him. Another hoot ahead of him made his heart go cold.

  He shifted to his left, only to see rattling branches and hear shouts. They were herding him! He dodged right, but saw a blurred white-painted face. The man leapt, spear in hand. Modo grabbed him by his necklace of what looked like shrunken heads and used his own momentum to throw his attacker down. The man’s spear struck Modo’s mask and was deflected.

  Out of the corner of his eye Modo saw the tribesmen running to either side of him, shadowy limbs and floating faces, bodies hidden by the foliage. There was only one direction for him to go. If he turned, he’d be shot full of spears in an eyeblink. They were forcing him to move forward, but to where? It was clear they were directly behind him.

  Modo leapt over a fallen tree, nearly tripping on the rotted trunk. He heard a waterfall. Maybe he’d be able to dive into a pool and escape! He dashed over a flat, open area, then realized, a moment too late, that he had made a horrible mistake. The leafy ground had looked solid enough, but it cracked asunder and he plunged into a pit, shouting in fear. As he fell, there was just enough light to see the bottom, lined with sharpened stakes.

  The God Face

  Fourteen months earlier, Alexander King, adventurer and explorer, was clinging to sheer rock on the lowest peak of Mount Kilimanjaro when his partner casually mentioned the God Face. They were still a day’s climb from the summit. Above them were the other two snow-covered peaks, below them the surrounding African forests. The men had no intention of being the first to reach the top; this expedition was only a lark, as King had explained, something to pass the time.

  It was turning into much more.

  “What is this God Face?” King asked. He had gaunt, bony features, and he was working hard to hide his excitement.

  “It is a skull or a mask or something like that,” his climbing partner, Josef, said.

  King had known fellow explorer Josef Stimmler for eight years, had climbed with him on three different mountain ranges on three different continents. It had taken a long time and a lot of shared wine to gain the German man’s confidence and friendship.

  “The God Face holds magic. It makes your enemies, how do you English say it, mad as hatters.”

  King didn’t correct him. He was actually a Canadian. His father had been British, though, and King had perfected his British accent long ago. He found that people respected him more once he dropped his colonial accent. The thought of a new treasure made King salivate. The world was running out of treasures, and he was running out of money.

  “What’s the artifact made of?” he asked.

  “Oh, that is interesting. The usual exaggerations. Gold, diamonds, platinum. I’m certain the British Museum would pay dearly for it, even if it were made of dried dung. Ha!”

  King found a good foothold and climbed a little higher, then hammered his hook into the rock, careful to ensure that it was tight and would hold their combined weight. When he finished he looked down at his partner.

  “Who told you about the God Face?”

  Beads of sweat trailed down Stimmler’s forehead and face, catching in his jowls. He was far too fat for mountain climbing, King thought. There was nothing worse than seeing an adventurer becoming a bumbling middle-aged man.

  “It was the old man.”

  “Which old man?” King asked carefully.

  Stimmler lifted a sausage-shaped finger to point southwest toward Lake Tanganyika. “The old man of Africa. There is only one.”

  King nodded. He knew exactly whom Stimmler was referring to. “Thank you, Stimmler,” he said solemnly. “You have been a great partner over the years. I’m certain your discovery of the Ibis River will be remembered by future generations.” Then King pulled the Buck knife from his belt and sliced through the rope below him. Stimmler didn’t even have time to scream. A look of shock froze on his face as he tumbled to his death.

  King chuckled. It was all a somewhat comical way to rid himself of a loose end. Who knew whom else Stimmler would have told of the prize? He put his knife away and tied his spare rope to the remaining section of the climbing rope with a tight knot. Then he headed back down the mountain. The descent was much faster without his partner.

  After returning to Moshi to resupply, King hired two guides and began the trek into Rhodesia. He didn’t know this part of Africa well, but he’d read the newspaper accounts of the old man he was about to visit. The papers said he was the most famous explorer of them all. King snorted. What had the old man really done? Discovered a river or two, not much more. He’d never found the source of the Nile.

  In the fortnight it took to complete the journey, King lost one of his guides to malaria and one of his mules to snakebite. The remaining guide led him and the lone mule to a small village, and soon King was sitting in front of a fire, waiting for the water to boil for tea.

  His companion was a tall, pale, elderly man with youthful eyes. He’d been living among the tribes of Africa for many years now. Just the thought of it made King shiver. Why spend your life with these backward savages? The tribesmen had all retired to their huts, which suited King fine.

  “The God Face?” the old man asked, the lilt of his Scottish accent still present in his gravelly, tired voice. “It’s in Australia, that’s what my old friend Bailey told me a few years before he died of fever. He heard from the natives there that deep in the rain forest is hidden a great temple bulging with riches. Exaggerations, exaggerations! That’s what we thrive on, my friend.”

  “Of
course we do. Why did your friend not seek out the source of these rumors?”

  “Bailey was a botanist. If the rumors had involved an undiscovered plant he would have carved his way there with a machete. Gold? God-faced skulls? They meant nothing to him.”

  King sipped his wine. “But every once in a while there’s truth at the core of these rumors.”

  “Yes, yes. And this is a good legend. I was impressed by the detail the local tribe provided. They tell of the sky falling and great spirits rising, and of how the God Face would drive anyone who viewed it raving mad.”

  “But when was this ‘treasure’ last seen?” King asked.

  The old explorer sipped his tea. “Oh, these tribes often speak in riddles. Was it last year or a thousand years before? The description of the temple does suggest an ancient, long-forgotten civilization. Which is odd, since we both know there were no civilizations in Australia before we British arrived.”

  “Which tribe was it again?”

  “The Rain People, that’s what Bailey called them. What they called themselves I cannot say.”

  King filled another goblet with red wine from France. He’d brought it in his own pack, a bottle that was twenty years old now. A perfect vintage. A wine, he thought, that a man would be happy to drink on the last day of his life. If only the man weren’t a teetotaler.

  “Whom else have you told?” he asked.

  The old man laughed. “No one, Mr. King, no one. You, that Stimmler fellow, and no one else. It’s not worth more than a moment’s thought. The vagaries of these stories.” He lifted a palsied, blue-veined hand. “The vagaries of our occupation.”

  “That’s what we thrive on,” King said softly. “Now, where would one find this vagarious place?”

  “It’s in the Queensland rain forest. Bailey drew a map for me. I’ve been using it as a bookmark for years now.”

  King poured more tea, and with a flick of his hand a powder fell into the old man’s cup.

  “Well, it’s good to finally meet you,” he said, and handed the cup to the old explorer. “Cheers, Dr. Livingstone, I raise my glass to all your accomplishments.”