Empire of Ruins

by Arthur Slade

  Beside her, a man cleared his throat. She hadn’t noticed him come up. He was also reading the gravestone. She gave him a once-over: He was in his thirties, wearing a rather ragged-looking sack coat. He hadn’t shaved in several days.

  “A right brave man,” he said, rubbing his forehead with a handkerchief. There was a singsong nature to his accent, but she couldn’t place it.

  “Yes, he was brave.”

  “I admire your purple swatch. It’s as bright as a fig marigold.”

  He was Australian! She was certain of it. She’d heard a few sailors with that accent swearing at the pub. She lifted her veil and smiled. “You are very kind to say so.”

  “Ah, kind I am. In fact, you have dropped something, mademoiselle,” he said. He bent down and from his mud-splashed boot pulled out an envelope.

  He handed it to her and she tucked it into her purse, saying, “Again, how kind of you.”

  “I also dropped something,” he said. “Could you return it to me?”

  “I don’t believe you dropped anything.” She surveyed the floor at his feet.

  “If you look carefully, mademoiselle, you’ll see that I did indeed drop something, and you must give it to me. I insist.”

  There was a trace of anger in his voice. Octavia nearly slapped herself on the forehead. The money! Of course! She opened her purse again and handed him an envelope containing a thousand pounds. Mr. Socrates must have wanted information badly to pay that many quid for it.

  The envelope disappeared into the man’s jacket pocket. “As much as I would like to discuss the weather with you, mademoiselle, or even see more of your pretty smile, I must be on my way. As of now, I’m on the wallaby track.”

  She smiled at the expression, even though she had no idea what he meant. “Good luck with it,” she said.

  He was rather handsome. He winked at her and flashed a mischievous grin, making her blush.

  His grin became a grimace. A shadow descended between them, then shot back into the air, and a red slash gleamed on the man’s neck. Blood began to leak down his dirt-gray cravat. He moved his lips silently for a second, let out an “Ugggh,” and fell to the floor.

  Octavia staggered back just as another shadow swooped near her face. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing: a falcon with glowing eyes, and wings that flashed with metal. A second falcon dove at her and she ducked. The bird ripped the hat and veil from her head; then both birds shot up into the great heights of the nave.

  Octavia knelt and touched the man’s neck. No pulse. The wound wasn’t much more than a scratch, so there was only one explanation: poison! She glanced up and saw the birds still hovering far above her, their eyes bright against the darkened ceiling. She yanked open his jacket and retrieved the envelope of cash. The money was no use to a dead man.

  The mechanical falcons were circling, their wings hissing and clicking as they drew closer and closer, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. She glanced around for help, but the few remaining mourners were fleeing in fear. Even the clergymen had backed away.

  She spotted a man in a gray greatcoat standing in the balcony above her, watching the attack solemnly. His face was hidden in the shadows, but a third falcon sat on his wrist. His other hand was raised as though he were signaling someone, and a moment later she realized he must be controlling the birds. He flicked his fingers and a falcon dove at her.

  Octavia tore a wooden cross from the wall and struck the bird in the air. It spiraled into a row of chairs, splintering them, then hit the floor with a metallic crash. The creature let out a screech unlike any bird.

  “Who are you?” she screamed at the man.

  He waved his hand; another falcon attacked. She swung again and the cross snapped in two as it deflected the bird.

  The man released the third falcon.

  Octavia knew it was high time to scarper to freedom. She reached for the hem of her long dress and easily tore off a swath, revealing her stockinged legs. At Octavia’s request her seamstress had designed all her dresses this way. It made running so much easier.

  She drew her stiletto and ran full speed toward the closest exit, glancing back to see the falcons whirring and screeching behind her, beaks open and talons extended. Each time they struck she’d first hear the ticking of their clockwork and swishing of their wings, giving her time to duck, or slash with her stiletto. She managed to poke one right below the eye and drive it back.

  She shoved open the west door and ran outside, then threw herself against it, slamming the door. She heard the birds pecking, cawing, and ramming their metal bodies so hard at the door that she feared the thick wood might actually break. There were shouts behind her and she turned to see constables and a few Royal Guards rushing toward the door.

  “You’ll need guns,” she shouted as several of the young men froze at the sight of her legs. “Oh, for heaven’s sakes! Draw your guns!”

  Far above, stained glass shattered and showered all around her. A falcon, glittering in the sunlight, screeched madly. A moment later two more smashed through the windows.

  “Good Lord!” one of the Royal Guards shouted. The men were stunned.

  “Shoot them! Shoot them!” Octavia shouted. Then she ran for the street, bumping past the constables and shoving a clergyman out of the way. “So sorry, Father.”

  Finally, shots rang out, but one of the damnable birds was still following her, and it plunged so close its wings brushed her head. She expected a talon to rake her skin, but there was only a tickle down her neck; then the falcon shot back into the air.

  On the street, she waved down a cab and, as she climbed in, shouted at the cabbie to “Drive! Drive like a madman! I’ll pay you thirty pounds!”

  He snapped the reins and the cab raced ahead.

  Through the window, she watched the sky. After twenty minutes she began to feel safe again, and she pulled the envelope out of her bag. She hadn’t been told to look at what was inside; then again, she hadn’t specifically been instructed not to. And she’d just risked her life for this bit of paper. She opened the envelope with her thumb.

  Inside she found an old, tea-stained map of a coastline and forest.

  She held up the flimsy paper to the light. She’d risked her life for a map that doubled as a coaster! Mr. Socrates would have a lot of explaining to do.

  The Key Master

  In an alcove of Westminster Abbey, Gerhard Visser spun his noisemaker. Its clicking echoed throughout the church. The clockwork falcons sped back through the broken windows and returned to him, the first landing on his extended arm, talons digging into the leather protection there. The other two falcons touched down at his feet. The church visitors had fled and the clergymen were cowering in the sanctuary. He crouched to be out of sight of anyone on the ground floor. Visser grinned. Soldiers or constables bumbled along far too slowly. He’d be long gone before they made it up to where he’d been perched.

  The falcon on his arm stared at him, its thin metallic skull a parody of that of the original creature. The birds never blinked and, so long as they were wound properly, they didn’t tire. With a clicking of gears the falcon turned its head and opened its beak as though it wanted food. Visser chuckled at the witless display. The birds no longer needed food, but Dr. Hyde hadn’t been able to stop them from mimicking their natural behavior.

  Visser inserted a key into the falcon’s skull and it closed its eyes. The second falcon hopped up to his arm and he repeated this procedure, but the third moved to avoid him, and only after he gave it a “Tut-tut” did it stay still long enough for him to use his key. It glared until its dark eyes closed. He had no idea what went on in the little mind inside the metal brainpan. He carefully placed the falcons in a portmanteau and closed the case. The birds had followed his gestures perfectly. He had trained them for hours and hours under the watchful eye of Dr. Hyde.

  He glanced down at the dead Australian. The poison had been a particularly good batch. Dead in less than five seconds. Visser had, over
his lifetime, perfected the art of ending other people’s lives. For a fee, of course. Ropes, knives, guns, bare hands—he had used many methods. But he found these clockwork falcons to be particularly effective. It made for a great show, too.

  Over the past two months, Visser had pursued Fred Land from Sydney, Australia, to London. Though Visser was an expert tracker, he had consistently been one ship, one port, or one pub behind the man for far too long. Only this very morning had he discovered Land’s hidey-hole at the Black Sheep Inn and followed him to the funeral. A nice idea to carry out the exchange at such a public event, but it hadn’t saved the man’s life.

  Visser hadn’t expected a female agent. The woman was brave enough, he had to give her that. To actually question him while the birds were swooping around her and then to knock one out of the air … Most victims fled in fear and were cut down as they ran.

  So, she had the map. Now he would have to retrieve it. That was the thing about being an agent: sometimes plans had to be altered on the fly. He’d fully intended to kill her and be done with it, but once the soldiers and constables arrived, there was no point. She’d be dead and someone else would have the map. Instead, at the last moment he’d signaled one of the falcons to drop a special instrument on her.

  This might be good; she would perhaps lead him to a bigger catch. At least that was what he would tell his masters at the Clockwork Guild. He would send them a telegram within the hour.

  Visser felt satisfaction slowly building. This was how he liked things to work. Each gear clicking into place like the perfect timepiece.

  Taking a compass from his pocket, Visser was particularly pleased to discover that it was not pointing north. Instead it was pointing toward the door that the woman had used. As he watched, the needle slowly moved. He guessed she would be in a cab by now.

  It was time to follow her. He disheveled his blond hair, picked up the portmanteau, and fled down the stairs and out of the church, shouting, “The birds! The birds are in the balcony!” He ran right past the soldiers, who were still waiting for orders from their officers.

  A Trusted Associate

  Modo sighed as the gate to Bedlam closed behind him. That it was still light out was surprising—it felt as though several hours had passed inside the hospital. And he hadn’t learned anything from the meeting with Alexander King.

  The man was disturbing; Modo had never before been nose to nose with someone who had lost his faculties. Perhaps most disturbing of all was the man’s face. The self-inflicted scratches. The blood. Could it be he hated his appearance? Modo himself had moments when he wanted to tear his own face off. Would it one day drive him as mad as that poor fellow?

  Concentrate. Why were you sent here? He sifted through every detail of their conversation and couldn’t find a single clue as to why he’d been given this mission.

  Smartly dressed ladies and gentlemen, out for a walk, saw him leaving Bedlam and gave him the once-over, then observed the walls of the madhouse with curiosity and perhaps a little fear. No doubt they wondered what was inside. Insanity, he wanted to shout at them, insanity and violinists and painters! That’s what I saw!

  You’re a doctor, he reminded himself, and you are an agent. Control yourself.

  He hadn’t been told where to go after the interview, so he decided to return to Safe House. He was about to raise his hand for a cab when he noticed a black carriage at the edge of Lambeth Road. The wide-shouldered driver in a greatcoat sat staring ahead with his back straight, suggesting a military background. The carriage door swung open. Modo knew who would be inside even before Mr. Socrates leaned out and motioned him over.

  Modo removed his hat, walked to the carriage, and climbed in, closing the door behind him. He sat down on the red velvet bench across from his master. Mr. Socrates was wearing a black dress coat with a fur collar, opened to reveal his blue jacket, his white vest, and the gold chain of his watch. His top hat sat beside him like a companion. Modo would have considered Mr. Socrates an old man, with his white, closely cropped hair and wrinkled face, but his eyes held a wellspring of energy and strength that would have intimidated anyone half his age.

  Mr. Socrates tapped his walking stick on the ceiling of the carriage and they began to roll down the street. He appraised Modo for several moments and nodded to himself as though a question had been answered, then leaned forward on his stick.

  “So, what did you discover about the illustrious Alexander King?”

  “He is quite mad.”

  “One would expect so, since he is housed in Bedlam. Did you ascertain anything specific from meeting him? Details about his past, perhaps? His occupation?”

  Modo leaned on his walking stick, until he realized he was unintentionally mimicking Mr. Socrates. “Uh, well, he has rough hands, so that suggests that he has done some labor. His diction isn’t of the lower classes, though. He is partially tanned, so he has spent a good deal of his time outside. I would guess that he is a naturalist or an engineer.”

  Mr. Socrates nodded. “Good observations, though the last is incorrect. King is an explorer. A second-class one, to be sure. But we keep tabs on all the explorers, even the unsuccessful ones.”

  “His accent was Canadian,” Modo added.

  “Yes, he’s from Vancouver.”

  Ah, another morsel from my master, Modo thought dryly. “You seem to know quite a bit about him. Why didn’t you give me this information before the interview?”

  “I wanted an unprejudiced view, so to speak. I have now told you most everything I know about our mutual friend. The only other fact is that he was recently brought back to London from Australia by our government.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s suspected in a death or two.”

  “Whose deaths?”

  “A fellow adventurer from Germany. And the death of Dr. Livingstone.”

  “But Livingstone died of natural causes!”

  “According to the papers, yes. And that’s the story the government will always give to the public. But the evening he died, he wrote in his diary—a diary that’s been kept a secret—that he was about to dine with Mr. King. The same Mr. King who was reported to have been climbing with Josef Stimmler a few weeks earlier on Mount Kilimanjaro. Stimmler fell to his death on that climb. Odd to have two explorers die within such a short period of time and in the company of the same person. I wouldn’t call this coincidence.”

  “So why did he murder them?”

  “That’s what I was hoping you’d shed some light on. Alas, you haven’t been successful in gathering any pertinent information.”

  “I did my best, sir,” Modo snapped, surprised at his angry tone. Well, what did Mr. Socrates expect? He’d locked Modo away in that mansion for months, then thrown him into an assignment expecting him to be at the top of his game. “And besides, I haven’t told you everything yet, sir.”

  “When you finish your huffing and puffing, do please tell me.”

  “There are hieroglyphics on the cell wall, written in his own blood, I believe.”

  Mr. Socrates nodded as though he heard these sorts of details every day. “Anything else?”

  “He recited a nonsense rhyme.” Modo paused to call up the words. “ ‘The mountain keen, the forest green, the God Face burns inside. The west at your spine, the face divine. Through the doorway go, beneath the Horus stone. The face it waits, it waits, it waits.’ ”

  “Well, he won’t give Coleridge a run for his money,” Mr. Socrates said, and chuckled.

  Modo smiled broadly. He loved Coleridge’s poetry and was pleased to think his master read him too. Mr. Socrates might even be old enough to have known Coleridge himself.

  Mr. Socrates rubbed his chin. “His poetic rantings do sound rather mad. Most likely pointless drivel. But could it perhaps be a riddle?”

  So I was sent to discover pointless drivel, Modo thought. “I do wonder, sir, why I had to sneak in. Why didn’t you just pull a few strings and make an appointment yourself?”

>   “Sometimes it’s best not to tip your hand, Modo. Even to members of one’s own government. A formal request would have resulted in questions and I would have had to respond, which likely would have involved reams of paperwork. An undocumented visit solves that.”

  The carriage rattled along. Modo wanted to ask Mr. Socrates many things, including “Why haven’t I been given any assignments for over two months?” But he took a deep breath. It wasn’t his place to question. He was here to follow orders.

  They crossed the familiar iron and granite Westminster Bridge, which was clogged with traffic. The sight of the Houses of Parliament made Modo feel a little nauseated. Would he ever be able to view them again without remembering the monstrous creation the Clockwork Guild had built to attack the government? He and Octavia had joined forces against it; if not for Octavia, he would have drowned in the Thames. Twice now she had saved his life, and she would hold that fact over his head until the day he died. Unless, of course, he could find a way to save her life in return.

  As the carriage plowed through the traffic, Modo turned his attention to Westminster Abbey, next to the Houses of Parliament. A majestic sight—the seat of civilization, of the very Empire. The was what the Permanent Association was fighting to preserve. Mr. Socrates was looking at the Abbey too.

  “They buried Livingstone today,” he offered. “I’ll miss the old man.”

  “You knew Dr. Livingstone?” Modo asked.

  “Yes, he had a great mind, though he was a little too much of a missionary for my taste. I supported his appointment as a consul for the east coast of Africa by the Royal Geographical Society. He was a good friend.”

  “Why didn’t you attend the funeral?” The question had slipped out. “I’m sorry, sir, was that too personal?”

  “I’m not one for long goodbyes, Modo. When I depart this world, just set me on a burning boat and push me out to sea. The Norsemen knew how to do funerals.”