Secrets of the Dragon Tomb

by Patrick Samphire

  Yeah, because Mama loved hanging out there.

  “Follow me,” Freddie whispered. Gripping his walking stick, he led the way down the corridor. He held up his hand as he reached the balustrade above the main stairs. A moment later, he was back, shaking his head. He raised a finger for silence.

  “What is it?” I hissed as soon as we were away from the stairs.

  “Someone’s down there,” Freddie said. “We’ll take the servants’ stairs.”

  “Don’t we want there to be someone down there?” I said. “I mean, we were worried when we couldn’t hear anyone. Now you’re worried that you can?”

  “The voice I heard wasn’t anyone in your family. Trust me. I’d recognize them. This was someone else.”

  I remembered Jane walking with a man on the lawn. “Maybe it was one of Jane’s suitors.”

  “Maybe,” Freddie said.

  The servants’ staircase was narrow and poorly lit. We paused at the top, letting our eyes adjust, then Freddie started down, holding his walking stick before him like a sword.

  My heart thumped loudly in my chest. My hands were getting sweaty. I wiped them nervously on my waistcoat. I’d always wanted to be a spy. But spies didn’t react like this. Not in their own houses. I clenched my hands to stop them from shaking. Freddie threw me a glance, but he didn’t say anything.

  The door at the bottom was ajar. Light from the corridor filtered through the crack. I peeked through, but I couldn’t see anyone. The hinges were well oiled, and the door opened without noise. Freddie leaned down until his lips were next to my ear.

  “The voice came from the drawing room. Do you think you can get around the outside and come in through the conservatory?”

  “I don’t have a key,” I replied. “It’ll be locked.”

  Freddie pressed a metal key into my hand.

  “Does everyone else have one of these?” I said.

  “I borrowed it,” Freddie said. “When you get around, I want you to open the door to the drawing room as loudly as you can. That’ll distract whoever is in there. That’s when I’ll make my move.”

  I looked at him skeptically. “What if there’s more than one of them?”

  He winked, then without another word, slipped out. I glowered after him.

  The back door was unlocked. Beyond Mama’s herb garden, the Martian wilderness tangled around the columns of red rock. I could just make out the pillar Freddie had crashed his cycle-copter into yesterday. No one seemed to be watching.

  I eased myself out.

  The conservatory ran the length of the house. Its high, curved glass roof, supported by steel arches, reached to the second floor of the house. Vines and thick leaves pressed against the inside of the glass, forming an impenetrable wall of green and red. The key screeched horribly in the lock.

  I slipped out of the warm sun into the humid shade of the conservatory. Tall Martian trees arched over me. Hover flowers from the slopes of Olympus Mons drifted between branches. A pair of wrestler-palms grunted and creaked as they attempted to throw each other to the ground. Thick wig-trees cast deep shadows. Papa’s mechanical spiders scurried around, trimming back the fast-growing plants and pulling away fallen leaves. The constant ticking of their legs on glass and over leaves was enough of a background noise to cover the sounds I was making.

  I crept through the conservatory, ducking automatically to avoid the lunging serpent oak.

  The conservatory opened into the garden room. A few wicker-seated chairs leaned against one wall, and a small table stood in front of the fireplace. All I had to do was sneak across the room, making sure the floorboards didn’t creak, then fling the door open.

  I rolled my shoulders and dried my hands on my waistcoat again.

  Captain W. A. Masters wouldn’t delay.

  I could do this. It was time to save my family. It was time to be a hero.

  I stepped into the doorway.

  And something sharp pricked the back of my neck.

  8

  Destroyed

  “Don’t make a sound,” a voice whispered in my ear. “Don’t even breathe.”

  I stopped dead. The point of a knife scraped across my skin. A trickle of warm blood mingled with my drying sweat.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw the tall native Martian we’d chased last night.

  “Good,” he breathed. “Now, slowly, let’s go.” With his free hand, he pushed me.

  My mind whirred like a spinning cog. The native Martian must have been waiting in the conservatory, and I’d walked right past him. How could I have been so stupid?

  Now there would be no one to cause a distraction, no one to give Freddie the moment he needed to try to set everyone free. The man’s knife followed me as I took a reluctant step. He shoved my shoulder again.

  Each time he pushed, there was a split second when the knife left my neck.

  “Don’t even think it,” the Martian whispered.

  I stiffened.

  “I can read your mind, boy,” the Martian said.

  “No, you can’t!” I said. He couldn’t, could he? I’d never heard of native Martians reading minds.

  He chuckled softly. “I won’t hesitate to kill you if you try anything. You think you’re fast? I’m faster. Ask yourself, boy, do you want to die?”

  I shivered. I didn’t want to die. Not here. Not now. Not so uselessly. Feeling like I was betraying Freddie and my family, I let the man push me into the drawing room.

  Most of my family was seated on a couple of chaise longues, but Jane was standing near one wall. Frog-face was next to her, holding a knife to her neck. There was a purple bruise on the side of his head where Putty had hit him with a branch last night. All the color had gone out of Jane’s face, and she was swaying, as though she might faint at any moment. Putty looked rebellious and angry. Papa looked lost.

  Frog-face and the Martian weren’t alone anymore. A third man was with them. I looked across at him and blinked. Was he wearing a mask?

  No. He wasn’t wearing it. It was part of him. It was made of metal and fastened into his face with clamps like claws or insect legs. They dug deep into his flesh, stretching his face as tightly as if someone had grabbed it in a fist and pulled. Just looking at it made me feel sick.

  The Martian chuckled. “That’s Apprentice. Cause trouble and he might just give you a little kiss.”

  Apprentice said nothing. His breath hissed through a narrow grille in the front of his mask. He was wearing a long coat even though it was hot. The coat had round metal buttons as wide as golf balls stitched all over it. It hung heavily from his shoulders and swung ponderously when he moved.

  The Martian shoved me again.

  “Found this one sneaking about,” he said to Frog-face in a low voice. “Thought he might be more comfortable with his family. Little lost duckling.”

  I glared at him, and he chuckled again, his eyes fixed on a point several inches above my head. For some reason, the fact he wouldn’t look me in the eyes bothered me almost as much as the metal mask that had ruined Apprentice’s face.

  “Where’s Frederick Winchester?” Frog-face asked. “And don’t pretend he’s not here. We know he is.”

  “He decided to take a walk,” I said loudly, hoping Freddie would hear me through the door. “He said he had a headache.”

  “Keep your voice down,” the Martian said, jabbing me with his knife. I winced as it cut into my skin again.

  “Leave him alone!” Papa said.

  Frog-face took a step and smacked Papa across the face with the back of his hand. Papa’s head rocked back, and his glasses went flying.

  “What do we do?” the Martian asked. “Wait for Winchester to show up?”

  “No,” Frog-face said. “We can’t afford to wait. We’ve got enough hostages, and Winchester is an idiot. He’ll be no danger. Apprentice.” He nodded at the third man. “You look for Winchester. When you find him, kill him. Then come back and cover this lot.”

  This time, Appre
ntice did speak, but I couldn’t work out what he was saying. Instead of words, the mask let out a series of loud clicks. Immediately, the buttons on his coat split and lifted away in a whir of metallic wings. In moments, a cloud of clockwork beetles surrounded him, their sharp pincers glittering in the gaslight. Jane screamed. Mama clutched Papa’s hand in a white-knuckled grip.

  Apprentice strode to the drawing room door, and the clockwork beetles rushed ahead of him. I bit my lip as he pulled the door open, but the corridor was empty. Apprentice and his swarm slipped out. I hoped Freddie had found somewhere good to hide.

  “You and you.” Frog-face pointed to Papa and Mama. “You come with us. In front.” He tugged Jane through the door.

  “Where are you going?” I demanded.

  The Martian cuffed me across the back of the head. “Shut up.” He shoved me toward the nearest chaise longue. “Sit there.”

  I collapsed onto it, between Olivia and Putty. My legs were shaking.

  “Now,” the Martian said, “if any of you three brats so much as move, I’m going to slit you from ear to ear. Hear me?” He fingered the back of his head and winced. “Especially you.” He jabbed his knife at Putty. She glared, and I laid a restraining hand on her leg.

  After a couple of minutes, the faint gurgle of Papa’s water abacus came from the basement.

  I fixed the Martian with a cold gaze. “You’re not going to get away with this.”

  Papa had sent his note to the magistrate last night. Town was ten miles away, but surely the guards would be here soon? I was surprised they weren’t already. Maybe the magistrate had told them to wait until after the garden party.

  The Martian’s eyebrows rose. “Really? Who’s going to stop us?”

  I didn’t answer.

  He grinned. “You weren’t expecting rescue, were you?”

  He reached into his waistcoat pocket, pulled out a folded letter, and threw it to the floor. I recognized Papa’s seal on the letter. It had been sliced open and read.

  “No one is coming,” our captor said. “No one will rescue you.”

  Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside.

  The Martian crossed silently to stand next to our chaise longue, his knife held out of sight behind his back. A moment later, the footsteps stopped. The door swung open, and Freddie sauntered in.

  “There you are!” he called. His ever-present walking stick swung jauntily from his hand. “Thought I’d wandered into the wrong house again. Ha-ha. Did I tell you about the time when old Tuffy and I got completely…” He seemed to notice the Martian for the first time. “I say, have we met?” He took a couple of steps toward the Martian, shifting his stick to his left hand and holding out his right. “Jolly good to meet you. Frederick Winchester.”

  The Martian stepped past me. In a single, fluid move, his knife darted out, stabbing toward Freddie’s throat.

  He didn’t get a chance to finish his move. Freddie’s walking stick whistled up faster than I could follow and struck the Martian on the hand. The knife spun away.

  The Martian shoulder-charged Freddie. He was larger and heavier, and Freddie had no time to dodge. The impact knocked him back. They tumbled to the floor, but even as they fell, Freddie twisted in the air. They landed with a crash that shook the floorboards. The force of the landing stunned them both for a second.

  I dived from the chaise longue, sprawling toward the fallen knife. My fingertips hit the hilt, sending it spinning away. I scrambled after it.

  The Martian was the first to rise. He shook himself free of Freddie’s grasp, drew back his fist, and thundered it toward Freddie’s chin.

  Freddie jerked his head aside. The fist smacked the floor. The Martian roared in pain.

  The knife had come to rest not three feet from the fight. I lunged, but too slowly. The Martian saw me and kicked my legs away. I fell. He shoved me aside and reached for the knife. Triumphantly, he snatched it up.

  Just as Freddie’s walking stick whipped down on the back of his head.

  The Martian collapsed on the floor.

  The next second, Putty was at my elbow, helping me up. Olivia sat like a statue on the chaise longue, gaping at Freddie.

  Freddie knelt beside the fallen Martian and, with one swift tug, tore the man’s shirt from his back. He ripped the shirt into strips, then twisted them into ropes and tugged at one. “That should hold him.” He lashed the man’s wrists together, then his ankles. He pulled the Martian’s legs up behind him and tied his ankles to his wrists.

  “Aren’t you going to gag him?” Putty asked. “What if he calls out?”

  “Best not,” Freddie said. “Not unless you want him to choke while he’s unconscious. Anyway, if he calls out, that might be a distraction we can use. Now.” He climbed to his feet and pulled me to one side.

  “They sent someone to look for you,” I said.

  Freddie hefted his walking stick. “He was looking the wrong way. Those beetles are useless without anyone to command them.”

  “Then I hope you hit him hard.”

  “Hard enough. What did they do with Jane and your parents?”

  “Frog-face took them with him,” I said. “They went down to Papa’s workshop.”

  Freddie tipped his head to one side questioningly. “Who?”

  “The other intruder,” I said.

  Freddie nodded. “It’s going to be hard to get to them without being seen.”

  “Impossible,” I said. We wouldn’t even get close before Frog-face saw us. “Why don’t we just let them do it? All they want is to use Papa’s water abacus to decode that map. Give them what they want and let them go.”

  The Martian groaned. Freddie hurried over, knelt beside him, and peeled back an eyelid. The Martian’s eye was rolled back, showing the white.

  “Still out,” Freddie said. He straightened. “The only reason they’re keeping your father alive is because they need him to work the abacus. Once they’ve got their answers, they’ll kill him and destroy the machine. They might take one hostage with them—Jane, probably—but the rest of you? They’d be happier if you were dead.” He shook his head. “These people aren’t playing games, Edward. If the map really does show a hidden dragon tomb, whoever finds it will make a fortune. Every single dragon tomb has contained fantastic technology far beyond anything we could have come up with, as well as terrible weapons. The Emperor Napoleon’s agents are all over Mars, sniffing after the secrets of the dragon tombs. There’s no limit to how much they would pay. We can’t let the emperor get his hands on a new tomb.”

  I gritted my teeth. “So how do we stop them?”

  Freddie scratched at his head. “What’s on the other side of the workshop wall, behind the water abacus?”

  “The winding room,” Putty said, coming up beside us. “You want to destroy the abacus, don’t you? Papa isn’t going to be happy.”

  “He can rebuild it,” I said.

  “You won’t break through,” Putty said. “The wall’s solid brick. Papa reinforced it when he built his workshop.”

  “If the boiler explodes, it’ll rip through that wall,” Freddie said. “The abacus will be torn apart.”

  “And so will anyone in the laboratory,” I said. “Papa and Mama and Jane. Forget it, Freddie. We should go for reinforcements. Men with guns. Surround the place and tell the man down there to give himself up. He’s on his own. He can’t escape.”

  “Too slow,” Freddie said. “Trust me, Edward. We can get your family out before the boiler blows.”

  I sighed. “Fine. But, Putty”—I looked at my little sister—“I want you to get Livvy out of here, far away from the house. When the boiler explodes, everyone inside will be in danger.” I held up my hand as she started to protest. “You need to look after Livvy.”

  I met Olivia’s eyes over Putty’s head, and she nodded minutely in understanding.

  “Good,” Freddie said. “Then I’m going to need you to go down to the winding room. Close all of the valves from the boiler to s
top the steam coming out and build up the pressure. You’ll need to get the automatic servants shoveling coal into the furnace until the pressure is high enough for it to explode.”

  “They’ll be killed!” Putty said. “You can’t do that.”

  “They’re not alive,” Freddie said brusquely. “They’re machines.”

  Olivia slipped an arm around Putty’s back. “We have to go, Parthenia.”

  Freddie met my gaze and held it. “When the boiler starts to overheat, just get out of here. Don’t wait for me. You won’t have much time.”

  * * *

  Most of the automatic servants had returned to the winding room, their springs run down by the garden party. They’d backed onto their spindles, and the slow grind of the powerful steam engine vibrated the room. I disengaged the spindles, and the servants jerked forward.

  They weren’t conscious. Their only thoughts were switches and gears and fine cogs, and a series of commands stored on punch cards that sent them about their duties. But these servants had been here for most of my life. They’d always been around, doing all the work that we didn’t want to do. It seemed wrong to do this to them. But Freddie was right. Without them, the chute that fed coal into the furnace would be too slow. We’d never build up enough pressure.

  Reluctantly, I crossed to the brass speaking tube. “Shovel coal into the furnace,” I said. “As fast as you can. Don’t stop. Ten copies.” Inside the machine, cogs whirred and levers pinged, translating my voice into a pattern of holes on cards. The punched cards shot into the tray. I collected them.

  A couple of the servants were absent, still working out on the lawn or in the house somewhere. Maybe when the boiler exploded, they’d be all right. The ones down here wouldn’t have a chance.

  One by one, I fed the punch cards into the servants’ command slots. Without a word, they turned from me, picked up shovels, and began to pile coal into the front of the furnace. I felt the heat in the room rise.

  I crossed to the boiler and closed the valves that let the steam reach the turbines. Now it had nowhere to go. As more water boiled, the steam would build up, increasing the pressure, until the boiler couldn’t hold it anymore. Then it would erupt.