The translation was an instruction manual for the assembly of a machine of some sort, but it wasn’t obvious what the function was. It occurred to Silas that, since this was a highly complex magical device, the instructions for actual operation might be contained in another volume. As yet, he hadn’t heard anything aside from measurements, part descriptions, and building instructions. He did have a knack for discerning purpose during assembly, however, so things would likely become clear soon.
He glanced up to where Jamyang continued dictating to the scholarly man. He looked again. The Lama’s left hand was tapping against his leg in a strange, stuttered rhythm. Monks weren’t known for fidgety behavior. He continued watching the tapping, and it dawned on him why it seemed so strange. Jamyang was sending him a message using code. Thinking quickly, Silas cleared his throat, hoping to get the monk’s attention. He needed to stop and start the message over. The trick worked. The monk paused, fingers poised over his knee, the rest of him giving the appearance of pausing for a particularly difficult translation. A few seconds later, the tapping started again.
Silas said a silent thank you for all the years of practice that increased his memorization skills. He watched the tapping and kept track of the letters in his head.
They will kill me when this is finished (stop). You must stop them from using this machine (stop). It will destroy humanity (stop). The ring is needed but Rachel is required (stop). Her blood is the key (stop).
The message ended. Silas blinked. Rachel’s blood? He needed more information. He stared at Jamyang’s hand, willing it to send more letters, but none came. When he looked up, he realized the room was silent. The book was closed and the scribe was looking around anxiously. The translation was complete.
A guard at the back of the room opened the door enough to address someone standing outside. There was the sound of shoes running on stone, then nothing more. A few minutes passed in awkward silence before Brother Cross returned with a retinue of men.
“I hear that you’ve finished the translation, is this correct?” He stood, arms crossed, looking incredibly angry.
Jamyang nodded slowly. “It is done, as you requested.”
“Excellent.” He smiled and relaxed a bit. “Mr. Jensen, if you’d be so kind as to collect the book and its translation, I think it’s time we were on our way.”
Silas swallowed hard and got to his feet, then approached the monk. As he took the book from Jamyang, he tried to think of anything he could do to save the man. Resigned dread settled into his stomach as he realized there was nothing he could do; he was completely and totally helpless.
Jamyang smiled kindly. “It is all right. Sometimes fate cannot be avoided. I am not afraid. My work is complete.”
Silas nodded numbly, then turned to collect the transcription. The scribe was far less composed and shook violently as he handed over the green fabric-covered journal. His eyes pleaded for any kind of help. All Silas could offer was a grim smile and a shake of his head. As the first desperate tear slid down the man’s cheek, Silas turned away. He didn’t look back as they led him out of the room and into the hall. He shuddered as the first gunshot echoed through the corridor, followed closely by a second, final burst.
She crept back to the bodies of the guards, but when she heard the shots, Rachel broke into a run. She skidded to a halt in front of the collapsed guards and ripped open the jacket of the nearest one. There were footsteps approaching from around the corner. Lots of them. The body was slumped over onto the same side as his holster and she couldn’t budge him. She tried the other guard. His pistol was free and she snatched at it.
The first of the Brotherhood men turned down the corridor and spotted her. “Brother Cross! One of the women is escaping!”
The first man, followed by five others, charged towards her. Rachel scrambled to her feet and fired at them. One doubled over, but the others pushed him aside and continued their pursuit. She ran, firing another shot behind her, but missing completely. The corner was only feet away. She could make it!
As she stretched out her arm to knock, Mortimer Cross’s face emerged from around the corner. She dug in her heels to stop herself, but her momentum pushed her forward. His arm came up, brass billy club fully extended. With a sharp, downward swing, the metal connected with her head and lights danced in her vision. Rachel knew she was falling, but darkness consumed her before she hit the ground.
Chapter Twenty
The Captives
Sensation returned before she would have liked. Rachel’s head hurt so badly she knew better than to open her eyes. Instead, she remained as she was and allowed her other senses to feed her information. Manacles suspended her arms, her back slumped against a cold metal wall. At least she was seated. With the blow to the head she received, she would no doubt be nauseous when standing, if she was able to do so at all. So, she was a prisoner. That much was obvious and not exactly an improvement from her previous situation.
She continued to take stock of anything else she could glean without opening her eyes. As far as she could tell, she was alone. There was another sound though: a deep, steady hum of engines and the occasional clank of metal on metal. This was not the Antigone’s Wrath. She knew the sounds of her ship, and these were foreign. It was also quite cool, given her apparent proximity to machinery. Now this was a puzzle. On any normal ship, a room this close to the inner workings would be warm at the very least. Where was she?
Bracing for the side effects of a head injury, Rachel cracked an eye open. The light was dim, but she could see well enough. Her eyes focused on the floor. For the moment, it was all she would risk trying to see. Black steel swam before her, and she closed her lids as her stomach roiled. Black steel was rare and expensive. It was also incredibly strong. Something nagged at her. Was it just the floor? Breathing slowly and deeply, she opened her eyes again, this time to look at the walls. With surprise, she realized the entire room was made of the material. It shocked her so much, she jerked at the realization, and a powerful wave of nausea sent her reeling. Her stomach heaved and she leaned to the side to avoid retching on herself. The motion only made her sicker. Rachel fought to still herself.
The clacking of hard shoes on metal floor gave her something new to focus on. Not that this was a great development. Now there was no way for her to seem still unconscious. The smell of vomit burned in her nostrils. Perhaps they’d at least mop up the mess. At this thought, she chuckled.
The door opened and Mortimer Cross entered. Her smile instantly faded, replaced by a scowl. She couldn’t see them well, but at least three other men waited outside.
“Hello again, Captain Sterling.” His continued use of that sarcastic tone made her want to rip out his throat. “I trust you’re feeling more cooperative now?”
She remained silent, not giving him the pleasure of a response.
“I thought you might like to know we won’t be arriving at our destination for several days.” He turned his nose up at the repugnant spill on the floor next to her, but she saw the smug grin hidden under his greasy mustache. “I was going to have tea sent down to you, but it appears you haven’t the stomach for it at the moment. Might I inquire if there’s anything else you need?”
Rachel looked up at him, pure innocence on her face. “Why, my dear Mr. Mustache, how could I want for anything in such lavish accommodations?”
He snarled and reached for her. Instead of striking her with his fist, however, he ripped at the chain hanging around her neck. She couldn’t hide her horror. Why hadn’t she given the ring to Iris for safe keeping? Had she been able to stand, she’d have kicked herself for sheer stupidity.
“You have your trinket.” She glared. “Release me.”
Mortimer laughed. “My good captain, surely you don’t think this is all I require of you?”
Rachel blinked at him, the pain in her head making it impossible to mask her confusion.
He didn’t elaborate. Instead, he left without another word. Another man entered a
s Brother Cross left. This one was a short, skinny gentleman who seemed more bored with the situation than anything else.
Without so much as an introduction, he stuck something wet and cold to the back of her head. The sudden sensation caused her to jump, but he pressed down on her right shoulder firmly to keep her in place. He muttered something under his breath that sounded like a chant and her pain receded. Magic. He had to be using Aether Manipulation as Iris had done with Danton. The nausea faded and soon the pounding headache was gone as well. Despite this, her skin still crawled. It was in her blood to hate magic, even if it healed her wounds.
The “doctor” finished his work and left, looking disgusted at having been made to touch her. While she was glad for the absence of pain, dizziness, and nausea, the taint of aether remained with her, and Rachel wondered if she would ever feel normal again.
Silas paced. While he was never fond of traveling over land, and liked less traveling through the air and by ship, all paled in comparison to the discomfort his current method of transport brought him. He never considered himself claustrophobic, but the knowledge of where he was gave him small fits of madness.
He didn’t know exactly what happened to Rachel, but she was on board. From what he overheard, he worked out that two prisoners, most likely Iris and Danton, broke free, but the captain was recaptured. As they brought him down the mountain, he caught a glimpse of a woman’s figure being carried towards the dock. He wished he’d paid more attention to that now, but, at the time, something unexpected pushed everything else away.
The lights from the Antigone’s Wrath reflected off the top of a massive black shape low in the water. The wooden dock ran between, dividing the two. While it had a fearsome reputation, the Antigone’s Wrath had a pleasant glow to it. It was impressive and intimidating, but welcoming. The thing lurking in the darkness was indisputably hostile. Silas couldn’t see its entirety, but it reminded him of the sketches of crocodiles contained in one of his antique books. Black steel armored its hide. Two darkened, bulbous windows donned the front, staring out over the water like monstrous eyes. When he saw the legs, at first he thought he was hallucinating. A pair of appendages stretched backwards towards the shore, paddling listlessly. From the dock, he saw two more of these, only smaller versions, at the front. The machine seemed almost alive, nearly breathing, and he reasoned that Aether Manipulation was involved in its construction. As he walked, he continued to muse about the possibilities, but skidded to a halt when he saw the gangway running from the dock, horizontally across to the portal.
“A submarine vehicle?” He turned to his captors. “Are you mad? I won’t step foot in there.”
Their rebuttal came in the form of a gun barrel aimed directly at his face. Weighing his options, Silas decided it might be better to live a bit longer and risk drowning miles under the water, than to take his chances with a bullet.
At the moment, he wondered if perhaps the choice of a quick death might not have been a wiser one. He cringed and shuddered any time the ship groaned or creaked. According to his watch, barely more than five days passed, but it might have been a month as agonizingly slow as it went by. The first twenty-four hours were a bumpy ride through the lakes and rivers winding through Nepal and Bangladesh, but once they reached the Bay of Bengal, the ride got eerily smooth. The quick look he managed out the windows of the helm on his one trip there told him little about their direction or location. This did nothing to soothe his stretched-thin nerves.
After the rocky first day, Brother Cross introduced Silas to his workshop. Silas was to build the machine for them as they traveled. They refused to tell him where they were going, but ten days was his time frame. The more he worked, the more terrifying the thing became. More than a few minutes with it sent spikes of fear up his spine that made his teeth chatter uncontrollably. What was worse, his machinist brain built the monstrosity in his dreams. Finally, he had a clear idea of what it did and why the Brotherhood wanted it so badly. What he didn’t know was how he was going to alter the plans subtly enough to not raise suspicion while, at the same time, rendering it useless. Every piece was so exacting that if one aspect were changed, the next piece wouldn’t fit. The constant scrutiny of guards didn’t make his job any easier.
He distracted himself with thoughts of his friends. At last glance, the Antigone’s Wrath seemed to be in one piece. There was a chance the crew survived. If Iris and Danton had a breath left between them, they would go after Rachel. That spark of hope remained, however unlikely it might be.
And what of Eddie? A pang of guilt gutted him. The boy was an overzealous innocent who had no business being involved in any of this. Hopefully he was still alive. If he had any sense at all, he’d stay at the monastery, but there were two problems with this. First, how would he get back to England? Second, that would be even more difficult if Silas didn’t return. It wasn’t something he considered before, but there was the distinct possibility that once his job was done, death was all that waited for him. The Brotherhood could promise him safety all they liked, but he didn’t believe for a second there was much worth in those words. Eddie would be safe enough at the monastery. He could send word to his father and get home eventually. Knowing Eddie, however, the boy would tag along with the Antigone’s Wrath crew, thus putting himself right back into danger.
He grimaced. That scenario was far more likely than anything else.
Then there was Rachel. She was aboard, yes, but in what condition? If she escaped once, they probably chained her up somewhere. Under lock and key himself, there wasn’t much he could do. His tools could be used as weapons, but if he managed to get free, where would he go? Being on a submarine left little in the way of escape routes.
This brought him full circle. Faced with futility, he went back to work on the abomination before him.
“I’m not certain this is such a great idea, Princess.” Danton squinted at the harbor skeptically. “How can you be sure your father will help?”
Jiao rolled her eyes. “As I’ve told you several times over the last few days, I know the same way I knew he would let me leave with you in the first place. Stop asking. Repetitive questions are unbecoming.”
They watched from the railing, grim-faced, as the Antigone’s Wrath pulled back into Singapore. Iris managed to save Danton’s life, but Jiao thought his recovery might have been nearly as painful as the initial wounds. Using Aether Manipulation to speed his body’s healing process was faster, but harder to tolerate. Most of his severe injuries were gone after three days, and this was miraculous in itself. Jiao resisted the urge to ask him if he was really up to the plan they formulated. At this point, she was annoyingly fond of the master-at-arms. In the days since she’d come aboard, she’d caught glimpses of her own calculation and world view in the older man. If she could consider any among the crew a kindred spirit, it was Danton DuSalle
In a stroke of good fortune, the Brotherhood left the Antigone’s Wrath unscathed. A handful of crewman died in the initial fight, but when it was apparent they were outnumbered and outgunned, they surrendered. When the enemy withdrew, but the captain did not return, there was chaos. By the time Jiao came back aboard with Danton and Iris, knives had been drawn and the men were snarling at each other like wild animals. With the arrival of the first mate, order was restored, but it was uneasy. Jiao had the feeling a crew change would happen soon, but not before the rescue was launched. They needed practiced hands for their plan to work.
She was only mildly worried that her father would refuse this request. She knew how to handle him well enough. What concerned her most was what he would ask for in return. Yong Wu demanded severe compensation for his assistance in any matter that did not directly benefit him. After looking at the situation from several angles, she thought she found enough reasons persuade him. At least, she hoped she had. Jiao refused to let her doubts get any foothold. There was no room for them.
Her fingers tapped on the railing impatiently. She knew they couldn’t go any fa
ster, but the seconds felt like they were crawling by. Soon enough, the Antigone’s Wrath docked and she was pushing her way down the gangway, Danton in tow. Despite the best efforts of vendor wagons and rickshaw drivers to the contrary, they arrived at her father’s compound quickly. The guards were so surprised to see her that they barely glanced at Danton. Three of the men popped to attention and the fourth scrambled to open the gate. Jiao made it clear with a look that she wouldn’t be stopping to exchange pleasantries. Danton ignored them completely, doing his best to disappear in her wake.
Shouts rang through the courtyard, announcing their presence. It was after the noon meal, and Yong Wu would likely be napping. Instead of waiting for her father in the reception hall, Jiao went directly to his private chambers. He wouldn’t care for that at all, but catching him unprepared was part of her strategy.
The wooden doors flew open with a bang as she made her entrance. “You tried to have me killed! How could you?” She railed Chinese accusations at him with practiced fury.
Rage replaced shock as Yong Wu pushed aside the young, scantily clad woman offering him a teacup. “Jiao! How dare you address me with such disrespect! Explain yourself!”
Still indignant, she crossed her arms and stared him down. “Those men you sent, the ones in the black hats, they tried to kill me. Do not pretend ignorance.”
Yong Wu stood slowly, his face growing redder by the second. “Did you say men in black hats? They were at the monastery? In MY territory? Without MY permission?” He was not speaking directly to her now, as he looked towards his bedroom door. A cluster of guards gathered there, and a hunched man wrung his hands worriedly, eyes flitting everywhere except Yong Wu’s penetrating stare. Danton had backed away out of sight.
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