Behemoth (31 page)

Then he heard it above the hiss of boiling water.

“A walker’s coming.” Dylan pointed ahead. “From that way, dead fast.”

“It sounds big. We’ll have to turn back and face the soldiers.”

“Not if we take those,” Dylan said, pointing at a stone staircase that led down from the plaza.

Alek shook his head. “Too steep.”

“What’s the point of legs if you can’t take the barking stairs? Just get
moving
!”

In English or not, Klopp could tell what they were talking about—he was also staring down the steps. He looked at Alek, who nodded. The old man sighed, then grasped the saunters again.

“Hold on, everyone!” Alek shouted, planting one boot on the satchel at his feet.

The machine tipped slowly forward, then slid, its hooves rattling like a rock drill as they skidded down the steps. Stone dust flew as the taxi bounced back and forth, battering the ancient walls. Klopp somehow kept the machine from tipping over, and at last it reached the bottom, sliding onto level pavement.

Alek heard a
crack
and looked up. Soldiers were taking positions in the plaza above, their rifle muzzles flaring. A two-legged walker strode into view.

Alek blinked—it had Ottoman markings, but it was a German design, not like an animal in any way.

“Get down!” he cried. “And keep going, Klopp!”

The taxi ground back into motion, its gears whining
with every step. As it rounded the next corner, Alek dared to glance back up. Soldiers were streaming down the stairs, but the walker had come to a halt, its crew unwilling to dare the stairway on two legs.

Alek checked the map again. “We’re almost there, Klopp. That way!”

The taxi was limping now, one of its middle legs flailing. But it managed to drag itself onto Zaven’s street, staggering sideways like a drunken crab.

Lilit and her father had heard the commotion, of course—they were waiting with the warehouse door wide open.

“Go fast, Klopp!” Dylan shouted in crude German. “The gyrothopter!”

Alek looked up. He couldn’t see the gyrothopter, but its buzzing sound was building in the air. They had to disappear
now
.

The taxi took another step toward the open warehouse door, then sputtered and died. Klopp whirled the starting crank, but the engine only hissed and spat like a fresh log tossed onto a fire.

“Barking stupid contraptions!” Dylan cried.

“Lilit, if you please?” Zaven said calmly, and she leapt to the controls of the mechanikal arm on the loading dock. It rumbled to life and reached out to slide the taxi through the warehouse door.

The door rolled closed behind them, and Zaven
stepped inside just as the last view of the street disappeared, plunging them all into darkness.

Alek reached down and checked the satchel at his feet—it was still there.

A moment later an electrikal light switched on.

“A most dramatic entrance,” Zaven said, his smile gleaming.

“But won’t someone tell them?” Alek panted, looking at the crack of sunlight beneath the door.

“Fah! Not to worry,” Zaven said. “Our neighbors are all friends. They have ignored greater disturbances than this.” He offered a deep bow. “Greetings, Masters Klopp, Bauer, and Sharp. I welcome you all to the Committee for Union and Progress!”

The Committee’s walkers towered over them like five huge misshapen statues.

“What an odd collection,” Bauer said. “Never seen any of these before.”

“A few of those fought in the First Balkan War,” Klopp said, pointing at the Minotaur. “They were a bit old-fashioned even then.”

“War,” said Bovril, staring up from Alek’s shoulder.

Alek frowned. The first time he’d seen the walkers, he’d assumed the dents in their armor were from training battles. But with the noon sun flooding the vast courtyard,
there was no denying it—these machines were ancient.

“You can fix them up, can’t you?” he asked.

“Perhaps,” Klopp said.

“Fah! We shall fix them together!” Zaven proclaimed. He was already treating Klopp like a long-lost brother. “You may have modern knowledge, sir, but our mechaniks have those skills that can only be passed from father to son—and to daughter, of course!”

“These machines are like family to us,” Lilit said.

Klopp set down his toolbox. “Hmm … grandparents, I suppose.”

No one laughed at this joke except Bovril, who climbed down and scampered across the courtyard to inspect the giant steel hooves of the Minotaur.

Dylan had been standing silently since they’d arrived, his arms folded. But now he spoke in halting German. “How many are there?”

“How many pledged to the revolution?” Zaven rubbed his hands together happily. “We have a half dozen in every ghetto in this city. Almost fifty in all; enough to sweep away the sultan’s metal elephants. We could have done so six years ago, but we were not united then.”

“And now, sir?” Bauer asked.

“Like a fist!” Zaven said, demonstrating with both hands. “Even the Young Turks have rejoined us, thanks to all the Germans marching about.”

“And thanks to the Spider, too, of course,” Lilit said.

Alek looked at her. “The Spider?”

“Shall we show them?” Lilit asked, but didn’t wait for her father to answer. She ran to a large metal door in the courtyard wall, and jumped up to grab a chain hanging beside it. As she climbed it, her weight drew the chain down, and the door began to slide grudgingly upward.

A huge machine stood in the shadows.

Alek had no idea what it was for, but could see why Lilit had called it the Spider. A dark mass of machinery rested at its center, from which eight long jointed arms thrust out. A snarl of conveyor belts led into the core, like on a harvesting combine.

“Is that some sort of walking contraption?” Dylan asked in English.

“They called it ‘the Spider,’” Alek translated, then shook his head. “But it doesn’t look as though it can walk.”

“This is no mere war machine,” Zaven proclaimed. “But a far more powerful engine of progress. Lilit, show our guests!”

Lilit stepped through the doorway, almost disappearing in the shadows beneath the machine’s bulk. A panel of dials and levers flickered to life, showing her in silhouette. She worked the controls, and a moment later the paving stones of the courtyard were rumbling beneath Alek’s feet.

The eight arms began to move, stirring the air like the hands of an orchestra conductor, their manipulator claws making fine adjustments to the conveyor belts and other parts of the machine.

“It does look a bit like a spideresque,” Dylan said. “One of the big ones that weaves parachutes.”

Zaven nodded vigorously, answering her in his flawless English. “The Spider has woven the threads that hold our revolution together. Did you know, lad, that the word ‘text’ comes from the Latin word for weaving?”

“Text?” Alek said. “What does that have to do with … ?”

His voice faded as he saw a flicker of white within the gloom. A roll of paper was unspooling along one of the belts, disappearing into the machine’s dark center. The arms began to whirl through the air, carrying about trays of metal pieces, pouring buckets of black liquid, then cutting and folding the paper with long, nimble fingers.

“Barking spiders,” Dylan snorted. “It’s a printing press.”

“A Spider with a bark, indeed,” Zaven said. “Far mightier than any sword!”

The machine whirred and spun for another minute, then slowed and darkened again. When Lilit emerged from the shadows, she was carrying a stack of neatly folded leaflets covered with inscrutable symbols.

Zaven lifted one up. “Ah, yes, my article on the subject of women being allowed to vote. Can you read Armenian?”

Alek raised an eyebrow. “Alas, no.”

“How unfortunate. But the real message is just here.” Zaven pointed at a row of symbols across the bottom of the page—stars, crescents, and crosses that looked like mere decoration.

“A secret code,” Alek murmured, recalling the markings on the alley walls. With the profusion of newspapers sold on the streets of Istanbul, one more in a hodgepodge of languages wouldn’t attract much notice. But for those who knew the code …

He felt Bovril tugging on his trouser leg. The beast was stepping from one foot to the other.

Alek closed his eyes, and felt the slightest tremor through his boots.

“What’s that rumbling?”

“It feels like walkers, sir,” Bauer said. “Big ones.”

“Have they found us?” Alek asked.

“Fah. It’s just the sultan’s parade, for the end of Ramazan.” Zaven swept one hand toward the stairs. “Perhaps you would all join my family on the roof. Our balcony has an excellent view.”

The Ottoman war elephants paraded down the distant tree-lined avenue, leaving footprints of shattered cobblestones. Their crescent flags snapped in the wind, and their trunks—tipped with machine guns—swayed between long, barbed tusks. They turned in formation, as precise as marching soldiers, heading away toward the docks.

Deryn breathed a sigh of relief, handing the field glasses back to Alek.

“Mr. Zaven’s right. They’re not coming this way.”

“This must be the parade they were getting ready for,” Alek said, then handed the glasses to Klopp.
“Was denken Sie, Klopp? Hundert Tonnen je?”

“Hundert und fünfzig?,”
the master of mechaniks said.

Deryn nodded in agreement. If she understood him rightly, Klopp was guessing the metal elephants weighed a hundred and fifty tons each. Clanker tons were a bit larger
than British ones, she recalled, but the point was clear enough.

Those elephants were barking big.

“Mit achtzig-Millimeter-Kanone auf dem Türmchen,”
Bauer added, which was beyond Deryn’s Clanker. But she nodded again, pretending to understand.

“Kanone,”
repeated Bovril, who was sitting on Alek’s shoulder.

“Aye, cannon,” Deryn murmured, watching the shimmer from the steel turrets on the elephants’ backs. The cannon were the important bit, after all.

Klopp and Alek went on talking in indecipherable Clanker, so Deryn strolled to the far corner of the balcony to stretch her legs. Her bum was still sore from the wild ride in the taxi, which had been worse than any galloping horse. She didn’t understand how Clankers could ride about in machines all day—they way they moved was just dead
wrong
.

“Are you injured?” came Lilit’s voice from just behind her, making Deryn jump a bit. The girl was always sneaking up on her.

“I’m fine,” Deryn said, then pointed down at the war elephants. “I was just wondering, do they often parade about like that, smashing up the streets?”

The girl shook her head. “They usually stay out of the city. The sultan is showing his strength.”

“That’s for certain. Pardon me for saying so, miss, but you can’t beat them. Those walkers carry cannon, and yours have only got claws and fists. It’d be like taking boxing gloves to a pistol duel!”

“The world is built on elephants, my grandmother always says.” Lilit let out a sigh. “It is an old law—our walkers can’t be armed, not like the sultan’s. But at least we’ve scared him. His army wouldn’t be tearing up the streets if he weren’t nervous!”

“Aye, he might be nervous, but that also means he’s ready for you.”

“The last revolution was only six years ago,” Lilit said. “He is always ready.”

Deryn was about to say how cheery a thought that was, but an odd buzzing sound had filled the air. She turned to see a bizarre contraption headed across the balcony. It waddled along on pudgy legs, a cross between a reptile and a four-poster bed, buzzing like a windup toy.

“What in blazes is
that
?”

“That,” Lilit said with a smile, “is my grandmother.”

As they walked back toward the others, Deryn saw a mass of gray hair sprouting from the white sheets. It was an old woman, no doubt the fearsome Nene that Alek had talked about.

Bovril seemed pleased to see her. It scampered down from Alek’s shoulder and across the balcony, then crawled
up to the footboard of the bed. The beastie stood there with its fur ruffling in the breeze, as happy as an admiral at sea.

Alek bowed to the old woman, introducing Master Klopp and Corporal Bauer in a stream of polite Clanker.

Nene nodded, then turned her steely gaze on Deryn.

“And you must be the boy from the
Leviathan
,” she said, her English accent as posh as Zaven’s. “My granddaughter’s told me about you.”

Deryn clicked her heels. “Midshipman Dylan Sharp, at your service, ma’am.”

“From your accent, you were raised in Glasgow.”

“Aye, ma’am. You have a good ear.”

“Two of them, in fact,” Nene said. “And you have an odd voice. Your hands, please?”

Deryn hesitated, but when the old woman snapped her fingers, she found herself obeying.

“Lots of calluses,” Nene said, feeling carefully. “You’re a hardworking lad, unlike your friend the prince of Hohenberg. You draw a bit, and you do a lot of sewing, for a boy.”

Deryn cleared her throat, remembering her aunties teaching her to quilt. “In the Air Service we middies darn our own uniforms.”

“How industrious of you. My granddaughter tells me you don’t trust us.”