Empire of Ruins (13 page)

The falconer’s disappearance was discovered when the steward went to make up his room the next morning. Everyone on board began gossiping about Mr. Carpenter, dreaming up theories about what could have happened. There was an unscheduled stop at the next port, where an inspector boarded the
Rome
and sniffed around. Because the captain was an old friend of Mr. Socrates, he took Mr. Socrates’ advice that it not be a long investigation. There were a few papers for the captain to fill out, but Mr. Carpenter wasn’t the first passenger to take it into his head to jump into the ocean. Soon the ship was on its way again.

Mr. Socrates stared out his porthole. The appearance of this enemy agent meant that the Guild wanted the map. So it was safe to assume they didn’t know exactly where the God Face was. And if Carpenter had been the only agent in pursuit, then Mr. Socrates had put even more space between him and his enemies. He was ahead in the game.

He picked up the falcon and turned a small key in a slot in the mechanical creature’s skull. The eyes blinked. It leaned forward, snapped its beak, and nearly caught his finger. He withdrew the key and the eyes went dead. Amazed, he shook his head. A marvelous piece of workmanship.

M
iss Hakkandottir stood at the prow of a large boat rowed by four soldiers in dark civilian clothing. Her steamship, the
Kraken
, was anchored out at sea disguised as a large transport. The twenty-one-pounder guns were hidden under canvas and more than a hundred Clockwork Guild soldiers were at the ready below deck. Everyone above deck was dressed as a civilian sailor. There was no point in alarming the Australian authorities at Port Douglas. As the men rowed, she pulled a large leather glove over her metal hand.

It had been a long journey from Atticus, the island at the center of the Guild’s operations. A few days earlier the Guild Master had summoned her to his crystal palace and told her to man an expedition to discover this temple. Visser had sent a telegram: he had been forced to abandon the mission. The Guild must get a step ahead of the Permanent Association.

They docked and Miss Hakkandottir climbed onto the pier. One man stayed with the boat while the other three followed her into Port Douglas. Not much to the place: several sturdy houses, a general store, a hotel with a pub, and a small church that had seen the bad end of too many storms.

She knew that the drunkard explorer Alexander King had discovered the legendary temple, then gone mad. Their agents had been able to gather that much before the Colonial inspectors handed King over to the British to be transported back to England in shackles. His insanity could be the result of jungle fever, or confirmation of the powerful artifact rumored to be hidden on the temple site. The fact that Mr. Socrates was following the map meant it was likely more than a rumor.

She deduced that King would have looked for his guides at the pub first, and that was where he would have hired Fred Land. Once Land had stolen the map from him, King would’ve had to rely on a different source of information.

Miss Hakkandottir walked past the pub to the edge of town, where the houses became shacks and the skin tone of the inhabitants was darker. An Indian man cutting a log with an ax paused to watch her pass. Chinese children chasing stray chickens pulled up short and stepped out of her way. Desperation and poverty were always useful.

A withered Chinese woman sat outside one of the shacks, stirring a pot of boiling cabbage. Her gray, stringy hair fell loose upon her shoulders and her clothing was a patchwork of rags. Miss Hakkandottir stopped in front of her; the woman didn’t look up.

“A white man hired guides or porters from here a year ago,” Miss Hakkandottir said in perfect Cantonese. She had
learned it during her pirating days in Hong Kong. “They went into the jungle together. Are any of those men still here?”

The old woman looked up, one eye milky with cataracts. With her good eye she examined Miss Hakkandottir for several seconds. “I have no teeth.”

“A pity,” Miss Hakkandottir replied.

“I want teeth,” she said.

Miss Hakkandottir reached into her pocket and placed a silver coin in the woman’s outstretched hand. “This will be enough to buy wooden teeth.”

“Yes, yes,” the woman said. She pointed farther down the lane. “In the red hut is a bad-luck man who went with the white man into the jungle. His name is Zedong.”

“May you eat well,” Miss Hakkandottir said, and she stepped past the woman.

A dog growled, then fled as she approached the red hut, the burly soldiers at her back. She knocked; no answer. She pulled open the door, releasing a thick cloud of opium smoke. Three men were crouched around a patch of bare earth, placing mah-jongg tiles. At the sight of her, they stopped playing.

“I’m looking for Zedong,” Miss Hakkandottir said.

“That’s me.” A middle-aged man looked up at her. His thin dark hair was cut short. His eyes were pinched with lack of sleep.

“Did you guide Alexander King into the jungle?” she asked.

“I no longer guide.” He went back to arranging the tiles.

“That’s not what I asked.” She stepped in and kicked aside the tiles. “Your game is done. I asked you a question.”

“Go away,” Zedong said as he stood. He nodded at one companion, who drew a knife from his belt; the other stood holding an ax handle as a club. “We no longer traffic with foreigners. They are mad.”

The soldiers behind Miss Hakkandottir didn’t flinch or reach for their own weapons.

“You will traffic with me,” she said calmly. With her gloved hand she grabbed the knife blade by the sharp edge and snapped it in two, then kicked the man’s knee so hard he collapsed in pain. The second man swung his club and she deflected the blow, then crushed the man’s solar plexus. Both men writhed on the ground between her and Zedong.

“Please, come with us,” she said kindly. “We will take care of you and you will give us directions.”

Zedong dropped the tile he was holding. “You do make a compelling offer,” he said. “Besides, I was losing the game.”

Miss Hakkandottir laughed. At least he had a sense of humor; that would keep him alive longer. She turned, not bothering to see if he followed her out of the hut.

A
week later, when Western Australia was sighted, Modo was one of the first passengers to run to the port side of the ship and stare over the railings at the sandy beaches and brushy landscape. He sighed—it was so good to see land again after days on the rough open sea. They had been traveling for over a month and a half, but now it would be less than a week before they reached Sydney.

Soon nearly every first-class passenger was lined up along the railing, holding down hats in the warm breeze. Octavia and Mrs. Finchley squeezed in beside Modo. They pointed at flocks of birds. When the birds circled a bit closer, he recognized them as buzzards.

“The water is such a bright blue,” Octavia said, “and the sand so white.”

Modo squinted. “White as salt.”

Mrs. Finchley was pressing so hard on her hat that it was
losing its shape. “It looks uncivilized,” she pronounced. “I hope Sydney has more to offer than this!”

Modo had to agree. All that was visible were rocks, sand, and acres and acres of brush on flat dry land. No birds other than the buzzards. No kangaroos, creatures he’d been hoping to see since he was a child. No sign of human habitation. In fact, it was the most desolate patch of land Modo had ever seen. Even the sands along the Suez Canal and the Red Sea had some green growth, and numerous huts and villages.

Gradually, the passengers grew bored, wandering away.

“I have sewing to do,” Mrs. Finchley said with a sigh. “If all of Australia is this breezy, I’ll need chin straps for my hats. Mr. Reid, would you be so kind as to escort your cousin back to her cabin when she is finished sightseeing?”

“My pleasure,” Modo said, then corrected himself. “It would be my honor, in fact.”

Mrs. Finchley laughed and left them.

For a while Modo and Octavia watched the landscape pass by silently. It was the first time in weeks that they had been alone together.

“Australia is a hundred times larger than England,” Modo said, to break the silence.

“I’m aware of that, cousin,” Octavia said. “I’m not a complete dunderhead.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that you were.”

“I know. I know. I’m only frustrated. I’ve never been cooped up on a ship for so long. Our trip to New York was a lark compared to this.”

“I must say that I, too, am tired of the shipboard life, cousin,” Modo replied. He really didn’t like being her
cousin. Then again, he reminded himself, cousins did marry in polite society.

He turned to her. “I’m proud, at least, that I haven’t yet fallen into the ocean.”

Octavia chuckled. He was pleased to see that mischievous light shine in her eyes at this reference to their last voyage. “Yes. Glad you’re not letting that become a habit.” She looked around. No one was near. “Modo, I …”

“Yes?”

“I’ve been ignoring you. I apologize for that.”

So it hadn’t been his imagination. “Well, you’ve had so many officers to talk to.”

“Jealous?”

“No,” Modo insisted.

“I’m only playing my part, Modo. A woman of my advanced age must find a husband before she becomes an old maid.” Modo smiled. Octavia was only seventeen at the most. “Besides, Mrs. Finchley has chaperoned every one of those conversations.”

“Then, why …?” Better to be blunt. “Why have you been ignoring me?”

“I—I will admit, Modo, that you are more than just a fellow agent. You are a friend. And … well, I’m … I’m just so curious about you. But you’re such a big secret … an
enigma
is the word Mrs. Finchley would use.”

“She called me an enigma?”

“No. But she has been teaching me some big words. Proper words. So many words I could scream, actually. In any case, I feel at times that I don’t really know who you are.”

“I’m your friend.”

“Yes. But who
are
you?”

What is the answer?
he thought, once again confused by her.
I am Modo. I’m just Modo
. He felt like shouting it until all the passengers turned their heads to look at him.
I am Modo! The one who spends countless hours in my cabin, hiding my ugly body, my terrifying face. I’m the one who lives in fear that Octavia might walk in and see me as I really am. I’m the one who’s always on guard
.

This was all about his face. He knew it. She wanted to see it, and had wanted to for months now. She wanted to see his real face—but he would never be able to show it to her.

“I am whoever I want to be,” he finally said.

She nodded. “And that’s the problem. You’re a slippery fish.”

She was comparing him to a fish? Why did everything always come down to his appearance? Couldn’t she see who he was through his eyes? Had she learned nothing of his character after all they’d been through? Mr. Socrates saw his value as an agent. Mrs. Finchley saw his talent. But who would ever see his heart?

“I’m more than a fish, cousin,” Modo snapped.

“I didn’t mean to insult you.”

He sighed. “Allow me to escort you to your cabin. This fish is tired.”