Empire of Ruins (17 page)

She didn’t move from her position.

An hour later one of the soldiers stumbled out, his face bloody, and fell at her feet, staring directly into the sun.

“What happened?” she asked. “What did you see?”

She kicked him in the ribs. He had scratches all over his face, and his fingernails were broken and stained with blood. Had he gouged his own face? His uniform
was drenched in sweat, and he had perhaps even soiled himself.

“Take him away,” she commanded bitterly, and two Guild soldiers carried him down to the medical tent.

She stared into the dark, blast-marked mouth of the sphinx. So the God Face was real. She began to feel an emotion she hadn’t experienced for a very long time.

Fear.

T
he moment the
Prince Albert
left the earth, Octavia felt as though she’d bark up her breakfast. But, as with any other time she was upset or afraid, she gritted her teeth and put on a smile. She drew particular inspiration from Lizzie, who wasn’t the least bit bothered by the heights or the blustery wind. She was busy at the wheel, handling it as though she were piloting an ocean steamer through calm waters. The fact that it was actually a few thousand pounds of metal, wicker, and human flesh floating above the earth seemed not to trouble her. As she stared out at the horizon through her goggles, Lizzie looked as though she had flown hundreds of times.

After a few minutes the butterflies in Octavia’s stomach vanished and a sense of exhilaration rushed through her. How many people had ever been above the earth in a balloon? If the pickpockets and drunkards she’d grown up with at Seven Dials could see her now, they’d be yellow-gloakin’
jealous to the gills. She was the queen of the sky! Or at least this little bit of it.

She could tell Modo was afraid by the way he had gripped the guide ropes and the railing when the
Prince Albert
took to the air. She couldn’t believe he was the same person who’d climbed some of the highest buildings in London, but she decided not to tease him. He was such a hard person to read sometimes. Right now his body was slim and a little taller, but she knew that it would gradually widen and he’d cover himself and become more … crooked. He already looked hunched over as he tended to the firebox. The more crooked he became, the more he retreated into himself.

She distracted herself by looking down at the landscape, which was marked with rivers and roads like a great map. Mr. Socrates had given her the task of making tea, using steam from the engine to heat the kettle. “I’m not a bloody steward!” she’d wanted to say, but at least it was something to do.

When the tea was ready, Mr. Socrates directed everyone to gather at the bow of the airship. Octavia brought a tray of teacups, graham wafers, and a hot teapot, cursing silently when the hem of her dress caught on the wicker siding. She had to be so careful in this contraption.

As she served everyone it dawned on her that they were all gathered at the same end. Why hadn’t the thing tipped and thrown them to their deaths? It remained perfectly level.

Her ponderings were interrupted by Lizzie grunting, “No coffee?”

“The aroma of coffee would only spoil the view,” Mr. Socrates answered, sniffing the air. “My goodness! I feel twenty years younger.”

“You look it, sir,” Modo said.

He was quite a quillin’ suck-up some days, Octavia decided. A smack to the side of the head might cure that.

“So you’re feeling ninety, then, sir?” Octavia asked sweetly.

This got a smile out of Mr. Socrates and, more surprising, Tharpa laughed out loud. She’d begun to think the man was as humorless as a stone.

“I appreciate your attempt at cleverness, Octavia,” Mr. Socrates said. “The truth is I’ve been out of the field far too long. I’d forgotten how exhilarating it is.”

She glimpsed the man he must have been many years ago. A young officer. A conqueror. With thousands of similar men exploring, no wonder Britain controlled most of the world.

Mr. Socrates slapped Tharpa’s back. “It reminds me of our time in Africa, remember that?”

“Of course I do, sahib.”

“This is Australia! And to think we’re traversing it by air. We’ve come along much faster than I had expected,” Mr. Socrates said above the engine’s noise. “Thanks to my propeller design! Oh, and Lizzie’s piloting, of course. You must sense the wind streams up here, you’ve done a marvelous job.”

“Coffee would have been nice,” she huffed, and downed the last of her tea.

They returned to their stations. Octavia, with little to
do, paced the car, watching the sky and ground. She knew they were traveling at high speed, but it seemed as though they weren’t moving at all.

She stole the occasional glance at Lizzie, watching her run the wheel and adjust the levers. Octavia couldn’t tell the purpose of much of the equipment.

She found herself drawn to Lizzie’s facial tattoos. She would be an attractive, though hard-looking, woman without them. It took a certain amount of courage to mark your face permanently like that; to say, “This is who I am, take it or shove off.”

She remembered the package Mrs. Finchley had given her, and dug in her rucksack until she found it. When she unwrapped the present and saw the contents, she couldn’t suppress a giggle.

A pair of trousers! Perfectly sewn, khaki colored, and softer than any material a man would wear—but trousers! She read the note in Mrs. Finchley’s tidy handwriting:

Oh, how she would hug the woman the moment they next met.
Trousers!

It was another hour before they slowed and lowered the ship to a mountain steppe to “use the facilities,” as Mr.
Socrates so eloquently put it. She climbed out of the car and down the silk ladder, then changed behind a mulberry bush. The air was colder than she’d expected. She moved her stiletto sheath from her left thigh onto her belt. Mrs. Finchley had given her handy button-up pockets and loops for attaching things to—even a hidden pocket. With her dress thrown over her shoulder, she appreciated how much easier it was to get up the ladder in trousers. No one said anything about her attire, but Modo gave her an amused look.

Soon the airship passed over a town in a green, mountainous region. It looked to be little more than a collection of rectangles and squares. “That’s Murrurundi,” Lizzie said.

“Yes. Of course,” Mr. Socrates said. “We’re doing well, and five thousand feet seems a perfect height.”

Octavia peered over the side. “Five thousand feet?”

“Yes, Octavia, we’re flying higher than most mountains in Australia.”

She couldn’t even make out any people in the town. She knew there must be some down there, staring up and trying to determine the source of that mechanical noise from above.

Modo, his wooden mask now pulled tightly over his face, joined her at the starboard side of the car. She hadn’t noticed him put it on, but could see that he was more hunched over and shorter than before. His dark hair was thinner now too.

She pointed over the side and down. “Imagine, Modo, the natives look up at us as though we’re gods. Of course, if we happened to fall out we’d be flatter than a farthing.”

“Don’t remind me.”

She laughed.

“You’ve put on your mask, Modo. Does it protect you from the headwinds?”

“It’s necessary, that’s all.”

“How did that French spy react when she saw your face?” she whispered. She hadn’t intended ever to ask him such a question, but clearly her anger was still there. She’d thought she was done with all that.

Behind the mask, Modo’s eyes met hers. “She turned away from me.”

“I see.” Octavia paused, then asked, “Did you show your face to her willingly?”

“I did.”

“You did?” she whispered a little too harshly.

He glanced over his shoulder at Mr. Socrates, then back at her. “Would you like to see it, Tavia?” he said quietly. “I could show you now.”

“No,” she said, deciding suddenly that this was the right course. “I don’t care if I ever see it.”

“Then that’s the way it will be,” he declared, and returned to his station next to the firebox.

“Yes, it is,” she said hoarsely.

She looked out at the skyline; the sun was getting lower. She was surprised to feel tears in her eyes. She wiped them away, relieved no one else could see them.

F
or Modo, the first night in the
Prince Albert
was nowhere near as comfortable as the Langham Hotel or even the Rag and Famish. First, they all had to “use the facilities” one last time before sleeping. That involved lowering the airship close to the ground, hooking the anchor in the gray limbs of a lone snow-gum tree, and climbing down the fifty-foot silk ladder. That in itself was an adventure, the silk being such a wisp that it was like grabbing air. Still, it held him and the other two men all at once.

When they were finished, they climbed back up into the car and the women took their turns.

Later, when everyone was aboard, they floated a hundred feet above the earth, sleeping in shifts. Modo had first watch, and stared into the darkness below or the sky above, not sure what enemy he should be looking for. He imagined natives climbing up the anchor rope and spearing them while they slept. Or, for that matter, convicts who’d escaped
the prison islands could still be roaming around this bush. They might just open fire from the ground. Bullets could puncture the balloon. They’d be stranded.

When he wasn’t squinting at the darkened landscape, he examined the moon and stars. They seemed closer. If only the airship could travel a few feet higher, perhaps he could reach out and touch them.

He hadn’t been joking when he offered to show his face to Octavia. He would have done it. He was tired of her wondering what he looked like. Nor did it matter to him anymore that he wasn’t supposed to show his face without Mr. Socrates’ permission. Tharpa saw it every day. Mrs. Finchley did too. Why not Tavia? Since he’d met her eight months earlier, hiding his face from her had become a weight that he carried even when they were apart. She was always in his thoughts; in fact, at times it seemed that his every second thought was about her.

Truthfully, when it came to Tavia he was being an impostor. He removed his mask, looked out at the world, and let the light of the stars fall upon his face.
This is the real me
.

Something creaked behind him, and out of habit, he quickly pushed the mask back on and flipped up his hood to hide his tufty red hair. He swung around, only to find it was Tharpa.

“It’s my watch now, young sahib,” he said. “You sleep.”

Modo rolled up his greatcoat as a pillow and lay down a few inches from Tharpa’s feet. It was cold—his breath was turning to plumes of frost, but the buffalo blankets were thick enough to keep the chill at bay. After several minutes he managed to fall asleep.

It seemed only seconds later when he awoke to Mr. Socrates poking him with his walking stick.

“You’re getting a little too comfortable, Modo. And you’re snoring.”

“It’s his way of frightening away enemies,” Octavia said. “A useful skill, sir.”

Modo grinned, blinking away the sleep, shielding his eyes from the sunlight. He eagerly accepted a cup of tea from Octavia, who said, “I added two spoons of sugar, exactly how you like it.”

An unexpected attempt at a truce. “Thank you,” he said. And the tea was indeed exactly as he liked it.

Soon, Tharpa lifted the anchor, Lizzie lit the boiler, and Modo stood at his station feeding the firebox. The steam engine shook and rattled loudly to life, the propeller began to turn, and they were sailing north.