Empire of Ruins (24 page)

O
ctavia was awakened by a tickling sensation on her leg. Still in a dreamy fog, she wondered if it was Modo, then thought: he’d never tickle her leg. He wasn’t brave enough.

She opened her eyes, lifted her head from her rolled-up blanket, and caught her breath. A spider the size of her fist was crawling up her leg, the hairs on its dark body white in the moonlight. She held still, out of wisdom, not fear.
You’ve seen worse things in London sewers!
she told herself. The problem was, she didn’t quite know what to do; she wanted to swat it away but couldn’t remember what Mr. Socrates had said about spiders. Would hitting it make it sting her? They bit, that much she remembered. Best to just lie still and hope it would go away. It reached her thigh and rambled, almost drunkenly, toward her midsection. Would the thing leap at her face? She held her breath.

Then a hand appeared out of the darkness and lay, palm
up, on her stomach. “Don’t move,” Lizzie whispered. The spider crawled onto her fingers and up her arm. “This one ain’t poisonous,” she said, guiding it onto a palm-tree frond. The spider crawled away.

“Thank you,” Octavia said. “I wasn’t frightened.”

Lizzie smiled. “No, you weren’t. For a London Town girl, you’re doing well enough.” She extended her hand and helped Octavia to her feet. “Pack up. Mr. Socrates has already given orders to move out.”

And before she was really awake, Octavia found herself marching along in line. She wolfed down a few biscuits on the go.

“No speaking above a whisper,” Mr. Socrates instructed. “We’re likely in the area of the temple now, and we’ll no doubt be running into patrols.”

Since it would be too loud to hack a comfortable path, they were forced to follow the natural trails of the jungle, sometimes crouching and crawling through the vines and leaves. Octavia promised herself that when they got back to Sydney she’d give Mrs. Finchley a big hug for making the trousers. And she’d buy her a glass of wine, too. No! A whole bottle.

As they crossed a narrow, rocky stream, Octavia slipped on one of the stones and caught herself before she could go headfirst into the water. She was getting exhausted and Mr. Socrates showed no sign of wanting a break. The old man was a slave driver! But she had to admit he was a lot tougher than she’d ever imagined.

On the other side of the stream she spotted a human footprint in the mud. “Psst!” she said to the others, and pointed.

“The Rain People,” Lizzie whispered. “Three days old.”

“You can tell just by looking?”

Lizzie smiled for the first time that day. “No. But if I say it with enough confidence, you sterling believe it.”

Octavia had to stop herself from laughing. “What do you mean by sterling?”

“In Australia we call ourselves by currency, so you English are sterling. Understand?”

“But I’m only a few farthings,” Octavia quipped.

Mr. Socrates shot them both a perturbed glance, so they climbed on quietly.

The path gradually became steeper. Here and there stones jutted out of the earth. Octavia had never sweated so much or been bitten by so many insects. She itched. She was tired. And she wished she hadn’t thrown the teapot out of the
Prince Albert
. She couldn’t even take comfort in a cup of tea.

Tharpa had scouted ahead and now returned, quiet as a cat. His eyes were bright with excitement. He led them up to a rocky ledge and pushed aside the vines and fronds. Octavia was surprised to discover that they’d actually climbed quite high. They were looking down at a plateau where there was still evidence of the foundations of an ancient city! Overgrown obelisks and pillars stood up here and there, but the rest of the city had been pulled down by time and the jungle vines. Beyond these ruins the sun shone bright on the face of a small mountain. Gray-clad soldiers were working in the distance, busy as ants, carrying supplies up a set of stone stairs that led past something that looked like a great stone lion.

“So the temple exists!” Mr. Socrates whispered. “Marvelous! And judging by the color on the sphinx, the Egyptians actually carried limestone all the way here. I presume it’s from the coast. They were amazingly industrious!”

“Uh, sir,” Octavia said, “you do see all the soldiers over there, don’t you?”

Mr. Socrates shrugged. “A minor nuisance.”

Had he gone mad or was he just playing with her?

Even from this distance Octavia could see that the sides of the doorway into the temple were ragged, as if it had been blown apart. Many of the trees around the temple had been chopped down, and there were a few dozen Guild soldiers right below them, their white tents bright against the dark green. All were armed. The
Prometheus
was docked on a large flat rock, tied down with ropes.

Several soldiers patrolled the perimeter of the grounds, large hounds at their sides. Octavia had encountered the four-legged monsters before—part metal, part flesh. She didn’t want to get near them again.

“Looks like they’ve been camped here for weeks,” Mr. Socrates said. “Enough time to get well set up.”

“And to die.” Tharpa was pointing at a small graveyard located on the near side of the settlement. No crosses, but each mound was marked with large black stones.

Mr. Socrates pondered. “Sickness, perhaps. Or conflict with the natives.”

“The Rain People are peaceful,” Lizzie said.

“Yes, perhaps, but the Guild are not. And sometimes these conflicts occur despite our better natures.”

Octavia spotted red hair: Miss Hakkandottir was walking
alongside a row of crumbled stone buildings overgrown with vines and small trees.

Octavia pointed her out. “With one shot from the elephant gun we could end this now.”

“Yes, and then we would be swarmed and killed,” Mr. Socrates said. “Besides, the gun is only effective at close range.”

Octavia watched Miss Hakkandottir helplessly as she strode through the camp. She signaled to one soldier; she spoke, he saluted and ran off to do her bidding.
That’s what power is
, Octavia thought.
Powerful people attract followers; they’re decisive
.

“We’ll have to travel farther around the site,” Mr. Socrates said. “We don’t want to take them head-on.”

“When will we enter the temple?” Lizzie asked.

“Tonight,” he answered. “When it’s dark we’ll sneak in.”

“You’ll have to be a lot quieter,” a voice said from above.

Octavia whipped out her stiletto. Mr. Socrates aimed his elephant gun toward the voice and cocked the hammers on both barrels.

“I have you in my sights,” he said. “Now, who said that?”

The leaves rustled and a figure lowered itself, then swung from the tree to the ground in front of them. The familiar stocky shape, the crooked back, the wild African mask.

“Modo!” Octavia sheathed her knife and ran to throw her arms around him.

But she was stopped in her tracks when three muscular men dropped out of the trees behind Modo, spears pointing at her.

P
ure joy filled Modo’s heart as he lowered himself down and swung to the ground in front of the group. Yes, Mr. Socrates still had his gun pointed at him, Lizzie had raised her machete, and Octavia was holding her stiletto, but it was the look on Tharpa’s face that Modo loved the most. He’d surprised his teacher! He’d sneaked through the trees above them without even the slightest creak of a branch or rustle of a leaf. Tharpa’s smile grew ear to ear, and Modo believed he even looked proud. Mr. Socrates shook his head; was it pride on his master’s face too?

It was all so perfect!

Octavia ran toward him and he prepared to catch her in his arms, but just before she reached him he heard a rustling above him, and behind him, the soft thud of feet. He turned to see three of the Rain People, their spears out and aimed at his companions. The warriors had followed him the whole way!

Tharpa lifted his machete as Mr. Socrates raised his elephant gun. The warriors prepared to launch their spears.

“No!” Modo shouted, standing between the two parties. Then he remembered their situation and whispered, “No! They’re with me.” He pointed at the spears, gesturing to the warriors to throw them down, but no one understood, or they weren’t willing. Modo claimed a spear from one warrior and tossed it to the ground. The other two followed his example.

“They’re friends,” he said, pointing toward Mr. Socrates. He clasped both hands together as though shaking hands with himself, trying to get the message across. “Good friends.”

One of the warriors mimicked his hand gesture, so Modo hoped that meant they understood.

“You little devil!” Mr. Socrates grabbed Modo by the shoulder.

For a moment he thought his master was going to hug him, but Mr. Socrates slapped Modo’s back.

“You’re alive!” he whispered. “How is that even possible?”

“I have the rain forest to thank for that,” Modo whispered. “And my training, of course.”

“But where were you?” Octavia gave him a brief hug, then backed away just as quickly.

Modo was breathless. She had hugged him in front of everyone! It was so wonderful to see her face again.

“What happened?” she asked. “Tell us, you scoundrel. Now!”

He took a deep breath and told them. When it came to the point in the story where he climbed out of the pit, he
hesitated. Should he mention that he thought the tribe was worshipping him? Would Mr. Socrates think he’d grown vain? But he could only give them his interpretation of the facts. It was what he had been trained to do.

“It has to do with my face, sir,” he said to Mr. Socrates, and then looked at Lizzie briefly.

“Your secret’s safe with Lizzie,” Mr. Socrates said. “I’ve known her for over twenty years. She’s rock solid. Carry on.”

And my secret is safe with Tavia
, Modo thought. Otherwise Mr. Socrates would have heard his story in private. All his secrets were safe with her.

He explained the events with the tribe in as much detail as possible. The presence of the tall warriors standing silently behind him added credence to the tale.

“Stunning!” Mr. Socrates said.

His shocked tone made Modo proud of how he’d handled himself.

“How many of them were there?” Mr. Socrates’ measuring eyes were on the tribesmen.

“Fifteen warriors, sir, maybe forty tribespeople in total,” Modo replied. “There may be other clans. This was the only one I saw.”

“Can you command them?”

Modo hesitated. “Command them?”

“Do they listen to your orders? They dropped their spears for you. Can you communicate effectively with them?”

“Yes, to some extent.” Though now that he thought of it, the girl, Nulu, had helped to interpret much of what he’d said. The other natives had seemed too much in awe of him to comprehend what he wanted.

“Perfect! With fifteen warriors on our side we could, in the dark of night, sweep down and fight our way into the temple, if necessary. These Rain People look to be fine physical specimens and certainly have tremendous knowledge of the forest. They’d be a great asset in our cause.”

“Our cause?” Modo echoed.

“You said they worshipped you.”

“Worship? No, I misspoke. They were affected by my appearance, that’s all.”

“A small distinction, Modo. This is one of those odd intersections of life. They probably worship an idol or a spirit god with a face they see as being similar to yours. We must take advantage of this.”

“But back on the ship you said we shouldn’t interfere with these tribes, that they were children,” Modo reminded him. “ ‘As a society our role is to lead them gently toward progress.’ Those were your words.”

“Thank you for quoting my own words back to me.” Mr. Socrates narrowed his eyes and spoke deliberately and coldly. “All right then, you listen well, Modo. But hear this: in optimum conditions we should proceed with a policy of noninterference. But at the moment we’re in a desperate situation.” He gestured toward the temple with the elephant gun. “The Clockwork Guild is right there in front of us. Perhaps even as we discuss these niceties, they are uncovering a weapon that could turn the tide of any battle. Do you want the Guild to own that weapon?”

“N-no.” Modo cursed his stutter. Mr. Socrates seemed to be the best at bringing it out.

“Then command these warriors to become our allies.”

“They’re not mine to command.” Even as he spoke Modo knew there’d be terrible consequences. But he managed to stop his voice from wavering, and even straightened his back.

“Are you refusing me?” Mr. Socrates asked so quietly that Modo barely heard him.

“No. Never.”

“Then have these natives return to their tribe and bring the rest of their warriors here.”

Modo’s mouth was dry. He imagined the men being cut down by rifles, the tribe having no one left to protect them. All this just to retrieve some ancient trinket.

“With the greatest respect, I cannot do that, sir.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Octavia stiffen, preparing for a blast. Tharpa’s face was unreadable. Mr. Socrates gave Modo a look of such fury that his eyes seemed to glow.