Empire of Ruins (25 page)

“No?” His whisper was hoarse. “It was an order, Modo.”

“I cannot obey, sir. I don’t believe following that particular command is within the scope of my duties.”

“Your duty is to me and to me alone!” Mr. Socrates shouted. Everyone seemed to cower and exchange concerned looks. The natives picked up their spears again and began whispering to one another.

“I know that, sir. I’ll do anything you command with my own person. I would die if you so require.”

“Modo,” Octavia said.

“You stay out of this,” Mr. Socrates commanded without turning his eyes away from Modo. “So, you are disobeying a direct order?”

“If you see it as such.”

“I do see it as such.”

Modo couldn’t bear the disappointment in his master’s eyes. Mr. Socrates had always been so logical, but now his anger made him appear maniacal. Only days earlier Modo had been calling him Father. Only minutes earlier Mr. Socrates had celebrated Modo’s return. Why did it have to come to this?

“I cannot go against my conscience, sir.”

“If this were the infantry I’d have you tied to a cannon wheel and flogged.” Mr. Socrates’ hands were gripping the elephant gun so tightly that Modo wondered if he was itching to shoot him. “But we need you to complete this assignment. I’ll tell you now that when we are back in England you’ll no longer be allowed to be an agent in the field. You’ll return to Ravenscroft for retraining and reeducation regarding your duties.”

“I will accept any punishment you deem fit, sir.”

“Yes. You will. Now send your minions away. The rest of you, follow me up this ridge.” Mr. Socrates trudged past Modo, whose eyes were downcast.

Modo didn’t dare look anyone in the eye, especially Octavia.

After his companions had disappeared into the foliage, Modo turned to the warriors. They were brave and they’d proved they could be fierce. Was he wrong? If they died willingly, wasn’t it their choice?

But who’d look after Nulu? Who’d feed the children who in turn chewed the food for the elderly? No. It wasn’t right. He took the nearest warrior by the shoulder and
pointed him back toward their village. “Go! Go home. This is no place for you!”

They stood there and stared at him, their faces solemn. Then finally Modo pointed again, this time with his remaining little finger, and the warriors, still facing him, nodded, backed quietly away, and became shadows.

I
t began to rain gently as Modo followed Mr. Socrates and the rest of the group up a ridge and through the thick growth of ferns and trees. He felt heavier, was heavier, actually—his clothes hadn’t dried since he’d fallen into the river. His master had been completely silent for the past twenty minutes.

Modo exchanged glances with Octavia, but her face was hard to read. Was she upset with him? After all, without the help of the natives, their lives were at greater risk. Had he betrayed his friends as well as his master?

Mr. Socrates stopped dead and gave several hand signals, instructing them to set up camp. Using a section of the balloon fabric they’d salvaged, they built a shelter. They shared a tin of meat, and Modo produced the remainder of his berries. He longed for the Rain People’s baskets full of food.

“We’ll enter the temple at four a.m.,” Mr. Socrates said.
“At that hour, there’ll likely be the smallest number of guards on duty. I’ll give you each a specific assignment just before we begin our mission. Until then, I suggest those of you who aren’t on watch should sleep.” He pointed at Modo. “You’ll take first watch. Go to the north end of that path. Don’t fall asleep; that’s an order. Tharpa, you take the south.”

Modo nodded, but before he’d gone two steps, Tharpa grabbed his shoulder. “You are wounded.”

“Yes.” Modo lifted his left hand. “Miss Hakkandottir cut off my little finger.” He said it loudly enough for Mr. Socrates to hear, but his master didn’t look up.

Tharpa took Modo’s hand and examined the leafy bandage. “The natives bound your wound, I see. They did it well, better than my own work. Is it painful?”

Modo shook his head.

“Good. Go to your station and keep your eyes and your wits about you, young sahib.”

“I will.”

Modo walked about twenty yards away from their camp. He thought of climbing a tree, but the leaves would block his sightlines back to the others. He found a place on the path where the foliage wasn’t too thick and he could actually see stars and a part of the moon. He stood in the shadow of a tree, his only movement an occasional blink. He listened. For all he knew, the whole tribe of Rain People might be sitting above him.

He’d disappointed Mr. Socrates, and he felt shame right down to his very marrow. He’d never directly disobeyed his master. Yes, months earlier he’d taken it upon himself to charge after that giant monstrosity that had attacked the
Parliament buildings, but that was in the heat of battle. This had been a calculated decision. He couldn’t picture the Rain People dying for whatever lay inside that temple. It was a British concern, probably some bauble that would end up in the British Museum.

And Mr. Socrates didn’t know the tribe; he hadn’t met Nulu, or seen the pregnant women, the children and the elderly. Nor had he shared food with them. If he had, perhaps he would have understood what he’d been asking Modo to do.

Modo would somehow have to explain all of this much better to Mr. Socrates.

The rain stopped. The stars were brighter here, not faded by gaslight as the stars above London were. They’d been shining down on this jungle for millennia. And here he was, one of a little ragtag group about to go to war over some ancient artifact. People would die, the struggle would end, bones would turn to dust, and the stars would still shine. It was insanity—the same insanity that had put Alexander King in Bedlam.

Modo remembered the words of King: “Never touch a god.” What did that mean? And what about the fragments of rhyme he’d blathered? They—

His thoughts were interrupted by the soft tread of feet behind him. He’d been taught how to guess the weight and size of a person just by their sound. Without turning, he whispered, “It’s not your watch yet, Octavia.”

“You are a clever boy, aren’t you?” she replied.

She stood next to him. He could see her clearly in the moonlight; her hair was bedraggled, her skirt wrinkled. He’d
seen her shine like a jewel in her finest dress, but he’d choose to remember her this way over any other memory. The moonlight made her pale skin even paler and more perfect, with the exception, perhaps, of the welts from mosquito bites.

“Come out of the light,” he whispered. “The enemy could spot you.”

She did, stepping closer to him.

“This is a good vantage point,” he explained. “The way is clear in all directions.”

“Yes, I see.”

“You can’t sleep?” he asked.

“Who can sleep? My trousers are too wet to wear. Every insect on this forsaken countryside had taken a chunk of my flesh. And later tonight we will likely die trying to steal an imaginary treasure from under the nose of a woman who probably sleeps lying on the skulls of babies.”

“You never could give a short answer,” he said.

“Yes, well, not everyone can be as short in words as they are in height.”

He grinned.

“I’m proud of you,” she added.

“Proud?”

“Yes, you faced down Mr. Socrates.”

“Ended my employment as an agent, you mean.”

“Ah, this isn’t employment, it’s a great big lark, Modo. You are too valuable for him to throw under the wagon. Besides, he was wrong.”

“Wrong?” Modo shifted his position, leaning against the tree.

“Yes. Those rainy people aren’t servants of the Queen.”

“We are in Queensland, so they are, technically, her minions.”

“On a piece of paper in London, yes. Here they wouldn’t even know there was such a bumblebee as Queen Victoria.”

“You shouldn’t speak of Her Majesty that way.” He tried to sound incensed, but he couldn’t suppress a chuckle.

“Sorry, I meant busybody, not bumblebee. Where are my manners? And about Mr. Socrates, you know you agree with me in your gut, at least, even if your mind hasn’t caught up yet.” She paused. “I have missed our reparting.”

“I believe the word you want is
repartee
,” he said.

“A French word? You do like the French, don’t you?” She let out a derisive sniff. “Just rest assured that I’m proud of you. I do have a question, though. Did the natives really react that way to seeing your face?”

“Yes.”

“But which face was it? Either of the ones you have shown me?”

“No. It was the face I was born with.”
The abomination
. And yet, even as he thought that bitter thought, for the first time he wanted to correct himself. The Rain People had looked at him with adoration. Even Mrs. Finchley couldn’t summon much more than caring pity when she gazed upon his twisted face.

“Well then, it must be something to see,” she said.

“It’s what evolution decreed would be mine.” He pointed toward the mask. “This face.”

“If you believe in such stuff.”

“Science is not belief. It’s science. Truth.”

“The truth is in the believing.”

Now what was she on about? Under the circumstances he wasn’t up to arguing the difference. Not tonight. He cleared his throat. “Once, not too long ago, I offered to show my face to you. You refused.”

“I was jealous. You’d showed it to that coquette agent from France. And you’d kissed her.”

“Not on purpose.”

“Which wasn’t on purpose? Showing her your face or kissing her?”

“Kissing her.”

“Still, it was a … traitorous action.”

“Showing her my face?” Modo scratched his head, honestly confused by the conversation.

“No, kissing her. The Queen wouldn’t be proud. Alarmed, I would think. A crime punishable by the gallows.”

“I don’t understand your point, Tavia.”

“It’s this, Modo.” Her voice had begun to waver. “I’d like to see your face. I swore I would never ask again, but here I am, asking.”

Should he show her? It seemed it had been a hundred years since they had finished their first assignment, when she’d asked to see his real face. In actual fact it had been only nine months. He was so much younger then, he thought.

She was watching him, smiling, almost as though this were all a joke. But he knew her well enough now. That humor, that sarcasm, was what she held up as a shield against the world.

“It isn’t much,” he whispered. Then he undid his mask
and lowered it, grateful that the darkness would soften his disfigurements.
Coward
, he thought, and he moved slowly into the moonlight. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see her reaction.

He knew exactly what she was seeing: the jutting jaw, the flattened, crooked nose—and on his head the reddish clumps of hair, more like moss. He could point out every imperfection; how one eye was slightly larger; how one particular mole drew a person to look at his twisted lips and crooked teeth.

“Modo,” she said softly, and he opened his eyes again.

She smiled an alabaster smile that he expected to shatter at any moment. Her lips became a straight line, but she didn’t grimace, nor did she turn her eyes away.

“It’s not so bad, Modo,” she whispered. She drew in a deep breath as if she were about to dive into a deep pool. “It’s not the worst face I’ve seen.”

“You’ve seen worse?”

“Truthfully,” and she let out a little chuckle, “maybe … no. I’ve seen faces that were evil. And your eyes do shine without the mask.”

What did that mean?

“Would you like me to cover it up?” he asked. Was he begging? He wanted to slap the mask into place.

“No. I … I feel as though I’m meeting you for the first time.” She reached out and he flinched. Her fingers floated close to his cheek, but then she put her hand on his shoulder. “There are worse things in life, Modo.”

“I don’t need pity. Or consolation, either.”

“Yes. I understand. I do understand.”

Then he saw something move over her shoulder. Lizzie
was several feet away, frozen, staring at his face. Hard, tough Lizzie looked truly shocked. She backed away into the shadows.

Modo slipped the mask back on. “It’s not a face for the world to see. When you return to camp could you please tell Lizzie that it’s her watch?”

“Yes, Modo.” Octavia took a couple of steps, then stopped and turned back. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you.”

Then she disappeared into the trees.