Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl (36 page)

But there was no opportunity to back out now. Mr. Okoth was indicating it was his turn. He waited in the airlock until he heard the distant rap of three knocks, their pre-arranged signal, then he opened the hatch, gasping in the helmet as the Nile rushed in, soaking him with cold water as it rose rapidly around him and filled the airlock. He felt a moment of panic as the water surrounded him, then relaxed as he continued to breathe in the helmet. The circular opening was ten feet ahead of him. All he had to do was leap forward and let the current take him toward it. There were oil lamps in the bag, but they would have to push through the tunnel in darkness until—
if,
he thought dourly—they found a dry section of the tunnel. Trigger was waiting in the dark circle of the opening, leaning back on the stone aperture, his clothing flowing with the rushing waters of the Nile. If, as Stoker was sure they would, they found the bones of John Reed in there, what would that do to Trigger? Stoker redoubled his grip on the bag, then leaped forward, letting the spring-hinged hatch close behind him. The water would drain out, and Mori would send Elizabeth and Bent through. He kicked off against the boat as Trigger stretched out his hand, and Stoker labored against the currents, the weight of the bag and the brass helmet dragging him downward. His outstretched fingers caught Trigger’s, and the old adventurer pulled him into the tunnel. It was already so dark Stoker couldn’t see the other man’s face, so he patted him on the shoulder, and they turned to wait for Bent to come flailing through the silt-fogged water.

Above them, the faded hieroglyphics spelled out their ancient curse. If such a thing existed, then Trigger had already invoked it. To die in the arms of one’s beloved . . . Stoker felt a pang of longing for Florence, and a wave of guilt at his adventures with—and unchivalrous thoughts toward—Elizabeth. He idly wondered whether he would die in Elizabeth’s arms within this labyrinth, and shocked himself out of his reverie with the thought.

Stoker and Trigger pulled Bent into the tunnel. Bathory came next, her hands outstretched and finding Stoker’s. He held her for a moment, in a different world, the Nile flowing over and between them, their eyes meeting through the glass. But where his eyes held a confused, tightly laced longing, there was something feral in Elizabeth’s gaze, something animal. It made him shudder. The farther they had gotten from London, the less and less likely it seemed that Stoker could ever civilize Elizabeth Bathory. He sighed. What had he been thinking? That she was some toy, some pet project he could show off around London? Or had he harbored thoughts of . . . He pushed away the image that rose, of him attending functions and theater openings with Elizabeth on his arm despite the shocked, scandalized stares of those who had known him and Florence.

So that was it. Four of them against the Children of Heqet. As Trigger forged forward into the black tunnel, Stoker fell in behind him. Stoker wished Gideon was here, but he had recognized the look in his eye, the abject fear. The boy had a phobia of enclosed spaces. Stoker shook his head. They all had their weaknesses, it seemed.

They kept close together as they waded slowly into the interminable blackness. Half an hour of air, Okoth had said. He had promised to keep the submersible underwater for an hour, but they all knew by that time they would either be inside or dead. Stoker tried to mark time in his head, deciding to ask Trigger to turn back if they passed the quarter-hour mark beneath the river. Was the tunnel sloping gently upward, or was it his imagination? It was so hard to tell in the pitch black.

He felt Trigger move and jerk in front of him, and his breath came shallow and fast in the helmet. Were they under attack? Then he felt hands upon his helmet, and at the same time his shoulders breached the surface of the water. The tunnel had, indeed, sloped upward, and now they were thankfully in the air. With each step they drew above the waterline, and when it was at his waist Stoker tore at the rubber fastenings and pulled off the helmet.

His first, deep lungful of air was dry but fresh. Evidently the pyramid, despite being largely under the sands, had access to a source of air, presumably through some lost or hidden tunnel. Holding the bag above the water, Stoker felt inside for an oil lamp and matches, and he felt a palpable sense of relief from those behind him as the light illuminated the tunnel ahead. The water ended at stone steps, and he helped Elizabeth and Bent up them before lighting four more oil lamps.

“Thank eff for that,” gasped Bent as he tore off his helmet. “I couldn’t have gone much longer with that thing on.”

They stood, dripping wet, and piled up the air tanks and helmets. “I rather hope we find another way out of here,” said Trigger. “I’m not sure if we have enough air left to go back.”

“Wonderful,” said Bent, patting his pockets. “Oh, shit. I left my tobacco in my coat. Should have put it in that hold- all with my new hat.”

The lamps showed the tunnel ahead leveled off, a square, stone passageway continuing beyond the reach of the dim light. Bathory, her hair plastered to her head, her long skirts sticking to her legs, asked, “What now? We just continue and hope this brings us to the pyramid?”

“I fear we have no other choice,” said Stoker.

Stoker tried not to stare at the sopping Countess Bathory, though Bent obviously had no such compunction. He and the journalist were in silent agreement on one thing, then; the Countess looked most comely in her drenched clothes.

“We could make a bit of a fire,” said Bent, looking around. “Dry off a bit.”

Stoker frowned. “Fire eats oxygen, and we do not know how plentiful it is. Besides, what would we use as kindling?”

“There’s a pile of sticks here,” said Bent, bending down a little way up the tunnel. “Almost as though someone’s left them here for that purpose.”

“They aren’t sticks,” murmured Bathory. “They’re bones.”

Bent leaped back as though burned. Stoker glanced at Trigger, knowing what he was thinking. “John’s bones?” asked Trigger in a whisper.

Stoker picked one up, and it crumbled to dust in his fingers. “They are immeasurably ancient. Tomb robbers from long ago, perhaps.” He looked at them. “I have heard tell that the pyramids of the ancients are replete with devices and traps to deter robbers.”

“Maybe they thought the curse was deterrent enough,” said Bathory.

Trigger crouched and ran his fingers through the dusty bones. “I pray the curse is real,” he said quietly. “I would give everything to die in John’s arms.”

As Stoker sorted through the bag and checked the weapons, Bent took him to one side and said, “The Countess is here to avenge her fallen husband. Trigger’s after his bum- chum. But what the eff are you and me doing here, Stoker?”

Stoker shrugged. “I promised to help Countess Bathory.”

“Get off it. You wouldn’t be putting your life at risk for a vampire you hardly know. Not a respectable married geezer like you.”

Bent’s words hit home hard, making the gulf between Stoker and Florence—seem more painfully acute. “So what is
your
reason, Mr. Bent?”

Bent shrugged. “Same as yours, at the end of the day. You’re expecting to get a book out of this, whether you admit it or not. I want the big story.”

Stoker made a thoughtful face. “That is how this enterprise began,” he admitted. “I was holidaying in Whitby, seeking inspiration.”

Bent laughed. “You’ve certainly got that. Bet you weren’t expecting to end up in some bloody tunnel in Egypt.”

“Art takes us where it will, Mr. Bent.” He looked briefly at Bathory, then at Trigger. “Just like love.”

“Art my arse,” sniffed Bent. “Deep down you’re the same as me. You want to spin a good yarn. Tell a good story. It’s in our blood. We’ll go to the ends of the effing earth if we have to— well, we’ve proved that. And we’ll put our lives on the line.” He paused, staring into the oil lamp’s flame. “Crackers, ain’t it?”

Stoker had to smile, despite himself, despite their situation. “Yes, Mr. Bent,” he said, looking at Bathory once more. “Thank you for putting it all into context for me. It is, as you say, crackers.”

And suddenly, very suddenly, he felt a stinging, aching sense of absence. Florence. He had put her to one side for a spell, forgotten she was as integral to him as his hand or, yes, his heart. Now, as the adventure unraveled without Mr. Gideon Smith, regret flooded him. How could he have set her aside? How could he have done that?

“You all right, Stoker?” asked Bent.

“Yes.” He nodded. “Just some dust in my eye.”

He handed out the rifles and pistols they had brought from Trigger’s home, along with others that Gideon had persuaded Cockayne to liberate from the armory of the
Yellow Rose
. He said, “Elizabeth, you are the only one of us who has really engaged these monstrosities hand to hand. Do you have any advice?”

She looked Stoker in the eye. “They are relentless. Keep firing, even when you are sure you have downed one. And if they keep coming . . .” She shrugged and turned away. “Perhaps you should think about turning those weapons on yourselves.”

“Never,” said Trigger. “Their reign of terror is at an end. It is up to us to stop them, for who knows what further carnage and misery they are plotting right at this moment?”

“The thing with a good story,” said Stoker thoughtfully as he holstered a handgun in the waistband of his trousers, “is that even the most foul villain needs some kind of motivation. What, I wonder, are the Children of Heqet about? Why have they been amassing these strange artifacts?”

“I’ll tell you what,” said Bathory. “We’ll ask the last one standing that question just before it dies. Now come on.”

They walked for two hours along the seemingly unending stone corridor. “We must be nearly effing there,” muttered Bent. “My fallen arches are effing killing me.”

Trigger, in the lead, held up his hand, and they stopped. Stoker said, “What is it?”

Trigger pointed, and they saw the corpse hanging from a cruel metal spike, protruding from the stone wall, that had penetrated its skull. He said, “John?”

Stoker rifled through the wallet in the dried body’s leather jacket. “Walton Jones. Wasn’t he one of Walsingham’s men, according to Reed’s notes?”

Trigger nodded vaguely. “He’s losing it,” whispered Bent to Stoker. “He’ll be about as much use as a chocolate fireguard when push comes to shove.”

Bathory crouched and inspected the floor. “There’s something different here. See how the tunnel has become squares of stone for as far as we can see?”

Stoker leaned forward with his lamp outstretched. “There are holes ranged on both sides of the wall, all along the passage.” He squinted in the gloom. “There appears to be a lever of some kind, perhaps fifty yards hence. There is evidently some fiendish mechanism behind these walls.”

Stoker emptied the rations from the hold-all and tossed it ahead of him, past the skeleton. As it hit the ground another metal spike extended from one of the holes in the wall at a frightening velocity, quivering as it reached its limit. Stoker turned to look at them. “Had that been one of us, we would have been skewered.”

He fell to his hands and knees and inspected the square stones. “There is evidently some kind of pattern to follow, to prevent the trap springing. The question is, what is it, and how do we decode it?”

Bathory sighed. “We do not have time. Gentlemen, avert your eyes.”

Stoker closed his eyes and tried to remember the words to a music hall song he’d heard a while back, begging himself not to weaken. From behind him he heard a strange, alien sound, as though something was being stretched and distorted. Bathory made a soft, animal growl, and he bit his lip. He heard Bent moaning, “I can’t do it. I have to look.”

The journalist evidently wished he hadn’t done so. “There’s an effing dog in here!”

Bent staggered back to the wall of the corridor as the beast, its jaws slavering, leaped. Stoker smiled. “Not a dog. A wolf.”

“That’s the Countess?” asked Trigger mildly.

Stoker nodded. Bent said, “I’ve heard of one or two women in Whitechapel who apparently have the reputations of dogs, but this is something effing else entirely.”

The wolf paused at the start of the booby-trapped corridor, sniffing the dry air, then bounded forward. As soon as the vast paws hit the ground, it leaped again, as a spike struck into the space it had just vacated. With two more bounds, and two more spikes, the wolf was at the other side. Bent picked up the lamp and squinted; he rubbed his eyes and shielded the back of the lamp so to better direct the beam. He swore softly. In the wolf’s place was the naked form of Bathory, crouched on all fours.

“I have died and gone to heaven,” he said. “Let those effing mummies take me now. I have seen a little slice of the great hereafter.”

“You shall die and go somewhere, for sure,” said Stoker, “if we cannot find a way to get the rest of us across.”

In the thin beam of light, Stoker saw Bathory haul on the lever set into the stone wall, and the spikes receded, the one nearest to him spilling the desiccated corpse to the floor with a dry smack. The dried head separated from the shoulders and rolled across the corridor. No spikes issued forth.

“Do you think it’s safe?” said Bent.

“Someone needs to test it,” said Stoker.

“Mr. Bent?” called Bathory from the other side. “Could you be a darling and bring me my clothes?”

Bent had picked up the fallen skirts and was halfway down the corridor toward Bathory before he realized what he had done.

Trigger gave a lopsided smile. “It’s safe. She has disarmed the mechanism.”

Stoker applauded. “Excellent work, Countess! And bravo, Mr. Bent! Your courage knows no bounds.”

They gave Bathory a few moments to dress, then gingerly crossed the tiled floor, as Bent stood with his back to the Countess, his hands over his eyes, slowly counting to a thousand. “It’s all right, Mr. Bent,” said Stoker. “The Countess is decent.”

Bent grabbed his arm. “You won’t tell anyone, will you, Stoker?”

“Tell them what?”

Bent cocked his head toward Bathory. “That I finally found my dream woman.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “But she effing terrifies me.”