Goliath (20 page)

Alek pulled on another jacket, then scowled at the
mirror. His Hapsburg Armor Corp uniform was just as threadbare as the others, shiny at the elbows and missing two buttons. Had he really spent the last weeks walking about in such a disreputable state?

“This seems unwise,” Count Volger said.

Alek fingered the jacket’s frayed epaulettes. “I have an ambassador to impress, and I doubt the tailors in Tokyo are expensive.”

“I’m not talking about the cost, Alek. You’re practically penniless, in any case.” The wildcount glanced out the window—one of the spires of Tokyo was sliding by, alarmingly close to the gondola. “I’m talking about that girl.”

Alek picked up the silk piloting jacket he’d worn the night of the Ottoman Revolution. “Her name is Deryn.”

“Whatever she calls herself, you’ve managed to escape her influence at last. Why risk another entanglement?”

“Deryn isn’t an entanglement.” Alek pulled the jacket on and considered the effect. “She’s a friend, and a useful ally.”

“Useful? Only in that she’s taken that beast away.”

Alek didn’t answer. Deryn had dropped by his stateroom the night before to “borrow” Bovril. Alek found that he missed the creature’s weight on his shoulder and its murmurs in his ear. The perspicacious loris had offered comfort when everyone else had betrayed him.

“You can’t trust her,” Volger said.

“Nor can I trust you, Count. And Deryn, at least, can tell me what the
Leviathan
’s officers are thinking.”

“Tesla does their thinking for them these days. Imagine, trying to requisition this whole ship to take him to America! It’s madness to believe that the Admiralty will allow it.”

Alek raised an eyebrow. “That was my idea, you know.”

“Ah, of course.” With a sigh Volger stood up from the desk and went to his traveling trunk. “This is a diplomatic affair, not a costume party.”

Alek pulled off his Ottoman piloting jacket. “Perhaps it is a bit too colorful for a British ambassador.”

“You’re taking a risk, believing in Tesla.”

“He wants peace, and has the power to make it happen.”

“Let’s hope so, Your Serene Highness. Because if you support him publicly and he turns out to be mad, the whole world will think you’re a fool. Do you think the people of Austria-Hungary will want a young fool for an emperor?”

Alek’s glare was wasted on Volger, who was rummaging in his trunk. He pulled out a deep blue tunic with a red collar.

“My Hapsburg House Cavalry uniform.”

Alek said, “Do you think I’m being a fool?”

“I think you’re trying to do something good. But doing good is rarely easy, and no weapon has ever stopped a war.” Count Volger handed over the cavalry tunic. “But who knows. Perhaps the great inventor has changed all that.”

“And you wanted to murder him.” Alek pulled the tunic on. The sleeves were too long, of course, but a decent tailor could fix that. “Or was that whole business just an idle threat to shake me out of my sulk?”

The wildcount smiled. “Two birds, one stone.”

The streets of Tokyo teemed with steam trams, pedestrians, and beasts of burden. The morning sun had crested the buildings, but the strings of paper lanterns hanging overhead still glowed. Each was filled with a little swarm of flickering insects, like a handful of stars.

Alek was always uncomfortable in crowds, and here in Tokyo he felt especially conspicuous. There were no other Europeans about except the pair of marine guards following him. Many of the Japanese men wore western clothing, but the women were dressed in long dresses dyed in indigo and scarlet patterns, with broad silk belts that gathered into bundles on their lower backs. Alek tried to picture Deryn in such a getup, but failed completely.

The two technologies mixed more elegantly than he’d expected. Streetcars huffed out clouds of steam, but the most crowded were yoked to oxenesques for extra power. A few rickshaws putted along behind diesel two-legged walkers; the rest were pulled by squat, scaly creatures that reminded Alek disturbingly of kappa. Telegraph lines crisscrossed the sky overhead, but messenger lizards scampered along them, and carrier eagles wheeled against the clouds.

“Are we lost yet?” Deryn asked.

“Lost,” declared Bovril from her shoulder, then went back to burbling snatches of Japanese.

Alek sighed, unfolding Dr. Barlow’s map for the fortieth time since they’d left the airfield. It was exasperating, not being able to read street signs. On top of which, addresses worked differently here in Japan. Instead of the numbers running along the avenues, they went clockwise around city blocks. Pure insanity.

According to a local scientist friend of Dr. Barlow’s, a whole street of tailors catering to Europeans was hidden somewhere in this madness.

“I think we’re close,” Alek said. “You don’t suppose those two could help?”

Deryn glanced at the marine guards shadowing them. “They’re only here to keep you from running away.”

“Hardly necessary. I’m quite happy to be on the
Leviathan
these days.”

Deryn gave a snort. “Aye, thanks to your new boffin pal.”

“He’s a genius, and he wants to stop this war.”

“He’s a complete nutter, you mean. Dr. Barlow says his talk of Goliath is daft!”

“Nutter,” Bovril said with a chuckle.

“Of course she would say so,” Alek said. “Mr. Tesla is a Clanker scientist, and she’s a Darwinist—and a
Darwin
to boot! They’re natural enemies.”

Deryn started to reply, but her head swiveled as a food stall drifted slowly past. The whole thing was drawn, customers and all, by a squat two-legged walker. One of the cooks was chopping thin layers of dough into fine noodles; the others were slicing mushrooms, fish, and eels. The smell of buckwheat and prawns carried on the steam rising from the boilers, along with the tang of vinegar and pickles.

“Might want some of that later,” Deryn mumbled.

“Want,” Bovril said.

Alek smiled. He’d learned in Istanbul that food could always distract Deryn from an argument. But she wasn’t done yet.

“Have you forgotten what I found in Mr. Tesla’s room?”

“You found a rock,” Alek said flatly.

“If it was only a rock, why did he bring it aboard?”

“He’s a scientist. They
like
rocks. Didn’t Dr. Barlow know what it was?”

Deryn shook her head. “She isn’t certain, but it’s all very suspicious. Mr. Tesla’s weapons all use electricity, and it was a sort of . . . cannonball.”

“No cannonball could destroy half of Siberia,
Mr.
Sharp.”

“
Mr.
Sharp!” Bovril repeated.

“Perhaps I’ll simply ask him myself.” Alek gave a snort. “Though he might wonder why you were hiding under his bed at night.”

“Forget it. If he knows we were spying on him, he won’t trust you.”

Alek shook his head—as if Deryn could offer advice on trust and friendship. “Once we get to New York and reveal Goliath to the world, I’m sure these minor details will all make sense.”

“You think the Admiralty will really let us head off to America?”

“Mr. Tesla can be quite convincing,” Alek said. “Besides, this is my destiny.”

“Aye,” Deryn said, and snorted. “Your destiny.”

She was about to say more, when Bovril interrupted. “A bit of tailoring!”

“The beastie’s right.” Deryn was looking over Alek’s shoulder. “Your destiny is a better-fitting jacket, looks to me.”

He turned. Beneath the awning of an open shop front whirred a spidery machine, bristling with spindles of thread. Squeezed onto a hanging banner full of Japanese characters were a few recognizable words:
WELCOME TO
SHIBASAKI TAILORS
.

Alek folded up the map. “For the moment that will do.”

“Irasshai,”
came a call as Alek stepped beneath the awning. Two men stood up from behind sewing machines, one robed in white cotton with a flowered print, the other in a European waistcoat and jacket.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” the robed man said in practiced English.

Alek and Deryn returned his bow.

“We’ve just arrived here, sirs,” Alek said slowly. “We have no money, but we can pay with gold.”

The man looked embarrassed at this forwardness, but Alek could only bow again, holding out Volger’s cavalry uniform.

“If you could make this fit me.”

The other tailor took the jacket by the shoulders and shook it open. “Of course.”

“And my friend needs a dress shirt in the British naval fashion, by this afternoon.”

“We have many shirts for British gentlemen, if we
make alterations.” The man turned to Deryn. “May we measure you, sir?”

She glanced at the marine guards waiting just outside—close enough to hear any exclamations of surprise.

“I’m afraid not,” Alek said. “He has a . . . skin condition. Perhaps you could measure me, and adjust a little.”

The tailor frowned. “But you are shorter, sir.”

“Not
that
much shorter,” Alek said, and heard Bovril chuckling.

The tailor bowed gracefully, then extended a length of string between his hands. Alek took off his jacket and turned around, holding out his arms wide.

Deryn leaned back to watch, wearing the first smile Alek had seen on her face in days.

After the measurements were done, the tailors told Alek and Deryn to return in two hours. Deryn unerringly tracked down the moving food stall they’d seen earlier, and soon they were seated on a long bench that faced the cooks, shoulder to shoulder with the other customers. The marine guards took up station just behind the stall, watching from a distance.

A dozen pots of noodles bubbled on the boilers, which Deryn said were burning an oil made from fabricated peanuts. The fuel let off a sweet scent that mingled with the
briny smell of salmon slices edged with orange, a black vinegar sauce in small bowls, and tiny dried fish curled into silver half-moons.

As Deryn pantomimed for the cooks, Alek realized how hungry he was. He watched the other customers eating with chopsticks, wishing he’d brought a fork and knife from the
Leviathan
’s mess.

“Did you hear?” Deryn asked. “The meeting’s been moved to the Imperial Hotel.”

“Why a hotel?”

“It’s got a barking theater! Seems the ambassador wants to show the whole world that the great Nikola Tesla has changed sides.” Deryn inspected her chopsticks. “Maybe that will get the Clankers quaking in their boots.”

“Hopefully,” Alek said. Two bowls were set before them, full of tangled noodles half covered in a thick broth. Atop the noodles sat a spoonful of white mush and a cluster of tiny orange spheres, as translucent as rubies. A plate of fresh salmon was set before Bovril.

As the beast started in, Alek stared at his dish. “What have you ordered us?”

“No idea,” Deryn said, picking up a wooden spoon. “It looked good, so I pointed at it.”

Alek lifted his chopsticks and attempted to pick up
one of the pearly orange spheres. The first exploded, but he managed to get a second into his mouth. It popped like a tiny balloon between his teeth, tasting of salt and fish.

“It’s like oversize caviar.”

“Which is what?” Deryn asked.

“Fish eggs.”

She frowned, but the revelation didn’t slow her eating.

Alek tasted the white substance, which turned out to be pickled radishes chopped into mush. There were also slivers of a pearly fruit, as tangy as lemon rind. He swirled his chopsticks in the bowl, mixing the sharp flavors of radishes, citrus, and fish eggs with the thick buckwheat noodles.

As he ate, Alek finally took a proper look at the slowly passing city. The rooftops of Tokyo curved and swelled like ocean waves, terra-cotta tiles rippling their surfaces. Miniature potted trees crowded the windows, growing in twisted shapes that mirrored the strokes of calligraphy decorating every shop. Canopies of vines overhead spilled pink blossoms onto the ground, and the hanging paper lanterns seemed to be everywhere, bobbing in the breeze.