Empire of Ruins (26 page)

M
iss Hakkandottir stood near the burning torches at the doorway to the temple. She opened and closed her metal hand, watching her fingers very closely. They were definitely moving more slowly. The little finger at times actually became stuck in position and she had to unlock it with her other hand. It was the humidity in this horrid rain forest! She should have brought Dr. Hyde with her. He had created this appendage. This was the first time in years that she had had any difficulty with it. Well, Visser, with his little keys and clockwork knowledge, could fix it temporarily.

She gazed into the darkness of the temple. Each hour that passed without discovering the God Face grew more frustrating. The Guild Master had expected her to return to land at Etna with their prize weeks ago. Whenever the
Prometheus
returned from their ship with supplies there were new telegrams asking about progress. Progress! Progress! It was impossible in this backward, overgrown hellhole.

She had sent three soldiers into the temple in the last three days. One had climbed as high as he could up the cliff face and thrown himself, screaming, to his death. The second had fled into the forest; they’d found his body hours later, a spear in his back. The third was in the medical tent, tied to a cot and singing lullabies. Lullabies! There was no point in sending another soldier inside; they had weak minds. The tincture that kept them obedient affected their brains in too many ways.

And where had Mr. Socrates gone? To the port? Now that she thought about it, she couldn’t conceive of his giving up. But she had lost sight of the enemy airship during the battle with Modo. She didn’t think he could have gotten his pitiful airship limping back to port. He would have had to set down—but the rain forest hid its secrets far too well.

She stared through the rectangular doorway into the dark passage that led inside the mountain. It taunted her now, had done so for days. Somewhere, beyond whatever traps the Egyptians had left, was the God Face. She believed she could hear a low thrum coming out of the darkness, a sign of whatever power lay hidden in the tomb. Or was it her imagination? Was she also becoming unhinged?

Not likely. She was stronger than that.

“Visser,” she shouted. “Visser!”

A moment later he bounded up the stone steps. The man never slept. He was such a small fellow, his spidery fingers always drumming on his sides. His eyes and birdlike movements reminded her of the falcons he carried around. Rows of keys jangled along his belt.

“Yes, Miss Hakkandottir.”

“Please, make my hand perform properly. Tomorrow morning we shall make the appropriate preparations and I will enter the temple.”

He was silent for a moment. “If you don’t emerge, or return incapacitated, do you have orders?”

“You won’t need orders,” she said, “for you and your lovely falcons will be accompanying me.” She was pleased to see him shiver a little. So, the cold-blooded killer wasn’t so fearless. “We will emerge sane,” she promised. “Now make these fingers work.”

O
ctavia returned to her bed—a spot on a buffalo blanket under the shelter, next to Lizzie. She sat down, trembling. It had taken all of her willpower not to turn away from Modo’s face; not to let out a little cry of surprise or revulsion; and, and this was the most important part, not to cover her eyes. In the past several months she’d pictured his possible face ten thousand times, but she had not anticipated what he’d revealed—a face well beyond her imagining.

If not for their friendship, she couldn’t have held herself together. The look in his eyes—not begging, but fearful that she would turn away—kept her strong. She steeled herself and she looked back at him. How could he have grown up with such deformities? To see them in the mirror every day? But he could bear it. So should she.

In some corner of her mind she had believed he’d only been imagining the extent of his own ugliness; that it would prove to be some small bump, or birthmark, or perhaps
crooked teeth. If that had been the case, he would still have had one of the several handsome faces she’d seen so often. But this was more than any singular deformity, and there was nothing familiar about his appearance except his eyes. He’d needed her to look at him, and so she had.

She had wanted to go a step further, to touch his face and soothe the pain he so obviously felt. She had lifted her hand to do so and instead had squeezed his shoulder. Like a chum! As if he had just scored in cricket! She had given in to the fear that touching his face would undo all of her strength.

Octavia had already forgotten what she’d said to him, but she hoped that it had at least consoled him. A great pity welled in her heart, though Modo had made it clear he didn’t desire pity.

“You must sleep,” Lizzie whispered.

Octavia stiffened. Lizzie was now sitting up and looking at her.

“No, not yet,” Octavia said. She closed her eyes and Modo’s face was still there, burned inside her eyelids.

“He is not a handsome man.” The words were said without sarcasm or pity—just a statement of fact.

“You saw him?”

“Yes. I heard whispers and investigated. It was … private. I apologize for interrupting.”

That was the greatest number of words Octavia had heard Lizzie string together.

“I—” Octavia couldn’t find any words. “It’s all right. But I—Do you ever—? Were you ever married?” The question came out of nowhere, to Octavia’s great embarrassment.

Lizzie laughed quietly. “A half-breed such as me? No.”

“But surely you have dreamed about it.”

“No. This is all I dreamed about.”

“This? This what?”

Lizzie gestured. “A life of adventure. Of travel. In the sky. That’s my marriage.”

Octavia nodded. It was the most logical thing she’d heard in days. “I understand, Lizzie.” She paused. “I guess I should sleep now.”

“Yes. You will need your strength,” Lizzie said. “I will relieve Modo.”

Octavia closed her eyes, but listened until she heard Modo’s soft footsteps. He lay down a few feet away, mask on. She watched him through half-closed eyelids.

Sleep well, my friend
, she thought, knowing full well he would not.

M
odo slept fitfully, curled into a hunched ball. He sweated so much that he felt naked, which wasn’t a wonderful sensation in a rain forest. At one point he was asleep long enough to dream he was imprisoned in Bedlam, except the room was overgrown with vines. Every few minutes or so, he would wake up and look at his pocket watch, reading it by the moonlight: 2:00 a.m.… 2:15 … 3:00 …

At 3:25 he decided to stay awake, lying still. In thirty-five minutes they’d be climbing down the ridge and sneaking past the metal-jawed hounds, the mechanical birds, and the Guild soldiers. Or at least, that was the plan. Their chances were slim. Was this what all soldiers felt like the day before an attack?

The vision of Alexander King’s room had been so clear. Even now he could picture it with such clarity and detail. And then, just as clearly, he could recall his interview with
King, the way the man had gouged and bloodied his own face, the crazed look in his eyes. Something in the temple had caused that mania. Something so powerful that it was holding Miss Hakkandottir back.

What had King said to him in that odd doggerel?

“
The mountain keen, the forest green, the God Face burns inside …
”

Modo could still see the man’s mad eyes. It was as though he were here with him in this rain forest.

“
The west at your spine, the face divine.
”

Modo thought about this. If the west was at his back, then he would be facing away from the entrance to the temple. So how did King enter? Walking backward?

“
Through the doorway go, beneath the Horus stone. The face it waits, it waits, it waits!
”

Modo pictured the entrance of the temple, his well-honed mind adding each detail. The doorway was guarded by the sphinx statue. It looked as though the vines surrounding it had been stripped away by the Guild soldiers. He hadn’t seen anything that represented the Egyptian god Horus. Modo, as a child, had been particularly drawn to etchings of the Egyptian gods. Horus was the one with the human body and a falcon head. There were blast marks at the door, a sign that it had been opened with dynamite. Even with all her cunning and manpower, Miss Hakkandottir had had to stoop to blowing up the door.
So how had Alexander King entered?

And, quite suddenly, it all became clear.

In the same moment, Modo heard soft footsteps and, without opening his eyes, he swung out his arm and grabbed
the hand that was about to touch his shoulder. He looked up to see Tharpa and smiled in relief.

“I know how we’ll enter the temple,” Modo said, getting to his feet. “I’ll join you in a moment.”

He took several steps into the jungle until he was hidden from sight. Today, he decided, he’d transform and go without the mask, so he could see everything completely as they searched. He buttoned his mask into his largest pocket.

When his transformation was finished he joined the others. Mr. Socrates nodded at Modo, saying quietly, “Tharpa says you have information.” He looked as though he hadn’t slept a wink: his eyes were red; his white hair, normally short, had grown during the trip and was poking in several directions. He put his sun helmet on.

“Yes, remember that rhyme King was murmuring during my visit to Bedlam? It’s only now that it’s making sense.”

“Enough prelude,” Mr. Socrates ordered.

His tone made Modo’s stomach turn, but he pressed on. “I’ve realized there must be another entrance on the west side of the ridge. If Miss Hakkandottir isn’t aware of it, then it won’t be guarded.”

“And how did you come to this conclusion?” Mr. Socrates asked.

“Alexander King repeated a rhyme to me. ‘
The west at your spine, the face divine. Through the doorway go, beneath the Horus stone.
’ If the west is at our backs, then we would be on the opposite side of the temple. I couldn’t see any symbols of the god Horus at the front entrance.”

“Are we to trust our mission to the rhymes of a madman?” Mr. Socrates asked. “I taught you to use logic.”

“This
is
logical, sir,” Modo said defensively. “I don’t believe King could have entered through the front. He had a much smaller party than Miss Hakkandottir, and she was forced to blow her way in. I believe he must have stumbled across a back entrance.”

“Do you expect us to waste hours searching for it?”

“No. It should be relatively simple. We only need to find the Horus stone he mentioned in his rhyme.” Even as Modo spoke, he could hear how silly his words sounded. A rhyme? He was trusting a rhyme? It had seemed so logical when his eyes were closed, but now that he was awake with the whole party looking at him, he began to doubt himself.

“It’s the safer path,” Tharpa said, bolstering Modo’s hope.

“If you say so,” Mr. Socrates said, a slight bitterness to his tone. He took a deep breath. “You may be correct, Modo. And if so, this would be a safer choice for a small raiding party like ours. We’ll attempt to find it. If unsuccessful, we’ll have to create a diversion and use the front door. We leave immediately.”

They cleared their camp and quietly continued their hike around the shoulder of the mountain. As they moved higher, there were more rocks, but the trees still clung to each crevasse and gave them cover. Mr. Socrates led them around the ridge, using his compass, and when the west was at their backs, they began to walk straight east.

Modo checked his watch. It was five o’clock now. The sun would rise in an hour, and along with it, the Guild soldiers who weren’t already on watch.

The group struggled to get their footing on rocks and
foliage made slippery by the rain. The sun began to rise, heating the jungle. At this altitude, the heat and humidity still made him sweat. Occasionally, Mr. Socrates would give him the eye, and Modo felt himself shrivel inside. This was taking too long.