Empire of Ruins (5 page)

O
ctavia groaned as yet another diplomat stood up to praise the life of Dr. David Livingstone. If she had known that Mr. Socrates was sending her to such a long and numbingly humdrum funeral, she would have stayed in her room at the Ivory reading
A Tale of Two Cities
, a book full of guillotines and such that kept her entertained. Instead, she was sitting ramrod straight on a pew in Westminster Abbey, which was packed to the rafters with mourners. She guessed that nearly every bloated aristocrat of English society was sharing the air with her, and half of them seemed to have a Scottish accent.

The achievements of Dr. Livingstone were certainly impressive; each speaker described the explorer’s many incredible discoveries in Africa. She would have been amazed to meet the man while he was living and breathing, but now that he was dead he was rather a bore.

She passed the time by glancing around the crowd
through her veil, a handy tool for such covert surveillance. Was Modo here? He could be any one of the gentlemen in the pews or extra wooden chairs; he could be watching her at this very moment, which gave her slight tingle, but also angered her. It meant he always had the upper hand, could sneak up on her, even spy on her. By some magic he was able to change the appearance of his face. Which was his
real
face; who was he?

Still, she missed him. Mr. Socrates’ policy of not allowing his agents to have contact between missions was so annoying. Next time they worked together she would find a way for them to meet behind their master’s back.

Octavia huffed out her exasperation and continued to observe the crowd. She was unimpressed by the women’s dresses, all black as crows. She herself had on a black crepe dress with a plain collar, and her hair was tucked under a widow’s cap. Her hat, though, featured a purple band around the crown, making it stand out. If anyone asked, she would say it was Uncle Livingstone’s favorite color, and sniff and sob toward the casket.

Through it all she feigned sadness. The funeral eventually ended and a gentleman threw a palm branch into the grave as a final act of respect. Livingstone had done well enough to be buried right in the church alongside kings and queens. She heard a portly man in the pew ahead of her whisper, “For a Scotsman he was a fine Englishman.”

The mourners shuffled out of the church, off to tea parties or to watch cricket matches, Octavia imagined. She salivated. Tea and a sandwich would be wonderful right now, but she had work to do. Her stomach would have to wait.

She found a dark corner near a pillar and pretended to
be silently mourning. She ran through her orders again, not that there was much to them. The letter that had explained this assignment had said only to attend the funeral and wear a purple ribbon on her black hat. She would be approached by an operative, who would exchange information with her and in return receive the cash that accompanied the letter. Just another errand for Mr. Socrates.

She couldn’t help but gaze in awe at the beauty of Westminster Abbey: the stained-glass windows, the buttresses rising into the air as though holding up the heavens. Kings and queens had been crowned here. Even fat ol’ Henry VIII.

A clicking could be heard near the balcony and she glanced toward it. No one. Probably some priest locking up the wine. She wandered through the nave of the church and was drawn to a small marble statue of a man lounging on a couch, leaning on a stack of books. Above him was a marble globe. According to Mr. Socrates, that was the shape of the earth. She was dubious. If the earth was round instead of flat, why didn’t people fall off? She read what she could of the epitaph. By Jove, it was the grave of Isaac Newton. Admirable resting place for a man who was famous for an apple smacking his head.

There were still several men in robes attending to their duties, and a few other mourners or visitors in the church, but no one was at Dr. Livingstone’s grave.
Why not pay him final respects?
she thought. She approached and read the words on the marble slab:

She stopped. Some of the words were hard and she had to work at remembering what they meant. Octavia hadn’t learned to read until she came to work for Mr. Socrates. They’d met when she tried to pick his pocket and instead of turning her in to the law, he offered her employment as a spy.

But she knew what
evangelize
meant. The headmistress at her orphanage had done a lot of that. So Livingstone had been a priestly type too. Or at least fancied himself one. What did all the African tribes think of these English explorers? Why didn’t the savages just boil them all up and eat them for dinner? Maybe English fat didn’t taste good. She giggled to herself.

Beside her, a man cleared his throat. She hadn’t noticed him come up. He was also reading the gravestone. She gave him a once-over: He was in his thirties, wearing a rather ragged-looking sack coat. He hadn’t shaved in several days.

“A right brave man,” he said, rubbing his forehead with a handkerchief. There was a singsong nature to his accent, but she couldn’t place it.

“Yes, he was brave.”

“I admire your purple swatch. It’s as bright as a fig marigold.”

He was Australian! She was certain of it. She’d heard a few sailors with that accent swearing at the pub. She lifted her veil and smiled. “You are very kind to say so.”

“Ah, kind I am. In fact, you have dropped something, mademoiselle,” he said. He bent down and from his mud-splashed boot pulled out an envelope.

He handed it to her and she tucked it into her purse, saying, “Again, how kind of you.”

“I also dropped something,” he said. “Could you return it to me?”

“I don’t believe you dropped anything.” She surveyed the floor at his feet.

“If you look carefully, mademoiselle, you’ll see that I did indeed drop something, and you must give it to me. I insist.”

There was a trace of anger in his voice. Octavia nearly slapped herself on the forehead. The money! Of course! She opened her purse again and handed him an envelope containing a thousand pounds. Mr. Socrates must have wanted information badly to pay that many quid for it.

The envelope disappeared into the man’s jacket pocket. “As much as I would like to discuss the weather with you, mademoiselle, or even see more of your pretty smile, I must be on my way. As of now, I’m on the wallaby track.”

She smiled at the expression, even though she had no idea what he meant. “Good luck with it,” she said.

He was rather handsome. He winked at her and flashed a mischievous grin, making her blush.

His grin became a grimace. A shadow descended between them, then shot back into the air, and a red slash gleamed on the man’s neck. Blood began to leak down his dirt-gray cravat. He moved his lips silently for a second, let out an “
Ugggh,
” and fell to the floor.

Octavia staggered back just as another shadow swooped near her face. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing: a falcon with glowing eyes, and wings that flashed with metal. A second falcon dove at her and she ducked. The bird
ripped the hat and veil from her head; then both birds shot up into the great heights of the nave.

Octavia knelt and touched the man’s neck. No pulse. The wound wasn’t much more than a scratch, so there was only one explanation: poison! She glanced up and saw the birds still hovering far above her, their eyes bright against the darkened ceiling. She yanked open his jacket and retrieved the envelope of cash. The money was no use to a dead man.

The mechanical falcons were circling, their wings hissing and clicking as they drew closer and closer, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. She glanced around for help, but the few remaining mourners were fleeing in fear. Even the clergymen had backed away.

She spotted a man in a gray greatcoat standing in the balcony above her, watching the attack solemnly. His face was hidden in the shadows, but a third falcon sat on his wrist. His other hand was raised as though he were signaling someone, and a moment later she realized he must be controlling the birds. He flicked his fingers and a falcon dove at her.

Octavia tore a wooden cross from the wall and struck the bird in the air. It spiraled into a row of chairs, splintering them, then hit the floor with a metallic crash. The creature let out a screech unlike any bird.

“Who are you?” she screamed at the man.

He waved his hand; another falcon attacked. She swung again and the cross snapped in two as it deflected the bird.

The man released the third falcon.

Octavia knew it was high time to scarper to freedom. She reached for the hem of her long dress and easily tore off
a swath, revealing her stockinged legs. At Octavia’s request her seamstress had designed all her dresses this way. It made running so much easier.

She drew her stiletto and ran full speed toward the closest exit, glancing back to see the falcons whirring and screeching behind her, beaks open and talons extended. Each time they struck she’d first hear the ticking of their clockwork and swishing of their wings, giving her time to duck, or slash with her stiletto. She managed to poke one right below the eye and drive it back.

She shoved open the west door and ran outside, then threw herself against it, slamming the door. She heard the birds pecking, cawing, and ramming their metal bodies so hard at the door that she feared the thick wood might actually break. There were shouts behind her and she turned to see constables and a few Royal Guards rushing toward the door.

“You’ll need guns,” she shouted as several of the young men froze at the sight of her legs. “Oh, for heaven’s sakes! Draw your guns!”

Far above, stained glass shattered and showered all around her. A falcon, glittering in the sunlight, screeched madly. A moment later two more smashed through the windows.

“Good Lord!” one of the Royal Guards shouted. The men were stunned.

“Shoot them! Shoot them!” Octavia shouted. Then she ran for the street, bumping past the constables and shoving a clergyman out of the way. “So sorry, Father.”

Finally, shots rang out, but one of the damnable birds
was still following her, and it plunged so close its wings brushed her head. She expected a talon to rake her skin, but there was only a tickle down her neck; then the falcon shot back into the air.

On the street, she waved down a cab and, as she climbed in, shouted at the cabbie to “Drive! Drive like a madman! I’ll pay you thirty pounds!”

He snapped the reins and the cab raced ahead.

Through the window, she watched the sky. After twenty minutes she began to feel safe again, and she pulled the envelope out of her bag. She hadn’t been told to look at what was inside; then again, she hadn’t specifically been instructed not to. And she’d just risked her life for this bit of paper. She opened the envelope with her thumb.

Inside she found an old, tea-stained map of a coastline and forest.

She held up the flimsy paper to the light. She’d risked her life for a map that doubled as a coaster! Mr. Socrates would have a lot of explaining to do.

I
n an alcove of Westminster Abbey, Gerhard Visser spun his noisemaker. Its clicking echoed throughout the church. The clockwork falcons sped back through the broken windows and returned to him, the first landing on his extended arm, talons digging into the leather protection there. The other two falcons touched down at his feet. The church visitors had fled and the clergymen were cowering in the sanctuary. He crouched to be out of sight of anyone on the ground floor. Visser grinned. Soldiers or constables bumbled along far too slowly. He’d be long gone before they made it up to where he’d been perched.

The falcon on his arm stared at him, its thin metallic skull a parody of that of the original creature. The birds never blinked and, so long as they were wound properly, they didn’t tire. With a clicking of gears the falcon turned its head and opened its beak as though it wanted food.
Visser chuckled at the witless display. The birds no longer needed food, but Dr. Hyde hadn’t been able to stop them from mimicking their natural behavior.

Visser inserted a key into the falcon’s skull and it closed its eyes. The second falcon hopped up to his arm and he repeated this procedure, but the third moved to avoid him, and only after he gave it a “
Tut-tut
” did it stay still long enough for him to use his key. It glared until its dark eyes closed. He had no idea what went on in the little mind inside the metal brainpan. He carefully placed the falcons in a portmanteau and closed the case. The birds had followed his gestures perfectly. He had trained them for hours and hours under the watchful eye of Dr. Hyde.

He glanced down at the dead Australian. The poison had been a particularly good batch. Dead in less than five seconds. Visser had, over his lifetime, perfected the art of ending other people’s lives. For a fee, of course. Ropes, knives, guns, bare hands—he had used many methods. But he found these clockwork falcons to be particularly effective. It made for a great show, too.