Empire of Ruins (8 page)

After an interminably long time, the carriage stopped and Modo jumped out. Victoria Dock was the greatest of the Royal Docks, the largest port in London, maybe the world. This was where many of the goods from across the Empire were brought into England. He stared at the mass of workers and travelers, like ants next to the enormous steamships. A man with a wagonload of bananas rolled by. A train had pulled to a stop behind him, unloading even more people. There was a crowd of people and a host of portmanteaus large and small, carpetbags, brown-paper parcels, even canaries in birdcages!

Modo made his way down the dock to the RMS
Rome
. He spotted Mr. Socrates, Tharpa, and, he was happy to see, Octavia. They stood next to several large crates. A woman in a red dress and long coat turned to look at him: Mrs. Finchley! He ran up to them.

“Ah, Modo,” Mr. Socrates said, “late is better than never.”

“It’s good to see you too, sir,” he said somewhat flippantly. “And you as well, Mrs. Finchley.”

“Yes, Modo,” she answered, “always a pleasure.” She sounded a little distant, even aloof.

Modo assumed she didn’t want to show too much affection in front of Mr. Socrates.

“I assume you are pleased to see me, too.” Octavia gave him a haughty smile.

“Of course, of course.” He clutched the mask close to his heart.

“Interesting mask,” she said.

“Oh, this?” Modo knocked at the wood. “Mr. Socrates gave it to me.”

“Yes,” his master said, “you cannot hold that shape forever, you’ll need it to cover your face on the ship. We’ll explain it as an affectation. These are also for you.” Mr. Socrates handed several official papers and a ticket to Modo. “You’re to play my son.”

“And what would your name be, Father?”

“Robert Reid, son,” Mr. Socrates replied, smiling. “And your name is Anthony Reid.”

“I’ll be the best son you ever had,” Modo said, meaning it to be a joke, but it came out sounding too serious.

Something like sadness crossed Mr. Socrates’ face for an instant. “You’ll be extremely busy with studies and training. Mrs. Finchley is joining us to help you with your acting. It’s almost a two-month trip, so I expect you to be a brilliant actor by the end of it. Mrs. Finchley will also chaperone Octavia. She can’t be seen traveling alone with three men.” Octavia rolled her eyes at Modo and he struggled to hide a
grin. “This will give Mrs. Finchley opportunity to refine Octavia’s upper-class accent. And etiquette.
Especially
her etiquette.” He stood impervious to her glare. “She will be my niece,” he added. “Miss Charity Chandra.”

Eight men in dark greatcoats passed them on two wagons.
Our luggage
, Modo realized. Five twelve-foot-long crates were on one wagon and several trunks on the other. Being a mail steamer, the
Rome
was designed to carry a goodly amount of freight. Modo was curious: what could be inside such huge crates? But Mr. Socrates didn’t offer an explanation.

A bell on the ship began ringing. Time to board. As they climbed the gangplank to the first-class cabins, Modo studied the ship. It was fully four hundred feet long, with four masts and two smoke funnels. A grand enough beast, Modo thought, but he remembered the monstrosity that was the
Wyvern
. That Clockwork Guild battleship would have dwarfed this royal steamer. But it would be a fine ride all the same! The idea that this new, modern ship would take them all the way from London to Sydney in less than two months was astonishing. Going first class was the icing on the cake.

A porter led them to their cabins. Modo would be sharing one with Tharpa, next door to Mr. Socrates. Octavia and Mrs. Finchley’s cabin was on the other side.

Modo was impressed by the size of the cabin, the rich red carpets and curtains, and the view the porthole allowed, looking out over the docks and other steamships waiting in their berths. Below the porthole was a teak table with a chess set, the pawns and knights and such already in place.

Modo picked up the king. “I shall defeat thee mightily,” he said, and Tharpa laughed.

Both beds were luxurious.

“There will be just enough room to spar,” Tharpa said. “We shall do so every morning.”

“I look forward to it,” Modo said jovially.

They sat and waited for their luggage, but Modo quickly grew bored. “I’m going to scout out the ship,” he said.

“Yes, go, young sahib. Scout to the contentment of your heart.”

Modo strode along the top deck, passing a good number of lifeboats, which made him feel secure. He crossed under the bridge and spotted the captain, a white-bearded man watching a seaman unfurl the Union Jack from the crow’s nest. The captain looked as though he’d been at sea for the last hundred years, and that was fine with Modo.

He made his way among the passengers, avoiding the bustles of the ladies and sidestepping gentlemen with walking sticks. He reached the forecastle of the ship as the horn sounded and the RMS
Rome
began to move out of the docks, pulled by a smaller steam-powered tugboat, through the locks to the Thames.

“Are you feeling seasick, cousin?”

Modo turned as Octavia gave him a wink.

“No,” Modo answered, pleased that she might have been looking for him. “I seem to have conquered my seasickness.”

“Funny, when we were married you were a husband with a rather delicate constitution.”

Modo often relived that trip! On their last assignment,
he and Octavia had crossed the Atlantic to New York City. He’d had to pretend to be her husband—chastely so. He’d spent most of his time behind a privacy screen in the cabin feeling nauseated. Octavia slept on the couch. Since that mission he’d sometimes found himself wishing Mr. Socrates would arrange for them to be married again. “Perhaps it was married life that made me ill,” he said, smiling his cheekiest smile.

“And maybe your French mistress cured it.” Octavia seemed to have lost her lightheartedness.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked, though he knew full well.

“Oh, nothing,” she said. “I’m only blowing hot air. I’m feeling a little flushed—I shall return to my cabin, cousin.”

Modo watched her sashay away until he could no longer pick her out in the crowd of passengers on the deck.
French mistress my eye
, he thought. In the days after he had fought alongside Colette Brunet, a French agent, Octavia had often given him the cold shoulder. Perhaps that was why she had chosen not to see him over these past few months.

Modo would never understand Octavia. One moment they were best of friends, the next she was angry at him for some perceived slight. And yet, when they were apart, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Given how things between them had started off, it was going to be a very long trip.

V
isser followed his targets up the gangplank of the RMS
Rome
, carrying his portmanteaus in either hand. He’d dyed his blond hair black and dressed himself in a derby hat and jacket, adding gold-rimmed glasses to give himself a bookish, artistic appearance. All this was to prevent the young female agent from recognizing him as being from Westminster Abbey. In his pocket were papers that said he was Albert Carpenter, an American citizen. He always enjoyed mimicking an American accent.

It had been a simple enough task to hire several urchins to watch the house of his enemy and, once alerted, he followed the targets to the port and purchased tickets to Sydney, Australia. He’d even had time to send a telegram to his masters providing details regarding the group. He was the last to board the ship.

He recognized Mr. Socrates from sketches in the Guild files. He was a brilliant and accomplished enemy. His Indian
servant, Tharpa, was the deadlier of the two. Best to kill him from a distance. Perhaps, to be safe, to deal with both from a distance.

Not that he’d been instructed to kill them. Visser’s orders were to follow Mr. Socrates and report on his progress. He didn’t know the names or backgrounds of the other three people with Mr. Socrates, but he would uncover their secrets soon enough. He’d already seen what the young woman was capable of with his clockwork falcons. He’d also be wary of the other two, who were most likely agents. The older woman might have a trick or two up her sleeve.

As he walked across the deck he heard the occasional click from within the portmanteau. Had he wound down the falcons properly? Though he’d had several lessons about their intricate levers and gears, there were still a few things about the birds that perplexed him. They were more than just machines, that much he knew.

He noted the cabins of his targets, then followed the steward to his own.

B
ecause Modo couldn’t maintain his appearance for longer than five hours, he was forced to spend much of his time in his cabin. Each morning, after a breakfast of rolls and eggs in the dining room, he would return to his room and let his Doctor face slide into his real one. Then he’d spar with Tharpa, earning new bruises every day.

In the afternoons Mrs. Finchley would arrive for his acting lessons. Modo was reminded of his days in Ravenscroft, and his heart ached for that simpler time when it was just him, Mrs. Finchley, Tharpa, and occasionally Mr. Socrates.

“ ‘Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand?’ ” Modo recited. “ ‘Come, let me clutch thee!’ ”

Mrs. Finchley clapped her hands. “You have outgrown me!”

Modo enjoyed the part of Macbeth, one of his favorite characters. “But I
haven’t
outgrown you!” he answered.

She patted his shoulder. “I mean in your talent. I hope you never outgrow spending time with me. I’m so proud. There are times when you are completely involved, when you become the character you are playing. That’s at the heart of great acting. You have tremendous ability for someone so young—but you need to forget something.”

“Forget what?”

“Yourself! The best actors must believe in their hearts that they are who they pretend to be.”

There must be something to that, Modo decided. But he never felt as though he could forget who he was, so he could never completely throw himself into a part. How could he forget his life, his face?

He set down the imaginary dagger.

“How is Octavia progressing in her studies?” he asked. He hadn’t had more than a few private conversations with her since they’d boarded the ship. She joined them for meals but was busy with her own training.

“She’s progressing nicely. A smart, raw talent, that one,” Mrs. Finchley said.

“As talented as
moi
?” He feigned lightheartedness. Mrs. Finchley had sounded so proud of her, and his fists had involuntarily tightened.

“Ah, each of you has your own unique talents. Now, let’s work on your accent and bearing.”

After the fourth straight day of his physical training, he knocked Tharpa onto his back twice. Each time, Tharpa stood, brushed himself off, and gave Modo a grin. “Good! Good!”

When Modo wasn’t training, he wandered the
Rome
,
looking out at the Atlantic, stopping at the saloon for lemonade or lime juice. He was relieved that the steamship hugged the European coast. He shivered when he imagined falling into that water again, as he had only a few short months ago. He’d come so close to freezing to death; his body remembered it well. And every time he looked down into the deeps he thought of Captain Monturiol and Cerdà and swallowed a lump of sadness. The Atlantic was their grave, a sunken submarine ship their coffin.

He distracted himself from his memories by following one of Mr. Socrates’ orders: to learn as much about the other passengers as possible. There were 125 saloon passengers in all. It had been a simple matter of asking for a tour of the clerk’s office, then sneaking a look at the list while the clerk was called out to answer some question about pay stubs. The names were common enough:
Mr. and Mrs. Henderson. Mr. and Mrs. Hare. Messrs. M. Collier and C. P. Davis. Mr. Carpenter. Miss Hoddle and Miss Fulton. Mr. and Mrs. O. Sheppard and two children. Mr. R. Reid and son, A. Reid, and servant. C. Chandra and Mrs. Finchley
.