Secrets of the Dragon Tomb (24 page)

“Excellent. Then it is settled. I shall expect you before noon.”

“It looks sad, don't you think?” Olivia said. She was standing beneath the dragon's head, peering up.

“Sad?” the junior-under-curator said. “It is a beast. Beasts do not experience emotions. They are more akin to mechanisms than to humans. Why, you might as well suggest a dog could feel happy or a duck feel afraid.” He laughed. “No, do not assign human emotions to beasts. They have no intelligence or feelings. Any educated man will tell you as much.”

Putty glared at him. I put a restraining hand on her shoulder, but I knew exactly what she was thinking. This man was supposed to be one of Mars's greatest experts? I hoped Professor Fournier was less of an idiot.

I took Putty's hand and led her around the dragon. Now that I knew it was covered in resin, it was easier to see through to the dragon's skin. It was covered in thousands of fine scales, arranged in multicolored swirls, like the patterns we'd seen carved into the Ancient Martian structures. It must have been amazing when it was flying. I bet its scales had glittered in sunlight.

We climbed beneath the dragon's belly, stepped over its tail, and trailed our fingers over the resin-covered claws. Even though the dragon had been dead for so many hundreds of years and all that held it intact was the tough resin, I couldn't help but feel afraid as we walked so close and dared lay our hands on it.

“And now,” the junior-under-curator called, “I believe it is time for your appointment with Professor Fournier. If you will follow me?”

Reluctantly, we left the dragon and followed the junior-under-curator.

“If you don't mind,” he said as he led us through the museum, “why did you wish to see the professor?”

Freddie smiled easily. “Oh, nothing of real significance. I merely wanted his advice on reading some ideograms. Simple to a man of his intellect, of course, but not to someone like me.” He shrugged. “Have trouble reading English sometimes, let alone ideograms. Ha-ha.”

“Like the other gentlemen, then,” the junior-under-curator said. “Professor Fournier certainly is popular today.”

“Other gentlemen?” I said. “What other gentlemen?”

“Professor Fournier's other visitors,” the junior-under-curator said. “They, too, had ideograms they wanted interpreted. Quite an exciting day for the old fellow, really. Two sets of visitors. I had just finished showing them in when you arrived. An unusual pair. Not the type one would normally expect in the museum. Quite uncouth and rough looking, I thought.”

I met Freddie's eyes.

“Stand aside,” Freddie said, pushing past the junior-under-curator. The man let out a squawk of protest. Freddie ignored him and sprinted down the corridor. The rest of us followed.

Freddie stopped outside a polished wooden door that bore a brass plate with the professor's name. Gently, he eased the door open.

“Stay back!” he snapped.

But it was too late. I'd already seen what was within.

The professor lay sprawled on the floor, and he was clearly dead.

 

19

Prisoners

“What's happening?” Putty said from behind. “I can't see. Edward, get out of the way.”

I held her back with one outstretched arm. “Don't look,” I said, although I couldn't turn my own eyes away. The professor was lying on his back, and he'd been stabbed. His white shirt was dark with blood.

“Is he dead?” Putty said. “I've never seen a dead body before.”

“And you're not going to start now,” Olivia said, her voice sharp. “Come away. You too, Edward. Leave the poor man some dignity.”

I tore my gaze away and helped Olivia pull Putty back into the corridor. She protested all the way. It was only when I was out of sight of the professor's body that I suddenly started shaking. My skin felt cold. How could they have done that to that poor old man? Surely the professor had never done harm to anyone.

The junior-under-curator came tottering up behind us. He shouldered his way into the room and stopped with a gasp.

“Professor?” He turned to Freddie. “What…?”

“The professor has been murdered,” Freddie said. “You showed some men in just before us. Who were they?”

“Murdered? Who would do that? Why? It is true that we did not all agree with his theories regarding the preservation of artifacts, but—”

“Describe the men, please,” Freddie said.

“I…” The junior-under-curator backed out of the room. “There were two of them. One … One was a native Martian. They all look alike to me. The other was a short man. An ugly fellow, with a squashed face, like a frog. But he seemed to appreciate pottery. How could he murder someone?”

“Where did they go?”

The junior-under-curator gaped.

“You said you showed them in just before us. We didn't pass them. Which way would they have gone?”

The junior-under-curator rubbed at his forehead, as though trying to rub away a headache. “Down there … I … Why…?”

Freddie turned to me. “They may still be here. Edward, get your sisters out—”

“No,” I said. “I'm coming with you.”

Freddie didn't argue. He took off at a sprint, and I followed. We raced down the corridors, past closed offices and cavernous storerooms. Surprised faces stared out at us, but we were gone before anyone could say anything. I tried to peer into the storerooms as we passed, but Freddie kept going, head down, pulling away from me with each stride.

We skidded around a corner, and there, ahead of us, a door hung open. Bright desert sunlight spilled through, outlining two familiar figures: Frog-face and the native Martian.

Freddie threw himself forward. The native Martian tried to slam the door, but Freddie barged into it, smacking it open. Frog-face lunged at him with a knife, and Freddie danced out of the way. I forced an extra burst of speed into my legs.

I stumbled into the burning sunlight just as the native Martian swung at Freddie with a heavy blackjack. I crashed into the native Martian, and we went down in a pile.

Freddie jabbed at Frog-face with his walking stick, fending off the knife and forcing the man back. The Martian came to his feet, lifting me off the ground. I clung on and sank my teeth into his arm. He gave a shout and dropped the blackjack. With a roar of anger, he thumped me into the wall. The impact knocked me to the ground. I tried to get up, but my legs wouldn't cooperate. The Martian drew a small dagger.

Freddie drove Frog-face back. A ringing blow sent the man's knife flying.

“Freddie!” I managed as the Martian raised his dagger.

Freddie crossed the gap between us with two quick steps. He whipped his walking stick across the Martian's head. The man slumped, his eyes rolling back.

Freddie spun just as Frog-face thrust. Freddie tried to dodge, but he didn't have time. The knife slid across his ribs. He grunted. His legs gave way and he fell to his knees.

Frog-face stood over him. The man's face was twisted with hatred. Freddie's blood dripped from his knife as he brought it forward.

Then a whistle sounded, and someone shouted, “Militia!”

Frog-face hesitated for a second. Then he turned on his heel and was gone.

*   *   *

We didn't have time to run. By the time I'd helped Freddie back to his feet, the open area behind the museum was full of militiamen.

The three of us—me, Freddie, and the Martian—were marched through city streets. Freddie tried to talk to the militia leader, both in English and native Martian, but they shoved him back and didn't answer.

How had this happened? Surely Dr. Guzman had told them we had nothing to do with the professor's murder? I didn't understand why we were being arrested.

The militiamen took us to an underground cell in a squat, fort-like building. The only light in the cell came from a small grille above us. The floor was covered in damp straw. A long stone block served as a bed. We were pushed in, along with the Martian, and the cell door closed behind us with a clang. They even took away Freddie's walking stick.

I slumped against the wall and rested my head in my hands. My sisters were out there on their own, unprotected. Sir Titus still had Mama, Papa, and Jane, and now he knew we were here. And Freddie and I were trapped, helpless, with one of Sir Titus's chief henchmen.

How could it all have gone so wrong?

*   *   *

No one came to see us that evening, nor the next day. Somewhere out there, Sir Titus had his abacus and Papa was translating the map. Surely it couldn't take much longer. He might have done it already. I banged against the bars, but it was pointless. The militiamen ignored us.

Freddie's wound was still seeping blood. I'd have liked to clean it properly with wine or spirits and to stitch it. At least there was water in the cell. I washed the wound, then bandaged it with strips torn from Freddie's shirt.

A guard pushed food under the door once the next day, along with more water, then disappeared without speaking. The bread was stale, but I was starving. The hours seemed to drag on endlessly in the dark cell.

Near the evening of the second day, guards came down and led us up to an office. I was tired and grimy. Freddie stumbled as he climbed the stairs and had to lean on a guard's shoulder.

The militia captain was sitting behind his desk as we entered. There was an auto-scribe beside him, but its brass speaking tube was turned down, unused.

“So,” the militia captain said. “A respected professor dead, murdered in his office. The museum staff say that you three and the man who fled were the professor's only visitors that day. Then my men catch you fighting in the street.” He shook his head. “What do you have to say for yourselves?”

Freddie was bent over his wounded side, his face set in a grimace. A thin layer of sweat covered his face. His shirt was ragged where we'd torn it away for bandages. The bloodstains had turned brown.

“We…” I cleared my throat and tried again. “We were just visiting the museum. The professor was dead when we got there.” I shot an accusing look at the native Martian.

The captain made a noncommittal sound, then turned to Sir Titus's man. “And you?”

“The professor was alive when my companion and I left,” the native Martian said.

The militia captain tilted his head. “Why did your companion run when my men approached?”

“We were attacked by these two. I was knocked unconscious. I'm sure he went to find help.”

“You attacked us!” I shot back.

“Enough!” The militia officer slapped his palm on the table. “I could lock the three of you up for a week for fighting in public.” He sat back in his seat, sighing. “It appears there were no witnesses. The museum staff didn't see the professor between your visits, and no one was in that part of the building. I can't prove that your stories are lies, but I can't prove they're true, either.
Someone
killed that man.”

“Will you release us?” Freddie managed. His voice was strained.

The militiaman shrugged. “Perhaps. But someone must vouch for you. A person of good character.” He nodded to the native Martian. “Someone has come forward for you.” The captain gestured to one of the guards. “Release this gentleman.”

“Wait!” Freddie said. He took a step and stumbled. I caught his arm.

The militia captain turned to Freddie. “Yes?”

Freddie let out a breath. “Nothing. We'd like to see the British-Martian ambassador. He'll vouch for us.”

“We'll send for him, but I'm sure he's a busy man. Is there anyone else who could vouch for you? Anyone at all?”

Olivia could, but Sir Titus's men might be watching the prison. She and Putty would be in danger. I shook my head.

“Then I have no choice but to return you to your cell.”

The guards led us away again. The moment we were alone, Freddie slumped on the block of stone that passed for a bed. “Blast!” he said. “That's blown it. I was sure they'd release the three of us together. Now there's nothing to stop Sir Titus from finding that tomb and selling the secrets to Napoleon.”

And doing away with my family, I thought. But all I said was, “You're not well.”

“My injury feels hot,” Freddie said. “I think I have a touch of fever. It'll pass.”

“Will it?” I asked.

Freddie shrugged painfully. “There's nothing we can do about it here. At least our Martian friend will report back that I'm on my last legs. That'll give us an advantage.”

“Not if you
are
on your last legs,” I said.

Freddie flashed a grin. “I'm stronger than I look.”

“Will the ambassador come?” I asked.

Freddie lay down carefully on the stone bed. “I don't know. Sir Titus has a long history in this city and many important friends. What if the ambassador is one of those?”

“You think he might hand us over to Sir Titus?”

“Nothing so rash,” Freddie said. “Sir Titus is a fugitive, and the intelligence service is unforgiving. But he might easily pretend to never have received our message.”

“Then what do we do?”

Freddie smiled. “I'm going to sleep. You should rest, too. Wake me if anything happens.”

With that, his eyes drifted shut, and I was left there in the cell as the light outside faded.

I must have slept eventually, because the next thing I knew, the cell door banged open.

“Get up,” one of the guards said in accented English. “The captain wants to see you.”

Freddie seemed a little better when I helped him up, although he was still weak and leaned on my arm.

“The ambassador?” I asked Freddie in a whisper as they led us up the stairs.

“Perhaps. It's early, but if he's verified my identity with the intelligence service…”