by Arthur Slade
He handed a paper to Octavia, who looked it over quickly and tossed it to Modo.
“You have it memorized already?” he asked.
“Of course.”
Modo stared at it a bit longer, then set the paper down.
“And your wedding rings.” Mr. Socrates opened a small envelope and handed one ring to each of them. Modo’s gold band was a little loose.
“Does it do anything?” Modo asked.
“The ring? Yes, if you fall in the water it will expand into a cork float.”
“Truly?” Modo said. Octavia rolled her eyes. Modo blushed. “Ah. You were joking.”
Mr. Socrates actually grinned. Modo ran his fingers over the gold ring. Married. He nearly laughed out loud. Then it dawned on him: he would be sharing a room with Octavia! He began to sweat profusely.
Mr. Socrates placed a photograph on the table. Modo leaned forward to more closely inspect the grainy image of a man in a French military uniform, a woman and a young girl beside them. The woman was Japanese and wore a kimono. The girl’s face was circled, and Modo could clearly see that she must be their daughter, as she had both the determined look of the man and the beauty and coloring of the woman. At the bottom was written 1869, age fourteen; Hakodate, Japan.
“This is the Brunet family. Captain Alphonse Brunet died of wounds sustained during the Boshin War. His only daughter was Colette Brunet. She is eighteen now and works as a spy for the French government. She is highly regarded despite her youth, and she has risen to the top of the ranks.”
“What does she have to do with our assignment?” Modo asked.
“Patience, Modo. I’m coming to that. Miss Brunet is searching for something called the Ictíneo. Since the French have given her the job of finding it, that would strongly indicate it’s their top priority.”
“I assume it’s important to us, too,” Octavia said.
“Yes, the French are allies, but we cannot allow them to gain any advantage over us, especially on the seas.”
Octavia adjusted a lock of her hair. “In other words, you want to gather up all the toys before the French have a chance to play with them.”
“Ah, such cheekiness.” Mr. Socrates no longer seemed amused. “These toys are what decide the fate of the empire.” He looked at Modo. “Can you guess what the name Ictíneo means?”
“Uh, it’s Greek, correct?”
“Yes, but what does it mean?”
“Well, an ichthus is a fish. Neo is ‘new.’ So it’s a new fish.”
“Yes, perhaps that’s what it means. The root of the second word could be naus, or ship. So it may mean ‘fish ship’ or a fish as big as a ship, a blunt translation. There are rumors of a sea monster.”
“A sea monster!” Modo said. “A whale, like Moby-Dick? Or is it more like the kraken?”
“Mrs. Finchley allowed you to read too many flights of fancy,” Mr. Socrates said sadly. The sense of shame made Modo shrink inside. But they were good stories, he wanted to say. He couldn’t imagine his childhood—or his life now—without books. Every line of Coleridge was stamped in his memory.
“In any case,” Mr. Socrates went on, “I doubt that Miss Brunet is pursuing an actual sea monster, though I admit one can never be certain what the depths of the ocean will produce. I have myself seen squids the length of a ship, whales as large as an island. One theory from other members of the Association is that they have replaced the ivory tusks of narwhals with metal ones and trained them to sink ships.”
“Is that possible?” Octavia asked, her eyes large and distractingly beautiful. Modo bit his lip, trying to keep his mind on their task.
Mr. Socrates nodded. “A few months ago I would have said no, but our encounter with the Clockwork Guild has opened my eyes. After all, they melded flesh and metal in ways beyond human comprehension.”
Modo swallowed. He didn’t like to think about the Clockwork Guild. They had nearly destroyed the Houses of Parliament and, worse, had attempted to kill him several times in the space of a few short hours. Just the thought of Miss Hakkandottir and her metal hand was enough to make him shudder. She lived on in his nightmares; more than once he had woken up in a cold sweat from a dream in which she had plucked out one of his eyes with her sharpened metal nails.
“Attaching metal spears to whales sounds like something they would do.” Octavia was tapping her fingers on the table. “After all, those hounds of theirs were half iron, half flesh. That idea would certainly be in keeping with what we know of them.”
“I’d be quite happy never to have to set eyes on one of those hounds again,” Modo said.
“Don’t be frightened, Modo,” Octavia said. “I’ll protect you.”
“I’m not frightened! I was only stating a fact.”
“There’s no indication that the Clockwork Guild is involved,” Mr. Socrates said. “The Guild is, as we say in the business, sleeping. They’ve disappeared down the rabbit hole. But one can never be too cautious. In the meantime, we will act on what we know. The papers Modo retrieved from the embassy include the last transmission from Brunet, which I have deciphered to mean that a ship was sent for her to command. We need to know where she went.”
“And will Agent Wyle have the answer to this question?” Octavia asked.
“He should have reported in by now. You, Modo, must discover his whereabouts. Octavia shall assist you.”
“I’ll lead the investigation, you mean,” Octavia said.
Mr. Socrates shook his head. “Modo will take point. You will work together. If you are not able to make contact with Wyle, then it will be your mission to pursue Colette Brunet and discover the story behind the Ictíneo. We must either have that technology or destroy it.”
“Destroy it?” Modo asked.
“Yes. I cannot overstate this. Our nation is built on sea power. We must control the seas. Modo and Octavia, this is not a small assignment. You will be the eyes and the ears of the empire.”
“Me peepers are me own,” Octavia said with the accent from her pickpocket days.
“This is no joke!” Mr. Socrates raised his voice ever so slightly, but the change made Modo sit up straight. Octavia, too. “I don’t send you on this assignment lightly. I have arranged for clothing for you. All is packed in the next room. And there is one final thing.” He opened a box on the table. “This.” He took out a leather item from which hung a safety chain.
“A wallet?” asked Modo.
“Open it,” Mr. Socrates said.
When Modo did so, he found that the top half of the wallet encased a square mechanical device. The change pouch of the wallet held an electric cell.
“What is it?”
“A wireless telegraph,” Octavia said. She smiled at Modo’s surprise that she should recognize it. “I’ve seen one before, but this one is amazingly small.”
“You are very observant, Octavia,” said Mr. Socrates. “That’s exactly what it is.”
“But how does it work?” Modo asked. “How far will the messages travel?”
“Alas, the distance isn’t great. You must be close to a telegraph line. It will work, occasionally, on the ocean; you’ll be able to communicate through the transatlantic cables. You keep it, Modo, since the husband always carries the wallet. Secure it in a safe place on your person.”
“I shall.”
“And I also have this.” From the same box Mr. Socrates took out what looked like black netting, but when he shook the fabric, two eyeholes appeared in it. “A mask. Much easier to transport than your papier-mâché ones. You can keep it in your pocket and it will stretch over your face, concealing any shape.”
“That is excellent, sir!” Modo folded the mask carefully, surprised by the suppleness of the material.
“Now you must go and make yourselves ready. A cab is waiting to take you to the train to Liverpool. At two o’clock this afternoon your ship departs.”
6
The Crossing
Modo did not have to pretend to be ill on th
e voyage—he spent the first three days seasick. He slumped on the bed in their stateroom, the fancy satin blankets and swansdown pillows providing little comfort. His net mask was a damp sponge of stale sweat that clung to his face like a starfish. He could eat the occasional orange slice or cracker, or bits of a sugar biscuit, but that was all. Octavia had brought him lemonade, but just the smell of it made him retch.
“The deviled kidney is excellent,” Octavia said, sitting at the glass dining table in their room, cutting the kidney with a silver knife. Modo gritted his teeth, biting back a snide reply. “The fried onions are straight from heaven,” she added.
“You are intentionally being cruel, Miss Milkweed.”
“Oh, suddenly so formal, Modo. Is our marriage already on the rocks?”
He ignored her. “I should sleep on the floor,” he said. “You have the bed. I’m well enough now.”
Octavia laughed. “Don’t be foolish. I’ve slept in worse holes.” She had used the sofa as her bed for the voyage. They’d been given a Chinese privacy screen, which Octavia pulled across the room at night.
Modo had insisted the lights stay low. In his state, it had become impossible to shift into a more attractive appearance; he had tried twice and nearly passed out both times.
He remembered Mrs. Finchley, the closest person he had to a mother, wiping his forehead whenever he was sick as a child. How he missed the sound of her voice, the touch of her hands, and the way she used to hold him. It seemed a hundred years ago. But even then, even with a fever, Mr. Socrates would make Modo test the limits of his abilities to transform.
“You’re deep in thought,” Octavia said. “Reliving the plot of some penny dreadful?”
“At this point I’m a living penny dreadful.”
Octavia laughed, and Modo was pleased with himself.
“You said you were married before.” He gripped the sheet. He’d punch her first husband, if the fellow wasn’t already dead.
She shrugged. “It didn’t last; my beloved was old.”
“Beloved? You—you really were married?”
“Ah, it was just another game for Mr. Socrates. My husband was an old Chinese agent called Mah. We were investigating a triad—a Chinese underground society.”
“I know what a triad is,” Modo huffed, wishing his voice didn’t sound so whiny. “How did he die?”
“Not arsenic, in case you were worried. As I mentioned, he was old. One day, over breakfast, his heart gave out and our investigation was over.”
“Sounds horrible!”
“Well, I didn’t actually see him die—I was still sleeping behind a screen, not unlike this one. He was overbearing, opinionated, and loud, and he drooled. Otherwise, I was sad to see ol’ Mah go. Mr. Socrates was very angry with him for having the audacity to die while on assignment, so neither of us should ever do that!”
“Don’t even joke about dying. When were you married?”
“A few months before you and I met. Now, enough questions. It’s time for my little penny dreadful to sleep,” Octavia said.
“Must I?”
“You can hardly keep your eyes open. I’ll entertain myself by strutting up and down the deck and dining in the Paris café, where the young lords and gentlemen will no doubt watch me like hawks.”
The thought made Modo clench his fists under the sheet. “A married woman shouldn’t be out on her own!”
“Tut, tut!” Her hand was on the doorknob. “I’ll tell them I’m getting my sick husband some tea. Sleep well, my lord,” she said, then was out the door.
Modo did fall asleep, but it took longer than usual.
That night he woke up and listened to Octavia’s slight snore. It was such an odd feeling to have her right in the same room. He had thought about her so often since their first meeting and, in the months that they were apart, between assignments. He had wandered the streets of London, swung from rooftop to rooftop for hours looking for her, hoping for a glimpse. And now here she was only feet away. What was she dreaming about? Him? The thought made him choke back a laugh. No, she had much better things to dream about. Men with faces that were permanently handsome, for one.
By the fifth day he was able to keep meals down and he felt almost healthy. He found too that he could finally change his face into the one Octavia knew, a man he called the Knight. So, while she was out, he’d managed the transformation, then daubed on sweet-smelling lotions and dressed himself in his finest morning jacket and black trousers.
When she returned, he was sitting at the glass table, playing solitaire.
“Ah, you are alive, and sans mask. This is a momentous day!”
She sat across from Modo and stared at him for so long that he felt nervous sweat beading on his forehead. “Why are you looking at me?”
“You seem different somehow.”
“In what way?”
“I can’t quite put my finger on it. Perhaps you just look older. You might pass for sixteen.”
“Sixteen?” he said with a huff. “I’m twenty!”
“That’s a lie, Modo. One day I’ll figure out your age. For now, though, shall we go out for a stroll and get our morning vittles?” She said this last bit in a falsetto. Modo wasn’t quite sure whom she was imitating, but he smiled.
He stood and nearly fell over. “Ah, you’re still a touch weak on your pins,” she said. “I’ll give you a hand.”
He leaned on Octavia’s shoulder as she helped him out of the cabin. He caught a whiff of his own sweaty stink. Was she wrinkling her nose? If he hadn’t felt so tired, he would have rejoiced at being this close to her. She led him onto the gangway. The wind was brisk and cold. He gazed at the horizon, the greatest uninterrupted distance he’d ever seen. He had peeked out the porthole in their room, but this was his first panoramic view of the Atlantic.
“No wonder ancient sailors believed there were waterfalls at the end of the earth,” he said.
“Yes, it’s something, isn’t it?” Octavia agreed. “Though after five days, I’ve had my fill of endless nothingness. I want to see America, to walk the streets of New York and be a part of the great hubbub! Imagine, New York! Maybe we’ll like it so much we’ll just stay there.”
“Don’t say that! We have an assignment!”
“Ah, you are such a fussy duffer some days! You need a good meal. We’re off to the Paris café.”
She led him along the gangway and to the center of the upper deck. A smokestack loomed above them, sputtering out smoke from the depths of the ship. In the café, several gentlemen and their wives sat at tables, eating breakfast. Modo and Octavia found an empty table near a man reading the Times.
“That’s not today’s paper, is it?” Modo quipped.
The man looked up, squinting through his monocle at Modo. “It most certainly is not,” he said, then put his nose back in the paper.
“It must be hard being such a dummacker,” Octavia whispered. “Never a smile or a chuckle. Did you know there’s a thousand third-class passengers on the decks below us and only a hundred of us up here enjoying the sun?”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Oh, it’s not fair.” Octavia shrugged. “But it’s not a problem we can solve now. We’ve got bigger fish to catch.” She laughed at her own joke.
When the waiter arrived, Modo ordered porridge, while Octavia asked for eggs and a croissant.
“So we search for an agent who, in turn, is searching for a creature from the great depths,” he said; then, remembering all the literature he’d memorized, he recited, “ ‘Full fathom five thy father lies.’ ”
“Shakespeare again, Modo? How trite.”
“It’s not trite!” he hissed, surprising himself at how loud he could be. “It’s art!”
“Pfft!” Octavia waved her hand. “You know my thoughts on Shakespeare. It’s like reading mud.”
He was silent until their breakfast arrived, then asked, “Do you have any guesses about what happened to Mr. Wyle? Do you think he’s been c
aptured?”
“Oh, he’s likely blewed, slewed, and tipsy.”
“What?”
“Drunk. That’s my guess.”
“I can’t believe one of Mr. Socrates’ agents would get drunk. That would be unprofessional.”
“I see it all the time. These older agents get burned out and turn to the bottle.”
“Hmm. Well, we’ll just have to wait and see if your theory is correct. Speaking of theories, what do you think of this Ictíneo? Is it a giant fish?”
“I have no idea. Obviously Mr. Socrates doesn’t either.”
“Why do you think Mr. Socrates sent us together?” he asked.
“Because he knows you need someone to look after you.”
“That’s not true!”
“Who pulled you from the Thames? Tharpa? Mr. Socrates? The Queen?”
“It was you, Tavia,” he said. “Must I thank you every day?”
“Yes. Morn, noon, and night. You can take Sundays and Christmas off.” She laughed. “If you really want my best guess, it’s that we’re his youngest agents. He needed two people who could convincingly behave as though they were married. We were his most logical choice. Some of his other agents are so ugly, no one would believe they’d find spouses.”
She grinned, but Modo found it hard to respond in kind. “Yes, I suppose some of them are ugly.”
“I must admit, Modo”—she motioned around the ship—“I like this upper-class life. Perhaps if I found the right rich gentleman, I’d retire.”
“You’ll never retire,” he said, trying not to picture her married off to some rich, rotund nob.
“Perhaps, perhaps not.” She eyed him closely again. “What I still don’t understand is how you change your appearance.”
“Magicians don’t give up their secrets.”
“No, I suppose they don’t, not even to their friends.”
More than anything, Modo wished he could explain why he couldn’t show his face. He would certainly be the ugliest of all the ugly agents.
