by Arthur Slade
Just hearing her voice sent a shiver down Modo’s spine. The hounds’ jaws snapped menacingly. No barking, Modo remembered. They were silent killers.
“The crew at the helm have orders to dive if the balloons go up in flames,” Monturiol answered.
“And leave you behind?”
“As you have pointed out, we would be incinerated.”
“Then we have a stalemate. I see, though, that twenty-five of your crew members are on deck. Are the few who remain below enough to pilot your Ictíneo? Ah, but it is all too much work to even discuss this. Force will have to be applied. Now!”
Modo prepared to duck. The Icarians brandished their weapons. Hakkandottir went on smiling. Nothing happened, and her smile slowly turned to a grimace.
“I said now. You must act now!” she screamed through the speaking trumpet. Whom was she talking to?
Modo expected soldiers to climb up out of the water or to swing down from the warship, but no one moved. It was as though she were talking to someone … invisible. He gasped, realizing with gut-wrenching clarity exactly who was receiving those orders. You fool, Modo!
At that moment one of the Icarians had his speargun wrenched from his hands and was pushed into the sea. The gun floated in the air and Modo yelled, “Captain!” but before he could jump to Monturiol’s defense, the butt of the gun slammed into her skull and she collapsed. The gun clattered across the deck.
Griff could be anywhere! Modo pushed his way to where Monturiol lay. The Icarians gawked down at her, panic in their eyes. Cut off the head of an organization and the body will die, Mr. Socrates had told him many times. It appeared there was no second-in-command. They held their weapons bravely.
A shot from above struck the deck. “Enough! Surrender or die,” Miss Hakkandottir commanded. The Icarians looked at one another. In unison, they dropped their weapons and raised their arms.
Grappling hooks flew across the deck, and seconds later Guild soldiers rappelled down ropes onto the Ictíneo. Modo knelt and lifted Monturiol’s limp body.
A ramp was lowered from the ship to the submarine deck, and Modo, Colette, and the crew were prodded, shoved, and pushed onto the Wyvern and brought before Hakkandottir. Modo’s throat grew dry. Even though he had been wearing a different face the last time they’d met—his Peterkin face—he feared Hakkandottir might recognize him all the same.
“Who are you two?” she asked.
“That one is a British spy.” Griff’s voice was close to her shoulder.
“Which one?”
“That one!”
“I can’t see your finger, Griff. I assume you mean him.” She pointed a metal digit at Modo.
“Yes, he’s Modo. One of Mr. Socrates’ special projects. He can change his shape and his features. He looks fine now, but when his disguise fades he’s an ugly sot.”
Modo stiffened but said nothing.
Hakkandottir’s left eyebrow rose. “I’d heard such rumors. Extremely interesting! I want a detailed report later, Griff. And the woman?”
“Colette Brunet. A witch. A shrew. And a French spy.”
Colette was looking around at all the soldiers with their mouths closed. “Who is speaking? Show yourself!”
Griff let out a long high-pitched giggle.
“Colette, I should have told you,” Modo said slowly, knowing how ludicrous it sounded. “There has been an invisible man on board the Ictíneo. An invisible boy, really.”
Modo felt a burning slap across his face. He almost dropped Captain Monturiol.
“I’m not a boy! You take that back! I am Griff, Invisible Man the First!”
“Griff, Griff,” Miss Hakkandottir said quietly. “Now is not the time or place.” She stroked the metal skull of one of the hounds. “And was the lovely captain aware of your employer, Modo?”
“No,” Modo said. Hearing his name from Hakkandottir’s lips made him sick. He glanced down at Captain Monturiol. “She rescued me from a ship the Ictíneo had struck. She believes I’m a photographer.”
“So she is not as heartless as rumored. A pity. Well, Modo, Colette, I am not one to conduct interrogations in the open.” She turned to her men. “Take them to the hold.”
With Griff’s cackle following them, Colette and Modo were led by Guild soldiers across the deck. Monturiol was growing heavy in Modo’s arms, so he held her tighter. They passed thick-barreled breech-loading guns, and arrays of other weapons and towers. At the top of one tower was a huge black flag, and on it, the face of a clock. The Clockwork Guild was brazen enough to openly sail the high seas.
33
For Want of a Nail
Mr. Socrates stood in the office of the Admiralty. He was personally acquainted with First Naval Lord Milne, but the man was in India, and his second-in-command demanded that forms be filled out before he released a ship.
Mr. Socrates filled out the requisition forms as quickly as possible, Tharpa standing silently behind him. His frustration built with each stroke of his pen. He no longer cared whether his writing was legible.
“How many more forms?” he barked at the secretary, a thin man who had probably never been to sea.
“There are several more, sir,” the secretary said, delivering a large stack. “In triplicate.”
“Triplicate? Time is of the essence here! I told you that! I demand to see Second Sea Lord Hornby at once.”
“Sir, he is engaged until this evening. He will sign off on the papers then.”
Bureaucracy! Mr. Socrates wanted to shout. “For want of a piece of paper the kingdom was lost,” he hissed.
The secretary stared at him blankly.
Ah, it was pointless! He had hours of paperwork ahead of him. All this paper would one day be the downfall of the Empire. “Come, Tharpa,” he said. “We shall have to hire our own ship.”
34
Down in the Hold
Colette breathed through her mouth. The hold smelled of coal dust, smoke, and carcasses, though there weren’t any bodies she could see. Perhaps those on board had used the room to slaughter animals for their meals.
One Guild soldier remained standing silently at the door. If her hands hadn’t been tied behind her back and then tethered to her ankles, she would have grabbed something and bashed Modo’s head in.
“Colette? Colette?” Modo whispered. He too was tied up, and Captain Monturiol was bound and unconscious next to them.
“You kept a vital secret from me!” she snarled.
“I—I did. I’m sorry. Griff approached me yesterday and convinced me that he was a member of—of a British organization. He had followed us from New York. He knew things only a British agent would know.”
“He’s invisible and could’ve overheard any of your private conversations, or our conversations, for that matter.”
“He said you murdered Wyle.”
“Who?”
“One of our agents.”
“That sounds more like something he would do. What was his name again?”
“Griff.”
“Griff? What sort of name is that?” Colette tried to twist her wrists out of the ropes. “I shook your hand, Modo. I gave you my word.”
“We’re agents from different countries, Colette. We’re actors; you know that.”
“You should have trusted me.” She drew in a deep breath, seeking calm. “How did they find us?”
“He was the one who stole my telegraph. He must have somehow used it.”
“So you were able to get messages out?”
“I sent them, but I have no idea whether they were received.”
“You’ve hidden much from me. I believed we were partners.”
“We are.”
“We were!” Colette huffed. Don’t get angry, she told herself. Collect information. Reassess the situation. Then act. “How does this Griff stay invisible?”
“His body has been chemically altered so that every cell bends light. It makes him invisible to human eyes.” Modo coughed and Colette looked over.
His face was a little red. And distorted. “I—I think the drugs may have affected his mind,” Modo continued. “He seems a little off, if you know what I mean. And he’s got a temper.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Colette saw Modo’s head snap back as if forced. He groaned.
“Yes, I’m easily angered by lower creatures,” a voice said. “I’m the only one—Invisible Man the First. You don’t know what that’s like.”
Colette scanned the hold. Where was the voice coming from?
“Griff,” Modo said, “we shook hands.”
“Yes, you foolish beast, we did. Are you a child?” A rope flew up from the floor and looped around Modo’s neck. It began to tighten.
“Stop that! Stop!” Colette cried.
“Shut your gob,” Griff ordered. “Modo, your strength is something—I saw you rip open that door to the submarine ship.” He gave the rope another good yank. “And I’ve watched you change the actual shape and size of your bones. My guess is that you can easily slither out of these ropes. So I’m going to tie this particular one around your neck, nice and tight. If you move too much, you’ll choke.” The end of the rope floated up and knotted around a steel girder, forcing Modo to stand on the tips of his toes.
“He’ll choke,” Colette shouted. “Stop!”
She was slapped so hard her teeth felt loose.
“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to slap you!” Griff said.
She spat toward the voice. Her spittle stopped in midair, then dripped to the floor.
“You’ll pay for that,” Griff said. “I’ll have my hands around your lily-white throat soon enough.”
“You don’t frighten me,” she said, straining at her ropes.
“Ta-hee! I’ll drag you over to the hold with the other Icarians. They’re standing in four feet of ice water.” His laugh was grating on her nerves. “I can do it! I can. I’ll be your worst nightmare, I promise you.” The rope around Modo’s neck tightened—Griff had given it another pull. “Now, Modo, if I had the time I’d sit and wait while you choke. What will your pretty little coquette think when she sees your real face?”
The door opened and slammed shut, cutting off Griff’s laughter. The Guild soldier stood motionless with his hand on his pistol.
“Is—is he gone?” Colette said.
“Who knows,” Modo rasped.
“Well, we must behave as though he is here,” she said. “Are you going to be able to stay upright?”
“Yes. For now.”
Captain Monturiol moaned and slowly opened her eyes.
“Where are we?” she asked. “Where is the Ictíneo?”
“We are imprisoned on the Wyvern,” Colette replied. “An organization called the Clockwork Guild is in control of your submarine ship.”
Monturiol pulled fiercely against her ropes. “They cannot have my ship!”
“Calm down, Captain,” Colette said. “Struggling won’t do any good.”
“Yes, save your energy,” Modo said, and Monturiol turned to look at him. Her eyes widened.
“They’ve hanged you!”
“Yes,” he said. “It seems they have.”
The door opened and Miss Hakkandottir entered, two soldiers on either side of her. A mechanical-jawed hound slouched along behind her. “Ah, I see Griff has been busy,” she said. She patted the dog and it raised its head. “Find Griff. Bring him to my quarters.” The dog sniffed and bounded out of the room. “I am interested in you two. I want to discuss your operations, but first my men will take the good captain out for some fresh air and a pleasant discussion about submarine science.”
The four soldiers grabbed the screaming Captain Monturiol and lifted her easily. She spat and fought as hard as her bound body allowed her, but it was no use. They carried her out the door.
“We’ll be back soon enough,” Miss Hakkandottir said playfully as she followed her catch.
The door slammed. Modo hacked and sputtered. “I appear … to be … losing my breath.” Before Colette could speak, he’d fallen forward, tightening the rope.
35
Blood and Flowers
Griff stood silently on the tiger-skin rug in the captain’s quarters. Miss Hakkandottir sat with her back to him. She tapped with a metal finger on the golden key of her wireless telegraph, sending a message, he assumed, to the Guild Master. Griff trembled with joy. It was so wonderful to be with her again. He’d grown up under her tutelage and he loved her fervently. Why isn’t she talking to me? he wondered. Can’t the telegram wait? I haven’t seen her for six months. Six months!
The longer the message grew, the more Griff rubbed his hands and fidgeted. The movement kept him from shivering. The Wyvern was an icebox—all ships were cold. He actually missed the cramped, humid quarters of the Ictíneo. At least he had been warm there.
He began twirling a nearby globe on its pedestal, first slowly, then faster, watching all the countries spin. Turn, he thought. Turn! Turn! Turn!
The world turned, but Miss Hakkandottir didn’t. He jammed his finger on the globe and let out a squeak of pain. He put his finger in his mouth, then pulled it out and looked at it. It was, of course, invisible, but a bead of blood appeared in the air and slowly rolled down his finger, revealing some of its shape. He watched the blood drip, then stuck his finger in his mouth again. It was comforting, and he liked the brassy taste of blood. Dr. Hyde had never been able to explain why his blood still appeared red when he cut himself. It was the only color he had.
“I remember when you used to bring me flowers,” Miss Hakkandottir said, abruptly standing to face him. “Do you remember that, Griff?”
“Yes! Yes! I was a boy then. I would watch you arrive in your airship. It was such a lovely vessel.”
“Well, today you brought me something much better than flowers. You have exceeded all my expectations. I am so proud of you.”
His invisible heart began to beat faster. “Oh, it was nothing, Miss Hakkandottir.”
“You are not normally modest, Griff. Nor should you be. Dr. Hyde would be proud too.”
“How is the old genius?” he asked.
“Busy. There is always work for him to do and places for his mind to go. He misses you.”
“He misses my help, you mean.”
“Perhaps, but he has other helpers now. Not as colorful as you, of course. He sends his best.”
Griff had been prodded and poked so many times by the old sot, he didn’t think of the doctor with much fondness. But Hyde had made Griff who he was, Invisible Man the First. For that, he was extremely thankful.
“The Guild Master sends his greetings as well.”
That made Griff swallow. The man who led the Clockwork Guild, who had no name but the Guild Master. Griff had never even glimpsed him. He had tried once to sneak into the glass and iron fortress on the far end of the island, but the dogs had prevented him.
“Then I’ve done well!” Griff said. “I will bring you many more flowers.”
“I hope you didn’t find New York too cold. The information you gathered there and from the submarine ship was crucial. And figuring out how to use that agent’s wireless telegraph was brilliant! The Guild Master relied on your reports to design the balloons, and he provided us with much more equipment. Is there anything else you have yet to tell us?”
“There’s a city, Miss Hakkandottir. Mad Monturiol created a city beneath the waters that she calls New Barcelona. I’ve not seen it with my own eyes, but Modo and Colette visited it.”
“Ah! I am certain we will learn more about it from the captain. She was not talkative a few minutes ago, but the guards are ‘encouraging’ her as we speak.” She paused. “I am especially curious about this Modo.”
“There’s not much to him,” Griff snapped.
“Now, now, no jealousy, Griff. You are better than that. You say he can change his appearance?”
“Yes, and his actual shape. He can disguise himself as anyone. Well, not as me, of course.”
“A
very interesting skill.”
“He’s a bore, though. Unimaginative, strong, and dumb as an ox.”
“And his loyalties. Are they deep?”
“He’s loyal as a mongrel to his master.”
“Well, we shall have to study him. The Guild Master will want to know details. Dr. Hyde, too. Perhaps we can learn how he performs his tricks.”
The thought of them being thrilled with Modo made Griff grind his teeth. “But he’s not invisible.”
“No, my sweet, dear Griff—he is not you. No one is. I assume the knot you tied will not choke him. I would be disappointed if it did.”
Griff bit his invisible lip. “No. No. He’s safe.”
“Good. Again, I am so very proud of you.” She had an unerring ability to stare directly into his eyes. He didn’t understand how she sensed where he was standing. “I am disappointed in just one thing, though. We have talked about your slowness to take action. Sometimes you hesitate too long. You could have brought that submarine ship to the surface much earlier.”
“I—I will do better. I promise.”
“I know you will, Griff. That is all. The coxswain’s cabin has been prepared for you. Please relax. You deserve it.”
She patted his shoulder, but what he wanted most of all was for her to wrap her arms around him. To be held, that metal hand clasped tightly around his back.
“Thank you, Miss Hakkandottir. Thank you.”
36
The Hanging Man
Modo forced himself back into a half crouch, struggling for breath. He’d nearly blacked out—the suffering was too intense. His body was changing, sending painful ripples through the muscles in his arms, legs, shoulders, neck, and face. He was unable to hold the tall, slender shape of the handsome Knight. He felt his bones creak as his back hunched inch by inch, shortening his torso and tightening the noose around his neck. How long had he been standing like this? Minutes? Hours?
“Modo, are you well? You keep gurgling,” Colette said.
