Leviathan 01 - Leviathan

by Scott Westerfeld

  But most important, Alek had learned to shut away despair. He hadn’t cried since that first day, not once. His misery was locked away in a small, hidden corner of himself. The only time the awful hollowness struck now was when he was alone on watch, while the others were asleep.

  And even then Alek practiced the art of keeping his tears inside.

  “I’m not a child anymore,” he said.

  “I know.” Volger’s voice softened. “But your father asked me to wait, Alek, and I intend to honor his wishes. Go wake the men, and after breakfast we’ll have a fencing lesson. You’ll need your reflexes sharp for this afternoon’s piloting.”

  Alek stared at Volger another moment, then finally nodded.

  He felt the need for a sword in his hand.

  “On guard, if you please.”

  Alek raised his saber and assumed his guard. Volger walked in a slow circle around him, inspecting Alek’s stance for what felt like a solid minute.

  “More weight on your back foot,” the man finally said. “But otherwise acceptable.”

  Alek shifted his weight, his muscles already beginning to cramp. Long days in the pilot’s cabin had ruined his form. This lesson was going to hurt.

  Pain was always Count Volger’s objective, of course. When Alek had started his training at ten years old, he’d expected swordplay to be exciting. But his first lessons had consisted of standing motionless like this for hours, with Volger taunting him whenever his outstretched arm began to quiver.

  At least now, at fifteen, he was allowed to cross swords.

  Volger took his own guard.

  “Slowly at first. I shall call your parries,” Volger said, and began to attack, shouting out the names of defensive movements as he lunged. “Tierce…tierce again. Now prime. That’s awful, Alek. Your blade’s too far down! Two in tierce. Now go back covering. Now quarte. Simply dreadful. Again…”

  The count’s attacks continued, but his voice dropped off, relying on Alek to choose his own parries. The swords flashed, and their shuffling feet stirred up dust into the shafts of sunlight lancing through the barn.

  It felt odd fencing in farmer’s clothes, without servants standing ready to bring water and towels. Mice scrambled underfoot, and the giant Stormwalker watched over them

  “PRACTICE.”

  like some iron god of war. Every few minutes Count Volger called a halt and stared up at the machine, as if hoping to find in its stoic silence the patience to endure Alek’s clumsy technique.

  Then he would sigh and say, “Again…”

  Alek felt his focus sharpening as they fought. Unlike in the fencing salon at home, here there were no mirrors along the wall, and Klopp and the other men were too busy checking over the walker’s engines to watch. No distractions, just the clear ring of steel and the shuffle of feet.

  As the sparring grew more intense, Alek realized they hadn’t put on masks yet. He’d always begged to fight without protection, but his parents had never allowed it.

  “Why Serbia?” Volger suddenly asked.

  Alek dropped his guard. “Pardon me?”

  Volger pushed aside Alek’s half-ready parry and landed a touch on his wrist.

  “What in blazes?” Alek cried out, rubbing his hand. The sporting saber’s edge was dull, but could still bruise when it landed on flesh.

  “Do not drop your guard until the other man does, Your Highness. Not in time of war.”

  “But you just asked me…,” Alek began, then sighed and raised his sword again. “All right. Continue.”

  The count began with another flurry of blows, pushing Alek backward. By the rules of saber any contact with the opponent’s sword ended a legal attack. But Volger was ignoring every parry, using brute strength to gain his ground.

  “Why Serbia?” the count repeated, pushing Alek toward the back wall of the barn.

  “Because the Serbs are allied with Russia!” Alek cried.

  “Indeed.” Volger suddenly ended his attack, turning his back and walking away. “The old alliance of the Slavic peoples.”

  Alek blinked. Sweat was running into his eyes, and his heart was racing.

  Volger took up his stance in the center of the barn. “On guard, sir.”

  Alek approached warily, his sword up.

  Volger attacked again, still ignoring the rules of priority. This wasn’t fencing, Alek realized, this was more like…a sword fight. He let his concentration narrow, his awareness extending down the length of his saber. Like the Stormwalker, the length of steel became an extension of his body.

  “And who is most closely allied with Russia?” Volger asked, not even a little breathless.

  “Britain,” Alek said.

  “Not so.” Volger’s blade slipped inside Alek’s guard, whacking his right arm hard.

  “Ouch!” Alek dropped his guard and rubbed the wound. “For heaven’s sake, Volger! Are you teaching me fencing or diplomacy?”

  Volger smiled. “You are in need of instruction in both, obviously.”

  “But the British navy command met with the Russians last year! Father said it drove the Germans wild with worry.”

  “That is not an alliance, Alek. Not yet.” Volger raised his sword. “So who is allied with Russia, then?”

  “France, I suppose.” Alek swallowed. “They have a treaty, right?”

  “Correct.” Volger paused for a moment, sword point tracing a pattern in the air, then frowned. “Raise your sword, Alek. I won’t warn you again; nor shall your enemies.”

  Alek sighed and took his guard. He felt himself gripping the saber too tightly, and forced his hand to relax. Did Volger think these distractions were useful?

  “Focus on my eyes,” Volger said. “Not the tip of my sword.”

  “Speaking of eyes, we aren’t wearing masks.”

  “There are no masks in war.”

  “There aren’t many sword fights in war either! Not lately.”

  Volger raised an eyebrow at this, and Alek felt a moment of triumph. Two could play at this game of being annoying.

  The man lunged, and Alek parried, counterattacking for once. His saber’s edge missed Volger’s arm by a hair.

  He pulled back and covered himself.

  “So let us review,” Volger said, his sword still flashing. “Austria gets revenge on Serbia. Then what happens?”

  “To protect Serbia, Russia declares war on Austria.”

  As Alek spoke, somehow his mind stayed focused on the play of sabers. It was strangely clarifying, wearing no mask. He’d met German officers from the military schools where protection was considered cowardly. Scars stretched across their faces like cruel smiles.

  “And then?” Volger said.

  “Germany protects Clanker honor by declaring war on Russia.”

  Volger lunged at Alek’s knee, an illegal target. “And then?”

  “France makes good its treaty with Russia, and declares war on Germany.”

  “And then?”

  “Who knows?” Alek shouted, thrashing at Volger’s saber. He’d lost his footing, he realized—too much of his body was exposed. He turned to correct it. “Britain finds her way in somehow. Darwinists against Clankers.”

  Volger lunged forward and his saber spun, wrapping around Alek’s like a snake and yanking it from his grasp. Metal flashed as the sword soared across the barn, burying itself in the half-rotten wall with a thunk.

  The wildcount stepped forward and held his saber at Alek’s throat.

  “And what can we conclude from this lesson, Your Highness?”

  Alek glared at the man. “We can conclude, Count Volger, that discussing politics while fencing is idiotic.”

  Volger smiled. “For most people, perhaps. But some of us are born without the choice. The game of nations is your birthright, Alek. Politics is part of everything you do.”

  Alek pushed Volger’s saber aside. Without a sword in his hand he suddenly felt numb and exhausted, and he didn’t have the strength to argue against the obvious. H
is birth had shaken the Austro-Hungarian throne, and now his parents’ death had unsettled the delicate balance of Europe.

  “So this war is my responsibility,” he said bitterly.

  “No, Alek. The Clanker and Darwinist powers would have found a way to fight, sooner or later. But perhaps you can still make your mark.”

  “How?” Alek asked.

  The wildcount did a strange thing then. He took his own saber by the blade and handed it to Alek, pommel first, as if offering it to a victor.

  “We shall see, Alek. We shall see.”

  He eased the saunters sideways and felt the Storm-walker’s right foot shift.

  “That’s it,” Otto Klopp said. “Slowly now.”

  Alek nudged the controls again, and the walker slid a little farther. It was frustrating, maneuvering in tight quarters like this. One bump of the walker’s shoulder could send the whole rotten barn crashing down around them. At least the trembling gauges and levers had begun to make sense. A little more pressure in the knees might help….

  With another nudge he’d done it—the viewport was lined up with a ragged gap in the wall of the barn. The late afternoon sun shone into the cabin, the fields stretching out before them. A harvesting combine rumbled along on twelve legs in the distance, a dozen farmers and a four-legged truck following to collect the bundled grain.

  Count Volger put a hand on Alek’s shoulder. “Wait till they’re out of sight.”

  “Well, obviously,” Alek said. With his bruises still throbbing, he’d had enough of Volger’s counsel for one day.

  The combine made its slow way across the field, finally disappearing behind a low hill. A few workmen straggled behind, black dots on the horizon. Alek soon lost them in the distance, but waited.

  Finally Bauer’s voice crackled on the intercom, “That’s the last one gone, sir.”

  Corporal Bauer had the uncanny eyesight of an expert gunner. Two weeks ago he’d been on his way to commanding a machine of his own. Master Hoffman had been the Hapsburg Guards’ best engineer. But now the two were nothing more than fugitives.

  Alek had slowly come to understand everything his men had given up for him: their ranks, families, and futures. If they were caught, the other four would hang as deserters. Prince Aleksandar himself would disappear more quietly, of course, for the good of the empire. The last thing a nation at war needed was uncertainty about who was heir to the throne.

  He eased the Stormwalker toward the barn’s open doors, using the shuffling step that Klopp had taught him. It erased the machine’s massive footprints, along with any other signs that someone had hidden here.

  “Ready for your first run, young master?” Klopp asked.

  Alek nodded, flexing his fingers. He was nervous, but glad to be piloting in daylight for once, instead of the dead of night.

  And really, walker falls weren’t so bad. They’d all be bruised and battered, but Master Klopp could get the machine back on its feet again.

  As the engines pulsed faster, the smell of their exhaust mixed with dust and hay. Alek eased the machine forward, wood creaking as the walker pushed through the doors and out into the fresh air.

  “Smoothly done, young master!” Klopp said.

  There was no time to answer. They were in the open now. Alek brought the Stormwalker to its full height, its engines cycling to their maximum. He urged it forward, stretching the metal legs farther with every step. Then came the moment when walking turned to running: both feet in the air at once, the cabin shuddering with every impact against the ground.

  Alek heard rye being shredded underfoot. The Storm-walker’s trail would be easy to spot from an aeroplane, but by night the harvesting combine would turn back and erase the huge footprints.

  He kept his eyes on the goal, a streambed covered with sheltering trees.

  This was the fastest he had ever traveled, faster than any horse, even faster than the express train to Berlin. Each ten-meter stride seemed to stretch out over endless seconds, graceful in the vast scale of the machine. The thundering pace felt glorious after long nights spent creeping through the forest.

  But as the streambed approached, Alek wondered if the walker was moving too fast. How was he supposed to bring them to a halt?

  He eased back on the saunters a bit—and suddenly everything went wrong. The right foot planted too soon…and the machine began to tip forward.

  Alek brought the left leg down, but the walker’s momentum carried it forward. He was forced to take another step, like a careening drunk, unable to stop.

  “Young master—,” Otto began.

  “Take it!” Alek shouted.

  Klopp seized the saunters and twisted the walker, stretching one leg out, tipping the whole craft back. The pilot’s chair spun, and Volger swung wildly from the hand straps overhead, but somehow Klopp stayed glued to the controls.

  The Stormwalker skidded onward, one leg outstretched, its front foot ripping through soil and stalks of rye. Dust spilled into the cabin, and Alek glimpsed the streambed hurtling toward them.

  Gradually the machine slowed, a last bit of momentum lifting it upright…and then it was standing on two legs, hidden among the trees, its huge feet soaking in the stream.

  Alek watched dust and torn rye swirl across the viewport. A moment later his hands began to shake.

  “Well done, young master!” Klopp said, clapping him on the back.

  “But I almost fell!”

  “Of course you did!” Klopp laughed. “Everyone falls the first time they try to run.”

  “Everyone what?”

  “Everyone falls. But you did the right thing and let me take the controls in time.”

  Volger flicked sprigs of rye from his jacket. “It seems that humility was the rather tiresome point of today’s lesson. Along with making sure we look like proper commoners.”

  “Humility?” Alek bunched his fists. “You mean you knew I would fall?”

  “Of course,” Klopp said. “As I said, everyone does at first. But you gave up the saunters in time. That’s a lesson too!”

  Alek scowled. Klopp was positively beaming at him, as if Alek had just mastered a somersault in a six-legged cutter. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or give the man a good thrashing.

  He settled for coughing some of the dust out of his lungs, then taking back the controls. The Stormwalker responded normally. It seemed nothing more important than his pride had been damaged.

  “You did better than I expected,” Klopp said. “Especially with how top-heavy we are.”

  “Top-heavy?” Alek asked.

  “Ah, well.” Klopp looked at Volger sheepishly. “I suppose not really.”

  Count Volger sighed. “Go ahead, Klopp. If we’re going to be teaching His Highness walker acrobatics, I suppose it might help to show him the extra cargo.”

  Klopp nodded, a wicked smile on his face. He pulled himself from the commander’s seat and knelt by a small engineering panel in the floor. “Give me a hand, young master?”

  A little curious now, Alek knelt beside him, and together they loosened the hand screws. The panel popped up, and Alek blinked—instead of wires and gears, the opening revealed neat rectangles of dully shining metal, each monogrammed with the Hapsburg seal.

  “Are those…?”

  “Gold bars,” Klopp said happily. “A dozen of them. Almost a quart of a ton in all!”

  “God’s wounds,” Alek breathed.

  “The contents of your father’s personal safe,” Count Volger said. “Entrusted to us as part of your inheritance. We won’t lack for money.”

  “I suppose not.” Alek sat back. “So this is your little secret, Count? I must admit I’m impressed.”

  “This is merely an afterthought.” Volger waved a hand, and Klopp began to seal the panel back up. “The real secret is in Switzerland.”

  “A quarter ton of gold, an afterthought?” Alek looked up at the man. “Are you serious?”

  Count Volger raised an eyebrow. “I am always ser
ious. Shall we go?”

  Alek pulled himself back up into the pilot’s chair, wondering what other surprises the wildcount had waiting.

  Alek started them down the streambed toward Lienz, the nearest city with any mechanikal industry. The walker desperately needed kerosene and parts, and with a dozen gold bars, they could buy the whole town if need be. The trick was not giving themselves away. A Cyklop Storm-walker was a fairly conspicuous way to travel.

  Alek kept the machine in the trees along the stream bank. With the afternoon light already fading, they could steal close enough to reach the city on foot tomorrow.

  It was strange to think that in the morning, for the first time in two weeks, Alek would see other people. Not just these four men but an entire town of commoners, none of whom would realize that a prince was walking among them.

  He coughed again, and looked down at his dusty disguise of farmer’s clothes. Volger had been right—he was as filthy as a peasant now. No one would think he was anything special. Certainly not a boy with a vast fortune in gold.

  Klopp beside him was equally grubby, but still wore a pleased smile on his face.

  Even though Mr. Rigby had said not to, Deryn Sharp looked down.

  A thousand feet below, the sea was in motion. Huge waves rolled across the surface, the wind tearing white moonlit spray from their peaks. And yet up here, clinging to the Leviathan’s flank in the dark, the wind was still. Just like in the airflow diagrams, a layer of calm wrapped around the huge beastie.

  Calm or not, Deryn’s fingers clutched the rigging tighter as she gazed at the sea. It looked cold and wet down there. And, as Mr. Rigby had pointed out many times over the last fortnight, the water’s surface was as hard as stone if you were falling fast enough.

  Tiny cilia pulsed and rippled through the ropes, tickling her fingers. Deryn slipped one hand free and pressed her palm against the beast’s warmth. The membrane felt taut and healthy, with no whiff of hydrogen leaking out.

  “Taking a rest, Mr. Sharp?” called Rigby. “We’re only halfway up.”