“Better,” she said. “Miss Fanshawe kindly wound me.”
And there it was. The eternally present reminder that Maria was not like other women. But as her eyes met Gideon’s, he couldn’t help but wonder . . . did she, too, feel the dryness of mouth, the dancing of her stomach? She held his gaze and looked down demurely. “I’d like to thank you all for saving me. It’s becoming something of a habit.”
“Hey, what’s a hero without a damsel in distress?” Cockayne smiled. He winked at Gideon, who realized the American was talking about him when he said hero. He flushed.
As the others gathered around Cockayne, looking toward the Nile, Gideon self-consciously sidled over to Maria. He said, “I, uh, I’m glad you’re well.”
She looked at him coolly. “Glad? Well . . . thank you, Mr. Smith.”
More than glad! He wanted to shout, to holler. More than glad! So much more that I don’t know what words to use!
“Maria . . . ,” he said. He stopped, and started again. “Maria . . . in one of the Lucian Trigger adventures, John Reed meets a woman.”
“A woman?”
“In the valley of Shangri-La. Her name is Kella. She loves him. But he cannot love her back.”
“Of course.” Maria nodded. “Because he is . . . well, he loves Captain Trigger.”
Gideon pinched his nose. “No . . . well, yes. I know that’s what it means now. But when I read it . . . he meant they were too different. They were from different worlds.”
Maria said nothing. Gideon went on, “But that didn’t stop her loving him. I suppose.”
“But he could not love her back,” said Maria.
“No,” said Gideon. “Because he loved Captain Trigger.” He paused. This wasn’t quite going as he intended it to. He tried to start again, but Maria held up her hand.
“I think I understand you, Mr. Smith. People who are so very different cannot find common ground for love to flourish. I thank you for taking the time to explain that to me.”
To Gideon’s dismay, Maria smiled tightly and walked over to the others. That wasn’t what he had meant at all. What he had meant was . . . he sighed. Perhaps not everything in life could be adequately explained using World Marvels & Wonders.
The riverside, at least, was cooler, and Bent reveled in the breeze blowing off the Nile. Cockayne had tethered the ’stat to a thick-trunked palm tree. There was more shade, and the verdant landscape made the heat more tolerable. Almost like Hyde Park by the Serpentine. Though, Bent considered, there were no crocodiles in the Serpentine. Okoth’s son, Mori, was standing on the bank with a rather unusual vessel moored in the river behind him.
“What is that?” asked Gideon. It had the shape of a turtle’s shell, with curved glass windows at the front, and its smooth, black surface was warm and dry to the touch.
“My boat!” said Okoth proudly. “She is—”
“Astonishing, we know,” said Bent. “Funny-looking boat, if you ask me.”
“I do not think we understand,” said Bathory. “Mr. Okoth, we were given to believe Dr. Reed was in the pyramid . . . why do you now bring us to the river?”
“All will be revealed,” said Okoth. “Everyone, board my ship.”
A hatch was set into the side of the strange hull, almost invisible until Mori pulled it open. Bent had his doubts, of course, but he allowed Mori to help him inside, the boy pushing against Bent’s rump when he became wedged in the narrow opening.
“She is hulled with rubber,” said Okoth proudly. “From Malaya, of all places. Not a single drop of water can get in.”
“As one born in the rains, I thought you’d be all right with a bit of river water,” said Bent.
“Hate the stuff. Bah.” Okoth frowned. Bent double, he scuttled to a wheel and a series of levers and toggles. “All will be revealed,” he said. “Steam engine, you know. Very powerful.”
He fired up the engine and manipulated the levers, and the boat pulled away from the bank, holding steady against the flowing Nile. Then it lurched and began to sink, the green river water lapping at the glass windows. Bent felt his bile rising, pushed up by panic. “Eff!” he shouted.
Okoth slapped his forehead. “Oh no! Mr. Bent! You are too fat! We are sinking!”
Bent moaned and scrambled for the hatch, but Okoth burst out laughing. “Only joking, Mr. Bent! We are supposed to be sinking! That is why Dr. Reed employed me to help him in his search. Mr. Okoth’s boat, she is an underwater boat!”
Bent scowled at the Ugandan. “Very effing funny, Okoth.”
“A submersible,” said Stoker wonderingly, as the water closed over the top of the windows. True to Okoth’s word, not a drop managed to work its way into the cabin through the rubber seals around the glass and the hatch.
“She is, I am sure you will agree, astonishing.”
“Crocodile,” said Okoth, nudging Gideon and pointing into the green, silty water beyond the windows.
Maria cried out and grabbed Gideon’s other arm as the beast, its jaws yawning, swam past them, its cruel eyes peering in the windows, then moving on. She coughed, released him, and took a step away, though inside he cried out for her not to. The bed of the Nile was fronded with reeds and waving plants. Fish swam in bright, smartly moving shoals, and eels moved between the weeds. Okoth’s submersible had a pair of strong, oil-burning headlights on the front, and they illuminated the dank, silted depths of the river as sand and debris floated and turned in the strong beams.
“You brought John Reed down here?” asked Gideon. He had to confess he had been as panicked as Bent when the submersible began to descend. After a lifetime around fishermen, he had lost too many friends and acquaintances to the cruel waves.
“Certainly I did, Mr. Smith. He had learned of another way into the pyramid. Those ancient Egyptians were rather clever.”
“I thought you said they were stupid, before,” sniffed Bent.
Okoth shrugged. “In some things, stupid. In others, clever.” He paused. “Like anyone. Like yourselves.”
Stoker took the opportunity to quietly inquire after Bathory’s health.
“The sun robs me of my strength so,” she whispered. “I have never felt its intensity so strongly and for such a long time.”
“Do you need . . . blood?” Stoker blanched at the thought. He felt weak himself, and he did not know if he could siphon more from his arm, which ached considerably.
She shook her head. “You are not strong enough, Bram. You have helped me a great deal. I will be all right.”
Fanshawe edged toward Gideon. “I’m worried about Lucian,” she murmured.
Trigger sat, cross-legged, staring at his hands. His shoulders were hunched and his face slack and pale. Gideon said, “The further we get into this, the less I think we are going to find anything positive about the fate of John Reed.”
“This is the place,” said Okoth. He killed the engine and the boat drifted in the currents. He turned it around so it was facing the sandy wall of the west bank. There, set into the rock, was an almost perfectly circular hole, a dozen feet across.
“A secret tunnel,” said Cockayne. “And it goes straight to the pyramid?”
“That is what Dr. Reed believed,” said Okoth.
Gideon turned to him. “But how did he get in there? We’re so far underwater . . . it would be madness to try to swim. You would have no idea how far to go before there was air.”
Okoth laughed. “Then it is an astonishingly good job Okoth comes well prepared. Mori, break out the tanks.”
“No,” said Bent. “No, no, and no.”
“I’m tempted to agree with our Mr. Bent on this one,” said Bathory.
“And I,” said Stoker.
“Nonsense!” said Okoth. “They are perfectly safe. These tanks are filled with air from my bellows . . . enough for a full half hour. Trust me, I have tried it myself.” He paused. “Well, I got Mori to try it. And he is the fruit of my loins. It is as if I had done it myself.”
Gideon took
hold of a heavy metal sphere with a glass window in the front. It felt heavy, and his palms were starting to sweat. A tunnel. A tunnel. He tried to force the thought away.
“And you put this on your head?”
“Yes, yes, and feed the air pipe in here, thusly. It cannot fail. The air tank is on your back. All you do is swim until you find a tunnel or cave with air.”
Trigger stood forward and inspected the tank. “If John trusted Mr. Okoth, then so do I. I shall go. I do not expect you all to join me.” He looked at Gideon. “Mr. Smith, you have been brave beyond all expectations thus far, but perhaps your mission is completed. You have killed at least two of the creatures now, and you have rescued Maria.” He looked around.
“But if anyone does wish to come with me . . .”
Gideon said nothing. No one looked at him. They all expected him to go. No one even thought he might not. . . . Cockayne shrugged. “It’s not my bag. But I’ll wait with the Yellow Rose. You’re going to need a ride out of here.” He grimaced. “Hopefully.”
“I’d quite like to not go,” said Bent. “But I know I’m going to.” He grinned. “Never did do what makes most sense when it comes to a story.”
“My revenge is so close I can almost taste it,” said Bathory. “And I will go where the Countess goes,” said Stoker. Trigger looked at Fanshawe. “Rowena. I think you should stay with Cockayne. Ensure he is true to his word. If things go wrong . . . go and get help from Alexandria. And Miss Maria should stay as well.”
Maria raised an eyebrow. “Because I am a woman, Captain Trigger? Or because I am not?”
Trigger opened his mouth, then closed it again. He smiled.
“Touché, Miss Maria. I confess I acted out of valor toward a member of the fairer sex rather than prejudice against your origins. But you, of course, must decide yourself.”
She nodded. “I will go where Mr. Smith goes.” Okoth held up a long rubber hold-all. “Anything you like, guns and whatnot, will fit in here. Dry as you like.” He frowned. “But first . . . there is one other thing.”
“Crocodiles?” asked Bent.
“Worse!” whispered Okoth loudly. “The curse! Awfully superstitious, those Egyptians. Look.”
Gideon followed his finger, peering into the gloom to see the line of pictures etched into the stone lintel around the dark opening.
“Hieroglyphics,” said Stoker. “Do you know what it says, Okoth?”
He nodded soberly. “Whoso dares to lead enemies to desecrate this tomb shall die in the arms of their beloved.”
They pondered for a moment, then Trigger said, “That settles it. I no longer believe I have anything to lose, save the opportunity for revenge. I’m going first. Mr. Smith, do you concur?”
Gideon looked through the window at the tunnel, and he could already feel the cold, dead space pressing down on him, crushing the breath from him. Shapes swam in front of his eyes and coalesced into the grinning, awful faces of Oliver Thwaite and all those who had died in Lythe Bank, beckoning him into the dark opening. He licked his lips, but no moisture would come. He felt his legs buckle and put a hand out to steady himself on the wall of the submersible.
“I can’t,” he said in a small voice. “I’m terribly sorry, Captain Trigger, I just can’t.”
26
Beneath the River, Beneath the Sand
Okoth showed them how to breathe through the tubes, and how the helmets fitted snugly on their shoulders, the rubber seals tight across their chests to stop water getting in and precious air escaping. Bent staggered slightly under the weight of the helmet, and the last thing Stoker heard before the brass-and-glass globe muffled the journalist’s complaining voice was, “If God had meant me to swim underwater, he wouldn’t have made me a smoker.”
Through the slightly warped glass window set into the brass dome, Stoker regarded the others suiting up, and Gideon, standing alone to one side, his eyes downcast. Curious. Whereas everything—even the chase by that mummy on Embankment, which had been rather thrilling—had seemed part of a wonderful adventure before, suddenly Stoker felt anxious and, if he was honest with himself, a little foolish. What on earth was he doing, getting suited up in this nonsense and preparing to enter an underwater tunnel, two thousand miles from home? It was as though a spell had been broken, as though Gideon Smith had been the glue holding the entire enterprise together. His sudden refusal at the fence had allowed things to fall apart.
But there was no opportunity to back out now. Mr. Okoth was indicating it was his turn. He waited in the airlock until he heard the distant rap of three knocks, their pre-arranged signal, then he opened the hatch, gasping in the helmet as the Nile rushed in, soaking him with cold water as it rose rapidly around him and filled the airlock. He felt a moment of panic as the water surrounded him, then relaxed as he continued to breathe in the helmet. The circular opening was ten feet ahead of him. All he had to do was leap forward and let the current take him toward it. There were oil lamps in the bag, but they would have to push through the tunnel in darkness until—if, he thought dourly—they found a dry section of the tunnel. Trigger was waiting in the dark circle of the opening, leaning back on the stone aperture, his clothing flowing with the rushing waters of the Nile. If, as Stoker was sure they would, they found the bones of John Reed in there, what would that do to Trigger? Stoker redoubled his grip on the bag, then leaped forward, letting the spring-hinged hatch close behind him. The water would drain out, and Mori would send Elizabeth and Bent through. He kicked off against the boat as Trigger stretched out his hand, and Stoker labored against the currents, the weight of the bag and the brass helmet dragging him downward. His outstretched fingers caught Trigger’s, and the old adventurer pulled him into the tunnel. It was already so dark Stoker couldn’t see the other man’s face, so he patted him on the shoulder, and they turned to wait for Bent to come flailing through the silt-fogged water.
Above them, the faded hieroglyphics spelled out their ancient curse. If such a thing existed, then Trigger had already invoked it. To die in the arms of one’s beloved . . . Stoker felt a pang of longing for Florence, and a wave of guilt at his adventures with—and unchivalrous thoughts toward—Elizabeth. He idly wondered whether he would die in Elizabeth’s arms within this labyrinth, and shocked himself out of his reverie with the thought.
Stoker and Trigger pulled Bent into the tunnel. Bathory came next, her hands outstretched and finding Stoker’s. He held her for a moment, in a different world, the Nile flowing over and between them, their eyes meeting through the glass. But where his eyes held a confused, tightly laced longing, there was something feral in Elizabeth’s gaze, something animal. It made him shudder. The farther they had gotten from London, the less and less likely it seemed that Stoker could ever civilize Elizabeth Bathory. He sighed. What had he been thinking? That she was some toy, some pet project he could show off around London? Or had he harbored thoughts of . . . He pushed away the image that rose, of him attending functions and theater openings with Elizabeth on his arm despite the shocked, scandalized stares of those who had known him and Florence.
So that was it. Four of them against the Children of Heqet. As Trigger forged forward into the black tunnel, Stoker fell in behind him. Stoker wished Gideon was here, but he had recognized the look in his eye, the abject fear. The boy had a phobia of enclosed spaces. Stoker shook his head. They all had their weaknesses, it seemed.
They kept close together as they waded slowly into the interminable blackness. Half an hour of air, Okoth had said. He had promised to keep the submersible underwater for an hour, but they all knew by that time they would either be inside or dead. Stoker tried to mark time in his head, deciding to ask Trigger to turn back if they passed the quarter-hour mark beneath the river. Was the tunnel sloping gently upward, or was it his imagination? It was so hard to tell in the pitch black.
He felt Trigger move and jerk in front of him, and his breath came shallow and fast in the helmet. Were they under attack? Then he felt hands upon his hel
met, and at the same time his shoulders breached the surface of the water. The tunnel had, indeed, sloped upward, and now they were thankfully in the air. With each step they drew above the waterline, and when it was at his waist Stoker tore at the rubber fastenings and pulled off the helmet.
His first, deep lungful of air was dry but fresh. Evidently the pyramid, despite being largely under the sands, had access to a source of air, presumably through some lost or hidden tunnel. Holding the bag above the water, Stoker felt inside for an oil lamp and matches, and he felt a palpable sense of relief from those behind him as the light illuminated the tunnel ahead. The water ended at stone steps, and he helped Elizabeth and Bent up them before lighting four more oil lamps.
“Thank eff for that,” gasped Bent as he tore off his helmet. “I couldn’t have gone much longer with that thing on.”
They stood, dripping wet, and piled up the air tanks and helmets. “I rather hope we find another way out of here,” said Trigger. “I’m not sure if we have enough air left to go back.”
“Wonderful,” said Bent, patting his pockets. “Oh, shit. I left my tobacco in my coat. Should have put it in that hold- all with my new hat.”
The lamps showed the tunnel ahead leveled off, a square, stone passageway continuing beyond the reach of the dim light. Bathory, her hair plastered to her head, her long skirts sticking to her legs, asked, “What now? We just continue and hope this brings us to the pyramid?”
“I fear we have no other choice,” said Stoker.
Stoker tried not to stare at the sopping Countess Bathory, though Bent obviously had no such compunction. He and the journalist were in silent agreement on one thing, then; the Countess looked most comely in her drenched clothes.
“We could make a bit of a fire,” said Bent, looking around. “Dry off a bit.”
Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl Page 25
