“Slaves?” said the princess, stepping away from them. “What do you mean slaves? There are no slaves here!”
“There are, miss. We met some of ‘em what have escaped. They’re hiding in the forest. Look, I know you maybe didn’t know about it. Their leader said she’d spoken to a scientosophist geezer in the city. She thought he might help.”
“Who… who is this man?”
“What was his name, Sibelius?”
“Dr. Ravensberg.”
“Ravensberg!” The princess’s form flickered in the lamplight; her shadow on the wall a giant crow flexing its wings. “Then,” she whispered, “perhaps you’re telling the truth.”
The princess paced up and down the cell, wringing her hands. “He told me your ship may have been carrying a terrible cargo. Perhaps that is what he meant. He said he’d received another visitor: a young woman in rags, who was terrified.”
“I s’pose that was Jo,” said Harriet. “But me ship don’t carry no cargo, terrible or not. Jo told us pirates deliver slaves to another island. Your lot brings them here in secret. They use ornithopters.”
The princess said nothing.
“But they shot me ship down, your lot,” Harriet continued. “As I understand it, they’ve brought her back to this palace somewhere to take her to bits ‘cause she’s a scientosophical machine.”
“You know about scientosophy?”
“I can’t say I know much about it,” said Harriet, recalling what Josephine had said about a death penalty. “But yes. Don’t everybody?”
Confusion and anxiety creased the princess’s face. She was shaking her head and muttering to herself.
“Look, miss,” Harriet said. “I don’t want to be rude, and it’s all very well chatting like this, but could you let us out? We could chat more if we was free and had a bite to eat and a drink. We ain’t done nothing wrong, see?” When the princess still didn’t answer, Harriet said, “There’s a rebellion brewing and I reckon you should get yourself on the right side of it.”
“Rebellion?”
“Your Ravensberg fella, he’s in on it, too.”
“Against the Royal House?”
“Against injustice.”
“It’s my birthday soon. I’ll be queen and rule well, not like Lord Cranestoft.”
“Ain’t we glad to hear it,” said Harriet. “But there’s a rebellion brewing just the same and even if there weren’t, you didn’t know nothing about these slaves. But it’s true. That’s how come nobody has to do nothing and can just swan about the place living the life o’ Riley, see? All your food and whatnot gets imported from elsewhere and all them slaves do the work.”
The expression on the princess’s face changed from anxiety to suspicion. And if Harriet was any judge she saw fear in her eyes, too. “How do I know you’re telling me the truth? You’re prisoners of war. Enemy spies. I can’t believe you. It can’t be true. It can’t!”
“They would be strange lies to tell, non?” Sibelius said.
The princess shook her head and backed away, trembling. “A talking monkey,” she said. “And wicked lies. No. It’s not true. I’m asleep. It’s a bad dream, isn’t it? I should never have come.”
“Miss,” said Harriet. “You got to help us. It’s true. We could help avoid the rebellion and show them you mean well.”
But it was too late; the princess was at the door, calling for the guard to open it. She extinguished the lantern and left.
Her voice came muffled through an inch of steel. “Be sure to give them food and drink, as you value your life, soldier.” The bolts squealed back into place. The key turned in the lock. They plunged back into darkness.
“Beggar it,” Sam said.
Chapter Twelve
Annabel’s heart was savaged by the hungry ravens of doubt. Confused, her skin prickling with goose bumps and her mouth dry, she hurried away from the dingy cell.
She kept her eyes on the ground. Her only thought was to get away, to escape. Katy had been right. She should never have gone down to meet the aliens. They had frightened her with their stories of slavery and that talking monkey had set her nerves on edge. Her rebellious thoughts quashed, she wanted to retreat; get back to the comfort of the known; the safety of her chambers.
She rushed to her dressing room. Slipping out of the hunting garb, she called to one of her maids-in-waiting to help her back into the restrictive corset. She changed her clothes for a pretty day dress and flat-heeled, button-up boots. When the maid-in-waiting mentioned Katy wanted to be told as soon as she returned, Annabel answered in fury, “Not a word to a soul if you value your life!”
Shocked, the maid burst into tears. Annabel went on.
“Who cleared the Throne Room after the war was declared?”
“I don’t know,” sniffled the maid. “The servants, I suppose.”
“Did they find anything unusual?”
The maid was perplexed. “I can’t imagine what you mean, Your Highness. Are you feeling unwell? Would you like me to call the nurse? I should inform…”
“Leave me!” Annabel said and when the maid hesitated a moment, she shouted, “Now!”
Annabel hurried along the hallways beneath glittering chandeliers, between thousands of mounted unicorn heads gazing dully through glass eyes. She ached for security; to be in her laboratory and have time to think; to make sense of recent events.
At the end of the hallway, she opened the door and entered the elegant vastness of the Throne Room.
Annabel felt a cold chill of dread. The scene before her was horribly familiar: the soaring marble pillars now bore military flags with the black and yellow insignia of the phoenix; the windows were flung wide, and the glass doors pulled back, opening onto the balcony.
Annabel ran to the tapestry and pulled it back, vanishing into the secret corridor. And she froze, her heart in spasm, perspiration breaking beneath her cottons and silks.
Cranestoft!
The Regent’s voice echoed across the Throne Room, accompanied by military heels clicking on the marble floor. Annabel dared not move. Only the tapestry hung between her and discovery.
“Speak freely,” Cranestoft said, only feet from Annabel’s hiding place. “We are alone here.”
Annabel struggled to calm her breathing, her blood roaring in her ears like waves on a gravel shore.
“You have nothing to fear,” a voice replied. She recognized it. It belonged to the Master of the Guard. “She’s only a girl. She suspects nothing. And that suffices to condemn her.”
What suffices to condemn me?
“Yes,” said Cranestoft. “I always suspected something of the kind. This alone may not convince the judges, but it’s enough for me. I am sure we will find more evidence once we look for it.”
Holding her breath, Annabel folded her dress under her knees. She lowered herself to the floor. Then, leaning forward on flattened palms, she pressed a cheek to the tiles. She lifted the tapestry’s edge. Lord Cranestoft’s hand clenched a leather tube in strong, gnarled fingers. My vicinity scope!
“It will be easier like this,” said the Master of the Guard. “I never cared for poisoning her.”
Poison? Annabel felt as cold as the marble on which she knelt.
“We need a little more evidence to present to the judiciary and she will hang. It will all be according to the law. Our hands will be clean. Fortune could not have been kinder to us.”
“No-one can stand against you with the princess dead. But we need to act fast. It would complicate matters if she became queen. She could reform laws, repeal the Scientosophy Act. Our only hope then would be poison – assuming we still hold office and aren’t languishing in the dungeons.”
“Oh don’t worry,” said Cranestoft. “This instrument must be a legacy from her father. I suspect we will find a room stuffed with enough evidence to conde
mn her many times over. Perhaps in the city. Which reminds me: I want you to arrest that Ravensberg fellow and bring him to the palace. We know the princess met him even if we can’t prove it.”
“Come,” said the Master of the Guard. “We must not be late to the courtrooms. These aliens of yours are a godsend, Cranestoft. A hanging’s always an excellent way to keep the people compliant.”
The two men turned away, their steps echoing behind them through the marbled hallway.
When their footsteps faded to silence, Annabel struggled back to her feet. Her legs shook as she stumbled through the dark to the laboratory, slumping against the door as it closed behind her.
Yesterday the world had been a frustrating place; but one in which she knew her rights and expected to take control of her destiny. She had even enjoyed revenge fantasies against Cranestoft. But the world had turned on its head. She knew only one thing now: her life was in immediate danger. She put her hand to her neck, her breath short, already feeling the rough hemp of the hangman’s noose tightening around it.
Her eyes snapped open. No! I can’t accept this. I must do something.
“Lights!” she said. As the electrostatic wall lamps popped into life, Annabel clasped her hands together and paced between the scientosophical tables. Her eyes scanned instruments, tools, half-built mechanicals and designs pinned to boards. She ran her fingers over the spines of books. I must warn Dr. Ravensberg, she thought, her eyes alighting on the clockwork sparrow she had displayed at the Parade of the Bright Mechanicals.
The princess drew a stool closer to the workbench on which the bird rested. She sat. And I must free the aliens. I must get them to help me. I should have trusted them. There is still time. I will be queen and I’ll free the slaves. I’ll set things to rights.
She reached for the avian mechanical, bending the magnifying glass attached to a jointed arm with counterbalancing springs, over the work. Pulling the pins from her hair, she let it fall loose over her shoulders, before scraping it back and tying it into a rough ponytail with a rag. These ritual preparations for work, which she had carried out so many times with her father, focused her mind and eased her anxiety. The world outside the laboratory may have turned to chaos, but in here she was still in control.
The scientosophical princess worked feverishly, dismantling the bird’s clockwork mechanism. She fashioned a new caliber chamber and inserted it. The electromechanical self-winding mechanism was already secure. She replaced the mainspring and fixed a larger escape wheel to give the bird more power for longer flight. Then she set about cutting a fine plate, thin as paper, on which she inscribed a detailed map-line: the directions which would lead the bird to its destination. A diamond needle would trace the line and via a series of tiny cams produce the movement to steer the bird.
It was a delicate task, but Annabel worked with concentrated ease. When the changes were complete, she inserted a skeleton key, wrapped in a scribbled note, between the little brass talons. The automaton was ready to go.
Annabel wound up the spring, lifting her eyes from the workbench as if waking from a dream.
Taking the mechanical bird with her, she left the laboratory, pulling back the tapestry and dashing to the Throne Room door. She peeked out, searching left and right. The guard’s seat was empty.
Annabel flicked a switch on the clockwork bird. It took to the air making a low whirr, flying almost to the vaulting before it shuttled along the corridor and out of sight. Good luck.
Back in the laboratory, Annabel faced the problem of how to contact Dr. Ravensberg. She fiddled with tools and sifted through a box of parts.
It’s no good, she thought. A clockwork mechanical capable of such a long flight would be too large.
It had been easy to adapt the sparrow. Her knowledge of the palace gave it a good chance of reaching its destination if it wasn’t intercepted en route. But there wasn’t enough time to build something that could reach Dr. Ravensberg’s house. I’d need an algorithmic cam system based on a map of the city.
Annabel raised her arms, exasperated. She studied the spines of books, thinking of the knowledge they contained. Scientosophical instruments and experimental paraphernalia filled the room. Surely somewhere among all this there must be a solution to such a simple problem?
Her eyes came to rest on the copper plate of the crystal-powered steel cutter. The crystal in the base held immense power. Even if I could think of a way to use it that thing’s too dangerous until I can work out how to modulate the potency flux.
Then an idea struck her. Yes, she thought, her face set with grim determination. It’s the only way.
Chapter Thirteen
Harriet didn’t know how long ago the princess had left them. This is about as bad as it gets, she thought. Chained in a dungeon, me starship destroyed as far as I can tell, me best mate and crew in the worst fix ever. And it’s my fault.
Even Sibelius slumped in his chains, eyes cast downward. Davy, Sam and Barney slept. The guard had brought them weevil-ridden hard tack and stale water. The drink tasted foul and the food only made her hungrier.
I let them down. I should’ve known better than to tell the princess about the rebellion. I thought she’d help.
Harriet couldn’t recall feeling so defeated – unless it was at the inn on the Moon, when she thought her dad was dead and a pirate held her at knife-point.
The guard’s face appeared at the hatch.
“You lot all right?”
“Oh yeah mate,” Harriet said. “We’re having a ball. Want to join us?”
“Save your lip,” the guard said. “Only trying to be civil. The other fella should be here now to take over the patrol, but he’s running late. I should wait till he gets here, but I’m bursting for a pee. Can’t see as it will do any harm if I nip off. It’s not as if you lot will go anywhere soon.” He laughed. “Beats me why we have to keep a bunch of hobos like you under constant watch. You must be more dangerous than you look.”
Davy, Sam and Barney had woken up.
“Off you go mate,” Sam said. “We don’t want you feelin’ uncomfortable.”
The guard snorted. His face vanished from the hatch and he trudged away through the tunnel.
“Our friend is not well-versed in the art of empathy, mademoiselle,” said Sibelius.
“He’s got a point, though, ain’t he?” Harriet said. “I only wish we was half as dangerous as they must think we are. I still don’t know how we’ll get out o’ here if they don’t let us out.”
As if in answer, a clattering sound came from beyond the door. Harriet and her companions exchanged questioning glances. Sibelius raised an eyebrow. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” he said. “What is it?”
“I dunno,” Harriet said.
“It ain’t the other fella, that’s for sure,” Sam said.
“Sounds like a mechanical,” Davy said.
“It’s a bird!” Barney said.
At the open hatch, between the bars, perched a clockwork sparrow. It whirred and clicked, then pitched forward, delicate metal wings flapping. It flew toward Harriet and hovered in front of her. Her eyes widened.
“Mais, regarde!” Sibelius said. “It is carrying a message – a little note.”
“And there’s something inside, too,” Davy added.
The machine’s claws sprang open and the note and key landed with a muffled tinkle on the dungeon floor. The bird continued to hover, but its mechanism was unwinding fast. Unable to sustain flight, it fell clattering after its cargo.
Harriet stared at the little package. She struggled against her chains, but it lay beyond her reach.
“Seems we got a friend somewhere, anyhow,” Harriet said. “Least-ways if that key unlocks these manacles.”
“It’s a funny-looking key,” Barney frowned. “Ain’t never seen one like that.”
“Ah, but I have,” Sibelius
said. “It is what they call a skeleton key. It can open almost any lock.”
“That door, too?” Sam chimed in.
“Certes, mon ami!”
“Which would be well useful,” Davy said. “If we could reach the damn thing.”
A footfall sounded in the passageway and the light vanished from the hatch. A new face scowled at them through the bars.
“Oi, you lot! Don’t know what you’ve got to be chatting about in there. You can keep your traps shut. I won’t have no plotting and scheming on my watch, d’you hear? Do you hear?”
Harriet and her friends said nothing. They hung their heads again. I hope the guard don’t see what we got on the floor, Harriet thought.
“That’s better,” grunted the guard, turning away. He thumped onto the stool by the door, just out of sight. A cork popped from a bottle, followed by gulping, a belch, and a satisfied sigh. The soldier mumbled to himself and sucked at his liquor bottle again.
Sibelius grinned. His tail beat a lively rhythm against the wall.
If the guard’s a drunkard, Harriet thought, I reckon our luck’s in. If we can figure out how to reach that blooming key. With me wrists and ankles manacled to these walls, I can’t see how it can be done.
Sibelius’s tail still tapped against the stones. She tried to block out the sound. I got to think. She looked at his tail in annoyance, about to whisper to him to stop flicking it against the wall, when an idea struck her.
“Psst,” she whispered. “Sibelius!”
His tail stopped flicking. He looked at her apologetically. “Excuse-moi, mademoiselle,” he said.
Harriet grinned. “Do us a favor, will you?”
Chapter Fourteen
Annabel looked at the pile of books and equipment amassed on the workbench and frowned. It’s too much, she thought. She bit her bottom lip.
“Perhaps I can manage without Dithogenese’s Principles of Metaphysical Mechanics,” she mumbled to herself as she hefted the tome back onto the shelves. “And I suppose the graviscope and the orrery can stay. They are rather heavy. Oh blast! It’s no good,” she blew a lock of hair from her face and pursed her lips. “I can’t take all this with me.”
The Island of Birds Page 7
