by Brad R. Cook
“It’s like a grade level,” I said, but Owethu’s brow didn’t ease. “Eton doesn’t have teachers or classes, or school years, or principals. Well, we have them; we call them by different names. Eton College was three hundred years older than the United States, with terms and traditions just as old.”
Owethu relaxed and nodded. “I have a teacher who has taught me all I know. Well, my brothers taught me to hunt, and my father taught me how to fight.”
Finn stopped and let us out in front of the school. My father turned to the two of us. “Alexander, make certain that Owethu gets to the right building. I want you to show him around.”
I nodded to Owethu and said, “Of course.”
“Good. At the end of the day, you two can stop by my office.”
“Will do.” I pointed toward campus. “Come on, Owethu, the building you need is this way.”
It didn’t take long for the staring to start. My fellow students, who on a normal day would have welcomed the colonist to class, now stared and whispered to each other. A couple of kids even followed us down the hall. Three more blocked our path. They’d trapped us. I looked around for an escape. Flashbacks of the pirate armada I’d faced with the Sky Raiders raced through my mind. Only this time I didn’t have the cannons for a broadside.
I wasn’t afraid, but I knew what was coming. I hoped they’d just pick on us, but the wild look in their eyes, said differently. I wish I had my Thumper strapped on, but my father wouldn’t let me carry it at Eton, even though I told him how much I needed it.
And … Richard was with them. Could this get any better?
Standing behind us, Lord Blackthorne’s son cut off our escape as Richard circled like a predator. “They’ll let anyone in here won’t they?”
“Just let us pass,” I said. “We’re not here to cause trouble.”
“Then why walk around with a savage?” I cringed at the venom in his words. Rage pulsed within my veins. I could only imagine how Owethu felt. I looked over at him. His jaw was tight and he’d curled his hands into fists, but oddly, he looked calm.
Richard stopped in front of me and leaned toward me. So close, his hot breath enveloped me. “Trouble is what you cause wherever you go.”
Thadeous Blackthorne bumped our shoulders as he pushed between us. “I can’t believe they let savages in here.” He turned to me, and though he stood a head taller and loomed over me, I had no problem locking his stare with mine. I’d stood next to Sky Raiders. Fought the sky-witch, Zerelda, and defeated the Iron Horsemen. Noble-borns’ didn’t scare me.
“Fitting that the savage and the colonist are friends,” he spouted.
I puffed up my chest like Captain Baldrich and said, “He’s a better man than you, Blackthorne.”
Blackthorne’s eyes widened in rage and his lip curled. I could tell he wanted to hit me, but something was holding him back. He’d had no trouble last year. So, what had changed? “Pathetic. The colonist thinks he can challenge the empire.”
“I might not be a blue-blood, but Owethu is, and he’s ranked higher than the likes of you. He is the son of the chief.”
They both laughed, and Richard put his arm on Blackthorne’s shoulder. “That’s nothing, Thad. A chief … not a king. His dad’s more like a minister of Parliament, but then I wouldn’t expect a commoner to understand such things.”
I’d walked into that trap. I needed to ask Owethu more questions after this, but for the moment I had to think of a comeback. I couldn’t let them win this encounter, leaving me like the smoking airship wreck, barely hanging in the sky. What would the Sky Raiders do? Punch them in the face. But that might not be my best option. I’d never win with the administration in an argument against the Duke’s son.
Owethu shook his head. “I see nothing but pompous Englishmen fighting over nothing. None of you would last a night in my country.”
Richard stopped laughing. “I’ve been to your country. All you savages are the same.”
“Just like all you pompous blue bloods,” I said, stepping between Owethu and Richard. I knew calling a royal any inappropriate name was a bad idea, might even lead to a detention, but I couldn’t let our guest stand alone.
Richard eye’s spat fire, just like Zerelda’s had when she saw her airship about to fall out of the sky. I’d cut the straps holding her ship to the air tanks one by one, until it listed so badly she had to retreat. I needed to cut a few more of Richard’s straps and he’d retreat, too. I bet I was the first person to call him a name in years. Maybe ever. I smiled.
“Do you know who you are talking to?” Richard poked my chest with his finger, digging in the same spot with each word he spoke. “I am eleventh in line to the throne. You are nothing but a Master’s brat. My skin burned with each additional jab, but I didn’t budge. Then pointing at Owethu, he added, “And he is the son of a murderer. It’s only a matter of time before Scotland Yard proves it was the Zulu.”
I wanted to punch him, in the face, for which, I would definitely be caned. But right now, I didn’t care.
The brash voice of my history professor, Mr. Baker, shattered the tension, “Is there a problem, lads?” He crossed the end of the hall and stopped, observing us over the rims of his glasses.
Richard flipped on his bright, wide smile, and spun on his heel. He threw his arm around my shoulder. “Just a couple of old chums discussing Wellington’s masterful defeat of Napoleon.”
I grabbed his arm and pushed it away from me. “Come on Owethu. We don’t want to be late for class.”
Owethu eyed the boys around him. They stepped aside. We walked slowly away, but then he stopped and turned around. “Shaka’s blood is in my veins, and he would have defeated your Wellington.” He spun back to me and we rushed past Mr. Baker. Once we’d turned the corner, I raised my hand to Owethu and said, “Nice comeback. High-five.”
Unsure what I wanted him to do, I took his hand and held it up and hit his with mine. He shook his head and grinned. “High five,” he repeated and smacked my hand, the sound echoing along the stone walls.
“O-w-w-w.” I shook my hand and tried to rub the pain away. “For a little guy, you don’t know your own strength.” His smile grew larger.
CHAPTER 5
MURDER AT ETON
After school, and after the sun had set, Owethu and I ascended the stairs to my father’s office. Finn would be coming soon with Chief Zwelethu and the baron to usher them to Lord Marbury’s estate. As my hand reached out for his door, I paused. Gone was the long crack that started my adventure and still haunted my nightmares. The whirl of Col. Hendrix’s gears sent shivers up my spine faster than any nails on a chalkboard. My stomach wrenched, twisted in agony. Could anxiety cause this? My father couldn’t be mad enough to cause this feeling of danger. Nothing had doubled me over since … last year. Something … something was wrong.
“Alexander,” Owethu said with a tinge of concern, “what unsettles you?”
“Trouble.” I gripped my stomach.
Owethu spun around like a warrior. “I see nothing.”
“Get into my dad’s office.” I pushed the door open and fell in, stumbling over my feet. I ran into the shelves stacked with artifacts and old manuscripts and steadied myself. Owethu followed me into the dark wood paneled office.
“Alexander,” my father said as he pushed off from his oak desk, “what is the meaning of this outburst?”
I looked up to find the baron standing beside my father. Concern etched on their faces. I tried to stand straight but the knot in my guts wouldn’t unwind.
“Is it like before?” my father asked.
“Kind of,” I said, still hunched over.
The baron rushed into the hallway. A loud crash echoed through the hall. We followed, and Owethu squatted, putting his ear closer to the floor. He turned his head from side to side. “That way.”
“Let’s go.” I tapped Owethu’s shoulder and we ran off toward the sound. I heard my father’s protest, but I ignored them as the baron
joined us. The pain in my stomach eased with each step. I hadn’t felt more like myself since last year’s adventure.
We reached the end of the hall, and Owethu pointed down a stairwell. My feet moved feverously from one step to the next trying to reach the bottom. Professor McCafferty’s workshop lay ahead, the door half open with a sign dangling from one chain that read ‘Keep Door Closed’. A piercing scream stopped us, and I didn’t need Owethu to tell me it had come from the workshop.
Two years ago, I would have run screaming for my father, but now I didn’t even hesitate. I rushed into the workshop and heard a clatter from the back. Owethu and I rushed behind a large tank, and found Professor McCafferty crumpled over, gasping in agony. One last gasp escaped and his struggle ended. I froze. My father and the baron rushed passed us and laid the portly man on his back. The professor’s eye’s bulged open as if the horror of his final sight had been forever captured on his face. His mouth was agape, forced open by a large, black swollen tongue.
Glass shattered outside. The baron rushed after the noise. My father turned to Owethu and me. “You boys stay here, and don’t touch anything. I have to alert the faculty.”
“Understood.” I said, looking at Owethu, who studied the scene with the sharp narrow eyes of a hunter.
Father hesitated, but rushed off.
Owethu and I stood in silence for a moment. Neither of us taking our eyes off the grotesque face lying in front of us.
“Maybe, we should see if we can find what he was working on.”
Owethu nodded and nodded, “Yes, yes. That would be better.” Owethu studied the room for a moment and pointed to one of the tables across the room. “He was working over there, and stumbled here.”
“How can you tell?”
Owethu pointed, “The knocked-over canisters, and the shattered tea pot. He must have bumped them as he struggled. And there is a dent in this cabinet, where he fell. See?” Owethu passed his finger over the impression, then quickly wiped his finger on his striped pants.
I was impressed. Even though I looked at the same scene as Owethu, I didn’t see any of that. “That must have been the noise we heard.”
Owethu nodded.
As we walked over to the professor’s desk, I studied the rest of the workshop, which held rocks of every kind. Large geodes sat on top of filing cabinets, along with a huge slab covered in purple amethyst crystals. Equipment had been jammed into every nook and cranny. We stood behind the boiler powering his smelter, a small oven with such intense heat that it melts metal ore.
At first Professor McCafferty’s workbench didn’t look like much, but as I inspected it in more detail, nothing made sense. Where was the notebook of scribbled pages with the quill still dripping ink? No unbroken rock or papers to be graded. So, if he wasn’t working, why was the smelter glowing bright orange? In truth, I didn’t know much about geology. But I’m sure I would have, if my father studied rocks, rather than dead languages. Still, the professor must have been working on something. The table was in disorder, and tools lay in a heap, not neatly laid out like a nearby shelf of categorized rocks.
I laid my hand on the top of the workbench. The warmth I felt meant something had set here, recently.
Owethu stepped over to the fireplace beside the smelter. Several trophies sat on the dusty mantle. “One is missing.” He pointed to an oval outline in the dust.
“But why take a trophy?”
“I do not know.” I walked back over to the body and looked for a trophy. There was none. I thought back to the automaton serpent that had attacked the baron. Maybe this was another automaton. I bent over to get a better look at the professor. Deep purple marks followed along the veins of his neck up to his ear. There, poking into his skin was a small, wooden sliver. It looked like a dart. “Owethu, I think I found something.”
He walked over and leaned down. I pointed to the professor’s neck and looked back at Owethu. His eyes bulged and he backed up.
“What is it?” I said, realizing that seeing the dart affected Owethu more than the dead guy lying in front of us.
Before he could answer, Baron Kensington returned, breathing hard, but still standing with stoic grace. “Are you boys alright?” We nodded.
“Did you catch them?”
“No, I lost them in the fog.”
“Then you got a look at them?” I asked.
“I did.” The baron diverted his eyes away from Owethu. “I’m … not sure what I saw.” He popped his cane again his palm, and turned to Owethu. “Actually, that isn’t true, I know what I saw, but I don’t understand, nor do I believe it.”
With that kind of buildup I had to ask, “What did you see?”
The baron hesitated before he answered. He put his hand on Owethu’s shoulder. “A cloaked Zulu.”
Owethu stared at the baron. “That isn’t possible.”
“I know. But I also know what I saw.”
“The dart … is it African, too?” I asked.
Owethu barely nodded, but it was enough to confirm my thoughts. I shook my head. “But that’s impossible! The only two Zulu in London are …”
Owethu finished. “My father and I.”
What dart?” the baron asked.
I pointed at the professor’s neck. “I think the professor was killed by a poison dart, and I think the killer took whatever he was working on.”
“An excellent deduction,” the baron smiled. “I see time away from the Black Knight hasn’t dulled your senses.”
“Never.”
CHAPTER 6
ACCUSATIONS
We didn’t remain in my father’s office long after the authorities arrived. Neither Father nor Baron Kensington were interested in the investigation, deciding to leave the details to Scotland Yard. Finn drove us back to the baron’s London house in the steamcarriage. This time, however, Owethu didn’t enjoy the ride. And neither did I.
Back at the estate, I sat in the blue room with Owethu. Mrs. Henderson brought in a teapot and two teacups, set it down, and then wound up a small automaton knight sitting on the table. She departed with a nod, and I turned to my new friend.
“You have to see this, Owethu,” I said as the knight, with a plume of red hair spouting from its helmet, poured the darkened liquid into the two cups.
“It is a machine?” Owethu stood up and circled the automaton as it settled back into a resting pose.
“Inside, it is nothing but gears and springs.”
He nodded. “My people have cast off the notion that magic rules this world.”
“I wouldn’t be too quick to ignore magic.”
“I agree, but the Great Elephant taught us that it is we who make our destiny here on earth. Magic is a tool, and if one is not careful, will become a crutch.”
“Shaka was wise.”
“He was angry,” Owethu added. “Like you, those of his same age did not want him around.”
“Was he an outsider?”
“No. His brothers were chosen over him. But he was the one destiny called on.”
I nodded and handed him the cup of tea, taking the other for myself. “Do you think a Zulu is committing these murders?”
“No.” He sipped the tea.
“I don’t either. But I think someone wants to make everyone think it is your father.” I drank the Earl Grey, letting the warm liquid warm my insides.
The door whooshed open, and as the stillness shattered, our teacups rattled on their saucers. Genevieve rushed in, but held the door with her fingers as she slid it silently closed. Owethu looked worried, but I jumped up, and asked, “Hey, what’s up?”
She stopped as if my words had built a wall. “You rushed into my house in the middle of the night and ask me what is up?”
I wanted to kick myself. Still, her country’s customs refused to come easily to me. I should have greeted her formally and presented myself. But I was an American, who, as my classmate’s constantly reminded me, insisted on doing everything all at once.
Owethu stepped forward. “I am Owethu, son of Zwelethu, one of the thirteen chieftains under King Cetshwayo, ruler of Zululand. We are here to advocate his reinstatement and end the warring of my people.” He bowed.
Genevieve curtsied. “Welcome to my home, Owethu.”
I set my tea down on the tray. “There was another murder at Eton tonight. Professor McCafferty.”
Her eyes lit up. “That’s horrible.” She paused and then asked, “Do you know who killed him?”
“Your father saw a Zulu running away,” Owethu said. “But I do not want to believe it.”
“Oh,” was all she said. “My father and your fathers are in the conservatory, along with Sinclair right now. Maybe we should …”
I sprang toward the door. “Agreed! Let’s go lurking.”
The three of us slipped down to the conservatory where the adults had gathered. Sinclair’s boisterous voice boomed against the baron’s aristocratic tone as they spoke. Then I heard the unmistakable voice of Chief Zwelethu. His deep, stoic words filled the air, but even more voices lay within. The Duke. His snooty voice broke through the others and everything grew silent.
“I believe our culprit is evident,” the Duke said. “Multiple witnesses saw a Zulu leave the scene. Perhaps we should be pressing the chief for more answers.”
The baron quickly replied, “Your Grace, we should examine all the facts before reaching any conclusions. I fear someone is trying to reignite the war between England and the Zulu.”
“Or perhaps they are using our hospitality to eliminate their enemies.”
“I don’t think that is what is happening,” the baron replied. “Chief Zwelethu was with me during one of the murders, and you yourself brought the only delegation on your airship.”
“I do not accuse the chieftain of committing these murders, but our experts on the Dark Continent are dying.” The Duke’s words dripped with sarcasm. “A little too convenient, wouldn’t you say?”
“Is this true?” Sinclair asked.
