by Paul Crilley
Sekhem staggered back, eyes wide with surprise. Then he rolled his shoulders, swinging the thin sword in complex patterns through the air.
“You're a lot faster than the last time we met,” he said.
Molock shrugged. “That's all down to you. Losing the crown made me realize I had to train myself.” He slid his jacket off and took up a defensive stance, weight balanced evenly between both legs.
Sekhem came straight at him. Tweed wasn't sure if it was a feint, something to throw Molock off guard, because, really, who just ran at you with a sword? Where was the finesse? The skill?
But then a moment later Tweed saw the finesse. And the skill. Plus a lot more that he couldn't explain.
Molock dodged the blade, spinning away from it and lashing out with stiff fingers. They caught Sekhem in the throat, and Tweed thought that was it. Fight over. A blow as hard as that, with fingers stiffened in such a way, it should have crushed the man's larynx. But Sekhem just shrugged it off and attacked.
Molock used his forearms to deflect the blows, somehow managing to turn the sharpened edge of the weapon away each time it connected, rolling his arm so that the sword slid harmlessly aside.
As Octavia and Tweed watched, the pace of the fight picked up, the two men moving with almost inhuman speed, their attacks and defenses so effortless, so smooth, Tweed felt like he was watching a graceful dance. Neither of the fighters could land a wounding blow, but they kept trying until their arms were a blur: attack, block, spin, duck, attack, deflect. On and on until Tweed actually grew bored.
“This is ridiculous,” he said, pulling out his Tesla gun.
“Wait,” whispered Octavia fiercely. “What are you doing?”
“I'm not waiting here all night for those two to finish. I'm tired.”
Tweed stepped out from behind their cover. He raised the gun and struck the kind of heroic pose Atticus Pope always pulled on the covers of his books.
After a few seconds he realized he was still standing in the shadows and no one could see him. He thought he heard Octavia sniggering at him, but he couldn't be sure.
He muttered under his breath and walked into the light.
“Excuse me,” he said.
Sekhem and Molock whirled around to face him. When they did so, Tweed actually backed up a step. It was surely a trick of the light but for a tiny moment there the two men's eyes seemed to glow yellow.
Tweed waved the gun in the air. “Stop this now. It's all very fascinating, and I'm sure if you did your little dance in Piccadilly Circus you could charge a few crowns for the show, but it's been a long night and I really, really want to go to bed. I lit the fire before I came out,” he explained. “By now my room will be the perfect temperature for a sweet, dreamless sleep.”
The one called Molock looked at him as if he were insane. “I…” He paused, then shook his head as if trying to dislodge something. “What?”
But Sekhem wasn't so easily distracted. He took advantage of Tweed's interruption and swung out with the sword.
“Look out!” screamed Octavia from where she was watching behind the crate.
Molock spun and dropped, his arm coming up to block the blow. Sekhem wasn't expecting any kind of resistance, so his grip on the cane was loose. The blade fell from his hand and Molock scooped it up in midair, swinging it around in one smooth movement. The blade caught Sekhem on the hand, slicing neatly through two of his fingers.
A ring slid from one of the severed digits as they fell, skittering across the floor. Molock queasily watched it roll away, and as he did so Sekhem pulled a knife from his belt and lunged forward.
A burst of lighting arced over Tweed's shoulder, only inches from his ear. It hit Sekhem in the chest, sending him spinning backward through the air. The lighting also arced across to Molock. He cried out and jerked to the side. Tweed saw something fly from his coat pocket. It hit the electricity and caught fire, then fluttered to the ground. Sekhem landed heavily, a wisp of smoke rising into the air from his unmoving body.
Octavia swung the gun around to Molock, but he was already moving, darting behind a half-completed Difference Engine.
“Wait!” called Octavia. “I'm not going to hurt you. I'm just looking for my mother!”
No answer. Tweed indicated for Octavia to go around one side of the computer and he'd take the other.
They moved quietly, Tesla guns at the ready. Tweed could feel the engraved patterns of the brass case rubbing against his back as he slid around the machine. Then he whirled around and pointed the gun.
There was a blur of movement, and something shot up past his face. Tweed staggered back and saw Molock hanging onto one of the roof supports fifty feet above them. He flipped himself over and stood up effortlessly, then ran along the thin iron beams, leaping between them as if he had spent his whole life in the circus.
“He's going for the door!” shouted Octavia.
Tweed swore and ran back the way they'd come, keeping one eye on the roof. But he could see they had no chance. Molock was too far ahead.
The man reached the far wall and then did something astounding. He simply stepped off the strut and dropped through the air. Tweed watched in amazement as Molock landed lightly in a crouch, then stood smoothly and ran straight through the door, slamming it shut behind him.
Tweed was right on his heels. He heard something smack up against the door. He tried to pull it open but it was wedged shut. Octavia joined him and they braced themselves against the wall and pulled. The door shifted slightly but whatever was used on the other side was pulling against the wall.
“Stand back,” said Octavia.
Tweed moved back as she leveled her gun and fired. The door burst from its hinges, flying back into the stairwell. Before the smoke had even cleared Octavia was sprinting through the opening, retracing their steps back outside.
Tweed followed after, arriving in the freezing cold to find Octavia standing in the snow looking around in frustration.
“He's gone!” she shouted. She moved one way, then spun around and moved in another, searching the snow for footprints.
There were none.
Tweed knew how upset she would be. She'd waited months for some kind of sign, some kind of lead on the disappearance of her mother. And they'd just let it slip right out of their hands.
“Come on,” he said gently. “Let's look around downstairs. Maybe we'll find something on Sekhem's body that can help us.”
He thought she was going to argue. She looked around the cluttered garden in frustration, and then her shoulders slumped and she turned back toward the shed.
They hurried down into the factory. The warehouse space receded away from them, huge, filled with clutter. It would take them ages to search all this for clues.
First things first, though. A search of Sekhem's pockets. Tweed's eyes moved to where the man had landed after the electricity hit him—
—Tweed froze. The space on the floor where Sekhem had landed was empty. Tweed carefully put his back up against a machine. Where was he? Was he watching them right now, getting ready to attack?
“What are you doing?” asked Octavia.
“Sekhem is gone.”
Octavia frowned. “What do you mean gone?” She leaned to the side and peered around his shoulder. She leaned back again.
“Sekhem is gone,” she said, as if stating a new and surprising fact. “Where's he gone?”
Tweed leaned in and beckoned Octavia closer. She did so, her eyes wide.
“I have no idea,” he said softly.
Octavia punched him in the arm, then straightened up to look carefully around the factory. Tweed did the same, checking the ceiling struts as well.
There was no sign of Sekhem anywhere.
“Watch my back,” said Tweed, moving out from behind cover. He waited, but there was no attack, no sword blade whistling through the air to slice through his neck. Nothing.
He headed to where Sekhem had fallen, inside the circle of metal plates. Ther
e was blood on the floor, and a wooden chair that was lying on its side. But there was no body. Tweed turned in a circle, surveying the space around him. There was nowhere to hide.
He paused. There was something on the ground, a singed piece of card. He remembered seeing something falling from Molock's pocket when Octavia fired her Tesla gun at them. He picked it up. There was elaborate writing on the card, but it didn't make much sense seeing as half of the card had been burnt away by Octavia's gun.
…ate:
…uary.
…ture:
…m.
Tweed tucked it into his pocket. He'd puzzle out its meaning later. He started walking back toward Octavia, kicking something as he did so. It skittered away from him, but he followed it and picked it up.
Sekhem's ring. The one that fell from his severed finger. Tweed searched around, but couldn't see any sign of the fingers themselves.
There was a sudden hum building up in the air. Tweed's teeth tingled. He looked up then darted out of the circle of metal plates.
Just in time. He was only three paces away when the lightning crackled and thrummed, arcing down from the roof into the plates, filling the vast room with brilliant light.
Tweed joined Octavia and showed her the ring. There was a symbol on the heavy face.
It was a triangle with some sort of geometric shape inside it. It looked…
“Egyptian,” said Octavia. “That looks Egyptian.”
“Any idea what it means?”
“None.”
“Then we need to find out. It's the best clue we have.”
Octavia woke up and frowned at the ceiling.
Why was she awake? She didn't feel like she had slept at all. Her eyes felt gritty, her mind fuddled and slow.
She rolled over to check the clock on her wall. It was only eight thirty. She smiled, feeling the glorious surge of warmth and comfort that came from knowing she still had another hour or so in bed. She snuggled deeper beneath the goose down duvet.
There was a heavy knock at the door.
Maybe if I just ignore it they’ll go away. She closed her eyes tightly, but the knocking came again, more insistent this time. She heard the heavy clumping of Manners, the family automaton, moving across the wooden floor downstairs. There was a pause, then the footsteps started up again, the tread becoming muted as they climbed the carpeted stairs.
Octavia muttered a very rude word under her breath. Sleep was her only vice. She liked sleep. No, she loved sleep. Sleep was good. Sleep was…relaxing. It soothed her spirit. Those moments when she was drifting off to sleep, the fire banked, coals red and glowing, the snow piling up against her window, were moments of pure and utter peace for her. Likewise, those moments just after waking, when the troubles of the world hadn’t intruded into her mind, when she could simply…float on her dreams for a while longer.
And now someone was trying to take that away from her.
Manners knocked on the door.
“Miss Octavia.”
Octavia shuddered. Her father had once again upgraded their automaton, transferring the soul of Manners into a new housing, one that actually had the capabilities of speech. Most people didn’t like it, but they were still upgrading their constructs. Had to keep up with the neighbors, after all.
“What?” she snapped.
“Two gentlemen require your presence at the door.”
“Tell them to go away.”
“I did warn them, Miss Octavia. I told them that you did not like to be disturbed when you are resting.”
“And what did they say?”
“They said to tell you it is Ministry business.”
Octavia frowned. Ministry business? Why on earth would the Ministry be contacting her?
The Ministry was a shadowy, secret organization, the real power behind the government. Had been for over five hundred years, apparently. With the events of last year, the Queen herself had ordered a clean up of the secretive department, but Octavia didn’t think she’d have much luck with that. The Ministry was far too large, far too…well, secret, really. They wouldn’t give up their independence. They might pretend to, but they wouldn’t really.
Octavia couldn’t help feel a flutter of fear at the thought of Ministry agents at her door. Nobody was supposed to know that she and Tweed worked for the Queen. Chase and Temple did, obviously, but they weren’t Ministry. They were secret service, and were under very strict instructions not to tell anyone.
Something to do with Barnaby, then? Tweed’s father. Adopted father, Octavia corrected. Seeing as Tweed was grown in a lab, he didn’t really have a father.
“Tell them I’ll be down in a minute. I’m just getting dressed.”
“Of course, Miss Octavia.”
The footsteps moved back down the stairs. Octavia sighed. There was nothing else for it. She got out of bed and pulled on her trousers and shirt, then slipped her waistcoat and heavy jacket over the top. She tied her black hair up at the back, pinned it in place, then hesitated at her desk. Should she take her Tesla gun? No, no point. She’d probably be searched, and there was no guarantee it would be given back to her.
Octavia slipped into the bathroom and gave herself a quick wash. She had bathed when she came in earlier this morning, but the cold water refreshed her slightly.
She headed downstairs to find two men in identical black suits and black overcoats standing in her hallway. They hadn’t even bothered to take the hats from their heads—hats, she noted, that were similar in style to the fedora Sekhem had worn yesterday. Disrespectful buggers.
“Yes?” she said.
One of the Ministry agents, a tall man who was so thin his skull seemed to push against his skin, turned to her. “You are to accompany us, Miss Nightingale.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
The man frowned. “We are not accustomed to explaining ourselves,” he said softly. “Nor do we intend to start now. You are to come with us.”
Octavia’s eyes flickered between the two men. The second man was taller than the first. He hadn’t said a word, just stared at her with cold grey eyes. She didn’t like this. Not a bit. Ministry officials turning up on your doorstep was never good news. She’d read the reports at The Times. About people going missing in the middle of the night.
She turned to Manners. “Manners, tell my father I’ve been called in to the Ministry. Also, alert my editor at The Times, will you?”
Manners tilted his head slightly. His æther cage, where the human soul was kept, flared, then dimmed. “Message sent via Tesla Tower to The Times’s Babbage machine, Miss Octavia.”
Octavia smiled. Instant backup plan. Two people who would know where she was going. Technology really was quite handy. She notched her grin a bit wider and turned to the Ministry agents.
“Let’s get going then, shall we?” she said cheerfully. “Mustn’t dilly-dally.”
If the Ministry agents were at all irritated with her telling others where she was going, they didn’t show it. They simply turned on their heels and led the way outside. Octavia followed, her grin falling away, shivering from more than the thick, wet flakes of snow that were falling to the ground. A Ministry Teslacoach was parked right outside her house. It was one of the new, sleek coaches powered by Tesla Turbines. The last time Octavia had been this close to one, she had been leading it on a chase through the streets of London, and Ministry agents had been inside shooting at her. For all she knew, it could have been these two very agents who had been involved in that chase.
Octavia reluctantly climbed into the back seat of the Teslacoach. The door was slammed shut and the two agents removed their hats and climbed into the front. Octavia stared nervously at the backs of their heads as they drove. Their haircuts were identical, parted in the middle and slicked down with oil.
The coach drove through the bustling city. Even the snow couldn’t keep the streets of London quiet. Pedestrians still crowded the packed pavements, pickpockets still went about their work although their haul
would be diminished, their fingers slow and clumsy in the cold air. They passed costermongers selling hot chestnuts, coffee and tea, or piping hot potatoes that sent steam up into the grey sky. Her stomach rumbled in jealous protest. She hadn’t eaten since…when was the last time she’d eaten? Certainly not since yesterday evening.
After half an hour, the Teslacoach pulled to a stop in front of the Ministry buildings. The last time Octavia was here there had been a rather large hole in the front of the building, a hole she, Jenny, and Carter Flair had created while trying to rescue Tweed from the Ministry prisons.
The damage had all been repaired. The two Ministry officials led Octavia up the steps and through the door, then bent over to let a Babbage automaton scan their eyes. They forced Octavia to do the same. A bright red light flashed across her vision as she put her eye to the aperture. Then she had to sign in and was given a badge to wear.
“Don’t take this off,” said the first agent.
“Seriously,” said the second. “Don’t. If you’re spotted inside the Ministry without identification, you will be shot on sight.”
Wonderful, thought Octavia.
The agents led her deep into the bowels of the Ministry, down long, boring corridors, through open-plan offices filled with workers collating and sending out intelligence reports and instructions. They finally stopped before an elevator that took them down to the lower levels, deep beneath the ground. Octavia felt her first real stab of fear at this. The prisons were in the lower levels. Had they found out about her involvement in the attack last year?
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
They didn’t answer. The elevator doors slid open and they stepped out into a dull corridor.
“Excuse me,” said Octavia, more forcefully this time. “I demand to know where I’m being taken.”
One of the Ministry goons stopped before a door and pushed it open. Octavia leaned nervously forward, peering inside. It was just a room. With a table and three chairs in it.
