by Paul Crilley
Or were pushed, she thought bitterly.
The wind howled and shrieked in her ears. She tried to duck lower, pulling herself forward. She was about ten feet away now. Molock saw her coming. He tried to reach up with his hand, but every time he bent upward at the waist, his foot would slide further out of the rope.
“Stop moving, you idiot!” Octavia screamed.
Molock locked eyes with her. He shouted the word, “What?” At least, Octavia thought he did. She couldn't hear anything over the wind.
And neither, it seemed, could he. Molock put his hands to his ears, indicating he couldn't hear her. Octavia raised one hand and pulled it quickly across her throat, indicating he should stop doing what he was doing. It was only when Molock paled even further that she realized her gesture for “stop it,” could also be interpreted as “You're going to die.”
She dragged herself closer. Molock finally had the sense to stop struggling. Which was a good thing, because the only thing keeping him from plummeting to his death was the buckle on his boot.
Which then started to tear, the stitching separating slowly from the leather.
Molock opened his mouth to scream. Octavia lunged forward, slipping her arm through the rope and wrapping it around his calf, bringing it back up and linking it to her other arm.
With Octavia holding him, Molock eventually managed to pull himself upright. He grabbed hold of the edge of the net, then indicated that Octavia should let go of his foot. At least, that's what she thought he was indicating. His hair was whipping all over his face, and his jacket was riding up over his head, so it was possible she was wrong. But she let go anyway, and he pulled his foot through the hole.
He was snatched up by the wind and flung over the top of the net. He somersaulted over Octavia's head, then bounced and rolled to a stop about thirty feet away. Octavia sighed and dragged herself back, flopping down next to Molock. He was gripping the rope rather tightly, his knuckles showing white against his skin.
“That was rather exciting,” he said in a shaky voice.
Octavia grinned. “Don't get comfortable. We still have to figure out a way back onto the airship.”
“No,” said Molock. “I think I'm just going to lie right here. Forever.”
Octavia looked around in frustration. She wanted to get back to Tweed, to let him know she was still alive, but she couldn't see any way off this net. After they docked it would be a different story. It would be easier to get free when they didn't have a thousand-foot drop beneath them.
The sun sank lower in the sky behind them. The heat burned against her neck as they approached the Great Pyramid (or rather, Tutankhamen's View, as it was now called). The newly refurbished pyramid, now made primarily of glass and steel, was topped with a glittering capstone that doubled as an elevator. The windows winked and glittered, dazzling her with a thousand reflections of the setting sun.
She blinked and looked away. New roads had been laid between Tutankhamen's View, the two other lesser hotels, and Cairo itself. Even from this distance she could see the steamcoaches chugging along, clouds drifting sluggishly into the heat-heavy air.
As they drew closer to the hotel, ornithopters started to lift off from the deck above them, carrying those too impatient to wait for the airship to dock.
Octavia soon realized how massive the pyramid actually was. From this distance it looked reasonably big. But when the ornithopters flapped their way up the face of the structure, shrinking in size the closer they got, she could truly appreciate the massive scale of it all.
“That is truly one of the most horrendous and exploitative buildings I've ever had the misfortune of laying my eyes upon,” said Molock sadly. “What was the government thinking?”
“Money,” said Octavia. “Some English conglomerate paid them a lot of cash to do that.”
Ornithopters were soon buzzing back and forth, ferrying more and more passengers to the hotel. The Albion drew closer, decreasing speed as it did so, and finally drifted to a stop directly above the capstone.
Octavia peered down through the net. There was a huge central shaft cut down the center of the pyramid. From this height she could see the lights of the various levels all the way to the ground floor, the hundreds of guests moving throughout the hotel.
“I suppose we should try to flag someone down,” said Octavia. “Can't stay up here forever.”
“No,” said Molock sadly. “More's the pity. It's actually quite relaxing now that the mind-numbing fear is gone.”
They crawled slowly toward the edge. Now that the airship had stopped moving, the wind had dissipated completely. Only the balloons were keeping the airship afloat. There was still no easy way down, and it took a lot of waving and shouting before they managed to catch the attention of a rather startled pilot. He almost crashed his ornithopter into the hull of the airship when he saw them, but he managed to get word to someone on board and about half an hour later a previously invisible hatch opened in the underside of the ship and they climbed back to safety.
They were ferried to the capstone, which was actually wider than it had looked from above, easily thirty feet along each side. Octavia and Molock joined the other guests waiting for elevators to descend the central shaft into the hotel.
There had been something bothering her about Molock's story. Well, all of it bothered her, but there was something that worried her more than everything else.
“Are you sure there's a spy in our government?” she asked.
It was a worrying development, because it meant one of their own people was trying to cause the destruction of London. Cult or no cult, that was just…horrible.
“That's what our sources told us. That Sekhem had a member of the Hermetic Order deep within your government. High up.”
“But for what purpose?”
“Intelligence gathering, mainly. In this game you need to know what your enemies are up to.”
“If you don't mind me saying, we don't seem to be very good at the game then.”
They shuffled forward slowly in the line. Octavia's gaze drifted to the ground, where the busy roads were full of rickshaws and steamcoaches moving people back and forth between Cairo and the pyramids.
But there was one figure walking along the road in the opposite direction, heading back along the path the airship had traveled. She would recognize that hunched over walk anywhere. It was Tweed.
What was he doing, heading out in this heat?
Then she realized. He thought she had fallen to her death. He was heading into the desert to retrieve her body.
A rush of pain welled up in Octavia. She grabbed Molock and pushed her way to the front of the queue, ignoring the cries and shouts of annoyance. She shoved a young woman out of the way and climbed into the elevator. A man with dark skin pulled the door closed and swung the lever all the way to the left. The lift dropped down the shaft.
If the elevator was anything to go by, then the hotel itself was going to be ornate to the point of bad taste. Gold cherubs stared down at them from each corner, and the walls were mirrored, so that Octavia found herself looking at her disheveled reflection stretching all the way to infinity. Her hair was all over the place thanks to the wind on the safety net. Her clothes were tattered, her bodice ripped at the shoulder and across the back. No wonder she had been getting such distasteful stares from the other guests.
Octavia watched through the gate as they descended past the different levels. She could scarcely believe it used to be a priceless pyramid, the tomb of Pharaoh Khufu. Now barely anything of the original structure survived. It had been hollowed out, rooms and staircases grafted onto the interior walls. Hidden lamps cast dim light across the corridors, illuminating the Egyptian friezes that had been painted over the old, faded, original art.
It was garish and tasteless, and a huge hit with the rich.
The elevator bumped to a stop and Octavia hurried out into the ground floor lobby.
“Wait here,” she said to Molock. “I need
to find Tweed. We'll catch up with you later.”
Molock nodded in bewilderment and Octavia moved through the lobby, passing display cases where most of the original pieces from the pyramid were displayed: the sarcophagi, the staffs, the gold and decorative headdresses.
Octavia hurried past the front desk and headed for the door, a long oblong of bright light that cast the interior of the lobby in shadow. She dodged around valets carrying suitcases and travel bags, sidestepped guests queuing up to check in, most of them grumbling about the sheer cheek of them having to wait for anything, and emerged into the sweltering early evening air, blinking in the light.
Octavia had seen Tweed on the north side of the pyramid, heading out into the desert. She didn't think he could have gotten far. The silly bugger was on foot after all.
She waved down a…well, she assumed it was a means of transport. A colorful rickshaw-type cab, open at the front, covered with bright beads and swirling patterns. She was about to search for some coin to insert into the automaton, but she pulled up short when she found herself confronted by the gap-toothed smile of a boy of about twelve years old. He was wearing a dirty bowler hat on his head, strands of greasy black hair sticking out of the side. His dark face was eager, his eyes bright.
“You want to ride? Pretty girl want to go somewhere?”
“Er…yes. I do. Thank you.”
“No problem. Akil will take care of you. That is my promise.”
Octavia climbed aboard and sat back in the worn wooden seat. Akil flicked his white tunic out behind him, turned to face the front, then started trotting away.
“Where to?” he called over his shoulder.
“Oh, that way,” said Octavia, pointing. “North. Out into the desert.”
He glanced over his shoulder at her, his brow creasing in concern. “You really don't want to go into the desert, Miss. Dangerous. Better to stay at the hotel.”
“Oh, believe me, I know. But I shouldn't think we'll have to go far.”
Akil picked up speed, dodging around the other cabs and screaming abuse at anyone who got in his way. He would run as fast as he could for a few steps, then lean back and let the two handles he clasped beneath his arms take his weight, lifting his feet from the ground and coasting for a while. As soon as the cab slowed down, he would drop his feet and run until he picked up speed again.
They did this for about ten minutes, heading out toward the desert on an old, hard-packed road that obviously wasn't used much at all. They were heading away from the hotels and civilization. The sun was a blood red orb, half-hidden by a sea of haze that hung low over the horizon. It reflected off the undersides of a few stray clouds, stretching out from red to gold, the sky above a deep purple color.
Octavia dragged her eyes away from the sunset and spotted a line of dust on the road ahead. She leaned forward, then broke into a grin when she saw Tweed's back.
“Stop here, if you please, Akil.”
“Miss, I do not please. I cannot leave you here. It is dangerous. That man up ahead, for instance. He is up to no good. I can see it. A very shady character, if ever I saw one.”
“He's harmless, Akil. Well, relatively so,” she amended.
Akil reluctantly stopped the rickshaw and Octavia hopped out, gathering up her skirt and hurrying along the dusty road.
She was almost upon Tweed when he finally heard her approach and turned around.
The look on his face brought her to a sudden stop. He was streaked with grime from the road, little tracks of pale skin showing through, almost as if carved by tears. He looked utterly miserable, his features collapsed in grief and pain.
Octavia had thought she would say something witty and amusing when she revealed herself. But one look at Tweed's face chased all such thoughts aside.
They stared at each other, on this dusty road in Egypt, with the sun setting behind Tweed's back. Then he took three long strides forward, gripped her face in his hands, and just stared into her eyes, a mixture of emotions flowing across his features. Grief. Understanding. Acceptance. Relief.
Octavia didn't know what to do. She stared back, her breath catching in her throat, frozen by the intensity of his gaze.
Then Tweed gently laid his forehead against hers. She could feel his cool skin against hers.
“You're alive,” he whispered.
Octavia licked her dry lips. “No thanks to you,” she said softly, and was rather surprised to hear a catch in her voice.
Tweed jerked his head back and looked at her in outrage, his features suddenly reassembling into the Tweed she knew. “What do you mean?” he exclaimed.
“You know what I mean. ‘No, I won't pick,’” she mimicked. “What was that about?”
“That was about me playing for time! How dare you judge my techniques! I'm a master detective,” he declared haughtily.
They stared at each other in mock outrage. Then Octavia broke into laughter. But she was shocked to feel tears building up as well. She turned quickly away so he wouldn't see and started walking along the road.
“Come on,” she called over her shoulder. “We've got things to do. Secret archeological digs to discover. Insane lizard madmen to stop. And what are you doing? Going for a walk.”
Tweed caught up with her.
“You know I like my walks. They help me think.”
“You must need a lot of walks, then,” said Octavia.
They arrived back at the rickshaw to find Akil waiting. He glared at Tweed.
“Are you fine, Miss? Would you like me to deal with him?” A wicked looking knife suddenly appeared in his hand.
“Hello,” said Tweed, totally ignoring the blade. “And who are you, small child?”
“How dare you! I am not a small child. The gods spit on your ancestors you son of a dog. I can cut you down where you stand.”
“That's nice.” Tweed patted Akil on the head and climbed up into the rickshaw.
Akil sputtered with outrage.
“He's all right, Akil,” Octavia said quickly. “Just spent a bit long in the sun,” she said. “Touched in the head.”
Akil glared at Tweed. Tweed smiled benignly back. “Hop to it, Jeeves. I need a bath.” He sniffed the air. “And so do you, Nightingale. You smell almost bad as your little friend here.”
He leaned back and closed his eyes. Octavia climbed up next to him and Akil turned them around and headed back to the hotel.
Every now and then he would open one eye and look at her, as if to make sure.
“What's our next move then?” asked Tweed as they strode into the hotel.
“Find Sekhem and Nehi, I would think,” replied Octavia, looking around for Molock. She couldn't see him anywhere. “What happened with them anyway? After we fell.”
“They…left me. I was at the railing, looking for you. When I turned back they had gone. And you're wrong, our first move is for you to check into Stackpole's room so I can wash up.” He sniffed. “Actually, you really could do with one yourself. You can go first if you like.”
“How kind of you.”
Tweed smiled. “See what a gentleman I am?” He frowned and looked around at the crowds milling around the lobby, some heading to the bar, others to the dining room. “Where's lizard-face?”
“I don't know. I left him to come find you.”
“No matter. We can catch up later.”
They headed for the check-in desk. “I'd better take it from here,” said Tweed.
“Why?”
“Because it was easy enough to change the ticket to reflect a Miss Stackpole, but I haven't had time to break into the hotel reservations book to change it. They're expecting a Mr. Stackpole, so that's what they'll have to get.”
“Fair point. But I advise you to go to the bathroom first to refresh yourself. I don't think they'll give you a room key looking like that.”
“Fair point, well made.”
Tweed disappeared to find a bathroom and returned ten minutes later with his messy hair slicked back and hi
s face wiped clean. His clothes had been given a good dusting as well, so he looked at least moderately presentable.
Octavia joined him as he headed for the closest clerk at the check-in counter. It was long, made from mahogany, and polished so much she could see her face in it.
Tweed smiled at the clerk, a thin man with a nervous, haunted look to his face. She supposed she'd feel the same way having to deal with the rich and pampered all day.
“Greetings, my good man,” said Tweed. “I've come to claim my key. Just came in on the Albion, don't-yer-know. Spiffing ride. Absolutely spiffing. Jolly good fun.”
Octavia elbowed Tweed in the ribs. He was overdoing it. And very likely on purpose as well.
“Of course, sir. And the name?”
Tweed opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say anything, a voice spoke a few feet away from them.
“Stackpole,” said the voice. “Henry Stackpole. I made reservations.”
Tweed snapped his mouth shut and turned to look. So did Octavia. What she saw did not please her at all.
It was Barrington Chase.
His back was angled away from them, facing a clerk at the other end of the counter. But there was no doubt it was him.
Octavia whirled around, grabbing Tweed just as he pointed and opened his mouth. She clapped her hand over his lips, smiled apologetically at the puzzled clerk, and pulled him behind a tall potted fern.
“What the hell is he doing here?” sputtered Tweed, when Octavia finally took her hand from his mouth. “And why is he pretending to be Stackpole?”
Octavia stared at Chase's back for a while, thinking. “Remember what Molock said? About there being spies in the government? Members of the Hermetic Order?”
Tweed's eyes widened. “You don't think…?
“Why not?”
“Are you sure?”
“Why else would he be impersonating Stackpole?”
“I knew it.”
“You did not.”
“I did…well, not really, no. But I knew there was something dodgy about him. Who’d’ve thought? Barrington Chase, batting for the other team.”
