The Osiris Curse (10 page)

Octavia rested her umbrella on her shoulder and stepped onto the red carpet. She decided she didn't want to walk behind the slow moving people in front of her so she moved around them, ignoring the tuts of disapproval as she did so.

She sighed. This was going to be a long trip.

There were three ornithopters ready. She'd never been in one, but they were the latest craze for those who could afford it—a small passenger transport that moved people through the air at speeds of up to ten miles an hour.

But these looked as though they had been modified. At the rear of each was a metal circle—an exhaust she reckoned—leading to a secondary engine. It looked like the exhausts were hooked up to Tesla Turbines, like the
Albion
itself. That meant they would move much faster than ten miles an hour.

She moved around the long wings, climbed into the back seat, and strapped herself in while the automaton secured her trunks.

“All ready, Miss?” called the driver over his shoulder.

“Ready,” said Octavia.

“Then off we go.”

The driver pulled a lever and the wings started to flap. She felt the contraption lift slightly and the driver pumped another lever until they rose completely off the ground. The driver pushed power to the thrusters, sending them skimming smoothly forward. Octavia peered over the side as Trafalgar Square receded below them, the crowds cheering the ornithopter as it did a circuit of the plaza, building up enough thrust to lift it higher and higher until they drew level with the airship.

Octavia stared at it in awe. Even though the
Albion
had looked big from below, it was nothing compared to the sheer scale of it
when they drew closer. The top of the ark (as she now called it) was like some huge city street. Structures dotted the deck, ornithopters coming in to land, people running around like tiny ants going about their business. The gasbags that kept the airship afloat were as long as the ark itself, segmented and kept in the shape of a cigar with wires that looked to be as thick as lampposts.

The ornithopter banked slightly and moved through a gap in these wires. It headed for an area in the center of the ship and spiraled slowly downward to land on a clearly painted red circle.

“There you go, Miss. All safe and sound.”

“Thank you,” said Octavia, climbing out of the ornithopter. She looked around curiously as an automaton unloaded her bags. More flying machines were landing on the deck, coming from other parts of the city. There were even smaller dirigibles bringing passengers to the airship. They were small enough to slip between the wires and hover over the landing deck while their passengers disembarked.

A young woman wearing the blue and red livery of the
Albion
approached Octavia.

“May I see your ticket, Miss?”

Octavia handed it over. The girl inspected it and smiled. “Welcome to the
Albion
, Miss Stackpole.”

“Octavia, please.”

“I'm sorry, Miss. Rules. We're not allowed to call any of the passengers by their first names.”

“I see. Then I suppose Miss Stackpole will have to do.”

The girl checked the details of the ticket again. Then she looked at Octavia with wide eyes.

“You've got one of the best cabins on the airship, Miss Stackpole.”

“Have I really?” said Octavia, remembering she had a part to play. “My parents organized the whole thing. I'm supposed to be meeting them in Russia. I didn't even want to go.”

She saw the attendant's eyes flatten slightly, and Octavia silently cursed herself. She knew what the girl was thinking. Spoiled rich girl, everything handed to her on a platter, too snobbish to even appreciate the trip.

Octavia didn't want to play that person. Even for a short time.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I don't mean that.” Octavia thought quickly. “My parents are making me leave my suitor behind. They hope travel will broaden my horizons, make me realize I don't want to spend my life with him.”

The attendant's face warmed again. She looked around furtively and leaned closer. “What's his name?”

Octavia drew a blank, then blurted out the first name that popped into her head. “Sebastian,” she said. Then she did her own furtive look around, just to make sure Tweed wasn't anywhere nearby. She'd never live it down if he'd heard that.

“What's your name?” asked Octavia.

“Violet, Miss.”

“Pleased to meet you, Violet. Shall we have a look at this amazing cabin my parents have paid for?”

Violet smiled. “Right this way.”

Violet led Octavia through a door and down some stairs, entering a large greeting room. A bar ran along one wall. Couches and armchairs lined the others. Sunlight shone through slanted windows, casting squares of gold across the patterned carpet.

Octavia was handed a glass of champagne as Violet led her past the other guests milling around and chatting to each other. It seemed as if all of London's high society was in attendance. But not only London's. As she passed through the room she heard American, German, and French accents, and even some she couldn't quite place.

They moved through the room and into a broad hallway. Again, thick carpets had been laid down. Persian, if Octavia was any judge.
Ornately framed paintings and mirrors lined the walls. It seemed as if everything had been done to make the
Albion
appear like a stately home rather than a means of transport.

In fact, if Octavia had been brought on board blindfolded, then deposited in this or any of the other rooms Violet led her through, she wouldn't even know she was in an airship. The usual deep thrum she associated with dirigible engines was utterly absent, obviously something to do with Tesla's new turbines.

“Would you like the grand tour or would you prefer to be taken straight to your room?” asked Violet.

“Oh, the grand tour, I think,” said Octavia, smiling.

Grand was definitely the correct word. It seemed that the entire upper level, (there were five), was given over to entertainment. Reading rooms, libraries, smoking rooms, dining rooms, (one of which was Egyptian themed), and restaurants, two of which served only French or Italian cuisine. A casino, a croquet pitch with a glass roof that let sunlight in, a dance hall, a card room, and finally, an opera house. Octavia stared around in astonishment, not even trying to hide her awe. An actual opera house. In an airship. It was sensational.

Violet grinned at her amazement. “It's certainly something, isn't it? Just think how those of us who work below the stairs felt when we saw it for the first time.”

Octavia tore her gaze away from the tiers of seats, the ornate boxes that ringed the upper walls, the large stage that was easily the equal of the best London had to offer.

“Of course, it's not only opera,” said Violet. “There are plays, melodramas, farces, comedies…um, what else? A company that puts on Shakespeare plays. I'm sure I'm missing something, but there's a timetable in your room so you can see if anything catches your fancy.”

“Thank you,” said Octavia, for the first time feeling a bit excited about the journey. Up until now it had been about trying to find Molock,
trying to find out what he did with her mother. But now she was wondering if she could actually have a good time doing it. Was that allowed? To enjoy herself while trying to find the kidnapper of her mother?

She felt a wave of guilt at the thought. Of course it wasn't allowed. She was here to do a job, not to enjoy herself.

“I'd like to go to my room now, please,” she said.

“Of course.”

Violet pulled the opera house doors closed and led her toward the center of the airship. “There's a moveable walkway that runs around the perimeter,” said Violet as they walked. “In case you're tired or simply want to rest. It's very safe.”

Violet stopped at a wide set of stairs. Octavia leaned over the balcony and peered downward. She could see all the way to the bottom of the airship.

It was magnificent.

She was about to turn away when a flash of color caught her eye. She frowned, wondering what it was that had caught her attention. Then she saw it again. A purple suit.

Her stomach clenched. She leaned out over the railing to get a better look, wondering if she was seeing things.

She wasn't. Three levels down, striding along the corridor, was Sekhem, fancy cane and all.

What on earth was
he
doing here?

“Miss?”

Octavia looked over her shoulder at Violet. “Are you well?”

Octavia turned back, but the momentary distraction meant she had lost Sekhem in the crowd. She searched the floors, but there was no sign of him anywhere.

She had to tell Tweed.

They descended to level one. (The staff worked and slept on level zero, Violet informed her with a half-smile.)

Level one was where the first class cabins were situated. The corridors here were wider than anywhere else, the carpets and finishings even more expensive-looking. Original paintings on the walls, interspersed with framed photographs by new, up and coming artists who were the current toast of high society.

Octavia paused to study a photograph of a young chimney sweep, his face black with dust while an automaton stood next to him, gleaming, without a spot of coal dust on its casing.

“Do you like it?” asked Violet, nodding at the photograph.

“I think it's in extraordinarily bad taste.”

Violet smiled. “I knew I liked you, Miss Stackpole.”

Her cabin was larger than she'd thought it would be. A main room with a chesterfield lounge suite, a glass-topped table, a drinks cabinet, a bookshelf with all the classics set out in order of size. (All of them leather bound). Then a doorway leading to the bedroom, where she had a four poster bed all to herself, and finally a door leading to the bathroom. It even had a bath.

“Where do they keep the water?” she asked Violet.

“Tanks down below the servant's quarters. The airship will restock in Egypt.”

Octavia smiled.

Well, maybe she
could
enjoy it here. Just a little.

Tweed was not going to enjoy it here. Not at all.

The day started off well enough. He packed his suitcase, left a note for Barnaby, (and another in case the old man from the customs offices showed up), then made his way to Trafalgar Square to sign on aboard the
Albion
.

The first thing he had done was report to the head of household to find out how many people the head of wait staff would be in charge of, what his duties actually
were
, that kind of thing. Of course, he wouldn't be so obvious in his questions. He'd have to find that out subtly, by using probing questions and his superior intellect.

He was in for a bit of a shock on that front.

The head of household was a tall, stern-faced man whose back was so straight Tweed wondered if he actually had the ability to bend over. Tweed was tempted to drop something on the floor just to see how he managed to pick it up.

“Ever been in the military, boy?” were his first words to Tweed.

Tweed had to admit to being slightly nonplussed by this. Was he wearing a military uniform without knowing? Had he picked up a military issue weapon without realizing? He looked down at his hands. No, they were empty of guns, rifles, bayonets, and the like.

“Er…no.”

“Didn't think so. You can judge a person by his willingness to serve his country, doncherknow. What's your excuse?”

“Um…There haven't actually been any wars lately.”

“There are always wars. You can find one if you look hard enough.”

Tweed decided to just ignore this statement for the preposterous
waffle that it was. “Yes. Good,” he said briskly. “My name's Sebastian Holmes. I'm to be the new head of wait staff.”

“The name's Hardstone. And no you're not, sir!”

“Excuse me?”

“Smythe mentioned his concern about your age and experience. And I must confess I agree with his assessment. I don't like the look of you, lad. Much too young. You have the look of a troublemaker about you.” He stepped forward until he was in Tweed's personal space.
Way, way
in his personal space. Then he inhaled.

Tweed leaned back, not even trying to keep the look of disgust from his face.

“You will
not
be the head of the wait staff,” said Hardstone. “You will instead be a
waiter
. One of the serving staff. That'll teach you some humility.”

Tweed's eyes widened in outrage. “I don't need a lesson in humility! I'm perfect as I am!”

“You will report to me, boy. I am taking over as head of wait staff for the duration. I've sent a message to Egypt and hopefully a replacement can be found when we dock in Cairo. Until then, you either take on your duties like a man, or cry like a little baby. And if you choose the latter, it means you will be cleaning latrines twelve hours a day. So, which is it to be?”

Tweed's mind raced. What options did he have? He had to stay on the airship. It was their only chance of finding Octavia's mother. He couldn't let her down.

He sighed. “I'll face my duties.”

“Good man! Now take your things to your cot and report to the servant's dining room at 0800 hours. Don't be late! Tardiness is a sign of the devil!”

Tweed thought about saying something in response to this ludicrous statement, but he realized it meant he would have to stay here a bit longer. Instead, he picked up his bag and slouched away.

“Stand up straight, boy!” shouted Hardstone.

Tweed straightened up, muttering curses under his breath. This was not going to be as easy as he'd thought.

The servant's dining hall was more like a huge common room. It had tables and chairs in the center of the floor space, but around the edges were comfy couches, billiards and cards tables, and a few other games that Tweed suspected none of the staff would get a chance to use seeing as they would be so busy serving the toffs upstairs.

All the staff had gathered in the room. Tweed tried to do a quick count but gave up after a hundred and fifty.

He hated to admit it, but he was slightly nervous. He stared at the other waiters, wondering who would be the first to call him out as a fake. He was trying his best to act like the other members of staff, but he found himself struggling. He'd never held down a normal job before. He'd spent his life with Barnaby taking part in cons. All this “respecting authority” malarkey was new to him. And painful.

And annoying.

And draining.

He nudged a tall fellow standing next to him. “Can't wait to get out there and do…” he cast desperately about, “serving stuff, eh? Waiting on all the rich people. What larks.”

The fellow just frowned at Tweed, then slowly shuffled away.

“Be like that, then,” said Tweed. He saw a girl watching him with an amused look on her face. “Hello,” he said, waving cheerfully.

“Hello.”

“Um…” Tweed racked his brain about what the procedure was when meeting people. “Oh yes. I'm Tw—Holmes. Sebastian Holmes.”

The girl held her hand out. “Violet.”

Tweed shook it.

“So are you ready to be at the beck and call of over-entitled, pompous windbags?” she asked.

Tweed raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I don't know. I've met Hardstone. He's not that bad.”

Violet laughed, a surprisingly loud and rather…distracting cackle. It broke off abruptly, as did the low babble that had dominated the room.

Tweed glanced up to see Hardstone enter and survey his charges. Tweed narrowed his eyes. That should have been
him
entering, surveying
his
staff,
his
army of cleaners and waiters. It should have been
him
they all hated and gossiped about behind his back. Tweed had been quite enjoying the prospect of such a thing. But now, now he was one of them, a grunt in the trenches.

“I'll keep this brief,” said Hardstone loudly. “We're already a man short, but we will
not
let that affect our services. Our guests have paid good money to travel aboard this airship, and we should all consider ourselves lucky we have been chosen to serve. I will brook no shenanigans. No hanky-panky. No smart comments. I want smiling faces and obedient staff who go out of their way to make sure the needs of our guests are met.” He gave them all a dirty look. “Understand?”

A rumble of agreement swept through the staff.

“Good. Now. Kitchen staff. Off you go. Mrs. Deacon is waiting for you.”

A third of the people in the room moved to the doors. Once they'd left, Hardstone surveyed those that remained. “And you lot are to go through every single room. A final check. I do not want to see a speck of dust or the slightest crease in bed linen. Everything in its place. Go. We have five hours till the guests arrive.”

Violet grabbed Tweed by the arm and pulled him toward the closest door.

“Before he picks us for some other task.”

“Like what?”

“Like making sure all the latrines are clean. I've heard about Hardstone. Cross him and you'll be on latrine duty for the entire voyage.”

“Yes, he's already mentioned that.”

Luckily for Tweed, he didn't plan on staying the entire voyage. At least, he hoped not. The
Albion
traveled at thirty miles an hour and it was about 2200 miles to Egypt. So they were talking about three days travel time. That's how long he and Octavia had to find Molock and force him to reveal Octavia's mother's location.

Violet led him up to the first floor of the airship. Tweed strolled along the carpet, inspecting the paintings and photographs, his arms behind his back as he took in the ambience.

“If you don't mind me saying,” said Violet, glancing at him over her shoulder. “You…don't really seem to be of the waitering mindset.”

“Oh? And what mindset is that?” asked Tweed absently. He nodded at a painting. “That's a fake. I wonder if the owners know.” Tweed cast a suspicious glance both ways along the corridor. “Actually, I wonder how many more are fake. Someone could have made some serious money here.” He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Say…one out of ten is a reproduction. Just enough to pocket some surplus money, and not enough to draw attention. Maybe even one in seven?” He thoughtfully sucked his teeth. “Of course, the supplier would have to cover himself. Use a middleman. Who I'll bet has vanished already.” Tweed became aware that Violet was staring at him. “What? Sorry. Were you talking? Drifted away there.”

“No,” she said. “Not talking. Just…listening.”

“Good habit that. Listening. You learn more than by talking.”

“Yes. I agree.”

Tweed opened his mouth, then he paused and closed it again. “Yes,” he repeated. “Er…should we get on? Lots of rooms to check.”

The first room fairly boggled Tweed's mind. It was massive. An elegantly furnished room that wouldn't look out of place in the Savoy. Furniture from France, clocks from Switzerland, and some traditional paintings from Africa, by the looks of it.

“How many people stay in this room?”

Violet looked at him in surprise. “One. It's a single.”

“A single…” Tweed looked around in amazement. He opened one door, peered into the bathroom, opened another into the bedroom, then opened yet another into a
second
bathroom. He gestured at it. “Two bathrooms! For one person! Can the rich not
walk
? Are they so weighed down by money that they can't make it across the room to their
single
bathroom before they soil themselves? This is ridiculous!”

Violet tilted her head to the side. “You haven't been around the upper class much, have you?”

Tweed had. Although the contact was brief and only lasted long enough to take their money.

“I tend to avoid things that disagree with me,” he said.

“Really?” said Violet mildly. “How do you get through life then?”

“With difficulty,” declared Tweed. “With difficulty and a certain amount of sprightliness.”

Violet stared at him for a few more seconds, then let out her low cackle again. “You're very odd, Sebastian. I think I like you. Now come on. Let's check the other suites.”

“Let's not and say we did.”

But they did, and it was incredibly boring. Tweed yawned his way through their duties. (He had, after all, barely slept the night before.)

Bedrooms: inspection of: (30.) All immaculately clean.

Cutlery: inspection of: (1300 complete sets.) all immaculately
clean. In fact, some of them were a bit grubbier
after
Tweed picked them up. He couldn't help it. His hands were clean. But the silver just kept smearing from the oil on his fingers.

Dinner plates: inspection of: (1300, dinner, side, bread, dessert.) All clean.

Table cloths: ironing of. (Too many to count. Tweed's mind actually switched off from the sheer boredom. And he wasn't even ironing them. He was holding the already-steamed sections off the ground so they wouldn't crease
again
.)

Finally, it was it was time for the guests to arrive. The junior waiting staff (of which Tweed was one) had a chance for a brief rest as the guests landed in ornithopters, while the more senior staff (like Violet) escorted them to their cabins. Tweed didn't know how people did it, toiling away at an honest day's work. It was enough to turn him back to crime.

Once all the guests had arrived, their names ticked off, double-checked, triple-checked, and then checked again by the captain (Couldn't fly off without all the guests. Think of the scandal!), it was time to begin the journey.

There was a narrow balcony outside the waiter's dining hall that ran all the way around the airship. Tweed slipped outside and leaned over the railing, peering down at Trafalgar Square. The crowds had increased as the morning wore on. When he arrived early this morning there had been a tramp with a dog. The tramp, for some reason, was singing “Auld Lang Syne.” Now, there were hundreds of onlookers crowding the plaza in order to see the
Albion
off.

Tweed was joined by some of the other staff. There was a heavy thunk from below as the mooring cables were released, then winched upward into the belly of the airship. The dirigible bobbed slightly. Tweed could feel the tension running through the ship as it strained to rise into the air. But there was still a central mooring line left
attached. Once the others had all been wound into position, this final cable was released, and with a loud cheer from those below, the airship
Albion
surged upward.