The Osiris Curse (4 page)

“Buck up,” said Tweed. “I mean, what can he actually do?”

“He's a spy, Tweed. He can do a lot of things.”

“Hah. But can he? Really?”

“Yes,” said Octavia evenly. “He can. And I rather think he would.”

Tweed hesitated. “Oh.” He thought about this for a second, then shrugged and grinned. “Oh well. Who wants to live forever? Besides, it will be worth it just to see the look on his face.”

Ravenstone Lodge was a hundred-year-old manor house that hunkered on the outskirts of London. It was a crumbling edifice covered in moss and ivy, slipping into ruin like a decrepit old man who had decided that personal hygiene simply wasn't something he was going to bother with anymore.

The house was hidden from the prying eyes of the unwelcome (which pretty much meant everyone) by expansive, rambling grounds and a thick screen of ancient trees that ran around the perimeter of the property.

At 4:43 on this wintery Thursday morning the house was in darkness. The brittle light of the full moon shone through naked tree branches, throwing gnarled and twisted shadows onto the ground. The frigid wind set the branches clacking, the shadows shifting and stretching as if they were skeletal hands trying to dig up the frozen earth.

A fox screamed in the distance. An owl grumpily called out a reply.

Then silence.

Then…

Clump clump. Hissss-s-s-s-s.

Clump Clump. Clump, clump. Hiss-s-s-s-s.

The owl opened one eye, glancing down from his perch in a tall chestnut tree to the lane leading up to the house.

It stared. It ruffled its feathers. Then it opened its second eye, as if wasn't sure it was seeing correctly.

Here is what it saw…

Two twelve-foot automata moving inexpertly up the lane, staggering
and stumbling like drunkards. The automata held their arms out in front of them, and cradled in these arms were two bound and unconscious figures.

The automata moved through the rusted iron gates and onto the graveled driveway that led up to the house. They stopped before the front door and one of the automata slowly lowered its arms to gently place its captive on the ground.

And then a series of bright lights switched on, shining directly on the two constructs.

“Raise your hands in the air,” said a crackly, disembodied voice. “I repeat, raise your hands in the air and do nothing more. Failure to comply will be treated as an act of aggression and will be dealt with severely.”

The first automata slowly raised its arms. The second construct's arms shot upward as well. Unfortunately, the driver forgot what he was holding, and the bound figure sailed backward over the automaton's head and landed somewhere behind him.

“Don't shoot, you idiots!” shouted a young man's voice. “It's us!” And then, “Oh. Did I just—?”

The construct lumbered around in a circle and stared at the groaning figure now sprawled untidily on the gravel.

“Sorry about that.”

“What were you
thinking
?” snapped Barrington Chase.

Octavia hung her head and stared at the richly patterned carpet. She could see Tweed's feet just to her right. He was moving his weight from one to the other, impatient, frustrated. She sighed. She could see how this was going to go.

“We were
thinking
about foiling a criminal syndicate that if left
unchecked would have cleaned out every bank in the city,” snapped Tweed.

“That's not your job, boy!”

Octavia finally looked up. They were in the library of Ravenstone Lodge, surrounded by ceiling-high shelves of books, comfortable armchairs, and dim lamp light. Normally, she loved it here. It was so peaceful. So calming. Whenever Octavia stepped through the door she felt she could just melt into the room, into the smells of leather and old books, the scent of bees wax polish and paraffin.

But right now, the usual peaceful atmosphere was marred by the fury of Barrington Chase and the mild annoyance of Henry Temple, who was lounging in a chair by the window.

Barrington Chase was a member of Her Majesty's Secret Service. A spy, and one of Queen Victoria's best, apparently. She had put him in charge of their training and education, and to say the man resented it was like saying Tweed was ever so slightly arrogant. Chase
hated
his assignment, thought it a complete waste of time. And he took every opportunity to let them both know.

Just as Tweed took every opportunity to let Chase know that he agreed.

Even at this time of the morning Chase was immaculately presented, wearing a crimson silk dressing gown and holding a large snifter of brandy. His hair was slicked back in a middle parting, his mustache perfectly coiffed. He didn't even look tired.

“I thought our job was to do what was right.”

“Oh, don't be so obtuse,” Chase snapped. “Your job is to learn from myself and Temple and to be ready when you are called upon. If you stray from that remit, if you behave in a manner that brings the Crown into disrepute, then that's on your own head. Something I will be telling Her Majesty when I see her later on today.”

“You're
telling
on us?” said Tweed incredulously.

“I think filing a report is a better way of putting it,” said Temple.

Henry Temple was also a spy, but he was the complete opposite of Chase. Unassuming, quiet, friendly, he always went out of his way to explain his teachings, to make sure they understood the theory behind the lessons.

He smiled apologetically from where he lounged in an armchair, sipping tea and looking tired. “Sorry. Has to be done. The Queen will have to be made aware of your part in all this.”

“But we didn't do anything wrong,” protested Octavia.

“I didn't say you did.”

“
I
say you did,” said Chase. “You drew attention to yourself. I'm assuming there were witnesses? Is it too much to ask that you managed to foil this robbery quickly and quietly?”

Octavia and Tweed said nothing.

“I thought so.” Chase put his brandy glass down. “I've made it perfectly clear I thought this assignment a waste of time. Whatever the Queen sees in you I do not see. Whatever plans she has for you, I think she is going to be sorely disappointed. And yes,” he said, “before you bring it up yet again, of course I read the Lazarus report. And whereas you see brilliant detective work I see amateurish joining of the dots and lots and lots of luck. I hope you at least took
some
precautions? No one saw you coming
here
?”

“Of course not,” said Octavia.

“That is something at least.”

Chase headed toward the door. “Expect to be called in for an audience with the Queen later on today,” he said. “I'm sure she'll want a few words with you.”

“One thing,” said Tweed. “When you file your report with the Queen, tell her Harry Banks had access to technology I've never seen on the streets before.”

Temple leaned forward. “What kind of technology?”

“Some sort of invisibility device. That's why no one had seen his automata before.”

Temple and Chase exchanged glances.

“Not so hopeless now, are we?” said Tweed. “Looks like there's someone on the payroll selling off the government's secrets.”

“Funny how we've never had that kind of problem before,” said Chase.

“Well you've got that kind of problem now.”

“The timing is…odd, don't you think?” said Chase, a glitter in his eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know. Change of managerial staff. New people in charge at the Ministry.
Unproven
people.”

Tweed took an angry stride toward Chase. Temple quickly got to his feet and stepped between them.

“Come now. Enough of this. Chase, you should know better.”

Chase glared at Temple, then swept out of the room.

Octavia released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. After the events of last autumn, the Queen had asked Tweed's adoptive father, Barnaby Tweed, to head up the Ministry, taking over from the traitor Lucien. Barnaby turned her down straight away, but the Queen didn't let up. She said it was
because
he was so adamantly against it that she wanted him for the job. He'd worked there in the past, he'd proven himself an honest and loyal subject, and she would hear no more words about it.

In the end, Barnaby didn't really have a choice.

Naturally, there were a lot of…
questions
about his appointment. But there wasn't much anyone could do when it was by order of the ruler of the British Empire.

“I hate that man,” said Tweed.

“I think the feeling is mutual,” said Temple, patting Tweed on
the shoulder. He yawned and scratched his head. “Excuse me. Think I'd better get dressed. Looks like it's going to be a long day.”

He headed toward the door, but paused and turned around. “For what it's worth, I think you did a good job tonight. And I'll be filing my own report with the Queen.”

Once Temple had left, Tweed headed over to the roll top desk and shuffled through the papers inside.

“What are you doing?” asked Octavia. “That's Chase's desk.”

Tweed looked at her like she was an idiot. “I
know
that. Why do you think I'm looking?”

“Stop it. That could be his private letters.”

Tweed grinned over his shoulder at her. “Exactly.”

“
Ahem
.”

Octavia whirled around to find Mr. McAllen, Barrington Chase's butler standing in the doorway. He frowned at Tweed, who was now doing the head-tilted-sideways stance of someone reading the spines of books, (or at least,
pretending
to read the spines of books), then turned his attention to Octavia.

“Mr. Temple asked me to give this to you.”

He held out a small envelope.

“Shouldn't you be asleep?” she asked, taking it from him.

McAllen's eyebrows rose. “Rather hard to sleep when automata are storming the citadel, so to speak.”

Octavia flushed. “Oh. Yes. Sorry about that. It was a bit of an emergency.”

“I'm sure it was, Miss.”

Octavia studied the envelope. It didn't have a stamp or anything. Just her name scrawled in untidy writing. “When did this arrive?”

“Around midnight, miss.”

Octavia looked at McAllen in surprise. “Midnight?
Tonight
, midnight?”

“Indeed.”

“Who delivered it?”

“I didn't get the gentleman's name, miss, but he did say he was from the docks.”

Octavia didn't hear anything else. She ripped the seal on the envelope and quickly read the contents. Her mouth went dry. She looked at Tweed, then back at the letter, rereading it to make sure she hadn't made a mistake.

That name you tagged came in. Can only hold him for a few hours. Get here quick.

“Tweed,” she said urgently. “We need to go.”

Tweed held up a book. “Look.
The Collected Sherlock Holmes
, by Dr. John Watson. Maybe I should—” He saw the expression on her face. “What is it?”

She held out the letter. He hurried over and read it, then broke into a huge grin and gripped her by the shoulders.

“Finally! A lead!” He frowned at her. “Why aren't you smiling? You should be smiling. Songbird, I
insist
you smile.”

Octavia smiled hesitantly, but it quickly faded. She was too scared it would be a dead end. A false alarm.

Tweed waved the Sherlock book above his head. “What is it Sherlock says? The game's getting started?” He frowned. “No, that's not right. The game's begun? No. The game's heating up?”

“Afoot,” Octavia said wearily. “The game's afoot.”

Tweed frowned. “No, that doesn't sound right. No matter,” he said, tossing the book onto the couch. “I'm sure it will come to me.”