The Osiris Curse (5 page)

The London Docks never slept. No matter what time of day or night there was always a constant stream of traffic—yachts, steamboats, schooners, ferries—all of them jostling for position in the harbor, their masts like hundreds of spears thrusting up against the soot-heavy sky.

Cargo ships from India unloaded tea. Boats from South America brought in bales of tobacco. Ships from China carried richly-colored silks. And buried beneath the coffee and the spices was the trade of a more questionable cargo, one that made more money that all the tea and cloth put together: opium, the drug of choice for the London addict.

Octavia and Tweed hurried along the quayside. The air was redolent with a clashing mixture of scents and stenches. Perfumes, spices, and cloves competing against rotting fruit that had stayed too long in the hold, stale sweat, and rotting fish. Octavia wrinkled her nose. The smell hung in the air like a miasma, an almost physical presence that she could feel settling over her skin, coating it with a patina of dead ocean as they made their way to the Royal Albert Dock.

Octavia wouldn't let herself get excited. She'd already felt the sting of disappointment and didn't want to feel it again. Back in the autumn she'd finally thought she knew what happened to her mother, missing for over a year while investigating the supposed return of Professor Moriarty. All the clues pointed to the underground prison of the Ministry, the prison where Tweed's father was being held. They'd staged a rescue for Barnaby, but it was supposed to be a rescue for her mother as well.

Except she wasn't there. She had been moved some two weeks previously.

That soul-crushing feeling of being so close yet still failing was not something she wished to experience again.

It hadn't been a total loss. Stepp Reckoner had managed to get a
name from the Ministry analytical machines, the name of the person who had somehow signed her mother out of prison.

Benedict Wilberforce.

They had searched far and wide for some clue as to who this mysterious person was, but they had come up a blank. It was as if he didn't exist. No birth certificate, no police record, nothing. Octavia had finally resorted to giving the name to every harbor master, customs officer, and dock hand she could find, promising a hefty reward if she was notified when someone bearing the name was spotted.

“Cheer up, Songbird,” said Tweed, putting a friendly arm around her shoulder. “All your questions are about to be answered. Wasn't it a good idea of mine to pass the name around the docks?
I
think it was. I think it was a
splendid
idea.”

“As I recall,
I'm
the one who came up with that. You said it would be a waste of time.”

“Nonsense,” said Tweed cheerfully. “I'd never say something like that.”

Octavia shook her head, but couldn't help a small grin from appearing. She liked to see Tweed happy. And he was always happy when he was showing off. And when he was being arrogant, of course. That went without saying.

She been worrying about him lately. She got the feeling he'd been avoiding her, keeping more and more to himself. She supposed she couldn't blame him. Finding out you were a simulacrum of someone else must come as something of a shock. She knew he was struggling with it, struggling to figure out who he was, to understand what was truly him and what was the legacy of Sherlock Holmes. He was confused, angry. She'd seen the dark moods take him, watched him try to fight them off. All Octavia could do was be there for him.

Which she herself was finding rather difficult. The problem was—and she was incredibly embarrassed even admitting it to
herself—she suspected she might just possibly be developing…
feelings
for Tweed.

She shied away from the thought even as it flitted through her mind. She couldn't even admit it to herself! But something was definitely changing in how she looked at him.

She actually found herself angry that the thoughts even existed. She didn't want to be a cliché, the helpless girl who falls for the boy. If anything,
he
should fall for
her
. That would be acceptable. Then she wouldn't ever have to say she ran after a boy.

Which she wouldn't do. Ever.

So she had her own things to sort out, which made helping Tweed through his own issues a bit of a problem. But she would try her best.

They dodged around workers offloading piles of coal and sailors leaving their berths, purses full of money and ready to release some pent-up frustration with the aid of “women of questionable virtue,” as Tweed put it. Automata could be seen here and there, their presence betrayed by the white glow that pierced the dockside gloom—the human souls trapped in the constructs by Ministry Mesmers, the souls that enabled them to follow instructions and solve rudimentary problems. The automata carried the heaviest crates, the constructs easily doing the work of three men.

It was a practice that was slowly taking traction, despite it making a lot of workers unhappy. In the past, if a merchant tried to use a construct at the docks for any kind of manual labor, things…tended to happen to them. They disappeared, or their æther cages were somehow ruptured, the trapped souls that powered the automata drifting into the air and dispersing like a breath on the wind. But nowadays there was evidence of a slow change of thought. It was becoming more acceptable to use automata, especially for some of the more unpleasant tasks.

They arrived at the dock and customs office and hurried inside.
It was small and cramped inside the low building. A harassed man wearing tiny spectacles filled in paperwork at a cluttered desk. A line of rickety chairs was taken up by those who were deemed suspicious enough for the authorities to interview.

Octavia scanned the faces, wondering if one of them was her man. They all looked unkempt, and, not to be unkind, a bit desperate. Not the kind of person who could somehow check a prisoner out of a Ministry prison.

She hurried to the door at the rear of the room. It opened into a small corridor and at the end of that was the harbormaster's office. The man looked up from his desk, blinking at her in surprise as Octavia strode in.

“Where is he?” she demanded.

The harbormaster was a rotund gentleman, with whiskers curling down his cheeks and a bald head that shone in the lamp light.

“Miss Nightingale,” he said apologetically. “I…I had to let him go.”

“What?”

“You were taking too long! I sent the note at midnight. I could only keep him a few hours. It's…it's almost dawn. I didn't have any reason to keep him longer. I'm sorry.”

Once again
, thought Octavia bitterly. Once again she had come so close, only to have victory snatched away from her. It wasn't fair. It simply wasn't fair.

The harbormaster was still talking. His words started to filter back into her hearing.

“…only released him about five minutes ago. You must have walked right past him.”

Octavia straightened up and shared a surprised look with Tweed.

“What was he wearing?” he asked.

“Nice clothes, sir. Expensive. Very well-dressed man. A top hat and all. Oh, and a nice yellow silk scarf. I remember that because it had these little pictures on the silk. Tiny little lizards. And he had a walking stick. With a shiny knob on the end.”

The harbormaster grinned at them proudly.

Tweed and Octavia rushed to the door and out into the corridor. But then Octavia paused and ran back into the harbormaster's office.

“Which way did he go?”

“No idea, Miss. Sorry. Ask Mr. Lysson at the front desk. He might have seen.”

They hurried back through the office and stopped before the clerk's desk.

“The gentleman that was released here just now,” gasped Octavia. “Benedict Wilberforce. Which way did he go?”

The clerk tilted his head down and glanced at her over his spectacles. “I have no idea. Nor do I care.”

“Please—”

“Miss,” he interrupted. “I am forced, under the remit of my job, to keep a watch on those that are
in
these offices. Once they leave I do not make it my business to carry on with that observation.”

Octavia ran outside and looked both ways along the quayside. But the docks were so crowded she couldn't single anyone out in the teeming masses. Which way? She looked left, then right, unsure which direction to go in.

“Which way do you think?” she asked.

There was no answer. She looked around, but couldn't see Tweed anywhere. She darted back into the offices to find him sitting on one of the chairs, cross-legged, chatting to a dark-skinned man with a grey-white beard.

“Africa?” he was saying. “Really? Long trip to make. Must be glad to get back on dry land, yes? Lots of opportunities in London. What do you do?”

The man patted a folder at his feet. “I draw designs,” he said in a deep voice. “Automata. Analytical Machines, that kind of thing.”

“Fascinating. Can I see?”

“Tweed!” whispered Octavia fiercely.

“In a moment, Songbird. I'm talking to the nice gentleman.”

Octavia watched, seething, as the man carefully lifted his folder and unhooked the leather straps, opening it up on his lap. Inside were sketches so beautiful that for a brief moment Octavia forgot her impatience.

“Sir, these are magnificent,” said Tweed in awe.

“Thank you. A pity I will not get to show anyone else.” He nodded at Lysson. “These people seem to think I do not have anything to offer the country. They want to ship me back.”

“Nonsense,” said Tweed. He stood up, straightened his jacket, and strode across to Lysson's desk. He leant over the rather amazed man, took a piece of paper, picked up a pencil, and scribbled a note, signing it with a flourish. He held it in front of Lysson's face.

“That man is a genius,” he said, pointing over his shoulder. “And I wish to sponsor his application. Understand?”

Lysson just sighed, picked up a stamp, and slammed it down on some papers, handing them to Tweed. “Be my guest. I was probably going to let him in anyway.”

This deflated Tweed a bit. “Oh. Well…Good.”

He scribbled something down on the paper he had waved in front of Lysson and handed all the papers to the elderly man.

“My address. Come see me and I'll try to get you work. If I'm not there, tell my father I sent you and show him your designs. He'll know what to do.”

The old man was grinning from ear to ear. “My boy. Thank you.”

Tweed sat down next to him and crossed his legs. “Don't mention it. Now, tell me, did you happen to see which direction the man with the yellow scarf went?”

“He went right. And I would have told you that even if you hadn't got me into the country.”

“Oh, I know. But that's not why I did it.” He stood up. “Good day. And I'll see you soon?”

“You will.”

Tweed turned and grinned at Octavia. “He went right.”

“I heard,” she said, hurrying outside and moving along the quayside. Tweed caught up with her and she threw him a glare.

“Was all that necessary?”

“Did you
see
those drawings? The man will make a fortune here. I reckon Ada Lovelace will snap him up to design her machines.”

“And are you really going to get him a job?”

“I'm going to try my hardest,” said Tweed, craning his neck to try to see above the crowds.

Octavia did the same but it was hopeless. The glowglobes that were strung along the quayside were smeared with coal dust and dirt, the light they gave off utterly useless unless someone was standing directly beneath them. She looked around in frustration, then hurried across to one of the automatons offloading crates from a nearby ship. Its brass body was dull and scratched. There were even barnacles encrusted onto its back. Octavia frowned. That wasn't very charitable. The owner should be reported for such treatment.

“Put that down, please,” she said.

The automaton hesitated. The light of the trapped soul flickered briefly, dimming then growing stronger again. The construct put the crate down.

“Now, grip me gently and lift me above the crowds.”

The automaton leaned forward and took Octavia by the waist, effortlessly lifting her up so she could see right along the docks. She squinted, trying to catch the slightest glimpse of a richly-dressed man and his yellow scarf.

“Anything?” called Tweed.

“No—
wait
!”

There. A flash of color, nothing more, as it passed beneath a glowglobe. She quickly tapped the automaton on the arm. “Put me down.”

The automaton gently lowered her to the wet stone of the quayside.

“Thank you.”

The automaton bowed and returned to its work. Octavia sprinted off through the crowds, Tweed following close behind.

Tweed got his first good look at their prey as he left the Royal Albert Docks and waved down a cab pulled by a battered and dented automaton. Wilberforce really
was
immaculately dressed, just as the harbormaster had said. He wore brown trousers with a crease down the center so sharp it looked like it could cut wood, shiny black shoes, a cream-colored shirt and a dark green tie kept in place with a pin that gleamed in the light of the automaton's æther cage. The yellow silk scarf was looped neatly around his neck, and to complete the ensemble, he wore a tan overcoat that he had somehow managed to keep clean of mud and slush.

The man himself looked to be in his late thirties. His dark hair was cut short and combed in a side parting. His skin was dark, but not as dark as the man he had just met at the custom's offices. More toffee-colored.

Octavia hailed their own cab. “Follow them,” she said to the automaton as they climbed inside.

The snow started to fall again as they made their way through the early-morning streets, big fat flakes that drifted in the cold wind, piling up in gentle mounds on every available surface. The automaton pulling their cab started to steam gently as the snow melted against the heat of his metal casing.

They passed the Victoria Docks, the Eastern Railway, then moved along East India Dock Road. They even passed Isambard Wharf, where he and Octavia had first met, fleeing from their attackers in the middle of the night.

Tweed smiled at the memory, remembering how he found Octavia rather annoying at first. Her bossiness, her refusal to acknowledge the
genius of his ideas and plans. This was something she was still guilty of, but he had gotten used to it by now. Had even come to enjoy the friendly arguments they had.

What he
didn't
enjoy, and what he seemed to have no control over, was the fact that lately he'd found himself trying to come up with even better ideas, almost as if he was trying to win her approval.

It
wasn't
that. Definitely not. But to an outside eye that's what it would look like.

But it wasn't that.

Definitely wasn't that.

They moved onto Narrow Street, following the road until it entered Shadwell and a cramped collection of docks and warehouses cradled in the downward curve of the Thames. The damp, dark area was bordered by Wapping Street to the south and Ratcliff Highway to the north.

They moved around these narrow streets for what seemed like ages until Tweed realized Wilberforce was trying to make sure he wasn't being followed. Tweed didn't think they'd been spotted. Wilberforce would be moving a lot faster if that were the case. No, this was more of a habitual path, something he had done before, and something he would do again. The steadiness of the pace, the unhesitating turning of corners told Tweed that.

It also told him something about the man himself. He liked routine. He was careful, but his habits betrayed this caution. Made it pointless.

The snow fell thicker, white flakes against a black sky. The weather muffled London, softening sounds, sights becoming blurred around the edges as the snow floated heavily to the ground.

After a few more turns, they left the docks behind altogether, heading northeast into the Strand and then into Piccadilly.

Tweed frowned as they passed the mansions and huge houses of
the rich, wondering exactly where they were going. The city would be waking up soon, and he was hoping they would be off the streets by then. Traffic was light at the moment, but in an hour it was going to be impossible to keep track of their man. It was hard enough now, with the snow falling heavier and heavier. It was only the light of the automaton's æther cage that enabled them to keep on Wilberforce's tail.

They entered Kensington, and turned onto Cromwell Road. The street globes powered by the Tesla Tower looming above lit the area with the glow of sodium bulbs. The snow drifted through their orange halos, appearing from the darkness and sinking into shadow once again.

In the distance, Tweed could see the massive front of the Natural History Museum, it's terra cotta brickwork illuminated by hidden lights, the two massive spires that flanked the front steps bright against the ink black sky.

Wilberforce's hansom cab slowed down some distance from the museum. Octavia quickly leaned forward.

“Stop here,” she said, and their own cab slowed to a halt. She slotted money into the automaton's head and hopped out. Tweed followed, his feet making
crump crump
sounds in the freshly fallen snow. He shivered and clapped his gloved hands together, then winced apologetically at the noise as Octavia whirled around and glared at him.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

The cab turned around and headed back the way they'd come. Tweed and Octavia ducked into a recessed doorway and watched as Wilberforce headed straight toward the museum.

“What's he up to?” said Tweed. “The museum won't even be open at this time.”

They hurried along the street and crouched down behind a low wall that flanked the museum steps. They peered over the top, just
in time to see Wilberforce moving stealthily along the side of the building. They waited until he had vanished from view, then followed him along the wall to the rear of the museum.

At the back was a huge garden dotted with sheds, huts, and rundown workshops. Wilberforce ducked inside one of the smaller huts. Tweed and Octavia moved carefully forward, peering through the grimy window.

The hut was empty.

Tweed straightened up and yanked the door open. The room was about five meters square, empty of any kind of furnishings, and more importantly, empty of Benedict Wilberforce.

“Check for hidden doors,” said Octavia.

Tweed pointed at the floor where a semicircle of scuffed flooring was clearly visible, as if something had been moved repeatedly across the wooden planks. “Way ahead of you, Songbird. One point to me.”

Tweed quickly searched for the catch to open the hidden door, but it was Octavia who found it.

“And one point to me,” she said, as a narrow portion of wall swung toward them.

The hidden door was part of a false wall that hid a flight of well-lit stairs leading down into the ground.

“Secret tunnels,” grumbled Tweed. “Why'd it have to be secret tunnels?”

“Look on the bright side,” said Octavia, elbowing him out of the way. “At least it's not dark.”

She was right. The steps and the tunnel itself were well looked after, swept clean and lit with Tesla glowglobes. He counted the stairs as they descended. Seventy-five exactly. What was that? About fifty feet underground? Sixty?

The stairs ended at a door. Octavia pushed it gently open and they peered into the room beyond.

Except it wasn't a room. It was some kind of massive factory space buried deep beneath the ground. It was easily a hundred meters long, the arched ceiling supported by thick iron struts high above their heads.

The factory floor was covered with machines. Some were half-completed, their sides pulled off to reveal vacuum tubes and wiring. Some were in the first stages of construction, just massive skeletal structures, steel and wooden frames waiting to be filled. Workbenches surrounded the walls, covered with tools, gears, clocks, glass beakers filled with strange liquids, and disassembled automatons. One table was covered with the heads of the constructs, each one a different design, some fierce and scowling, others smiling and happy.

The walls were painted black, and every available inch was covered with chalk drawings: plans and equations, designs for more machines, complex calculations that Tweed couldn't make the slightest sense of.

They entered the workshop, hiding behind the machines and crates that littered the floor. Tweed could hear a loud buzzing sound, and as they moved deeper into the room, it built up into a high-pitched whine.

A moment later there was a bright flash of blue-white light and the horrendously loud crack and hum of electricity discharging. Tweed carefully peered around a crate.

Lightning crawled and spat across the metal roof beams high above. It burst and sparked, arcing downward and grounding itself in a circle of metal plates on the floor to create a lethal cage of electricity.

After about thirty seconds, the lightning flickered and died. Tweed blinked away the afterimages that bloomed in his vision, and when he could see properly again he noticed Wilberforce standing just outside the metal plates, looking around the workshop with interest.

“Hello?” called Wilberforce.

Octavia looked at Tweed, her eyes wide. He shook his head. He didn't think Wilberforce was calling to them. Something else was going on here.

“Nehi and I had a bet,” said a second voice.

Wilberforce spun around. Emerging from the shadows was a tall figure. He wore a dark purple suit and was carrying a cane with a snake head handle. He was also wearing a fedora, pulled low over his eyes.

The man pointed his cane at Wilberforce. “You made me lose. And now Nehi will make me perform some tiresome forfeit.”

“And what, pray tell, was the bet?” asked Wilberforce.

“She said your lot would send someone. I said you wouldn't even know we had entered London.”

“Nehi always was the more intelligent twin,” said Wilberforce.

The man shrugged. “Perhaps.” He took his fedora from his head, revealing an angled face the same caramel color as Wilberforce. He placed the hat on the top of a machine. “She certainly didn't think it would be you who came.” He brushed invisible dust from his suit. “But it matters not. You are too late, Molock. As always.”

“I get a chance to speak to you, Sekhem, so I do not deem myself too late.” Wilberforce (or rather, Molock? Was Benedict Wilberforce a false name?) took a step closer to the one he called Sekhem. “Please…for the sake of our people, do not continue on this path. It will only lead to death.”

The man called Sekhem waved his hand irritably. “Death is the whole point, Molock. It will soon be time for us to emerge from the shadows and take what is rightfully ours.”

“We will not allow it. We will stop you.”

“And who are you to allow
anything
?” snarled Sekhem. “We are enemies, Molock. You made us so when you chose to side against our cause. You are a traitor to your people.”

“It was you and Nehi who staged a coup against
me
,” said Molock mildly. “Some would say
you
are the traitors.”

“We did what had to be done. We needed drastic action to save our people.”

“We were not just sitting idly around,” said Molock, and Tweed saw that he was getting annoyed. “We had a plan.”

“A plan!
What
plan? To skulk around until you worked up enough courage to politely ask them to stop? If you thought that would work then it just confirms we did the right thing.”

Sekhem pointed his walking stick at Molock. There was a quiet
snick
sound and the wood separated into two halves that shot out to either side, revealing a gleaming steel blade.

“Today you die.”

Sekhem lunged forward, swinging the sword in a backhand slice that was aimed at Molock's neck. Molock jerked back, the tip of the blade connecting with a shirt button, sending it spinning into the air. Sekhem swung the sword again, but Molock stepped into his reach and smacked his forearm into Sekhem's wrist, stopping the sword in mid-movement. At the same time, Molock balled his left fist and hit Sekhem hard in the face.

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.