Goliath

provided me, the Japanese are preparing to lay siege to the city.”

“And they need the Leviathan’s help?”

“Hardly. But Lord Churchill won’t let the Japanese be victorious without British assistance. It wouldn’t be seemly for Asians to defeat a European power all alone.”

Alek groaned. “What a colossal exercise in idiocy. You mean we’ve come all this way just to wave the Union Jack?”

“That was the intent, I’m certain of it. But since the czar’s message arrived, our course has changed.” Volger drummed his fingers on the map. “There must be a clue in that cargo we picked up from the Russians. Has Dylan told you anything about it?”

“I haven’t been able to ask him. He’s still taking the pallet apart, because of the ballast alert.”

“Because of the what?” the wildcount asked, and Alek found himself smiling. At least he understood something that Volger didn’t.

“Just after we picked up the cargo, an alert sounded—two short rings of the Klaxon. You may remember that happening in the Alps, when we had to throw my father’s gold away.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“I shouldn’t have to,” Alek said. Volger had almost doomed them all by smuggling a quarter ton of gold aboard. “A ballast alert means the ship is overweight, and Dylan has been in the cargo bay with Dr. Barlow all afternoon. They must be taking apart the cargo, to find out why it’s heavier than expected.”

“All very logical,” Volger said, then shook his head. “But I still don’t see how one cargo pallet can matter to a ship three hundred meters long. It seems absurd.”

“It isn’t absurd at all. The Leviathan is aerostatic, which means it’s perfectly balanced with the density of the—”

“Thank you, Your Serene Highness.” Volger held up one hand. “But perhaps you could recount your aeronautics lessons another time.”

“You might take an interest, Count,” Alek said stiffly. “Seeing as how aeronautics is keeping you from crashing into the ground at this very moment.”

“Indeed it is. So perhaps we’d best leave it to the experts, eh, Prince?”

Several sharp retorts came to mind, but Alek held his tongue. Why was Volger in such a foul mood? When the Leviathan had first turned east two weeks ago, he’d seemed pleased not to be headed toward Britain and certain imprisonment. The man had gradually adapted to life aboard the Leviathan, exchanging information with Dr. Barlow, even taking a liking to Dylan. But for the last day Volger had seemed cross with everyone.

For that matter, Dylan had stopped delivering breakfast to the wildcount. Had the two of them had a falling-out?

Volger rolled up his map and shoved it into a desk drawer. “Find out what was in the Russian cargo, even if you have to beat it out of that boy.”

“By ‘that boy’ I assume you mean my good friend, Dylan?”

“He’s hardly your friend. You’d be free now if it weren’t for him.”

“That was my choice,” Alek said firmly. Dylan might have argued for Alek to return to the ship, but it was no use blaming anyone. Alek had made the decision himself. “But I’ll ask him what they found. Perhaps you could inquire with Dr. Barlow, since you two are on such good terms.”

Volger shook his head. “That woman tells me only what she finds it convenient for us to know.”

“Then, I don’t suppose there are any clues in your newspapers. Anything about the Russians needing help in northern Siberia?”

“Hardly.” Volger pulled a penny paper from the open desk drawer and shoved it at Alek. “But at least that American reporter has stopped writing about you.”

Alek picked up the paper—the New York World. On its front page was a story by Eddie Malone, an American reporter that he and Dylan had met in Istanbul. Malone had learned certain secrets of the revolution, so Alek had traded his life story for the man’s silence. The result was a stream of articles about Alek’s parents’ assassination and his escape from home.

It had all been most distasteful.

But this story wasn’t about Alek. The headline read A DIPLOMATIC DISASTER ABOARD THE DAUNTLESS!

Below those words was a photograph of the Dauntless, the elephant-shaped walker used by the British ambassador in Istanbul. German undercover agents had taken it on a rampage during the Leviathan’s stay there, causing a near-riot for which the British had been blamed. Only Dylan’s quick thinking had saved the situation from total calamity.

^{“PONDERING.”}

“But that was, what, seven weeks ago? Is this what they call news in America?”

“This paper took its time getting to me, but yes, it was old news from the start. Apparently this man Malone has run out of your secrets to spill.”

“Thank heavens,” Alek murmured, following the story to a page inside. Another photograph was printed there: Dylan swinging from the metal trunk of the elephant, flailing at one of the Germans.

“‘A Daring Midshipman Handles the Situation,’” he read aloud, smirking. For once it was Dylan in the limelight instead of him. “May I keep this?”

The wildcount didn’t answer—he was glaring at the ceiling, where a message lizard had appeared.

“Prince Aleksandar,” the creature said in Dr. Barlow’s voice. “Mr. Sharp and I would like the pleasure of your company in the cargo bay, if possible.”

“The cargo bay?” Alek said. “Of course, Dr. Barlow. I’ll join you shortly. End message.”

Volger waved his hand to shoo the lizard away, but it had already scuttled off into a message tube. “Excellent. Maybe now we’ll get some answers.”

Alek folded up the newspaper and slipped it into a pocket. “But why would they need me?”

“For the pleasure of your company, of course.” The wildcount shrugged. “Surely a lizard wouldn’t lie.”

The cargo bay smelled like a tannery, a mix of old meat and leather. Long strips of dark brown were piled everywhere, along with a few wooden crates.

“Is this your precious cargo?” Alek asked.

“It’s two tons of dried beef, a hundredweight of tranquilizers, and a thousand rounds of machine-gun ammunition,” said Dylan, reading from a list. “And a few boxes of something else.”

“Something unexpected,” Dr. Barlow said. She and Tazza were in the far corner of the bay, staring down into an open crate. “And quite heavy.”

“Quite,” the loris on her shoulder said, eyeing the crate with displeasure.

Alek looked around for Bovril. It was hanging from the ceiling above Dylan’s head. He held his hand up, and the creature crawled down onto his shoulder. Count Volger, of course, did not permit abominations in his presence.

“Guten Tag,” the creature said.

“Guten Abend,” Alek corrected, then turned to Dr. Barlow. “May I ask why the czar wanted us to pick up a load of dried beef?”

“You may not,” she said. “But please take a look at this unexpected cargo. We need your Clanker expertise.”

“My Clanker expertise?” Alek joined the boffin beside the crate. Nestled in the packing straw was a jumble of metal parts, shiny and glinting in the darkness. He knelt, reached inside, and pulled one of the parts out. Tazza gave it a sniff and made a whining noise.

It was some kind of electrikal part, about as long as a forearm and topped with two bare wires.

“The czar didn’t tell you how to put this all together?”

“There wasn’t meant to be any machinery at all,” Dylan said. “But there’s almost half a ton of parts and tools in here. Enough to drag poor Mr. Newkirk into a pine tree!”

“And all of it Clanker-made,” Alek murmured. He stared at another part, a sphere of handblown glass. It fit