Behemoth

around, but there was nothing in sight except cargo walkers and a clockwork messenger cart.

“It’s not down here,” Dylan said quietly, staring at the sky.

Alek looked up and saw it.…

A gyrothopter hovering directly overhead.

THIRTY-TWO

“Find cover!” Alek cried.

Klopp urged the taxi forward again, rounding a corner into a narrow alley.

Stone walls loomed over them, the sky hardly wider than a sliver. The gyrothopter darted in and out of view. But however the alley twisted and turned, the machine’s buzzing echoed in Alek’s ears.

He noticed that the streets had cleared—the people knew that a military operation was on, and were anxious to get out of the way. Only a few dogs were left to scamper out of the taxi’s path.

A light sparkled overhead, followed by a crackling sound.

“Fireworks!” Dylan cried. “The gyropilot’s signaling that he’s found us!”

Alek heard the shriek of whistles dead ahead.

“Klopp! Slow down!”

As it rounded the next corner, the taxi skidded to a halt, too late. A squad of soldiers waited, their rifles ready. Klopp pulled the saunters back as they fired, and the taxi reared up again. Alek heard the ping of bullets ricocheting from the machine’s underside.

Klopp wheeled the taxi around with its forelegs still in the air, and bolted back the way they’d come. Another volley of shots followed, dust spitting from the stone walls on either side.

The taxi careened around a corner, but gears were grinding beneath the floorboards, and the smell of burning metal filled the air.

“Our engine’s been hit!” Bauer cried.

“I know a trick for that,” Klopp said calmly.

He turned them aside into a small plaza with an old stone fountain, and walked the machine straight into the water. Hissing clouds of steam rose up around them as the tortured metal cooled.

“She won’t go much farther,” Klopp said.

“We’re almost there.” As Alek stared at his map, he noticed a rumbling sound coming from the birdcage. What in blazes was the beast imitating now?

Then he heard it above the hiss of boiling water.

“A walker’s coming.” Dylan pointed ahead. “From that way, dead fast.”

“It sounds big. We’ll have to turn back and face the soldiers.”

“Not if we take those,” Dylan said, pointing at a stone staircase that led down from the plaza.

Alek shook his head. “Too steep.”

“What’s the point of legs if you can’t take the barking stairs? Just get moving!”

In English or not, Klopp could tell what they were talking about—he was also staring down the steps. He looked at Alek, who nodded. The old man sighed, then grasped the saunters again.

“Hold on, everyone!” Alek shouted, planting one boot on the satchel at his feet.

The machine tipped slowly forward, then slid, its hooves rattling like a rock drill as they skidded down the steps. Stone dust flew as the taxi bounced back and forth, battering the ancient walls. Klopp somehow kept the machine from tipping over, and at last it reached the bottom, sliding onto level pavement.

Alek heard a crack and looked up. Soldiers were taking positions in the plaza above, their rifle muzzles flaring. A two-legged walker strode into view.

Alek blinked—it had Ottoman markings, but it was a German design, not like an animal in any way.

“Get down!” he cried. “And keep going, Klopp!”

The taxi ground back into motion, its gears whining with every step. As it rounded the next corner, Alek dared to glance back up. Soldiers were streaming down the stairs, but the walker had come to a halt, its crew unwilling to dare the stairway on two legs.

Alek checked the map again. “We’re almost there, Klopp. That way!”

The taxi was limping now, one of its middle legs flailing. But it managed to drag itself onto Zaven’s street, staggering sideways like a drunken crab.

Lilit and her father had heard the commotion, of course—they were waiting with the warehouse door wide open.

“Go fast, Klopp!” Dylan shouted in crude German. “The gyrothopter!”

Alek looked up. He couldn’t see the gyrothopter, but its buzzing sound was building in the air. They had to disappear now.

The taxi took another step toward the open warehouse door, then sputtered and died. Klopp whirled the starting crank, but the engine only hissed and spat like a fresh log tossed onto a fire.

“Barking stupid contraptions!” Dylan cried.

“Lilit, if you please?” Zaven said calmly, and she leapt to the controls of the mechanikal arm on the loading dock. It rumbled to life and reached out to slide the taxi through the warehouse door.

The door rolled closed behind them, and Zaven stepped inside just as the last view of the street disappeared, plunging them all into darkness.

Alek reached down and checked the satchel at his feet—it was still there.

A moment later an electrikal light switched on.

“A most dramatic entrance,” Zaven said, his smile gleaming.

“But won’t someone tell them?” Alek panted, looking at the crack of sunlight beneath the door.

“Fah! Not to worry,” Zaven said. “Our neighbors are all friends. They have ignored greater disturbances than this.” He offered a deep bow. “Greetings, Masters Klopp, Bauer, and Sharp. I welcome you all to the Committee for Union and Progress!”

The Committee’s walkers towered over them like five huge misshapen statues.

“What an odd collection,” Bauer said. “Never seen any of these before.”

“A few of those fought in the First Balkan War,” Klopp said, pointing at the Minotaur. “They were a bit old- fashioned even then.”

“War,” said Bovril, staring up from Alek’s shoulder.

Alek frowned. The first time he’d seen the walkers, he’d assumed the dents in their armor were from training battles. But with the noon sun flooding the vast courtyard, there was no denying it—these machines were ancient.

“You can fix them up, can’t you?” he asked.

“Perhaps,” Klopp said.

“Fah! We shall fix them together!” Zaven proclaimed. He was already treating Klopp like a long-lost brother. “You may have modern knowledge, sir, but our mechaniks have those skills that can only be passed from father to son—and to daughter, of course!”

“These machines are like family to us,” Lilit said.

Klopp set down his toolbox. “Hmm … grandparents, I suppose.”

No one laughed at this joke except Bovril, who climbed down and scampered across the courtyard to inspect the giant steel hooves of the Minotaur.

Dylan had been standing silently since they’d arrived, his arms folded. But now he spoke in halting German. “How many are there?”

“How many pledged to the revolution?” Zaven rubbed his hands together happily. “We have a half dozen in