Behemoth

month, of course.

Dr. Barlow raised a hand, and the other beastie swung from one paw like a monkey, then dropped. It encircled the lady boffin’s arm, sliding down to her shoulder.

“Mr. Sharp,” the new beastie said again.

“Mr. Sharp,” Bovril corrected, then they both began to giggle.

“Why does it keep laughing?” asked the lady boffin.

“I’ve no barking idea,” Deryn said. “Sometimes I think it’s cracked in the attic.”

“Revolution,” Bovril announced.

Deryn stared at it. She’d never heard the creature say something out of the blue before.

The new beastie repeated the word, rolling it around on its tongue happily, then said, “Balance of power.”

Bovril chuckled at the phrase, then dutifully parroted it.

As Deryn watched with growing astonishment, the creatures began to jabber, each repeating what the other said. The single words became a torrent of phrases in English, Clanker, Armenian, Turkish, and half a dozen other languages.

Soon Bovril was reciting whole conversations that Deryn had shared with Alek or Lilit or Zaven, while the new beastie made declamations that sounded just like Dr. Barlow talking, even a few that had to be Count Volger!

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Deryn whispered, “but what in blazes are they doing?”

The lady boffin smiled. “My boy, they are doing what comes naturally to them.”

“But they’re fabricated! What’s natural to them?”

“Why, only becoming more perspicacious, of course.”

FORTY-THREE

The next morning Alek was allowed to visit Volger.

As his guard let him into the wildcount’s stateroom, Alek noticed that the door wasn’t locked. Alek himself had been treated politely the night before, more like a guest than a prisoner. Perhaps the tension between his men and their Darwinist captors had thawed a little in the last month.

Count Volger looked comfortable enough. He was at his desk eating a breakfast of soft-boiled eggs and toast, and didn’t bother to stand when Alek arrived. He simply nodded and said, “Prince Aleksandar.”

Alek bowed. “Count.”

Volger went back to scraping butter onto a piece of toast.

Standing there waiting, Alek felt like a schoolboy called in for punishment. He had never been to school, of course, but somehow adults—whether tutors, parents, or grandmotherly revolutionaries like Nene—all wore their disappointment in the same way. Surely headmasters weren’t so different.

Finally Alek sighed and said, “It might save time if I began.”

“As you wish.”

“You want to tell me that I’m a fool for having been captured again. That it was mad to involve myself in Ottoman politics. By now I could be safely hidden in the wilds.”

Count Volger nodded. “Yes, there is that.”

The man went back to scraping his piece of toast, seemingly intent on covering every square millimeter with butter.

“In not taking your advice, I risked my life and the life of my men,” Alek continued. “Dr. Busk says that Klopp is recovering well enough, but I led him and Bauer into an all-out battle. Things could have turned out worse.”

“Much worse,” Volger said, then fell silent again.

“Let’s see … Ah, I’ve also thrown away everything my father left me. The castle, all your plans, and finally his gold.” Alek reached inside his piloting coat and felt for a hard lump sewed into a corner of the lining. He tore the fabric, pulled out what remained of the gold, and tossed it onto the table.

After a month of buying spices and mechanikal parts, the bar had been mostly shaved away. All that was left was the round Hapsburg crest stamped at its center, like a thick, roughly made coin.

Volger blinked, and Alek let himself smile. At least he’d finally provoked a reaction.

“Did you finance this revolution entirely on your own?”

“Only the finishing touches—a little spice on top.” Alek shrugged. “Revolutions are expensive, it seems.”

“I wouldn’t know. I avoid them on principle.”

“Of course,” Alek said. “That’s what you’re really angry about, isn’t it? That I overturned the natural order and deposed a fellow royal? That I forgot that revolutionaries want to overthrow all aristocrats, including me and you?”

Volger took a bite of toast and chewed thoughtfully, then poured himself more coffee. “There is that, too, I suppose. But there’s one thing you’ve forgotten.”

Alek wondered for a moment what his final failure might be, but then gave up. He took a cup from the windowsill, filled it with coffee, and sat down across the desk from Volger.

“Enlighten me.”

“You also saved my life.”

Alek frowned. “I did what?”

“If you had disappeared into the wilds as you were meant to, that Tesla cannon would have sent me and Hoffman to the bottom of the sea, along with the rest of this ship’s crew.” The count stared into his coffee cup. “I owe you my life. Quite an annoying turn of events.”

Alek hid his surprise by taking a sip of coffee. It was true—Count Volger had been saved along with the Leviathan. But was the man really thanking him for joining the Committee’s revolution?

“This doesn’t mean that you are any less of an idiot, of course,” Volger added.

“Of course not,” Alek said, a bit relieved.

“And there is also the matter of your newfound celebrity.” Volger opened a drawer, pulled out a newspaper, and dropped it onto the desk.

Alek picked it up. It was in English—New York World, read the masthead. And there on the first page was a photograph of Alek, above a long article by “Istanbul Bureau Chief” Eddie Malone.

Alek let the newspaper fall back onto the table. He’d never seen a photograph of himself before, and the effect was distinctly disagreeable. Like looking into a frozen mirror.

“Are my ears really that large?”

“Almost. What on earth were you thinking?”

Alek lifted his cup, staring at the glimmering black reflection on the coffee’s surface. He had steeled himself to face any amount of scorn from Volger, but not for this. As the newspaper’s name declared, the whole world was gawking at him now. His family secrets were out there for anyone to read.

“That reporter, Malone, he knew too much about the Committee’s plans. An interview was the only way to distract him.” Alek dared another glance at the photo, and noticed the caption—THE MISSING HEIR. “So that’s why the crew have been so polite to me. They know who I am now.”

“Not just the crew, Alek. Britain has a consulate in New York, of course. Even their bumbling diplomats could hardly have missed this. Lord Churchill himself sent that newspaper to Captain Hobbes, carried by some sort of beastly eagle.”

“But how in blazes did you get it?”

“Dr. Barlow and I have been sharing information for some time now.” The wildcount leaned back in his chair.