Leviathan

Then Volger stepped forward and swept up the money purse. He pulled a gold coin out and slapped it down onto the workbench.

“You didn’t see us,” he said, his voice edged with steel.

The shopkeeper didn’t react, just stared at Alek, as if memorizing his face. Alek stared back at him, hand still on his imaginary sword, ready to issue a challenge. But suddenly Klopp was pulling him toward the door and back out onto the street.

As the dust and sunlight stung his eyes, Alek realized what he’d done. His accent, his bearing … The man had seen who he was.

“Perhaps our lesson in humility yesterday was insufficient,” Volger hissed as they pushed through the crowds, heading toward the stream that would lead back to the hidden walker.

“This is my fault, young master,” Klopp said. “I should have warned you not to speak.”

“He knew from the first word out of my mouth, didn’t he?” Alek said. “I’m a fool.”

“We’re all three fools.” Volger threw a silver coin at a butcher and snatched up two strings of sausages without stopping. “Of course they’ve warned the Guild of Mechaniks to look out for us!” He swore. “And we brought you straight into the first shop we found, thinking a bit of dirt would hide you.”

Alek bit his lip. Father had never allowed him to be photographed or even sketched, and now Alek knew why— in case he would ever need to hide. And yet he’d still given himself away. He’d heard the difference in Klopp’s speech. Why couldn’t he have kept his own mouth shut?

As they reached the edge of the market, Klopp pulled them to a halt, his nose in the air. “I smell kerosene. We need at least that, and motor oil, or we won’t get another kilometer.”

“Let’s be quick about it, then,” Volger said. “My bribe was probably worse than useless.” He shoved a coin into Alek’s hand and pointed. “See if you can buy a newspaper without starting a duel, Your Highness. We need to know if they’ve chosen a new heir yet, and how close Europe is to war.”

“But stay in sight, young master,” Klopp added.

The two men headed toward a stack of fuel cans, leaving Alek alone in the market’s crush. He pushed his way through the crowd, gritting his teeth against the jostling.

The newspapers were arrayed on a long bench, their pages weighted down with stones, corners fluttering in the breeze. He looked from one to the next, wondering which to choose. His father had always said that newspapers without pictures were the only ones worth reading.

His eyes fell on a headline: EUROPE’S SOLIDARITY AGAINST SERBIAN PROPAGANDA.

All the papers were like that, confident that the whole world supported Austria-Hungary after what had happened in Sarajevo. But Alek wondered if that were true. Even the people in this small Austrian town didn’t seem to care much about his parents’ murder.

“What’ll you have?” a voice demanded from the other side of the bench.

Alek looked at the coin in his hand. He’d never held money before, except for the Roman silver pieces in his father’s collection. This coin was gold, bearing the Hapsburg crest on one side and a portrait of Alek’s granduncle on the other—Emperor Franz Joseph. The man who had decreed that Alek would never take the throne.

“How many will this buy?” he asked, trying to sound common.

The newspaper man took the coin and eyed it closely. Then he slipped it into his pocket and smiled as though speaking to an idiot. “Many as you like.”

Alek started to demand a proper answer, but the words died on his tongue. Better to act like a fool than sound like a nobleman.

He swallowed his anger and filled his arms with one copy of every paper, even those plastered with photographs of racing horses and ladies’ salons. Perhaps Hoffman and Bauer would enjoy them.

As Alek glared at the newspaper man one last time, an unsettling realization overtook him. He spoke French, English, and Hungarian fluently, and always impressed his tutors in Latin and Greek. But Prince Aleksandar of Hohenberg could barely manage the daily language of his own people well enough to buy a newspaper.

FOURTEEN

They trudged along the streambed, the kerosene sloshing with every step, its fumes burning Alek’s lungs. With each of them carrying two heavy cans, the trip back to the Stormwalker already seemed much farther than the walk to town this morning.

And yet, thanks to Alek, they’d left behind most of what they needed.

“How long can we last without parts, Klopp?” he asked.

“Until someone lands a shell on us, young master.”

“Until something breaks, you mean,” Volger said.

Klopp shrugged. “A Cyklop Stormwalker is meant to be part of an army. We have no supply train, no tankers, no repair team.”

“Horses would have been better,” Volger muttered.

Alek shifted the burden in his grip, the smell of kerosene mixing with the smoked sausages that hung around his neck. His pockets were stuffed with newspapers and fresh fruit. He felt like some vagabond carrying everything he owned.

“Master Klopp?” he said. “While the walker’s still in fighting prime, why don’t we take what we need?”

“And bring the army down on us?” Volger asked.

“They already know where we are,” Alek said. “Thanks to my—”

“Listen!” Volger hissed.

Alek came to a halt… . He heard nothing but the fuel cans sloshing. He closed his eyes. A low thunder rumbled on the edge of his awareness. Hoofbeats.

“Out of sight!” Volger said.

They scrambled down the banks of the stream into the heavy brush. Alek crouched down, his heart beating hard.

As the sound of hoofbeats grew closer, the baying of hunting dogs joined in.

Alek swallowed—hiding was pointless. Even if the hounds didn’t have their scent, sausages and kerosene would make any dog curious.

Volger drew his pistol. “Alek, you’re the fastest. Run straight for the walker. Klopp and I will make a stand here.”

“But it sounds like a dozen horses!”

“Not too many for a walker. Get moving, Your Highness!”

Alek nodded and threw down the sausages. He dashed into the shallow water, feet slipping on wet stones. The dogs couldn’t track him across the stream, and the bank on the other side was flatter and clear of bushes.

As he ran, the sound of horses and dogs drew closer. A pistol shot cracked, and there were shouts and the whinny of a horse.

More shots sounded—the booming reports of rifles. Klopp and Volger were outgunned as well as outnumbered. But at least the horsemen were stopping to fight instead of chasing him. Common soldiers wouldn’t know who he was, after all. Maybe they wouldn’t bother with a young boy in farmer’s clothes.

Alek kept running, not looking back, trying not to imagine bullets slicing through his skin.

The stream ran among the farms, high grass on either side. He could just see the copse of trees where the walker was hidden—half a kilometer away. He lowered his head and ran harder, his focus narrowing to his boots and the stones along the stream bank.

Halfway to the trees an awful sound reached his ears—the hoofbeats of a single horse closing in. Daring a glance back, Alek saw a horseman on the other side of the stream, riding hard. His carbine strap was wound around one arm.

He was ready to fire… .

Alek turned away and scrambled up the bank. The rye in the fields was chest high, tall enough to hide in.