Goliath

wasn’t done yet.

“Have you forgotten what I found in Mr. Tesla’s room?”

“You found a rock,” Alek said flatly.

“If it was only a rock, why did he bring it aboard?”

“He’s a scientist. They like rocks. Didn’t Dr. Barlow know what it was?”

Deryn shook her head. “She isn’t certain, but it’s all very suspicious. Mr. Tesla’s weapons all use electricity, and it was a sort of… cannonball.”

“No cannonball could destroy half of Siberia, Mr. Sharp.”

“Mr. Sharp!” Bovril repeated.

“Perhaps I’ll simply ask him myself.” Alek gave a snort. “Though he might wonder why you were hiding under his bed at night.”

“Forget it. If he knows we were spying on him, he won’t trust you.”

Alek shook his head—as if Deryn could offer advice on trust and friendship. “Once we get to New York and reveal Goliath to the world, I’m sure these minor details will all make sense.”

“You think the Admiralty will really let us head off to America?”

“Mr. Tesla can be quite convincing,” Alek said. “Besides, this is my destiny.”

“Aye,” Deryn said, and snorted. “Your destiny.”

She was about to say more, when Bovril interrupted. “A bit of tailoring!”

“The beastie’s right.” Deryn was looking over Alek’s shoulder. “Your destiny is a better-fitting jacket, looks to me.”

He turned. Beneath the awning of an open shop front whirred a spidery machine, bristling with spindles of thread. Squeezed onto a hanging banner full of Japanese characters were a few recognizable words: WELCOME TO SHIBASAKI TAILORS.

Alek folded up the map. “For the moment that will do.”

“Irasshai,” came a call as Alek stepped beneath the awning. Two men stood up from behind sewing machines, one robed in white cotton with a flowered print, the other in a European waistcoat and jacket.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” the robed man said in practiced English.

Alek and Deryn returned his bow.

“We’ve just arrived here, sirs,” Alek said slowly. “We have no money, but we can pay with gold.”

The man looked embarrassed at this forwardness, but Alek could only bow again, holding out Volger’s cavalry uniform.

“If you could make this fit me.”

The other tailor took the jacket by the shoulders and shook it open. “Of course.”

“And my friend needs a dress shirt in the British naval fashion, by this afternoon.”

“We have many shirts for British gentlemen, if we make alterations.” The man turned to Deryn. “May we measure you, sir?”

She glanced at the marine guards waiting just outside—close enough to hear any exclamations of surprise.

“I’m afraid not,” Alek said. “He has a… skin condition. Perhaps you could measure me, and adjust a little.”

The tailor frowned. “But you are shorter, sir.”

“Not that much shorter,” Alek said, and heard Bovril chuckling.

The tailor bowed gracefully, then extended a length of string between his hands. Alek took off his jacket and turned around, holding out his arms wide.

Deryn leaned back to watch, wearing the first smile Alek had seen on her face in days.

After the measurements were done, the tailors told Alek and Deryn to return in two hours. Deryn unerringly tracked down the moving food stall they’d seen earlier, and soon they were seated on a long bench that faced the cooks, shoulder to shoulder with the other customers. The marine guards took up station just behind the stall, watching from a distance.

A dozen pots of noodles bubbled on the boilers, which Deryn said were burning an oil made from fabricated peanuts. The fuel let off a sweet scent that mingled with the briny smell of salmon slices edged with orange, a black vinegar sauce in small bowls, and tiny dried fish curled into silver half-moons.

As Deryn pantomimed for the cooks, Alek realized how hungry he was. He watched the other customers eating with chopsticks, wishing he’d brought a fork and knife from the Leviathan’s mess.

“Did you hear?” Deryn asked. “The meeting’s been moved to the Imperial Hotel.”

“Why a hotel?”

“It’s got a barking theater! Seems the ambassador wants to show the whole world that the great Nikola Tesla has changed sides.” Deryn inspected her chopsticks. “Maybe that will get the Clankers quaking in their boots.”

“Hopefully,” Alek said. Two bowls were set before them, full of tangled noodles half covered in a thick broth. Atop the noodles sat a spoonful of white mush and a cluster of tiny orange spheres, as translucent as rubies. A plate of fresh salmon was set before Bovril.

As the beast started in, Alek stared at his dish. “What have you ordered us?”

“No idea,” Deryn said, picking up a wooden spoon. “It looked good, so I pointed at it.”

Alek lifted his chopsticks and attempted to pick up one of the pearly orange spheres. The first exploded, but he managed to get a second into his mouth. It popped like a tiny balloon between his teeth, tasting of salt and fish.

“It’s like oversize caviar.”

“Which is what?” Deryn asked.

“Fish eggs.”

She frowned, but the revelation didn’t slow her eating.

Alek tasted the white substance, which turned out to be pickled radishes chopped into mush. There were also slivers of a pearly fruit, as tangy as lemon rind. He swirled his chopsticks in the bowl, mixing the sharp flavors of radishes, citrus, and fish eggs with the thick buckwheat noodles.

As he ate, Alek finally took a proper look at the slowly passing city. The rooftops of Tokyo curved and swelled like ocean waves, terra-cotta tiles rippling their surfaces. Miniature potted trees crowded the windows, growing in twisted shapes that mirrored the strokes of calligraphy decorating every shop. Canopies of vines overhead spilled pink blossoms onto the ground, and the hanging paper lanterns seemed to be everywhere, bobbing in the breeze.

“Quite beautiful, considering,” Alek said.

“Considering what?”

“That the same culture fabricated those horrid kappa.”

“Less horrid than a phosphorous shell, if you ask me.”

Alek shrugged, not in the mood to revisit the argument he’d had with Tesla. “You’re right. Killing is ugly, whatever shape it takes. That’s why we have to stop this war.”

“It isn’t up to you to fix the world, Alek. Maybe your parents’ murder set it off, but the world was ready enough with war machines and beasties!” She stared into her bowl, twirling noodles onto her chopsticks. “A fight would have happened one way or another.”

“None of that changes the fact that my family started it.”

Deryn turned to face him. “You can’t blame a match for a house made of straw, Alek.”

“A nice turn of phrase.” All that was left of Alek’s meal was broth. The other customers seemed to think nothing of drinking from their bowls, so he lifted his with both hands. “But it doesn’t change what I have to do.”

Deryn watched him drink, then said simply, “What if you can’t stop it?”