Burton passed the right rein to his left hand and pulled a Smith and Wesson revolver from his coat pocket. It was difficult to steer the swan one-handed and the kite was swinging about wildly. What with that and the rain and the wind, making an accurate shot seemed impossible. His hand, too, was trembling with his oncoming fever. Hopelessly, he pointed the gun in the general direction of the ornithopters and pulled the trigger. Immediately, one of the machines disappeared in a ball of steam and a loud detonation echoed across the park. A brass head went spinning into the air, narrowly missing Herbert Spencer's swan.
“Lucky shot!” Burton mumbled. “Must have hit the pressure boiler!”
The three remaining ornithopters accelerated over the grass, belching vapour from their funnels, their wings flapping. A ratcheting noise reached Burton's ears as the machines angled into the air and picked up speed.
Gunshots sounded from Trounce and Bhatti's kites, and one of the flying contraptions suddenly slid sideways, turned over, and thumped back down to earth, crushing the clockwork driver beneath it. Burton caught a glimpse of a mangled and twitching figure as he flew past.
He fired another shot, pocketed his revolver, grabbed at the reins with both hands, and gave them a hefty flick, urging his swan to greater speed.
The ornithopters, with wings beating so fast they became nothing but a blur, leaned to the right and turned, heading northward. They increased altitude and disappeared into the clouds. The swans followed.
Burton was wretchedly wet. His teeth chattered and he shook uncontrollably.
He wiped his face in the crook of his elbow and when he looked up he found that he'd unexpectedly emerged into clear, dry, still air.
The layer of cloud had fallen away beneath him and a full moon glared down, turning the top of the billowing weather front a bright silvery grey. There was no rain and hardly a breeze at this altitude, and his box kite immediately settled into smooth flight, losing the sickening weaving and bobbing motion that had marked the pursuit so far.
Brunel's machine flapped ahead. Where was his companion?
Burton looked to his right and saw Bhatti and Spencer. He looked to his left and saw Trounce-and shouted a warning! Too late!
The surviving clockwork man's ornithopter plunged from above straight into Trounce's swan. A metal wing tore through the bird's neck, slicing its head clean off.
The ornithopter arced away as the bird's decapitated corpse plummeted down into the cloud, dragging the kite behind it. In the instant before Trounce vanished into the thick mist, Burton saw him yank his emergency strap, separating the kite from the bird.
He breathed a sigh of relief. His friend would float safely to earth, though the landing might leave him shaken and bruised.
He steered closer to his two remaining companions. Here, above the bad weather, his voice carried: “Where did it go?”
“I don't know!” Bhatti yelled, peering up and around.
“Down into the cloud!” Spencer shouted. “It went right under your bloomin’ kite, Boss! It- aaah! ”
The ornithopter shot up from below, passing straight through the harness that attached the vagrant philosopher to his bird. Spencer tumbled away in his kite while the swan, with no one to guide it, turned and flew back the way it had come.
Burton snatched at his revolver, fumbled, and dropped it out of the kite. He cursed and glanced across at the constable, hoping his moment of weakness hadn't been witnessed. It hadn't. Bhatti was looking this way and that, scanning the sky for their attacker.
“Coming down at you!” the policeman screamed, pointing upward.
The king's agent yanked fiercely at his reins, sending his bird, with a honk of protest, swerving sharply to the left. Bhatti's revolver barked twice as the ornithopter plunged past, narrowly missing a collision with Burton's kite. The enemy vehicle twisted in the air and rose up beside the constable's swan. The driver, mounted on the ornithopter's saddle, turned to look at the giant bird. The frightened swan responded with its species’ characteristic belligerence. It whipped its neck sideways, gripped the brass head in its beak, and ripped it from the mechanical shoulders.
Bhatti cheered, but his delight was short-lived. With nothing to steer it, the ornithopter slid into his bird. Metal and fleshy wings clashed and a stream of blood showered back over the constable. The swan shrieked and started to fall, the ornithopter spinning down beside it, trailing a spiral of steam.
“Good luck, Captain!” Bhatti shouted, yanking at his release strap. He disappeared behind and below Burton's kite.
Ahead, the Steam Man had gained some distance and was bearing slightly to the east.
A violent tremor ran through Burton's body. He gritted his teeth.
“All right, Brunel,” he ground out harshly. “Now it's just you and me.”
He cracked the reins.
The chase continued over the clouds and across rain-swept London. Burton struggled to keep his mind from drifting. He wondered where his onetime travelling companion John Hanning Speke was, and thought about the time they'd spent together in Africa. It turned into a hallucination; the canvas seat of the box kite became a canvas stretcher, swaying beneath him as natives bore him along. He saw Speke bending over him, sprinkling water from a flask onto his burning, fevered brow.
“Not long now, Dick,” Speke said. “We'll reach Ujiji before sundown. We can lay up there awhile and get ourselves shipshape before we explore the lake more thoroughly. It's easy going for the rest of the afternoon, old thing. Flat savannah. No more swamps. There's lots of wildlife. I shot three gazelles and five vultures this morning!”
Shooting. Always shooting! God, how Speke loved to kill!
The water continued to sprinkle onto his face.
Enough!
Speke didn't stop. The droplets fell with greater force, drenching him. He snapped awake. Bismillah! Where ' s Brunel?
Looking this way and that, furious with himself, he found that he'd dropped back into the clouds. He tugged angrily at the reins, guiding his bird back upward.
Emerging into the clear air, he spotted the ornithopter ahead and to the left. It was descending. He followed and the vapour swallowed him again. Moments later he was being tossed around by the wind and rain. Looking down at the streets below, he recognised nothing until he saw the familiar landmarks of Muswell Hill and Alexandra Park. He watched as Brunel steered his ornithopter in a wide arc and settled in Priory Park, a lesser patch of greenery to the southeast.
After flying a slow circuit around it, the king's agent swooped in low above the bordering trees and, as they fell away behind him, tugged his release strap. The world somersaulted wildly as he tumbled away from the swan, then the ground swelled up and a terrific impact knocked his senses from him.
Burton opened his eyes.
Why was he lying in the rain? Why was he tangled in material? Why-? Memory returned.
He stirred, rolled over, pushed canvas and broken spars away, got to his knees, and vomited. His whole body was shaking.
He groped around until he found the kite's pocket, pulled his silver-topped, panther-headed cane free, and, leaning heavily upon it, hauled himself to his feet.
POX JR5 fluttered onto his shoulder.
Burton fished a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth. As he pulled it away, he saw rain-diluted blood on the square of cotton. He felt his face and discovered a deep gash on the bridge of his nose. Holding the cloth to it, he stumbled across the boggy grass into a nearby thicket.
He leaned against the bole of a tree. His head ached abominably.
“Pox. Message for Detective Inspector Trounce,” he croaked. “Message begins. Brunel landed in Priory Park, Crouch End. He is inside the priory. Get here fast. Bring men. Message ends. Go.”
The parakeet blew a raspberry and departed.
Burton, concealed in the shadows beneath the huddle of trees, looked out over the lawn at the forbidding old building. The big ornithopter stood in front of its large double doors. The rain drummed loudly on the contraption's
