where he expected to find a small hatch in the machine's belly. In London, harvestmen were primarily employed to transport goods, which they carried in netting suspended from their bellies. It had been his intention to reclaim the two vehicles, load them up with the supplies, and walk them away while the Prussians were distracted. He now encountered a serious setback.
“Damn!” he said. “They've removed the confounded net! It's been replaced by a bracket. Looks like they intend to fix something else to the underside of the body.”
“How will we transport our stuff?” Trounce asked.
“I don't know. Let's get to it first. Speed is of the essence!”
They ran forward, unnoticed amid the confusion.
One of the barracks, consumed by flames, collapsed, sending out a shower of sparks. Men yelled. Rifles cracked.
Pox fluttered onto Burton's shoulder.
“Message from Isabel churlish bladder-prodder Arundell. Hurry up, you foot-licker! Message ends.”
The second harvester, standing beside the
“Start loading it. As many crates as you can. Ignore the specie-it's the equipment we need.”
Burton whirled, raised his spine-shooter, and shot the inquisitor down.
“Message to Isabel Arundell,” he said. “We're loading the equipment now. There's only one harvestman. Maximum distraction, if you please. Message ends.”
Pox departed.
Moments later, the Daughters of Al-Manat came pelting back down the hill with guns blazing. As they engaged at close quarters with the Prussians, Burton and Trounce lifted crate after crate from the
“Good for you!” he grunted.
Two more soldiers noticed the Englishmen and both went down with venomous cactus spines in them.
“That's as much as she can take,” Burton panted. They'd loaded about a third of the stolen supplies. “Get into her, stay low, and drive back the way we came. If I haven't caught up with you by the time you reach the sand spit, wait for me there.”
William Trounce uttered an acknowledgement, climbed the rungs on one of the harvestman's legs, and settled into the driver's seat. He started the engine. Its roar was drowned out by the gunfire, but as the harvestman stalked away, with its loaded net swinging underneath and Burton running in its wake, its trail of steam was noticed and three of the Prussian plant vehicles started to converge on it.
“Keep going!” Burton yelled. “Get out of here!”
As they came abreast with the other harvestman, the king's agent quickly clambered up its leg, slipped into position, grabbed the control levers, and prayed to Allah that the machine was operational.
It was.
The engine clattered into life behind his seat, and he sent the conveyance striding into the path of the nearest plant. He raised his cactus gun and fired spines at the Prussian who was nestled in its bloom. They had no effect.
“Immune to the venom?” he muttered. “Maybe you're half-plant yourself!”
Burton sent his steam-powered spider crashing into the mutated flora. Tendrils wrapped themselves around his machine's legs and started heaving at it, attempting to turn it over. He repeatedly shot spines at its driver until the Prussian's face resembled a porcupine. The man remained conscious, snarled at the Britisher, and sent a vine whipping at the explorer's hand. It caught the cactus gun with such viciousness that the barrel was sliced completely in half. Burton cursed and dropped it.
The harvestman was jolted from side to side. Its carapace was battered and scored by swishing barbed limbs, and Burton felt it slewing sideways beneath him. Desperately hauling at its levers, he caused its front two legs to rise up and brought them sweeping down onto the soldier's chest. The man died instantly, his heart pierced through, and the plant bucked and threshed wildly, causing the harvestman to topple over. In the instant before it hit the ground, Burton dived out of it, rolled, and started running. He reached the bottom of the slope but it was too late; the two other plants were looming over him. Putting his head down, he pumped his legs as fast as he could and started up the hill. Creepers coiled at the periphery of his vision, reaching out to grab him. Suddenly, one hooked under his left arm and wrenched him into the air. Expecting to be flayed or ripped apart, Burton instead found himself flying over the ground and bumping against the side of a horse. He realised that it wasn't a creeper but a hand holding him. Unable to manoeuvre himself into a position where he could see his rescuer, he clutched at the rider's ankle in an attempt to steady himself-a female ankle!
The horse dashed up to the top of the ridge and skidded to a halt beside Trounce's harvestman. Burton was dropped unceremoniously onto the ground.
“William! Stop!” The commanding voice belonged to Isabel Arundell.
Trounce brought his machine to a halt.
“Get onto the net, Dick!” Isabel barked.
Burton looked up at her just as a bullet tore through a fold in her Bedouin robes, missing her flesh by less than an inch. She turned in her saddle, levelled her revolver, and fired six shots back into the camp.
“Move, damn it!” she yelled.
Burton snapped back into action. Three paces took him beneath the harvestman. He jumped up, gripped the net, and clambered onto it.
“Go, William!” Isabel shouted. “As fast as possible! Don't stop and don't look back! We'll keep the Prussians occupied for as long as we can.”
“Isabel-” Burton began, but she cut him off: “We'll catch up with your expedition later. Get going!”
She reared her horse around, and, as she sent it plunging down the slope, she pulled a spear from over her shoulder and jabbed its point into one of the plant vehicles.
Trounce pulled back on a lever, his harvestman coughed and sent out a plume of steam, then went striding into the night with Burton swinging underneath.
“Bloody hell!” the explorer muttered to himself. “That woman has the strength of an ox and the courage of a lion!”
William Trounce didn't stop the harvestman until he'd travelled half the distance back to the expedition's campsite. There'd been no pursuit. Distant gunshots peppered the night.
He manoeuvred one of the spider's long legs inward until it was within Burton's reach. The king's agent climbed up it to the one-man cabin and sat on the edge of it with his legs inside and feet hooked under the seat.
“All right,” he said, and Trounce got the vehicle moving again.
It was slow going. The harvestman was far heavier than a horse, and the pointed ends of its legs frequently sank deep into the sodden earth. By the time they reached the sand spit, the sun had risen, the vegetation was dripping with dew, and the land was steaming.
The sandy clearing where they'd camped was empty.
“Good,” Burton said. “They're on their way. Maybe we can catch up with them before they reach Nzasa.”
Pox glided down and landed on Trounce's head.
“Hey there! Get off!” the Scotland Yard man protested. The bird ignored him.
“Message from Isabel Arundell. We're going to withdraw and recoup. Eleven of my women killed, three injured. We shall wage an idle-headed guerrilla campaign over the next few days to prevent them following you. We'll catch up presently. Travel safely, wobble-paunch! Message ends.”
“An idle-headed guerrilla campaign?” Trounce asked, in a puzzled tone.
“I think there's a parakeet insertion there,” Burton said.
“Oh. Can you get the bloody parrot off my head, please?”
