Behemoth (24 page)

“Well, whether he’s listening or not, there’s nothing I can add.” Alek stared at the frog, still hearing Dylan’s voice. He’d almost sounded like a different person.

With Dylan’s help, of course, Volger and Hoffman stood a better chance of escaping.

“Did Volger say when they would try?”

“It has to be tonight,” Malone said. “The four days is almost up. Unless the British really do plan on giving the
Leviathan
to the sultan, it has to leave Istanbul tomorrow.”

“Excellent,” Alek said, standing up and offering his hand. “Thank you for carrying our messages, Mr. Malone. I’m sorry that I must beg your leave.”

“An appointment with your new friends, perhaps?”

“I leave that to your imagination,” Alek said. “And by the way, I hope you won’t write about any of this too soon. Volger and I might decide to stay in Istanbul a bit longer.”

Malone leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Oh, don’t worry about me making a mess of your plans. As far as I can see, this story is just getting interesting.”

Alek left the man scribbling in his notebook, no doubt writing down everything they’d said. Or perhaps he’d been lying and the bullfrog had memorized it all. It was mad to
trust a reporter with his secrets, Alek supposed, but being reunited with Volger was worth the risk.

He wished the wildcount could be here for his next appointment. Zaven was introducing him to more members of the Committee for Union and Progress. Zaven himself was a friendly sort, and an educated gentleman, but his fellow revolutionaries might not be so welcoming. It wouldn’t be easy for a Clanker aristocrat to earn their trust.

“You were very good at staying quiet,” Alek whispered to the birdcage as he walked away. “If you keep behaving, I shall buy you strawberries.”

“
Mr.
Sharp,” the creature answered, then made a giggling sound.

Alek frowned. The words were a snatch of the conversation the bullfrog had repeated. The creature didn’t imitate voices, but Count Volger’s sarcastic tone was quite recognizable.

Alek wondered why the beast had chosen those two words from everything it had heard.

“
Mr.
Sharp,” it said again, sounding abundantly pleased with itself.

Alek shushed it and pulled a hand-drawn map from his pocket. The route, labeled in Zaven’s flowery handwriting, took him north and west from the Blue Mosque, toward the neighborhood he’d stumbled into two nights before.

The buildings grew taller as he walked, and the Clanker
influences stronger. Tram tracks braided through the paving stones, and the walls were stained by exhaust, almost as black as the steel spires of Berlin and Prague. German-made machines huffed down the streets, their spare, functional designs strange to Alek after days of seeing walkers shaped like animals. The signs of rebellion also grew—the mix of alphabets and religious symbols filled the walls again, marks of the host of smaller nations that made up the Ottoman Empire.

Zaven’s map led Alek deep into a tangle of warehouses, where mechanikal arms stood beside loading docks. The stone walls loomed high above the narrow streets, so tall they almost seemed to touch each other overhead. Sunlight filtered grayly through the fumes.

There were few pedestrians here, and Alek began to feel wary. Before yesterday he’d never walked alone in a city, and he didn’t know which sorts of neighborhoods were safe and which were not.

He came to a halt, setting down the birdcage to check Zaven’s map once more. As he squinted at the flamboyant handwriting, Alek noticed a figure out of the corner of his eye.

The woman was dressed in long black robes, her face covered by a veil. She was hunched with age, and a few silver coins were sewn into her headdress. He’d seen plenty of desert tribesmen like her on the streets of Istanbul, but
never a woman walking alone before. She stood, motionless, beside a warehouse wall, staring down at the cobblestones.

When Alek had passed that building a moment ago, she hadn’t been there.

He quickly folded the map, then picked up the cage and started walking again. A moment later he glanced backward.

The old woman was following him.

Alek frowned. How long had she been there?

He chewed his lip as he walked. He was close to the address Zaven had given him, but he could hardly lead this stranger straight to his new allies. Istanbul was full of spies and revolutionaries, and of secret police as well.

But surely he could outrun an old woman. Hoisting the heavy birdcage higher, Alek quickened his pace. He let himself take longer and longer steps, ignoring the complaints from beneath the birdcage cover.

And yet when he looked back, his pursuer was still there, gliding gracefully across the paving stones, her robes rippling like waves of black water.

This was no old woman, perhaps no woman at all.

Alek’s hand went to his belt, and he softly swore. He was armed only with a long knife he’d bought at the Grand Bazaar that morning. Its curved steel blade had looked exotically lethal laid out on red velvet. But its edge hadn’t been sharpened yet, and Alek had never trained to use a weapon of its kind.

He rounded the last corner, almost at the address on Zaven’s map. With his pursuer out of sight for a moment, he dashed ahead, ducking into the entrance of an alley.

“Shush,” he breathed through the birdcage’s cover. The creature made an unhappy noise at being bounced about again, but fell silent.

Alek placed the cage carefully on the ground and peeked out.

The dark figure appeared, moving slowly now, and came to a halt in front of a loading dock on the other side of the street. Alek saw the symbol painted on the dock, and frowned.

It was the same symbol Zaven had drawn extravagantly on his map.

Was this a coincidence? Or had this pursuer already known where Alek was headed?

The black-robed figure jumped up onto the loading dock in a single bound, confirming that this was no woman. The man backed into the shadows, but his robes were just visible, billowing softly in the breeze.

Alek stood there in the alley, his back pressed hard against cold stone. Thanks to Eddie Malone, he was already half an hour late. If he waited for his pursuer to give up and go away, it might take ages more. What would his new allies think if he arrived at their secret meeting hours behind schedule?

Of course, if he brought them this spy as his prisoner, they might be somewhat more impressed.…

A six-legged German walker was headed up the street, dragging a heavy cargo train behind it—the perfect cover. Alek knelt and spoke softly to the birdcage. “I’ll be right back. Just stay quiet.”

“Quiet,” the creature muttered in reply.

Alek waited until the cargo train was lumbering past, between him and the other man. He stole out of the alley and scampered along behind the train, then slipped between two cars and across the street.

His back to the stone warehouse wall, Alek inched his way toward the loading dock. The long, curved knife felt unfamiliar in his hand, and he wondered for a moment if the man had spotted him.

But it was too late for doubts. Alek crept closer.…

Suddenly a maniacal peel of laughter came from across the street, echoing from the alley where he’d left the beast!

Alek froze. Was it in trouble?

A moment later the black-robed figure jumped down onto the street. It crept toward the maniacal laughter, crossing the street to peer into the alleyway.

Alek saw his chance, stealing up behind to press his knife against the man’s throat. “Surrender, sir! I have the advantage.”

The man was smaller than he’d thought—and quicker.
He whipped around within Alek’s grip, and suddenly they faced each other.

Alek found himself staring into deep brown eyes framed with ringlets of black hair. This wasn’t a man at all!

“Not quite an advantage, boy,” the girl said in perfect German. “Unless you want to join me in death.”

Alek felt a nudge, and looked down.

The tip of her knife was pressed against his stomach.

Alek swallowed, wondering what to do. But then the door to the loading dock began to rise, rattling with the clatter of chains and pulleys.

Both of them looked up, still locked in their lethal embrace.

Zaven stood there in the doorway, beaming down at them.

“Ah, Alek! You’re finally here. And I see you’ve met my daughter!”

“You should have let me kill him,” Zaven’s daughter said as they climbed the broad staircase inside the warehouse.

The creature giggled from the birdcage, and Alek wondered what madness had gotten into it.

Zaven clicked his tongue sadly. “Ah, Lilit. You are your mother’s daughter.”

“He was talking to a reporter!”

Alek realized that Lilit was speaking German, deliberately letting him understand. He found it rather awkward, being threatened by a girl. Almost as embarrassing as mistaking her for a man.

“Nene will agree with me,” Lilit said, fixing Alek with a cold glare. “Then we’ll see who has the advantage.”

He rolled his eyes at her. As if a mere girl could get the better of him. It had all been the creature’s fault for distracting him. The birdcage seemed heavier than ever,
climbing these endless stairs. How high up were they going?

“Mr. Malone was carrying a message for me,” he explained. “From my friend aboard the
Leviathan
. I didn’t tell him anything about your Committee!”

“Maybe not,” Lilit said. “But I followed you an hour before you noticed me. Stupidity can be just as deadly as treachery.”

Alek took a slow breath, wishing for the hundredth time that Volger were here.

But Zaven only laughed. “Fah! There’s no shame in being trailed by my daughter, Alek. She’s a master of the shadows.” He thumped his chest. “Trained by the best there is!”

“It’s true, I didn’t notice you,” Alek said, turning to Lilit. “But was anyone else following me?”

“No. I would have seen them.”

“Well, then. I haven’t given you away to the sultan’s secret police, have I?”

Lilit
hmph
ed and climbed ahead. “We’ll see what Nene says.”

“In any case,” Alek called up after her, “if the Germans find me, they won’t bother trailing me. I’ll simply disappear.”

Lilit didn’t turn to face him, but muttered, “That’s useful to know.”

The staircase continued up, dimly lit by a column of latticed windows letting in gray sunlight. As Zaven lead them above the swirling exhaust fumes on the street, the stairs grew brighter. Small touches of humanity appeared on the cold stone walls—family portraits and the three-barred crosses of the Byzantine Church.

“Zaven,” Alek asked, “do you live here?”

“A masterpiece of deduction,” Lilit said.

“We’ve always lived above the family business,” Zaven said, stopping before a pair of wooden doors with ornate brass fittings. “Whether it was a hat shop or a mechaniks factory. And now that the family business is revolution, we live above the Committee!”

Alek frowned, wondering where this “committee” was. The warehouse felt as still as an empty church; the paint on the walls was cracked, the stairs in disrepair.

As Zaven unlocked the doors, he said, “No disguises at home.”

Lilit gave him an annoyed look, but pulled the desert robes over her head. Beneath them she wore a brilliant red silk dress that almost reached the floor.

Alek noticed again how brown her eyes were, and how beautiful she was. What an idiot he’d been to mistake her for a man.

Zaven pushed through the doors into a riot of color. The apartments’ divans and chairs were covered with
vivid silks, the electrikal lamps decorated with rainbows of translucent tiles. A vast Persian rug was spread across the floor, its meticulous geometries woven in the hues of fallen autumn leaves. Sunlight spilled in from a large balcony, setting the whole mosaic aflame.

The furniture had seen better days, however, and the rug was worn through in places.

“Very cozy,” Alek said, “for a revolution.”

“We do our best,” Zaven said, taking in the room with a tired sweep of his eyes. “A proper host would offer you tea first. But we’re already late.”