We climb for ages, and the mountain gets steeper and more treacherous the higher we get. My hands are scraped nearly raw from grabbing onto sharp rocks and gnarled, scratchy tree branches, hauling myself up hand over hand. Ellie is quiet for most of the time, save for the occasional soft grunt of effort, but I can see she’s getting tired, shaking from the effort, ready to drop.
Gus is far more vocal. He groans and mutters to himself, cursing in a colorful tangle of street words when he trips on a rock. The worst bit is looking back and seeing we’re not even halfway up the mountain yet.
At least the ridgeback is way behind us now. When I look back over my shoulder I can see it’s huge form lumbering over the sand, luckily moving away from us. It’s had it’s meal and it’s probably going to find somewhere to rest. The thought makes me sick, and I swallow hard and push ahead, climbing a little faster, trying to concentrate on the ache in my hands and feet and not think about the horrible fate of that other team
Gus is complaining still, and now it’s louder, loud enough for me to hear it clearly, “this was a brilliant idea. Climb the ruddy mountain. Oh, yes. Thanks for that.”
I turn back and snap at him, “Shut it, Gus! I don’t see you coming up with something better. Or should we have stuck around and been chewed on? If you think my plan is so bad you’re free to climb back down. You can go and shake hands with the ridgeback for all I care.”
Gus looks down while he navigates a particularly rocky outcrop, “Well,” he says loudly, “I don’t see any fortress up here yet. I thought you said there were supposed to be people up here, you know, the bloody masterminds behind this so called “competition”. Where are they, then? If you’re so brilliant…”
“They’ve got to be here somewhere,” I grunt back at him, “we’re just not high enough yet, at some point we’ll have to circle around, start heading for the other side of the mountain.”
“Brilliant,” Gus stops in his tracks, “so we’re climbing all this way up this side for nothing. Why the hell don’t we tramp around now? Maybe we’ll actually see something.”
“Not yet,” I say crossly, “keep moving. If we go around the mountain too soon they could see us climbing up. We have to surprise them.”
“Like they haven’t got security men,” Gus says, “all we have is a butter knife and a piece of stupid rope. This isn’t going to work.”
I take a huge breath of air, telling myself to restrain from stabbing him with said ‘butter knife’. “Keep climbing.”
“So who died and made you king of England anyways?” Gus says, “why are you in charge? You’re just a girl.”
I grit my teeth, and do my best to keep my voice even, “Yes, very well spotted. Listen to me, you stupid git. It doesn’t matter if I’m a girl. I can outfight you blindfolded.”
“I doubt that…”
Ellie spoke up suddenly, sounding out of breath, “stop it, you two. Look, we’re nearly halfway up the mountain.”
We both shut up long enough to look back over our shoulders, and I feel a stab of surprise at how far we have just come while we were arguing.
“You two put on double speed when you started arguing,” Ellie panted, “and now, kiss and make up, because I can’t keep up this pace.”
I was happy we’d come so far, so I only muttered, “I think I’d kiss a ridgeback first,” and kept climbing. Of course, as soon as I said the word “kiss” the thought of Gus kissing me popped into my head, and I felt my cheeks flush. It wasn’t as if he was bad looking…
“I’d just as soon kiss a man,” Gus’ voice was indignant, “in fact, it would be like kissing a man. I mean, what sort of a woman cusses and wears trousers?”
And to think I’d just been considering kissing him! I fumed, now picturing myself giving him a good kick instead, “the kind of woman that would have you flat on your back in a fight.”
Ellie snorted, and I immediately flushed again, hotter this time, “Not that sort of flat on your back…oh never mind!”
Gus gives a throaty chuckle behind me, and I breath deeply and concentrate on climbing again. Stupid blighter, getting into my head like that. There isn't time for stuff like this.
“Let’s start around the mountain now,” I glance upwards, satisfied that there isn't much climbing left until we reach the top. It's my best guess that they'd have built a survey building about halfway up. With any luck, we’d be able to approach from the back now.
We traveled in silence now, the only sound is our footsteps crunching over rocks and dead branches. We're moving sideways now, and it's an awkward sort of traveling, with one leg feeling longer then the other since we 're constantly at an angle from the steep incline. We're all breathing hard by now. This high on the mountain the trees have grown sparse and the shade is thin and only in patches now. I can feel my hair sticking to the back of my neck, and Ellie keeps moving her hat around on her head, like it's getting too hot. I envy the shade it gives her though, when we're moving through the patches of hot sunlight that bake the rocks and make them too hot to touch. Luckily we aren't hauling ourselves upwards anymore, so I only burn my palm once or twice when I brace myself on them.
Gus, who's walking in front of me, is grumbling to himself again. This time it seems to be more of a list of complaints and not directed at me. It's a good thing too, because I probably won't be able to resist punching him this time. When he comes to an abrupt stop all of a sudden I actually run into his back, and draw back quickly, face flushing again. My agitation makes me snap at him,
“What?”
Gus is pointing straight ahead through the thin trees. His hand shakes a little.
Ellie and I peer around him, and my breath catches in my throat. There in the distance, disguised by a thicket of tall, scrawny trees is a long brick building.
It's obvious why we didn’t see it from the desert. It blends in. The dusty brown bricks and green trim just sort of fade into the side of the mountain. It looks like it was built a very long time ago. It makes my stomach turn to think about it. Does that mean whoever is in charge has been hauling street kids away and killing them for years? Do all the wealthy aristocrats in London do this regularly for sport? Is it common knowledge, they came here for a nice holiday every year?
My fingers curl around the hilt of my dagger. I lean against the nearest thin tree trunk, trying to think of what to do, and the spring I’d stolen from the ship presses into my hip. I shift slightly, bottom lip caught in my teeth, trying to think of how to approach this. We're clearly looking at the side of the building. The best way to get in is probably the back.
“What’s the plan?” Gus whispers, and to my surprise his hand is suddenly on my shoulder, sending a jolt of electricity over my skin. I look up, startled, to see his eyes wide and full of excitement. He's with me now, now that he sees there really is a building. That I was right and there really might be something to my plan.
I shrug out of his grip, uncomfortable with the heat that’s prickling through me, “we approach from the back. See if you can find something here,” I gesture down at the forest floor, at the dead sticks and leaves that litter it, “break off a heavy branch or grab a rock. Anything you can use for a weapon.”
Gus scans the forest floor and then lets out a “ah!” of triumph. He darts forward and picks up a rock, weighing it in the palm of his hand. It’s nearly as big as his fist and almost perfectly round.
“That should do,” he says happily.
Ellie is looking around, her face nervous, “I don’t see anything….”
Gus points at her feet, “just grab that rock. That’ll work. It’s only for bashing heads in, doesn’t have to be pretty.”
Ellie grimaces, “I don’t want to… to bash heads in.”
We stare at her for a moment, probably both wondering how she managed to survive on the streets. Gus says to me, “right. We’ve got our rocks, you’ve got your pointy knife. Let’s go.”
We approach the building cautiously, one careful step at a time. Ellie is impressively quiet; her feet make almost no noise on the crunchy dead branches and loose rocks. It must be all the purse snatching that’s made her so stealthy. Gus and I do our best, but every crack of a branch or shuffle of stones rolling under our feet makes my heart race. We’re not exactly dead silent, but luckily, as we get closer to the building there doesn’t appear to be guards outside. Perhaps the years have made these people too relaxed. The stupid street scum would never think to go right to the source, would they?
There are two rows of windows in the building, two floors. The bottom windows are all dark and still, the top lit with yellow gas light, and I can see shadows flicker once in awhile as people upstairs move around. Now that we’re so close the faint sound of laughter and the scratchy tones of a gramophone reach us.
“Sounds like a party,” Gus says in a low voice next to my ear, “shall we crash it?”
I ignore the fact that his breath tickles the side of my neck and nod, “Yeah, let’s go.”
Gus and I dart forward and Ellie is right on our heels. My heart is beating frantically in my ears. What if someone sees us? What if someone upstairs looks out the window and into the forest behind the building. They’ll spot us.
But we’re closing the distance fast, running falt out, six feet, five, two feet. Then we’re there, standing on the brick steps to the back entrance, exhausted, panting hard. My face is flushed with exhilaration and terror and I can’t seem to get my heart under control.
“Alright,” Gus says between great heaving breathes, “how do we get in?”
For a moment there’s nothing but blind panic. I’m so stupid. Why didn’t I realize the back door would be locked? Of course it’s locked!
But then I remember the stupid spring that’s been digging into my hip this entire time, poking my skin every couple seconds. It’s about time the damn thing came in handy. I shift my belt up and yank the spring out from the folds of my shirt, “we’ll pick the lock.”
I’ve had years of practice with locks. There isn’t much that can keep me out. The hard part is going to be bending the tightly coiled metal spring into a useable shape. I yank the knife out of my belt and wedge the blade underneath the top coil, working it up and down, my pulse fluttering wildly in my neck. Can Gus see how nervous I am? Wait, I don’t care. I don’t give a crap if he thinks I’m a coward, that’s what I tell myself anyways.
It’s touch and go for a moment, and I wonder if the tip of the knife will snap before the spring gives way, but finally the top coil peels off from the rest and bends upwards with a rusty squeak. I grin and shove the knife back into the sheath, grasping the metal spring between my fingers and yanking it straight upwards until I have enough length for what I need.
Luckily the lock is ridiculously easy. A baby could pick this thing. I insert the wire and wiggle it this way and that until I feel it give way, and hear the tiny “click” that signifies success. I turn and give Gus and Ellie a grin, and then whisper, “keep your rocks handy. We’re going in, be cautious.”
It’s obviously the servant’s quarters. That much is clear immediately. The bottom floor of the building is dark and gloomy. There’s a pitiful amount of furniture and Ellie and Gus and I pass through a shabby common room with one saggy red velvet couch and a rickety looking table. We travel through the bare room, one after the other, the three of us trying to make out clunky boots quiet on the bare floor. I go first, pausing at the door that leads out of the room, hand on the knob. My knife is clutched tightly in my other hand. I really don’t want to stab any servants. That would sort of defeat the purpose of the glorious revenge I have in mind. I want to hurt the rich people, not their underpaid man servants. Hopefully a big knife will be enough to frighten them into silence.
The door creaks slightly when I push it open. All three of us wince, and Gus lifts up his rock. We breath a sigh of relief almost in unison when the long dark hallway turns out to be empty. And I mean really empty, no people, no furniture, no plastic plants or floral arrangements that I imagined would be in rich people’s houses, just bare brick walls and a floor layered with dust.
Again we try to be as silent as we can, treading carefully as we make our way down the hallway to the door at the end, a heavy oak thing with a brass handle. I’m going to go ahead and guess the servants are all upstairs, probably standing around with trays of wine, waiting for their masters to demand service. Maybe when things get boring they make the servants fight one another. I grip the knife more tightly as anger rips through me. I want blood. I can’t wait to come face to face with this guy. There has to be a ring leader in all of this. There’s always a ring leader.
Another creaky door, but I’m slightly relaxed now, what with all the rage coursing through me. I want a fight, so I’m almost disappointed when there isn’t some foppish, lord type waiting at the door for me, all ready to get into “fisticuffs” or whatever they call it. There’s nothing but a set of stairs behind the doors, obviously leading to the second floor. That’s where they are, up there watching the blood sport that’s going on in the desert. I clutch the knife harder and whisper over my shoulder,
“Come on, follow me, but stay close.”
I make my way up the long curving stair case and stop at the top, light is flooding down the stairs now, and the sound of men’s voices becomes clearer the closer we get to the top. There’s laughter and talking, and cigar smoke drifts up to the ceiling. I can’t see anyone yet, because there’s a half wall of bricks at the top of the stairs blocking my view of the room. Straight ahead is the kitchen, a small space full of cupboards and a shiny black stove. Movement makes me freeze, and to my alarm I lock eyes with a woman in a tattered blue dress. A servant in a white apron, a silver tray of fruit in her hands. Her wide eyes travel from my face, to the knife in my hand, then to my face again. In that second my stomach sinks. This is it, we’re finished.
But to my astonishment the woman only bites her lip and sets her fruit tray down on the counter. Then she turns and steps deeper into the kitchen, leaning her back against the counter, crossing her arms. She only looks at me, not screaming. Not even moving.
I process this for a few minutes, and then feel a slight smile tug at the corner of my mouth. I can’t help it. It’s just too funny. I guess this is what they get for having unhappy servants. Clearly she’s not going to raise the alarm.
I climb another step and, very cautiously, peek over the top of the half brick wall. The sight that meets my eyes is pretty much what I expected. The room is crowded with men of all shapes and sizes, and every single one of them is dressed in fine suites and expensive silk cravats. Some of them hold up glasses of brandy, or pick at small delicacies on the silver trays the servants are offering. Clouds of smoke rise up and curl above their heads. They bellow and laugh, lying back on velvet couches or lounging in plush leather arm chairs by the enormous brick fire place.
Most of the men are sitting at the front of the room, which seems to be made entirely of tall glass windows. The view from these windows is positively staggering. They can see the entire desert from this room. Many of them have opera glasses pressed to their eyes, and some have the ridiculous looking macrobinoculars. Contraptions that sprout from their eyes like twin telescopes strapped to their heads. They laugh and nudge one another, pointing out at the desert.
“Look!’ one of the men cries, “he’s just stabbed her!”
“How jolly for you!” another one grumbles, “I had one and sixty pounds riding on her.”
My stomach twists and my hands shake, but I take in a huge gulp of air, eyes still scanning the room. There’s got to be one, a ring leader. The man in charge.
It doesn’t take long to find him. He’s at the window in the very middle, in a high backed brown leather chair. I can only see his side profile, but he’s a narrow faced man with a neatly trimmed mustache, a pair of gold opera glasses in one white-gloved hand. It’s obvious he’s in charge by the way the others crowd around him, they’re a bunch of boat-lickers, telling him how “well played” that last bet was, and complimenting him on his “marvelous choice”. Those pasty-faced idiots are eating out of his hand.
When he turns slightly I can see his shirt is open, in the manner of some silly, romance novel pirate. No doubt he fancies himself terribly dashing. But my eyes are drawn to his chest immediately, and not because my heart is all aflutter….well really, it is…because what I see there, dangling on a silver chain just below his silk neck scarf, makes every muscle in my body tense.
It’s a jewel. An exquisite, perfectly shaped tear drop of black diamond set in silver. The gas light hits it and it winks at me, beckoning, alluring. It must be worth more than I could dream or imagine. And suddenly I know I want it. It isn’t even about revenge anymore, or justice. I need that jewel.