“It keeps happening,” the king's agent said. “They bloom right in front of me, in an instant.”
“It's impossible, Richard. How can they grow so fast? Have the Eugenicists made them?”
“Howis one thing, Bertie, but I'm more interested in why!”
They watched as the flowers opened, a long line of them, snaking unevenly into the haze.
“North,” Burton muttered. “Bertie, I want to follow them.”
“It will take us straight into the German trenches. If the Hun doesn't do for us, the lurchers will.”
“Maybe.”
Wells reached down and unclipped the sheath containing his rifle. He took his pistol from its holster, checked that it was fully loaded, then slipped it back into place. He looked at Burton, smiled, and, in his high-pitched squeaky voice, said, “Well then: in for a penny, in for a pound!”
The two harvestmen scurried northward, following the line of red flowers, and disappeared into the mist.
“What the devil are you playing at?” William Trounce roared. “You nearly gave me a bloody heart attack!”
Herbert Spencer lowered the pistol, which, when he'd pulled the trigger, had done nothing.
“Herbert! Explain yourself!” Burton demanded.
“I'm sorry, William,” Spencer said. “I didn't mean to scare you.”
“How in blue blazes can shooting at a man's head not scare him, you tin-headed dolt?”
“But I didn't shoot, an' that's the point.”
“Not for want of trying! I clearly saw you squeeze the trigger!”
“So did I,” Swinburne added. He'd drawn his own weapon and was pointing it uncertainly at the philosopher.
“Yus, an'-as I expected-nothin' bloomin' well happened, did it!”
Burton paced forward and snatched the gun out of Spencer's hand. “As you expected? What are you talking about?”
“When we stepped onto this rock, Boss, I felt every spring in me body go slack. We've entered the Eye of Naga's area of influence. None o' the guns will work now. Nor will any other mechanical device. Henry Morton Stanley couldn't fly his rotorchairs any farther than this. You'll remember they was found by Arabs, an' they weren't functionin' at all.”
Swinburne directed his gun at the sky and squeezed the trigger. It felt loose under his finger. The weapon didn't fire.
Trounce scowled. “Firstly, Spencer, there was no need for a bloody demonstration, especially one that involved me! You've been fitted with voice apparatus-ruddy well use it! Secondly, why are you still standing?”
Burton answered before Spencer could. “We encountered this same emanation when we went after the South American Eye. The fact that Herbert's mind is embedded in the Cambodian stones gives him the ability to neutralise it.”
“I say, Herbert!” Swinburne exclaimed. “If you radiate an opposing force, could you cast it wide enough to make our guns work? It would give us one up on the Prussians!”
“Perhaps a gun I was holdin' meself,” Spencer replied.
“By thunder!” Trounce yelled furiously. “You see! What if your magic rays, or whatever they are, had worked on the pistol in your hand? You'd have blown my bloody head off!”
“All right, all right,” Burton growled impatiently. “Let's leave it be. But if you ever pull a stunt like that again, Herbert, I'll throw your key into the middle of the Ukerewe Lake.”
“I'm sorry, Boss.”
Leading the horses, they moved to the edge of the rock, which the jungle overhung, and settled in the shade. The trees around them were crowded with blue monkeys that had fallen silent when the men appeared but which now took up their distinctive and piercing cries again- Pee-oww! Pee-oww! — and began to pelt the group with fruit and sticks. Sidi Bombay shouted and waved his arms but the tormentors took no notice.
“Confound the little monsters!” Trounce grumbled. “We'll not get any peace here!”
Swinburne removed the dressings from the detective's legs and applied fresh poultices. He checked the wound on his friend's arm. It was red and puckered but the infection had disappeared.
They abandoned the clearing and plunged back into the jungle, the men trailing behind Spencer as he swiped his machete back and forth, clearing the route. Pox and Malady had elected to sit on one of the horse's saddles rather than in their habitual position on the clockwork philosopher's head, causing Swinburne to wonder whether Spencer had fallen out of favour with the two parakeets as well.
The poet struggled with his thoughts. Hadn't he noticed something about the brass man's philosophical treatise back in Ugogi? Something unusual? What was it? Why couldn't he remember? Why was a part of him feeling ambivalent about Spencer? It didn't make sense-Herbert was a fine fellow!
Moving to Burton's side, he opened his mouth to ask if the explorer shared his misgivings. Instead, he found himself saying, “It's awfully humid, just like in the coast regions.”
“Humph!” Burton replied, by way of agreement.
It was near sundown by the time they stumbled wearily out of the vegetation. They were at the base of a hill, with a wide, clear, and shallow stream crossing their path.
The horses drank greedily. One of them collapsed.
“It's done for, poor thing,” Trounce said. “I'd put a bullet through its brain if I could. It's the proper thing to do.”
“If our guns worked,” Burton responded, “that would alert Speke to our presence.”
“Allow me,” said Spencer, limping over to the stricken animal. He bent, took its head in his hands, and twisted it with all his mechanical might. The horse's neck popped. It kicked and died.
They moved half a mile upstream, washed, ate, and set up camp.
Burton spoke to Pox: “Message for Isabel Arundell. Please report. Message ends. Go.”
Pox blew a raspberry, took to the air, and disappeared over the jungle.
“Weasel thief!” Malady screeched, and flew after his mate.
The men sat quietly for a little while then entered the tent and almost immediately fell into a deep slumber.
Dawn came, and so did a warning from their clockwork sentry: “Rouse yourselves, gents! Twenty men approachin' an' they don't look very cheerful!”
Burton, Swinburne, and Trounce crawled into the open and rubbed the sleep from their eyes. They found Spencer and Bombay watching a gang of men, some way off, marching toward them. Their hair was fashioned into multiple spikes and held in place with red mud, their faces striped with ridged scars, their noses adorned with copper rings, and their shadows stretched across the golden hillside. They were armed with spears and held long oval shields.
“Wow! They are Wanyambo,” Sidi Bombay advised. “A peaceful people.”
“Not if their expressions are anything to go by,” Burton observed. “Do you speak their language, Bombay?”
“Yes. I shall talk with them.” The African set off to greet the newcomers, braving their scowls and brandished weapons. Burton and his friends watched as an argument commenced, gradually cooled to a heated debate, then settled into a passionate discussion, and, finally, became a long conversation.
Bombay returned. “Wow! These fine warriors are from the village of Kisaho. They say the muzungo mbayaarrived at Kufro, which is nearby, and took all the food and weapons from the people. Wow! The jungle moved among them and killed nine men.”
“The Prussian plant vehicle!” Burton murmured.
“And a mighty wizard took the chief by the neck and turned him into a tree which killed three more villagers by sucking out their blood. The men had to burn it to kill it.” Bombay gestured back toward the Wanyambo. “These from Kisaho came to fight you but I told them that, although you are ugly and strange, you are an enemy of the wizard and you have come to punish the wicked white men. They will help.”
“Tell them we will be honoured if they join us. Ask them to send a man running ahead to inform the villages that we are approaching, and that we are here to avenge the dead.”
This was done, and the Britishers packed their tent and set off up the hill, following the warriors over its brow and down into the forested valley beyond.