Chapter 30
The Queen of Darkness
The next day Max didn't keep the cover pages of the newspapers. Although he studied them alone in his room a good while before throwing them out. What would the use of keeping them have been?
Scrap booking as a form of torture.
One photographic showed the Leith Flyer storming triumphantly through Central Station. It was an impressive piece in itself, all steam and movement and fury. In the other paper, Max hadn't really noticed which, the locomotive was draped in streamers and Harriet was again lifted up and carried about on cheering people’s shoulders. Max tried to tell himself that it was only news, interesting news, but in the end only news. It didn't affect him at all. Even if he had still been interested in her, which he wasn't, she was, as in the photo, carried away by other people.
Other photos showed Premier Vogel and Patriarch McClintock presiding over a hand shake between the patron Jeremiah Lavisham and the victor Coval Leith. At Lavisham's back was Gilbert, his son, and at Leith's, Harriet, his daughter. Hector, the Uncle, grim faced, stood to the side. It occurred to Max only now that Hector must be Coval's own brother. He had assumed the title that Harriet had inferred on him was only one of familiarity or endearment. But studying the pictures now, the family resemblance was unmistakable.
There was another photo of Leith Engineering Ltd employees hanging off their Flyer, pints of ale in their hands and celebratory cigars stuffed in their mouths. Someone had written 'Collingwood - Westport – Collingwood 3.11' on the side in white chalk. One worker had his pet dog along, but the excited animal hadn't stayed still during the exposure and appeared in the graphic only as a black and white blur beneath his owner’s hand.
The Dominion Press ran a picture of Harriet and Hector, smiling with blackened faces and white marks where their goggles had been. The Murderer's Bay Argus ran the same shot, but in theirs both engineers had cigars in the corners of their mouths and Harriet was laughing, her eyes sparkling with joy. Most unladylike.
The facts in the text were all well known to Max and almost everyone else in the Dominion. Leith Engineering Ltd had secured the Coast & Main Railway contract to provide an express locomotive for the soon to be completed Collingwood to Dunedin Main Trunk Line, by winning the locomotive time trial to Westport and back with the fastest total time of three hours eleven minutes. The Murderer's Bay Argus finished its coverage; thus, So it is with renewed excitement and heightened expectation that we await what Miss Leith will engineer for our entertainment at the first, upcoming, League of Robot Wars.
With his Father and Dickie away stalking giant eagles in South-Westland, Max spent his evenings in his books or with his Mother, at times practising the dance steps she had been teaching him. Gerald turned up on occasion, for dinner, and would stay to play checkers and chess with Max into the evening. They didn't talk much but enjoyed companionable silence and the sound of their Mother's needles clicking away in the corner of the room.
* * *
Bowler hat pushed forward and with easy strides Max Skilton passed under a stone arch and crossed one of Victoria University's many paved courtyards. He was making his way to the Gymnasium and sparring practice with Julian Roil.
It was a little over a week since the locomotive race. But still he was watchful, appearing relaxed, but quickly scanning the faces of those around him. Out alone he didn't want to bump into The Five or Ginger and Co. Although he wouldn't admit it, he felt a little vulnerable without Wang and Wiremu with him.
His passion for the craft of fencing was as strong as ever, and while it was still a long time away, he was committed to being selected for the team to travel to Port Louis-Philippe, for the fencing tournament with the French.
Upon entering the Gymnasium and changing into his practice garb, he paused for a moment at the Salle door, puzzled by the unexpected sound of the rhythms of practice combat coming from within. Then after double checking the time on his fob, and confident that he had the time right, he pushed open the door and went in.
Julian Roil, with mask covering his face, fought facing toward Max, but all his attention was given to his adversary, who engaged him with a fast, flowing style that at times left the eye struggling to keep up. This fighter, whose back was to Max, wore a long charcoal dress that touched the ground. Her black hair was drawn back behind her head, her face also covered with a dark mask. She fought from a standstill, fist balled in the small of her corseted back and chin up. She turned aside everything that Julian tried.
In a short time Roil noticed Max and stepping back, bowed to his partner. She returned his salute and sheathed her sabre. It was only then that Max saw that they had been practising with naked steel. Roil removed his mask and smiled in greeting, but the woman, her own mask still in place, turned and walking past Max, left the room.
As she went, Max felt her hidden eyes flash across his face, and glimpsed red painted lips behind the protective mesh. He nodded his head and mumbled something in greeting, but she did not pause. His pulse quickened and he heard his heart beating loud in his ears, and found it, for a moment, hard to swallow. The door clicked shut behind her.
Julian looked uncomfortable, maybe apologetic, as he put aside his weapon.
“The Lady Rowan,” he said, in proxy introduction and explanation. As if the name accounted for the sudden departure.
“I believe we have met before,” replied Max, glancing at the closed door and recalling the time the Goths had come to his aid after the fight with Ginger and his cronies.
“Indeed,” remarked Roil, but Max couldn't tell if it was confirmation or question.
“Shall we?” he asked, shrugging away his confusion, and retrieving a practice sabre for himself.
An hour later the pair finished their energetic sparring. While they packed up, the Goth asked;
“At your birthday, that Marino fellow, Wiremu isn't it..”
“Yes.”
“...he gave you a box of a hundred black handkerchiefs.”
Max nodded, placing his sabre back in its barrel, suddenly wary. The black kerchiefs were one of the few things that could link the three of them to the actions of the Murderer's Bay Musketeers.
“Why?”
“Good question. I only asked for one.”
“Yes, I understood that fact from the evening’s conversation. But why? There must be a reason for such specifics.”
Do you think I'm becoming a Goth, beginning with the procurement of black hankies? Max pondered for a moment, checking if there was really anything to lose in telling Julian Roil the truth. A little of my stupid pride.
He decided to risk it. For one day, he reasoned, he might well need the same kind of honesty back from Julian Roil.
“For the sake of my pride and a small protest. I'm ashamed to admit,” he answered, coming at once out of his introspection.
“I don't understand. A protest against what?”
“Then I'll enlighten you.” Max gave a sigh. “Against Captain Von Tempsky, I guess.”
“Von Tempsky! Why? You are practically his favoured student. Teachers Pe...”
Max cleared his throat in warning and broke Roil off.
“Sorry. Forgive me. It is true that he has paid you little attention since that first day when you defeated Gilbert Lavisham.”
“I didn't defeat Lavisham.”
“No, true. You shamed him, which is better, and worse. Depending how you look at it.”
Max nodded. They had finished clearing away their practice gear.
“That, essentially, is the nub of my protest and the offence to my pride. Von Tempsky has ignored me.”
“What! Did you want to be teacher’s pet!?”
“Not at all. Judge me as you will, I'm at your mercy, but here are the guts of it. I asked for a black kerchief because the good Captain has given a white one to almost everyone else in the class!”
Roil stared at him for a long moment, blinking a couple of times. Then burst out laughing.
“What?” wined Max, as Roil, deep in mirth, gripped him behind the neck and escorted him good naturedly down the panelled corridor to the Gymnasium's main door.
“He never gave me one,” gasped Julian. Max had never seen any Goth looking anything like half as amused as Julian was now. “And I'm glad of it! Honestly do you not know what the white kerchief's meant? I won't tell a soul.”
Max shook his head. He could feel the colour beginning to rise in his checks. Thankfully Julian had himself quickly under control again.
“You must be the only one in the class who missed the point... and the message was most likely intended for you, my friend.”
Max scowled at the Goth.
“Out with it then!”
“Oh dear,” said Roil shaking his head and wiping away a last tear. “My dear boy, the parts of Von Tempsky's handkerchief were intended as silk bandages! They were for those, whom the Captain considered, were most likely to receive wounds during practice!”
They were outside now, and Max found the paving stone beneath his feet suddenly very fascinating. Roil continued.
“And to think you wanted one! These last months you have been feeling sore and left out because you didn't get one! I'm sorry but that is almost too much.”
“Oh alright!” snapped Max, the heat moving up to the tops of his ears.
Have I been such a fool?
“Again I'm sorry. I'm sure you can see the irony. But remind me again on whom he did bestow these dubious charms?”
Max sighed.
“Gilbert Lavisham, Sampson Rumbold, and two of the Northerner's; Kingi and Ihaka.”
“And you wished to be listed amongst this august gathering?!” Max didn't answer. He had.
“I would say,” Roil went on. “That Von Tempsky has, on the contrary, listed for you and anyone else who was paying attention, your chief adversaries.”
“My adversaries...”
“Was he right?”
He was and you know it.
“...why would he do that?”
And why didn't I see it. What else have I missed?
The Goth was quiet for a moment then and the pair walked on though the University court yards in silence.
“Because Max, the Captain has an interest in the unfolding of coming events and in the players caught up in them.”
“What?” asked Max, stopping to regard his sparring partner. “I mean; I beg your pardon? What are you talking about.”
“I'm sorry Max, there is no time now, I must get to my next class.”
“Oh that's just great! When then?”
Roil was walking away now.
“You will be told when you need to know.” Now Max was totally confused. He had the presence of mind to realise that confusion was at least a step better than his very recent feelings of embarrassment. “And it isn't my job to tell you,” called Roil, before disappearing down the same alleyway in which Max had once stood his ground in silent, momentary confrontation of Harriet Leith.
* * *
“As I've said,” remarked Wang. “I won't be going.”
“But it is by invitation... there is no ticket cost,” responded Max.
“I'm well aware of that, Max. But everything has a cost. Besides I have more important things to do than prance around with a bunch of Goths.”
“Such as?” Max didn't like the way Wang had just framed the Bal Masquerade.
“Such as... say midyear exams... say literally digging Jo Foo and myself out of ruin!”
“I think you could do with a break.”
“I think I could do with a break too. But it is simply a luxury that I cannot afford.”
“And here is another luxury that we cannot afford,” said Wiremu, folding the copy of the Murderer's Bay Argus that he had just been reading and laying it on the stone step between himself and Max. Max looked to where his friend's brown finger was tapping a boxed advertisement. The machine print read;
- Dominion League of Robot Wars -
- Inaugural Match – Tickets On Sale Now! -
Five Pound from all the usual outlets.
“Five pounds!” groaned Max. “I would offer to shout you two... but five pound! I'll find it hard going scraping together enough for one ticket.”
“Guess they can charge what they like,” sniffed Wiremu dismissively. “The interest in the whole thing appears to be running pretty high.”
Max felt a familiar bitterness in his belly.
Yet again, her league is out of my league.
Smack!
Max barked some foul word, half in pain, half in sudden anger. He'd been kicked in the back! Kicked, thankfully not on the spine, but still painfully in the flank, by students who suddenly raced between and past the seated friends and down the steps,. Wiremu had received a blow to the back of his head with a library book! No one had touched Wang.
Ginger Rumbold, Linton Conroy, the wiry Tancred Raxworthy, and two other Classical Architects now stood in the quad, with arms folded over chests or hands on hips, looking back up at their victims.
“What's the matter Skilton,” spat Ginger, his face contorted with a strange mix of emotions. “Can't afford to go to the big show? Have to sit at home, all alone, playing with one of Daddy's chickens?” The architects all laughed at this.
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Max squinted back at Ginger, choosing not to gratify him with an answer. Instead, he studied him, trying to read his motivations, as they warred for expression or suppression across his freckly face. Anger, Pride, Violence, Self-assurance, Self-doubt, Fear...
Max snorted when he read the fear in Ginger's eyes.
Playing brave is it? Worried you'll get a repeat of last time?
Max wondered if Ginger had spent the last few months nursing his bruised pride and rebuilding his courage, and if what they were seeing now was the end result of that vigil. Solomon Rumbold tried again.
“Spent up all your money on your charity work...” a nod at both Wang and Wiremu... “...with the minority groups have you?” Again, the supporters all laughed freely. Max felt a little warning at that.
They all laughed freely.
None of them had looked sideways at Ginger, as if he had gone too far. Not one of them looked uncomfortable, as if he was there under compulsion.
They all think this is great. Each one is as prejudiced as the next.
This observation made Max consider, for the first time, that maybe the School of Classical Architecture, or at least elements within it, might just be a force to be reckoned with.
Even a gang of Crackers could be dangerous.
“This time your little Gothic guardian angels are all in class too.”
Max sighed and stood. Part of him really did want to fight Rumbold… to release the frustration of the last few days in a hectic spasm of ill-conceived violence. But he was too aware of the Chancellor’s warmings to flail forward with his fists.
Instead he extended a hand down to Wang, helping him to his feet.
“Mr Wang,” he began, so that all could hear. “Wiremu and I have some books to return to the library, and our presence here does make the coming match a little... how should we say? Unsporting. If we have your leave, we shall retire.”
“Of course,” replied Wang, fixing his eyes on the five young architects.
“First a couple of things,” continued Max. “That one has a pair of spectacles that would have cost his dear parents a pretty penny. It would not be charitable to break those.”
Wang nodded, removing his own glasses and at the same time eyeing the spectacled foe, who seemed to swallow self-consciously and take half a step back.
“Letting your monkey fight your battles again Skilton!?” taunted Ginger. Max held up his hand to silence him, and for some reason the action had the desired effect.
“Mr Wang is entirely his own man, Master Rumbold. He will deal with you as he sees fit. But... let me ask you, are you religious chaps? Greek influenced I guess. Zeus then? Take a moment to offer up your partitions. Or might I recommend a Roman? Mars? God of War wasn't he? Much more fitting. Although I doubt even he will be fast enough to save you from Mr Wang, known throughout The East as; The Chinese Tiger!”
Ginger scoffed at this. He hadn't actually been hurt last time around. But a couple of the others didn't look so sure any more.
“Now Mr Wang,” announced Max, placing a steadying hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You know how much I love the architecture of our university. I would hate to think that you would use any of these fellow’s bodies to... say... crack a flag stone or break an arch.” Then waggling a finger in front of his friends face he warned; “We shall pass back this way shortly and I don't want to find any stonework out of place.”
Wang, who had been playing his part perfectly by starting to puff air in and out of his cheeks, though clenched teeth and making his eyes go large and round, suddenly shouted;
“Must break! Must crack!”
“No Mr Wang!” cautioned Max, steadying his apparently crazed friend with his arms. “Only their bones and vital organs.” He jabbed at the five architects with his finger.
“Crack bones, break organs. Pop!” chanted Wang, taking a menacing step forward. The architects all stepped back as one.
“No Mr Wang!” barked Max. “You must wait until Wiremu and myself have departed, or they shall claim we helped you.”
Wang nodded once, not taking his eyes from his intended victims, and flexing his fingers like claws. Max and Wiremu turned and headed up the stairs. At the top of the short flight Max turned and called back; “On our return we shall bring with us a mop and bucket of water for the blood. So feel free to spread it around! Good afternoon gentlemen.”
And with that they strolled away.
“I hope it works,” said Wiremu, as they walked.
“Oh it will,” responded Max. “It will. Either way.” He wasn’t sure, for all he knew The Classics hid knuckle dusters in their pockets. But he could see no other choice.
Wang rejoined them in The Canteen, five minutes later.
“As it turns out, they, not unlike their Gothic friends, also had classes needing attendance. It did seem that they had temporarily forgotten, but quickly came into a sudden timetabling remembrance,” he reflected, sitting himself down and casually adjusting his spectacles.
* * *
“Are you going?” Max asked Dickie, as the young inventor worked beneath some strange iron 'boiler' or 'condenser' or... Max didn't really know what. It was a common configuration for their conversations; Max standing at the shed door, late in the evening, Dickie tinkering on some construct, while they talked.
For Dickie, it seemed, there was never enough time in the day; if he wasn't inventing he was studying, if not study, then birds, and if not them, then inventing again. Not that Max recalled ever seeing many of his 'inventions' in complete and fully functioning form.
“Going to which? The Gothic Ball? Haven't given it much thought," he sniffed dismissively. "The Robot War? Definitely!”
“You know that it is five pounds to get in?”
“I had heard that. Worth it, I'd say.”
Max could afford the entry fee, it would make a good dent in his allowance, but he would much rather miss the cash than the battle. His only problem, and it was a major one, was that he hardly felt like going without his friends. For to do so would be hugely cruel. Not that either of them would say so, nor deny him the chance to attend without them.
Max felt bitter at having another illustration of the friends’ social differences played out before him. The root of the frustration was that in so many ways these things didn't matter, they were just good friends, economics never came into it.
Well maybe not for me, at least. I'm most likely blind to how they experience the differences.
Max knew that Wiremu was putting every cent of his 'cowshed money’ into his following years course fees. And Wang, who was also 'paid up' for the current year from whatever gold he and Jo Foo had managed to accumulate over the years, needed every spare coin to support his ailing Grandfather. For him, saving for the 1879 academic year was simply out of the question.
“It is bitter for me,” Max concluded. Voicing the turn that his excitement about the upcoming Robot War had taken.
“I understand,” stated Dickie, tapping away at some stubborn rivet inside the metal shell. “Yet not relishing the chance to see Miss Leith in action again?”
“That too has a sour taste.”
“Still?”
“Still, of course!" shot Max, not wanting to be drawn into this subject. "She does not inhabit the same universe as me,” he concluded, with what he hoped was a tone of finality.
“No. But to let her sink past you, then down to Gilbert Lavisham's level. Tis a tragedy.”
“Tis her own choice. Shall we speak of something else? How was your eagle hunting expedition?”
“Profitable," replied Dickie, apparently contend to finish nettling Max over Harriet. "Von Haast paid me a fair wage, thus my ticket to the robots. Although largely uneventful, as I'm sure your Father has told you.”
He had. The team had spent an unremarkable three weeks in the mountains and forests of South-Westland and Fiordland, returning two days prior. They had found more giant eagle bones in caves and at the bottom of deep holes. Wild Moa had also been seen feeding at the forest edge on several occasions, indicating that the eagles, if present, had a ready food source available. The few Māori that they had come across had reassured them that the birds were about. But that they seldom hunted in the open sky, preferring instead to launch themselves from high trees or cliff tops, swooping down from above to crush their prey into the dirt.
“We will go back in the spring for another look,” concluded Dickie.
* * *
As the term drew to a close, early autumn rain, like an over-eager cleaner, began washing the walls and cobbles of the capital city. Within Victoria University the leaves on the English oaks planted about the campus started to turn sick brown colours and drop to the earth. The groundsman taking up his rake and his annual rant against the short-sightedness of the institution’s occidental founders, moved them into piles.
Classes finished with small tests and the handing in and out of assignments. Those who lived in the other towns and cities of the Dominion began to prepare for their homeward journeys. Unless, of course, they had chosen to remain, forfeiting the full two-week break, for attendance at the Robot War or the Bal Masquerade, or maybe both. Those who had taken Māori Studies would also be staying in the Capital, ready to board the Lady Barkly, first thing Sunday morning, for the historic voyage across to Wanganui, on the Northern Isle.
Max had decided, after much agonising, that he would in fact not be present at the inaugural match of The Dominion League of Robot Wars, in the middle weekend of the holidays, but instead would focus on getting ready for the field trip to the Northern Isle the following week and enjoying the Gothic Bal Masqueradge the night before. His bloody-minded nobility shocked even him.
However, all his self-sacrifice and thoughtfulness, almost turned out to be a complete waste of time and emotional energy. Almost, but not completely, for in the end Wiremu and Wang still counted it to him as a mark of character.
* * *
“Look what I have here,” said Wiremu, slapping a simple printed envelope down on the table between Wang and Max. Their carriage rocked a little as it crossed a set of points in Addingtown Yard. Wiremu took a seat next to Wang, as Max squinted at the Machine Print on the envelope; 'Bill Marino'.
“Who is Bill?” asked Wang.
“Exactly what Mrs Atkin asked when sorting the mail into our Canteen lockers this afternoon. But Bill is me!”
Wang looked confused.
“Bill, William, Wiremu,” expounded Wiremu, as way of explanation.
“From the German; Wil Helm, meaning protecting helmet,” said Max, nodding to his head in thought. “Interesting. Wiremu. I always thought it meant 'little tree,' as in Wee Rimu.”
“Thank you friend,” said Wiremu, ignoring Max's attempt at humour and scooping up the envelope again. “Not half as interesting as who it is from.”
“And who might that be?”
Wiremu spun the envelope in his fingers and held it up so that his two friends could read the senders stamp on the back; 'Leith Engineering Ltd'. That made Max's heart miss a beat.
“Are you going to open it?” he asked, faking nonchalance and looking out the window, only to find the buildings of said engineering company slipping past.
“No I thought I would return it to sender” responded Wiremu casually.
“Yes I deserved that,” conceded Max, still fighting to appear disinterested.
Wiremu worked the sealing gum open with his thumb and in a moment was holding in his hand four slips of paper, the first being a hand written note that simply read; Kindest Regards.
“Well?” inquired Wang.
Wiremu, with a sly smile spreading across his face, lifted up three red tickets, each entitled:
'The Dominion League of Robot Wars'.
Max flopped back in his seat and stared, disbelieving, at the fan of cards in Wiremu's hand.
“It looks like we have a sponsor,” said Wiremu, handing the other two a ticket each and tucking his own safely away in his waistcoat. Max took his and studied it closely.
GOOD FOR ONE ENTRY
to
THE 1ST EVER
DOMINION LEAGUE OF ROBOT WARS
BATTLE ROYALE
9 of the clock. Friday 5 of July 1878.
THE IRON ARENA
Cochrane Street. Newtown. Capital City.
“Yes, but who?” asked Wang. “I mean who do we thank? It's not a mistake, is it? Or a joke?”
“Would be a cruel joke,” replied Wiremu, watching Max, who was slowly returning to them from his close examination of the print work.
“And what does it mean?” he said at last, fanning his face with the ticket and looking off out the window, deep in thought.
“It means,” said Wiremu, slapping Max on the knee. “That all your fawning after Harriet Leith hasn't been totally wasted, and we are going to the...” a quick check of Max's ticket “...the Battle Royale!”
Max couldn't help but smile at their sudden and unexpected change in fortune. The joy at their new course transformed the ride home and they talked and joked all the way like the good friends they were. But Max knew that later that night, when he had the time, he would have some deep thinking to do.
Who had sent the tickets? And why? If they were in fact from Harriet why were they sent to Wiremu, Bill even? And not directly to Max? Why no note of explanation? What did it mean?
However exactly one-week later Max was no closer to a real answer. In its absence the conclusion he had drawn, more an assumption than any solid reasoning, was that Leith Engineering must have been given a supply of complementary tickets to disperse. That they must have then seen fit to gift some of these tickets to the grandson of the former Chief, or the only South Island Māori at Victoria University, whichever claim to fame that had given Wiremu notoriety in their eyes.
The use of the name 'Bill' would have arisen from a mechanical printing 'computator' being tasked with producing the envelopes but becoming stumped by the name 'Wiremu' and Anglo-sizing it, most likely with an operator’s assistance, to 'Bill'.
Max had shared his hypothesis with the other two, and as nether of them had come up with a better explanation, Max's one was generally excepted. Although not over-analysed.
More important things were afoot.