Empire of Ruins by Arthur Slade

integral part of our Association.”
    Was Mr. Socrates actually complimenting him now? The Permanent Association included some of the most powerful people in all of Britannia. Or was the compliment just part of the ruse?
    “I would appreciate your report, Miss Milkweed,” Mr. Socrates said.
    “First off,” she said, “sir, in the future, could you indicate in your instructions that my life may be at risk?”
    “But that should be presumed. Stop delaying and tell us what you found.”
    “Well, Dr. Livingstone is still dead.” Octavia scratched the back of her neck.
    “One would expect such, since he has been dead for nearly a year, not to mention the fact that he was missing his heart.”
    “He was?” Modo said, imagining the gruesome dissection.
    “Ah, didn’t you read that in the papers, Dr. Reeve? When he died in Africa the tribe he’d been staying with at first refused to give up his body. After some persuasion, his two servants carried it in a coffin for nine months, to a port. The authorities there opened the coffin to discover that his heart had been cut out by his tribe. A note had been tucked under his arm. It said, ‘You can have his body, but his heart belongs in Africa.’ Apparently, they buried his heart under a mvula tree.”
    “How savage!” Octavia said.
    Mr. Socrates shrugged. “I prefer to think of it as noble. Livingstone himself would have approved, I am sure. Besides, we so-called civilized people have even more savage rituals. Have you ever seen a man hanged? It’s only education and upbringing that differentiate them from us. And a bit of English blood.” He laughed. “Enough of that. What did you discover, Octavia?”
    “Well,” she said, “I waited until the mourners were gone, and then a man with an Australian accent approached me. He gave me a document.” She slid the envelope across to Mr. Socrates. “Oh, and then he died.” She threw anenvelope stuffed with cash on the table. “So I retrieved his payment.”
    Mr. Socrates pocketed the envelope. “Good work. Please explain his manner of death.”
    “Three mechanical birds attacked him.”
    “Mechanical birds?” Modo exclaimed. “But that sounds like the Clockwork Guild!”
    “Ah, you know of the Guild,” she said. “You really must be a trusted member of the Association. These birds seemed to have poison on their beaks, or their talons perhaps, for the Australian died immediately after having been scratched by one, even though his wounds weren’t deep.” She scratched her neck again.
    “It takes some skill to procure and administer contact poison,” Mr. Socrates observed. “Please continue.”
    “Well, a man was observing the attack from the balcony. He was waving his arms and seemed to be controlling the birds. I won’t bore you with details about how I escaped and left my mechanical feathered friends behind. I changed cabs twice to be certain no one followed me.”
    “Good work!” Modo said, now completely out of character.
    Octavia gave him an odd look. “There’s something familiar about you, Dr. Reeve. Is there any chance we’ve met before?”
    “Uh, I don’t believe so.”
    “But we have. I’m growing more certain of it. I’ve heard your voice before. And there’s something about your eyes.”
    “I have never met you, Miss Milkweed,” he said, trying to deepen his voice.
    Mr. Socrates waved his hand. “The charade is over, Modo. Obviously your acting needs more work. My boy, you must be a consummate actor, especially around people who know you.”
    “Modo?” Octavia glared at him. “So this is another of your faces? And it was all a lark on Miss Milkweed, was it?”
    “Not a lark,” Modo said, stunned. This was not at all how he’d pictured their reunion.
    “What was it then, clever-pants?” she replied.
    “It wasn’t anything. It wasn’t!”
    “Enough!” Mr. Socrates pronounced. “It was only a minor test for both of you.”
    “Well, I …” Octavia lifted her hand, and