Scott Westerfeld - Leviathan

ONE

The Austrian horses glinted in the moonlight, their riders standing tall in the saddle, swords raised. Behind them two ranks of diesel-powered walking machines stood ready to fire, cannon aimed over the heads of the cavalry. A zeppelin scouted no-mans-land at the center of the battlefield, its metal skin sparkling.
The French and British infantry crouched behind their fortificationsa letter opener, an ink jar, and a line of fountain pensknowing they stood no chance against the might of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. But a row of Darwinist monsters loomed behind them, ready to devour any who dared retreat.
The attack had almost begun when Prince Aleksandar thought he heard someone outside his door .
He took a guilty step toward his bedthen froze in place, listening hard. Trees stirred in a soft breeze outside, but otherwise the night was silent. Mother and Father were in Sarajevo, after all. The servants wouldnt dare disturb his sleep.

Alek turned back to his desk and began to move the cavalry forward, grinning as the battle neared its climax. The Austrian walkers had completed their bombardment, and it was time for the tin horses to finish off the woefully outnumbered French. It had taken all night to set up the attack, using an imperial tactics manual borrowed from Fathers study.
It seemed only fair that Alek have some fun while his parents were off watching military maneuvers. Hed begged to be taken along, to see the mustered ranks of soldiers striding past in real life, to feel the rumble of massed fighting machines through the soles of his boots.
It was Mother, of course, who had forbidden ithis studies were more important than parades, as she called them. She didnt understand that military exercises had more to teach him than musty old tutors and their books. One day soon Alek might be piloting one of those machines.
War was coming, after all. Everyone said so.
The last tin cavalry unit had just crashed into the French lines when the soft sound came from the hallway again: jingling, like a ring of keys.
Alek turned, peering at the gap beneath his bed chambers double doors. Shadows shifted along the sliver of moonlight, and he heard the hiss of whispers.
Someone was right outside.
Silent in bare feet, he swiftly crossed the cold marble floor, sliding into bed just as the door creaked open. Alek narrowed his eyes to a slit, wondering which of the servants was checking on him.
Moonlight spilled into the room, making the tin soldiers on his desk glitter. Someone slipped inside, graceful and dead silent. The figure paused, staring at Alek for a moment, then crept toward his dresser. Alek heard the wooden rasp of a drawer sliding open.
His heart raced. None of the servants would dare steal from him!
But what if the intruder were something worse than a thief? His fathers warnings echoed in his ears .
You have had enemies from the day you were born.
A bell cord hung next to his bed, but his parents rooms were empty. With Father and his bodyguard in Sarajevo, the closest sentries were quartered at the other end of the trophy hall, fifty meters away.
Alek slid one hand under his pillow, until his fingers touched the cold steel of his hunting knife. He lay there holding his breath, grasping the handle tightly, repeating to himself his fathers other watchword.
Surprise is more valuable than strength.
Another figure came through the door then, boots clomping, a piloting jackets metal clips jingling like keys on a ring. The figure tromped straight toward his bed.
Young master! Wake up!
Alek let go of the knife, expelling a sigh of relief. It was just old Otto Klopp, his master of mechaniks.
The first figure began rifling through the dresser, pulling at clothes.
The young prince has been awake all along, Wildcount Volgers low voice said. A bit of advice, Your Highness? When pretending to be asleep, it is advisable not to hold ones breath.
Alek sat up and scowled. His fencing master had an annoying knack for seeing through deception.
Whats the meaning of this?
Youre to come with us, young master, Otto mumbled, studying the marble floor. The archdukes orders.
My father? Hes back already?
He left instructions, Count Volger said with the same infuriating tone he used during fencing lessons. He tossed a pair of Aleks trousers and a piloting jacket onto the bed.
Alek stared at them, half outraged and half confused.
Like young Mozart, Otto said softly. In the arch-dukes stories.
Alek frowned, remembering Fathers favorite tales about the great composers upbringing. Supposedly Mozarts tutors would wake him in the middle of the night, when his mind was raw and defenseless, and thrust musical lessons upon him. It all sounded rather disrespectful to Alek.
He reached for the trousers. Youre going to make me compose a fugue ?