The Clockwork Crown

by Beth Cato

  I can’t wait here for Alonzo. The realization physically pained her. What she wouldn’t give for his solid presence right now.

  “Where am I supposed to go, then?” Tears softened Rivka’s eyes.

  “The southern nations. Your grandmother is there, as well as your aunt and a new baby. Mrs. Stout would be delighted to have you there.”

  “I . . . She saw me here at the bakery, but we didn’t know . . . She might not . . .”

  King Kethan crossed to Rivka and tapped her chin to force her head up. “Show no shame. ’Tis not deserved.” She granted him a little nod and a shy smile.

  “Mrs. Stout won’t care. She’s as fierce as a threem. She’ll take care of you—­no one will dare give you grief with her around. I can buy your passage south.”

  “He . . . he carried money on him, too. I bet there’s more hidden in his room,” said Rivka.

  Pain sparked through the marrow of Octavia’s arms. She froze, breathing through the pain as in her Al Cala. The change is deeper than my skin. She rubbed at her arms as the agony faded, even as she felt the itchiness along her calves.

  “We need to go,” said Octavia, surprised at her own voice. She actually sounded calm.

  “ ’TIS THE SAME, yet so different,” murmured King Kethan. He stood at the iron railing along a tower roof overlooking his old domain.

  Octavia felt the weight of the night on her like God’s fist. The palace, the King, the death of Devin Stout. All she knew now was that they had to keep on moving until daylight, when they could escape the city. Escape . . . to the Waste. Such an incomprehensible thought.

  Rivka had given them directions to catwalks on high that were not restricted by curfews. The tramways would be shut for a few hours yet, but from here Octavia could see the track and the hop-­skip of the trestles through and around buildings, all cast in the eerie light of glowstones. Windows gleamed like cat eyes in the blackness.

  Trash littered the rooftop. Bottles, mostly, as broken as the men who drank from them. No one was sleeping on the roof tonight, but she couldn’t afford to let down her guard. She shivered at the memory of the train ride to Tamarania—­the feral glints in the women’s eyes, the way they hacked apart her medician blanket. Thank the Lady that the circle shielded her.

  The medician blanket.

  Octavia fluffed out the damaged blanket. “Grandfather? Come and sit in the circle, please.”

  His stride was stronger than before; the food had done obvious good. He carried one of Mr. Stout’s knives at his waist and had told her he’d spent many hours practicing the movements of the Five Stars while in the vault. In his youth, he had been known for his athleticism and horsemanship. Such skills could only help them now.

  “Medicians attempted to treat me many years ago, to no avail.”

  “I’m not going to treat you. I have something else in mind.”

  King Kethan sat in the circle, legs crossed. They had raided Devin Stout’s meager wardrobe. Thank the Lady, the two men were of a similar build. The King’s scraggly long hair was tied back at his neck; that alone made him look more civilized. Octavia again wore the green coat over her uniform.

  Her fingers grazed the circle. “Pray, Lady, heed my call.” The heat descended on her, cozy against the cold of the night. She breathed as in her Al Cala. The Tree flared in her mind. There was no moon. The Lady was black on blackness, the wind was as weary as Octavia. No airships, no visible changes.

  The King’s song grew stronger in the confines of the circle, as it should. His chaotic, clacking melody sounded as if a classroom of toddlers had been handed musical instruments and told to play. She wondered what other court medicians had thought, hearing this, and how long Evandia’s council had let them live afterward. His illegitimate offspring had never opened the vault again either. Gossip had never spread. Evandia had surely silenced anyone beyond her trusted circle. Lovely thought, that.

  “Lady, days ago you guarded me within this circle. You know well the King’s condition. You have likely fought to balance it for fifty years.” In answer, the full canopy of the Tree seemed to bow. Branches cracked like gunshots. Octavia froze. What just happened? Swallowing, she continued to whisper, “We cannot leave Mercia until curfew lifts. We require respite like that offered by your branches. Let this circle contain his aura of decay, and let us remain here in safety.”

  The Tree did not move again. Octavia pressed a fist to her chest and then opened her eyes. The King was studying her with curiosity, rather like Alonzo. Don’t think on him. You know you can’t linger in the city in wait for him, even if this works.

  She walked to the edge of the roof and grabbed a splintered board a bit larger than her hand. She set it just beyond the circle and then crossed the boundary. Warmth flashed on her skin.

  “We’ll know if this works by watching this wood,” she said.

  “Then we had best set my pack and yours outside of the bounds.”

  She bit back a curse. He was right. She helped him to ease off his pack, which they had fully stuffed with more clothes, food, canteens, and most anything else of potential use. She slipped off her overloaded satchel as well; it’d do her no good if her jars cracked and food spoiled.

  The oval was large enough for an adult to lie down, legs and arms slack, so there was adequate space for the two of them to sit and face each other. The King’s rank odor was unpleasant, but she’d live. The wards at the front hadn’t exactly smelled like honeysuckle.

  “My guess is that you come from the North Country.” King Kethan folded his hands together.

  “Yes. Far north, though since I was twelve I lived at Miss Percival’s academy.”

  “Ah, the academy. I visited there several times as a boy. ’Tis a beautiful place, especially with the tulips in bloom. Do they still grow there?”

  Homesickness stuck in her craw. She nodded so that she wouldn’t speak and sob. Even with the coldness of the other girls, even with Miss Percival’s aloofness in recent months, she missed that place fiercely. Her fingers twitched as if she could feel the tulip bulbs, the grit of the field.

  “Yes,” she finally managed. “It’s planting time now. Selling the full plants in spring still brings in much of the academy’s income.” Maybe, with the money from selling me and Mrs. Stout, the girls are eating better. They will need the energy for these long days in the field.

  “A curious thing. Miss Percival came to Mercia mere days before my Allendia vanished.”

  “What?”

  King Kethan stared beyond the blanket, as if into the past. “She asked about the Lady, if there was anything at the palace that connected with the Tree. She said something about dreams pulling her there. I told her no, of course. My senior Daggers were most concerned that rumors of the vault’s contents had spread. ’Tis something I thought on, in my time in the vault, as I pondered anything of relation to the Lady. I have wondered why Miss Percival came and what she wanted.”

  Octavia’s mind raced. “Mrs. Stout—­your daughter—­told me Miss Percival and one of her students found her injured outside of Mercia. They saved her life and took her to the academy. They were going to bring her back to Mercia when . . . when the infernals attacked.”

  He bowed his head. “Then I thank God she stayed there with the Percivals. The dreams of the headmistress must have brought her to Mercia for that very purpose.”

  “Maybe. I’ve had several strange coincidences like that now, such as meeting you. Until a few weeks ago, I thought I had a perfect understanding of the Lady.” She pressed her arms closer together. “Now her nature is changing. She’s visible to everyone. You carry her seed inside. You can’t die. So many things.” The Lady, reviving that dead woman in Tamarania long enough for her to speak. The way her vines ripped apart the Wasters. The way she is changing me.

  “Garcia’s History of World Trees said that seeds only formed near t
he end of a Tree’s lifetime. The Lady made this seed over seventy years ago, at least. If her life was intended to end, my miasma may have strained her all the more. Perhaps the magic that veiled her has now failed.”

  “That . . . feels so wrong to me, to think of the Lady dying. Blasphemous, really. It goes against everything I know. It doesn’t seem right.”

  “The Lady is grandiose and magical, but she is a Tree, and trees by their nature are finite.” He tilted his head toward her. “So are you, Miss Leander. The sun will not rise for several hours yet. You must rest.”

  “But I—­”

  “Octavia Leander.” He said the words, not with regal formality, but like a father. “I do not sleep. I will be on watch and will wake you if anyone comes to the roof.”

  Blinking her bleary eyes, she touched the piece of wood beyond the circle. It was still solid. She folded herself forward, her body inches from his tumultuous song. Her eyes closed.

  “MISS LEANDER. AWAKEN. A strange creature lurks beyond the sanctity of your circle.”

  She sat upright. I was asleep? She could have sworn that she had just closed her eyes. Kethan pointed over her shoulder, and she turned.

  Sunrise blushed the eastern sky as pink as a healing scar. Like a miniature gargoyle, a silhouette sat on the railing. Batlike wings flared out. The dismal light reflected on a silver object, like a bracelet, at the base of its wing.

  “Leaf,” she whispered.

  At his name, the gremlin chittered and glided at her, landing inches beyond the mended edge of the blanket. “Leaf! Oh, Leaf! It really is you!” She touched the circle. “Thank you, Lady, for extending your branches,” she stammered without a pause to breathe.

  As soon as the barrier dropped, Leaf was on her. He dashed in a crazy circle from shoulder to back to shoulder to breast, chattering all the while. His stubby fingers clutched at her clothes as his wings grazed her ears. His body was the size of a young kitten’s, his weight as heavy as a handful of eggs.

  “Oh, Leaf! Where have you been all this time? I heard you’ve been gossiping about me.” She shook a finger at him. His long, tapered ears wobbled. “I can’t say I mind terribly since it led us to a good friend in Tamarania, Chi. I imagine you’ve heard of Chi already, too, since ­people are even speaking of her in Mercia.” Octavia cooed and scratched at Leaf’s chin.

  King Kethan politely coughed into his hand. “If I may inquire, what exactly is this creature?”

  “Oh! Of course. This is a chimera, a construct out of Tamarania, a mix of magic and science. They were originally created in laboratories but they nest now and create their own young. Leaf here is a mere baby, but he’s bright and he’s already saved my life once.” The Lady may not have bestowed the weight of a life debt, but I will never forget.

  “A biological creation? How fascinating. May I?” He extended a hand, palm up.

  Leaf stared at King Kethan. One long ear was higher than the other. He mewed and leaned from Octavia’s arms, his little black nose sniffing. With a small hop, he landed on the King. Leaf didn’t seem quite sure how to react to a man neither living nor dead. He crept up the King’s shoulder, sniffing all the while, mewed again, and glided back to Octavia’s arm. He rubbed at the glove over her knuckles as he perched on her wrist.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “Do not apologize for his survival skills. I know well what I am.” The King looked away, that grief in his eyes. “I wonder if even horses will fear me?”

  I hope not. “The sun’s up now. We had best get a start. Leaf, are you here to make the journey with us?”

  An affirmative chirp. The gremlin’s song was much stronger now—­disturbing, how different it was after just two weeks.

  “Leaf, if you’re spreading more gossip, can you somehow connect with Alonzo and let him know where we’re going? Perhaps send him a gremlin to guide him our way?” She paused to swallow down her worry for him, her need to see him. “I wish I could leave him a note but I’m not Mrs. Stout, who grew up with royal spy codes, or Adana Dryn, with her mastery of Waster ciphers. Such things make no sense to me.”

  “I would help, if I knew what codes he might comprehend.”

  “I appreciate that, Grandfather.”

  A smile carved canyons in his desiccated face. “This man, he means a great deal to you.”

  “Alonzo Garret.” Octavia said his name like a prayer. “A veteran of the recent war. He was an apprentice as a Clockwork Dagger, sent to kill me before I fell into the hands of the Waste. He defied his orders, and the past few weeks . . .” She spread her hands. “Clockwork Daggers now have orders to kill us both.”

  “To kill a medician of your skill.” The King shook his head. “The rot in Mercia is not fully mine.”

  “No. It’s not.” She bobbed her arm up and down, causing Leaf to extend his wings for balance. “Can you help Alonzo, little one?”

  Leaf placed his tongue between his sharp little fangs and blew a perfect raspberry.

  “Well then,” she said, laughing. When did I last laugh and smile this much? “I’m not sure if I taught him that. I do hope you remember how to hide in my satchel, Leaf?”

  At that, he sprang to land in her open bag. His stubby tail waggled in the air like the tip of a thumb.

  “Bright creatures,” said King Kethan. He stood, joints creaking. His hair draped across his shoulders again; the leather tie fell to the ground in pieces. That effort was in vain. “You must tell me more about them.”

  “I just spent some time with their creator in Tamarania. I’ll tell you what I can.” She stood and straightened her coat and skirts. At the tug on her coat’s hem, the seam gave way. She leaned to look. The threads had loosened. She checked the seams at her shoulders and the pockets. The threads were weak, and the weave of the thick cloth itself had softened. Light powdery residue covered her fingers.

  “The cloth is decaying,” she said. “Yours will do the same.” Winter will be harsh enough, but how are we to survive if our clothing rots from our bodies?

  “I am sorry.”

  She checked her medician robes and the blanket as well. The enchantment afforded them extra durability, but she wondered how long they would truly hold up. The magic was woven for endurance and cleanliness, not to confront years of elemental decay within a span of hours. She packed the blanket away. Leaf writhed in an effort to create a new niche in an already fully loaded satchel.

  “You can’t help it, Grandfather,” she said. She gave Leaf’s head a quick rub and pulled the flap shut.

  The piece of wood by her feet had splintered into chunks.

  Her hand went to her face, as if to find new lines. I wonder what his presence is doing to my body? Her arms and legs ached, the feeling now almost familiar. I wonder if I will end up looking like an old tree?

  She said it in her mind as if it were a joke, but she didn’t laugh.

  CHAPTER 15

  Octavia had thought the train into Tamarania had been a rickety old thing, but the tramway line through Mercia made everything else look gleaming and bright. The cars rattled like a cabriolet rolling on bare rims. Windows had been knocked out and replaced by iron bars or nailed-­on boards or nothing at all. Wind howled through the gaps, whirling hair and skirts and drowning out the sound of woeful songs from bodies all around. Wooden bench seats had been worn smooth by derrieres.

  It was a wonder the whole thing hadn’t been scrapped in the last war, with metal so precious, but its necessity was soon clear. Mercia was massive. She knew, logically, that half a million ­people lived there, the bulk of Caskentia’s population, but she had no comprehension of how far it sprawled, how many towers scraped the bruised sky, how many factories squatted across wide blocks.

  The entire city wears black and gray, as if it’s in mourning.

  King Kethan was quiet as he stared out the window, his aged face stoic. She rec
alled the stories her parents had told, that during their parents’ day, the city of Mercia had abounded in gardens. The Golden Rose City, they once called it, after a creamy orange rose cultivated as a symbol of the Golden Age of King Rathe and King Kethan.

  Octavia’s village had grown such roses. They burned with everything else.

  The tram braked with a squeal like an injured horse. Leaf lurched in her satchel, and Octavia disguised the movement by bouncing the bag on her lap. No one had noticed, though. Workers shuffled out, hats pulled low. She and Kethan exited last. The King’s legs had left an imprint on the wood, like a burn.

  How will we do this? He’ll rot any saddle, rust any cabriolet. It will take long days to cross the pass, even if the weather is decent, and I dare not think how far the journey across the Waste will be. A nauseous ball of fear rested in her belly. It seemed that each positive development was countered by three negatives.

  The far eastern fringe of Mercia was lined with massive boxes belching black smoke. Beyond that towered the Pinnacles, the snowcaps heavier than when Octavia last saw them. Bodies wailed of burns, black lungs, choked bronchioles; children’s bodies were stunted by lack of food and knew abuses no one should know. She forced back a sob and walked faster. She pressed Rivka’s straw hat more firmly against her head, as if she could grind the headband beneath it into her skull and make it work better.

  I want to save them all. Once, I thought I could. Alonzo would be relieved to learn that I’m more prudent, but it only makes me sad. Like I’ve given up.

  Black military lorries rolled by, more and more as the blocks passed. Soldiers in Caskentian green strolled the streets. Many of the uniforms showed wear—­indelicate mends, faded color, poor fit—­obviously retrieved from some trunk or wardrobe, or another body. She was surprised to see so few horses. When a cart finally did approach, the gelding in the shafts reared and lunged away from them. The whites of the horse’s eyes showed, terror screaming in its song and lungs. Octavia and Kethan shared a grim look.

  What now? What will we do?