The Clockwork Crown

by Beth Cato

  A few quick strides and Octavia hooked her arm around Alonzo’s as if they were about to stroll through town together. He looked at her in surprise, then smiled.

  I’m going to keep you safe. She pressed her arm closer. “We couldn’t see the Tree from the homestead, so how far away could it still be?” The words echoed.

  “The Dallows is famous for its visibility, though it was a hazy evening. It must have been at least fifty miles distant, likely more. We could not see the mountains either.”

  Hearing the possible number of miles ahead worsened the burning in her feet. She should probably apply iodine to her soles soon. “And I thought our walk through the swamp was bad,” she said, trying to lighten her voice.

  “My legs fully function this time.”

  “Always an advantage,” she said. “Though I would have help to carry you now.”

  “I would be glad to be of assistance.” She couldn’t see Kethan’s face, but the smile was in his voice. King Kethan paused to pull off Devin Stout’s old boots. The soles had finally eroded through.

  Something echoed. Something none of them had done or said. Octavia stopped. “Listen.” She scarcely breathed for what felt like five minutes. The sound came again.

  Alonzo stiffened. “Hide your light,” he whispered.

  “The root could be returning,” Octavia said, but she didn’t believe it. By the men’s expressions, they didn’t either.

  King Kethan motioned to a ridge on the left side of the tunnel and then gestured behind him. Alonzo opened his mouth and Kethan cut him off with a wave of his hand. “I know well that you are offended by the need to hide behind your liege, yet I can catch bullets in your stead and live.”

  Alonzo nodded grudgingly. Octavia ducked behind him, one hand on his back, and tucked her glowstone into a pocket of her satchel. A second later, Alonzo’s light vanished as well. The world turned absolute black. Octavia couldn’t help a small squeak of fear as she scooted closer to Alonzo. His fingers found her arm and they gripped hands. Her gloves, cut and abused as they were, allowed more of his song to reach her. She willed her breaths to be slow and steady and tried to focus on the rough texture of his skin, the heat of his body.

  It’s so dark, I wouldn’t even know if I closed my eyes. I could fall asleep while standing, like the boys on guard duty who’d come into the ward with an embarrassed flush on their cheeks and a busted nose.

  “I spied a distant light.” King Kethan’s whisper was barely audible.

  Alonzo’s body shifted as he pulled out his gun. Octavia adjusted the satchel strap so she could slip her parasol free. The weight was heavy and reassuring, even as she grimaced at the thought of the last time she had used it as a weapon.

  Voices echoed. Words jumbled together. A light blinked, pure and white—­most definitely more powerful than glowstone. Alonzo’s body was coiled like that of a cat stalking a bird.

  “—­goes on all eternity. We’ll get back, and the bairns will have bairns.”

  “It only feels like eternity because you can’t shut yer yap.”

  “ ‘Better to speak, to speak out loud,’ ” sang a voice, husky and pretty, “ ‘than in darkness go mad.’ ” The verse earned a smattering of applause. There must be five, six men. “I could sing more, but only in trade for more water rations to soothe my throat.”

  Octavia knew that voice. She bit her lip to swallow a gasp, her fingers immediately going to the small burn on her wrist where the man had counted coup.

  “Lanskay, the infernal,” she whispered, as low as she could.

  “Wasters,” Alonzo whispered to Kethan.

  Of course it was Wasters. They possessed a settlement at the base of the Tree. It only made sense that they would investigate, especially with Caskentia’s attack looming. A tunnel meant vulnerability. Anyone who read copper novels knew that—­the heroes always infiltrated the castle through the sewer to take the enemy unaware.

  Octavia, Alonzo, and Kethan might have an advantage of surprise, but she knew the Wasters were excellent marksmen. They didn’t survive the wilderness otherwise. Her fingers tightened over the cloth of the parasol.

  A white light suddenly emerged around a bend. Octavia cringed and looked away, retinas burning.

  Alonzo shot first.

  The Wasters cried out, feet scrambling on dirt. She could just detect the songs of their bodies. She glanced back. A large, round lantern, the sort used for nighttime airship landings, lay on the ground some fifty feet away. Its beam was aimed toward the far wall, granting gentle illumination. She could barely make out the gray movements of the men. A bullet pinged their way, then another, but not close.

  “Let me,” Octavia whispered, nudging Alonzo. Miss Percival always used to say that some ­people got what they deserved. This is one of those times.

  He hesitated a second and passed the gun to her. She raised it and followed Lanskay’s song, the sheer heat of him. He kept moving, likely whispering strategy with his men.

  She fired. Lanskay cried out, his song rising in crescendo with fresh blood. “Fiddlesticks,” she muttered. “I was a better shot as a child. Yet again, it’s not a fatal blow to him, but at least he won’t be able to shoot with that hand.”

  “Lanskay?” Alonzo asked.

  “Yes.” She could well imagine Alonzo’s thoughts: that she had asked for the gun, willingly fired it, then regretted that the shot hadn’t killed. “I remember what his men did to you before,” she said in a small voice. They burned you. I smelled the flesh of your arm, cooked as if on a campfire. Her stomach twisted at the memory.

  He could have whispered so many things. Reaffirmed that the Lady understood self-­defense, that Octavia shouldn’t do anything that made her feel guilty, that he would take care of her. Instead, his hand found her shoulder then fumbled to her cheek. His thumb brushed away a tear she hadn’t realized was there.

  “We’re Dallowmen!” called Lanskay. He inhaled with a hiss—­one of the other men was binding his hand, quieting his blood. “Hold your fire!”

  Stalemate. Retreat was not an option, not this deep into the tunnel. “Even if we make it past them,” Alonzo whispered, “they likely placed more guards at the entrance.”

  “We may even enter at their settlement,” added the King.

  Octavia ground her teeth together. “I’ve already been held captive by the Waste. I’m not keen on repeating the experience.” They had wanted to use her to obliterate Mercia before. What would they do with her now?

  The Wasters retreated beyond the beam of their fallen light. They already know we must be enemy Caskentians since we didn’t immediately hail them. We should have had the King speak up immediately.

  We still can.

  “Grandfather,” whispered Octavia. “You’re unknown to them. Many settlers out here are from Caskentia. Your accent won’t seem that strange.”

  “Hmm. Yes,” said Alonzo. “Say you have been our captive, our guide into the Waste. You will be treated kindly by them.”

  “I have little concern for kindness right now,” King Kethan said slowly. “I must journey to the Tree with Octavia, and before they know of my miasma.”

  “Our immediate concern is just escaping this tunnel alive,” said Alonzo.

  “Whatever being alive means in my case. Yes.” King Kethan shifted in the darkness. “Help me! Help!” he cried, voice raspy.

  Octavia felt the Wasters’ songs shift in alarm, adrenaline spiking anew.

  “Who goes there?” called Lanskay.

  Alonzo scuffed his feet on the ground and King Kethan played along, with some grunts for good measure.

  “They’re coming closer,” she whispered. “Lanskay will sense my magic soon.”

  “They made me guide . . . them!” cried King Kethan.

  If Octavia had been able to hear her own song, she knew it would have radiated terr
or. I escaped them once with the Lady’s help. I will again. She wants me to get to the Tree. She’ll do whatever she can so that I can continue.

  But Alonzo . . .

  She fumbled to find his hand and twined her fingers through his. He stepped back, the heat of his body a blessing against the deep, cold darkness.

  “Alonzo.” She pressed her lips close to his ear. “I love you.”

  I love you, I love you, I love you.

  “And I love you, my dear Miss Leander.” He brought her knuckles to his lips. Her stomach twisted in a cozy knot. He loved her. It didn’t come as a surprise, but hearing the words, feeling him so close to her, made the statement all the more agonizing and poignant. “Please do not do anything hasty or foolish.”

  “Me?” she whispered with a small gasp. “That goes for you, too. Don’t lose a leg again.”

  “I will do my utmost to stay intact.”

  No time remained for sweet words. The full heat of Lanskay’s power prickled her skin. Through the blackness, she heard the infernal’s sharp hiss of breath. “The medician?” he asked.

  That says a great deal about his power, for him to discern my identity in the darkness, at this distance. The scar he had left on her seemed to tingle through the layer of bark. “Didn’t you know me by my aim?” she called. “I never seem to get a proper shot at you.”

  “Is the Tamaran with you as well?”

  “I would hate to disappoint you,” said Alonzo.

  “We told you the way to the Tree was a difficult journey, but I suppose the Tree has made it easier for you, yes?” Lanskay chuckled. An odd tension rang in his voice. “I shouldn’t be surprised to find you here, truly. You two could be of the Dallows, as tenacious as you are.”

  Alonzo gave Octavia’s hand a final squeeze then let go. “We seek passage to the Tree.”

  “It isn’t so simple as that. The name is Garret, if I recall? You cannot buy a ticket from me as if I am gatekeeper at an airship. We are at war again.”

  “We never stopped,” said Octavia, sadness in her voice.

  “Who is the Dallowman with you? Since Mr. Drury’s medician is there, I trust this man’s in good care?”

  Mr. Drury’s medician? A growl escaped her throat.

  “I am unhurt,” called King Kethan. “They have treated me well, other than forcing me through this darkness. My name is Mr. Everett.”

  The Wasters conferred in low murmurs. The ­people of the Dallows had peculiar notions of honor, and she hoped that her ploy with the King hadn’t backfired. At this range, it would be very easy for Lanskay to cast fire in their direction, and if they had no care for the safety of Mr. Everett . . .

  “We will escort you to our camp, where we will confer with Taney,” said Lanskay. The grand potentate is there. Of course. “We ask, upon your honor, for your weapons. In turn, we will commit no abuses to you.”

  “Until we arrive in your camp,” muttered Octavia.

  He continued. “Miss Leander is to be treated as a highest daughter.” The way he said her name made her skin prickle.

  “Godspeed to us all.” King Kethan’s voice was a soft growl. “Granddaughter, we will find a way to continue together. Mr. Alonzo Garret, you are a Dagger in the truest sense and a credit to Caskentia. Majolico.”

  “Majolico,” Alonzo whispered in turn.

  That’s the same word he used with Mrs. Stout to prove he was a Dagger, or at least one in training. It seems to bear more meaning than a mere code word.

  There was no chance to inquire now. Wasters surrounded them. One of the men hauled the lantern closer. Alonzo handed over his Gadsden, two knives, and his pack. Lanskay offered him a curt nod of respect—­the Wasters did not search for more weapons. The infernal’s face split in a grin as he faced Octavia. He pressed a fist to his chest and bowed, his pale blond ponytail draped over his shoulder.

  “Last I heard, you had vanished into the wilderness of the southern Pinnacles. Even I wouldn’t wander in such a place at the edge of winter. It is good to see you survived.” Sincerity warmed his voice.

  “I won’t lie and say I’m glad to see you. I suppose you want to take my satchel again.” She rubbed the strap between her fingers. Frustration clogged her throat.

  “Actually, no. Let’s be honest. Holding your bag hostage did little to control you before. I doubt it would do so this time.” He motioned to another man. “Run ahead. This old man Everett is barefoot and it’s a long walk through this tunnel.”

  “I am not feeble,” said King Kethan.

  “I mean no disrespect.” Lanskay bowed to him. “Even with my heat, I know this place is bitterly cold. It doesn’t take long for a man to lose fingers and toes. Allow us to help. We’ve worn through shoes on our patrols, many times.”

  One of the men used a torn blanket and rope to wrap Kethan’s feet. They resumed their walk. With a glare of challenge to the nearest men, Octavia worked to stand beside Alonzo. No one tried to touch her; in fact, they looked afraid.

  It’s not just that they are supposed to regard me as a high daughter. They’ve heard stories about what happened before. They know I grew another tree, that most of the guards were killed, that only their potentate and Lanskay survived. Lanskay even looks at me in a different way.

  By now, she should have been accustomed to being feared, but that sad knot still twisted in her chest.

  Lanskay walked with King Kethan. Octavia was a little worried that Kethan might misspeak, as ignorant as he was of recent history between Caskentia and the Waste, but soon enough his easy manner had Lanskay nodding and chuckling.

  More sounds echoed up the tunnel. It took several more miles of walking to discover the source of the noise—­a makeshift cabriolet mounted on chain-­wrapped wheels.

  Lady, keep Alonzo safe. Don’t let anything happen to him, please. Losing him will not make me cooperative.

  Lanskay bent close to the driver, a man in a full leather cap and goggles, and they conferred for a moment. Lan­skay looked to his compatriots. “No attack has taken place yet, but more of our men have arrived.” That earned a few grunts of approval from the Wasters. He gave Octavia an odd look. “I’ll be escorting you back to camp.”

  The driver sat in a separate compartment, leaving the four of them to squeeze into the cab. Rust bled along the metal seams in the door; she hoped the trip was not too long, or the King would rot the cabriolet out from beneath them. The windows were boarded up like a Caskentian tram, which only added to the feeling of claustrophobia. Several glowstone lights had been mounted in the ceiling. Their legs tangled together in the narrow floor space just as their songs collided in Octavia’s mind, as disparate as they were: Alonzo, his brass marching band exhausted but as resilient as ever; King Kethan, his chaotic rhythm consistent; Lanskay, his music heated like his skin and his touch, a rhythm suited for an inappropriate, intimate dance. The wound to his hand pained him, but he remained stoic and didn’t request a healing.

  The vehicle made a tight turn, tilting her into the window, then rolled onward. The engine noise was soothing, though the roughness of the tunnel floor translated into constant, vicious jolts and bumps. Alonzo and Lanskay cursed in synchrony as their heads smacked into the metal ceiling. They continued in silence for a long time.

  “It won’t take long now,” Lanskay yelled to be heard.

  Octavia could have laughed at how relieved that made her feel—­relieved to soon be in a Waster camp. Anything would be better than this tunnel.

  “What is the word on Caskentia’s movements?” asked Alonzo.

  Lanskay raised a pale brow. “It would seem more appropriate to question you on that issue, but then, the Queen’s agents sought to kill the medician, so I suppose you’re not friends of the green soldiers now.” He shrugged. “We have shot down four airships thus far, but expect a full force by air within the next two days, before winter set
s in.”

  “ ’Tis a gamble to fly over the pass any season of the year,” murmured Alonzo.

  “Ah, but they cannot abide the thought of an icon like the Tree in our possession. They’ll throw everything they can at us, even if it’s dung. The army will have special sustenance, though. A few weeks ago, Mr. Drury signed a sizable contract with the Caskentian army. We’re to supply them with Royal-­Tea. Isn’t that amusing?”

  “I find nothing amusing about using the Lady’s bark in that way. She’s not a business venture or a joke.” If he had the audacity to use me, my bark, in that way . . . oh Lady. No. I won’t think of myself like that.

  “I still wonder about what you did before, summoning that tree, using Royal-­Tea to create vines. It was most remarkable.” Awe softened Lanskay’s voice as he saluted her with his wrapped fist.

  She had no response.

  “The driver had other news as well,” he continued. “Word that a friend of yours is in camp. I will speak with Taney to arrange a meeting.”

  Panicked, she looked at Alonzo. His face was unreadable. “A friend? You can’t have captured Mrs. Stout.” Please, no. Let Mrs. Stout be safe with her daughter in Tamarania, let her be there to show Rivka all the love she deserves.

  King Kethan’s song shifted, anxious.

  “Ah, Mrs. Stout. No. This is not Mrs. Stout, though we hope to see her again.”

  Who else could it be?

  “Mr. Lanskay,” said Alonzo, ice in his voice. “I do believe you said you would not commit any abuses during our transit. Baiting Miss Leander could be considered such.”

  “Yes. Yes, I suppose so. I’m sorry, Miss Leander. I meant no offense.” To her surprise, his apology sounded genuine, even emotional. Lanskay looked at Alonzo. “You’re forthright and honorable, unusual for a Caskentian. You earned your burns before, even if she likely healed them once you made your escape.”

  They still don’t know Alonzo is—­was—­a Clockwork Dagger. Nor did they see that Mr. Drury shot him in the head and killed him.