by Beth Cato
“M’lady, I hope to speak to you again on board. Don’t forget my offer of tea!” Mr. Drury flashed another salesman’s smile as he edged past them and up the ramp into the airship.
Mr. Garret leaned closer. “Did he accost you?”
“I’m unharmed, but he was . . . strange. Far too forward.” She released a shuddering breath. Mr. Garret had been forward as well, but in a very different way. That had to count for something.
Mr. Garret pulled back and glowered up at the airship. “I am glad you are well, and I assure you, I will keep my eye on him aboard. You may put away the pepper pipe now, unless you wish to practice it on me.”
Octavia stared at the three-inch flute in her hand, remembering it was there, then tucked it back into the pleats of her dress. “The Argus is your ship, sir? Mr. Garret?”
“ ’Tis my employer. Since we will be traveling together, may I inquire about your name?”
A strong gust of wind almost bowled her backward. They were quite high—perhaps higher than she had ever been on an open railing. The metal deck encircled the top of the mooring tower and revealed a panorama of Vorana with its high-peaked roofs and toothpick-thin streets. A sliver of blue glimmered beyond the buildings: the estuary that led to the sea. If she turned and looked to the north, she could probably see the woods and the meadows that trailed toward home.
No, not home, but I’ll have Delford soon enough.
She focused her gaze on Mr. Garret. He remained quiet, no doubt awaiting her reply. “Octavia Leander.”
He angled out his elbow toward her. Behind them, the elevator clicked and rumbled as it descended. “Well, Miss Leander, allow me the pleasure of escorting you inside without further unpleasantness.”
Unable to speak, she curtsied her approval. Walking by her side, he led her up the ramp and within the shadowed underbelly of the airship.
THE PASSAGE NARROWED AND forced them to walk hip to hip. Embedded glowstones edged the metal floor on each side and illuminated red mahogany walls similar in color to her hair. The odor of aether faded, replaced by slight staleness and strong garlic.
Mr. Garret sniffed. “The kitchens are just ahead. Lunch will be served soon after we alight.”
The ramp ahead sloped upward. Overhead, she heard footsteps and deep, muffled voices. “Tell me, Mr. Garret, what’s your occupation on board?”
“I am a steward, like the little fellow at the base of the tower.”
She studied him out of the corner of her eye. A steward. Many women wouldn’t curtsy to a servant like him, or engage him in a casual conversation as she was doing now.
He’s been nothing but respectable to me—far more than most. His surname may be Garret, but there’s more to him than that.
“That man . . . I don’t want my room anywhere near his.”
“ ’Tis not likely. We try to book solo women and married couples along the same wing, and men on the other. However, this is a small craft with only twelve double-berth cabins, and there are several common areas where you may encounter him again.”
“I’ll defend myself if necessary.”
“I hope it will not come to that, m’lady.”
Oh Lady, so do I.
A doorway ahead was labeled with various signs. On either side were two staircases leading up, shaped in an inverted V. Mr. Garrett pointed to the hallway ahead. “This floor features the lavatories and showers. The smoking room is the most popular social setting aboard. Everyone dines upstairs in the promenade. Your room is also on the deck above.”
Octavia unstrapped her satchel and tossed it across her shoulder like a bandolier, parasol clattering against the wall. He said nothing as she hauled the suitcase up the stairs. Her breath huffed. By the time she reached the top, her arm ached slightly, and it was a relief to set down the case and pull out the handle again.
Signs pointed toward the promenade on one side and the cabins on the other. A cage against the wall held a fluttering mass of mechanical birds. The paint on their wings had chipped and let various shades of metal shine through. En masse, they clicked and whirred and tweeted, the sound echoing slightly.
“Do you recall your berth number?” Mr. Garret asked.
“Three-A.”
“This way, then.” He took her on the left fork. The short hallway consisted of six doors with barely any space between. The two of them standing together with her luggage made the space claustrophobic. Mr. Garret knocked on the door for 3. Octavia heard the clatter of a lock and the door cracked open.
“Pardon me,” said Mr. Garret, bowing. “I have brought your roommate, a Miss Octavia Leander?”
“Oh, certainly! Goodness gracious.” The door widened to reveal a thick figure in a screaming purple dress. Her silvered blond hair featured a broad blue streak that started at her forehead and swirled into a plump bun pinned atop her head. In truth, everything about her could be described as plump. Her cheeks and jowls were heavy and rounded, and even her fingers on the door resembled puffy pastries.
But Octavia had a hard time looking at anything other than the woman’s hair. It was . . . bold, to say the least. Dyeing in streaks like that had been a Mercian fad years before, and was currently about as en vogue as riding a swaybacked horse.
“I’m Viola Stout,” the woman said, bobbing her head. Garish blue eye shadow matched the streak in her hair. “Here. Do come in! I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Absolutely delighted.”
“Oh. Uh, thank you.” Octavia offered a warm smile. Mrs. Stout’s name struck her as allegorical to her very body type, like a character in a religious tract.
Mr. Garret backed away, barely squeezing around the suitcase. “I must return to my duties, Miss Leander. I trust you are well now?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Garret. I’m much obliged for your assistance.”
With a final little bow, he walked away in commanding strides.
“Goodness, I don’t think I’ve seen a Tamaran in years. Such a nice walk he has. Mmm-hmm, yes. Fitted uniform pants are such glorious, underappreciated attire,” said Mrs. Stout, fanning herself for a moment. “Well! Come inside, child. I fear it’s rather cozy.”
Cozy was an understatement. The room seemed to be little more than a six-by-seven-foot rectangle. A padded bench jutted out with a large silver object lying flat against the wall above it. On the far wall, a sink showed a few splashes of water still on the aluminum surface, a small mirror on an arm to one side. Across from the bench, a few curtains denoted what must be a closet. No wonder Mr. Garret had emphasized the promenade and smoke room for socializing.
“Now, now, it won’t be that uncomfortable,” said Mrs. Stout, clucking her tongue.
“Was my expression so obvious?” asked Octavia.
“Well, it is a bit of a shock on your first excursion. This lower bunk is yours. When we’re ready for sleep, we signal a steward and he makes up our beds.” She motioned to a pull cord and then to the large silver rectangle flush with the wall. That had to be the upper bunk. “Is there anything you need to hang in the closet?”
“Oh. No. Not right away, certainly.” Octavia hadn’t given thought to how Miss Percival’s advice on secrecy extended to the packing of her garments. Her warded medician uniform was folded atop her other clothes in her suitcase. “I assume they bring a ladder to access that bunk?”
“Yes, that will all come in the evening, along with the pillows, bedding, and tenting for privacy.” Mrs. Stout edged over to sit on the bed. She held up a small paperbound book—a pulp mystery novel, its cover depicting a terrified woman fleeing from a tall figure in a pointed brown hood. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve been sitting here. I had hoped to meet my roommate in privacy, rather than guessing who you would be amongst the other ladies. You never know the sorts you’ll meet on an airship.” She punctuated the statement with a regal sniff.
“No, no, that’s fine. I’d rather make your acquaintance without others prying.” Others, meaning Mr. Drury. She sat down beside Mrs. Stout.
The bed seemed quite firm, not even squeaking beneath their weight. She glanced up. The ladder would have to be a solid five feet in height. Mrs. Stout showed no outward health issues, nor did her body reveal any unusual musical tones. She seemed quite healthy for someone about a half century in age.
“Mrs. Stout, would you prefer the lower bunk? I’m quite fine with climbing to the upper bed.”
A dazzling smile caused Mrs. Stout’s cheeks to round like risen muffins. “Oh. Truly? It would be easier on me. As my dear husband liked to say, I’m in good enough shape to be requisitioned by the government, but I can still be a bit unsteady at times. You’re an absolute sweetheart for thinking of my comforts! If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you, child?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Goodness. My two children are barely older than you. Now, how was your ride into Vorana today? Is the North Road as rough as always?”
Octavia stilled. “How did you know I came in on the North Road?”
Mrs. Stout made a dismissive flick of her wrist. “I saw you riding into town.”
My carriage was enclosed. She regarded her new roommate with leery eyes, suddenly reminded of her troubled encounter with Mr. Drury. “The North Road isn’t a pleasant ride in a wagon, but that sort of motion doesn’t usually disturb me.”
“Ah, that old road never changes. As I always say, ‘Adversity steels the will, and the stomach. Only some stomachs have an easier time of it than others.’ ”
It was a saying Miss Percival had been known to quote as well, and Octavia had never heard it elsewhere. Perhaps it was a generational thing, as the two women were likely close in age. Or perhaps there was something more to this Mrs. Stout.
“Are you from Vorana?” asked Octavia.
“No. Nearer the coast, actually. Haven’t been here in years.” Mrs. Stout’s smile dimmed. “So, child, how—”
A loud bell rang from somewhere in the hallway. A sudden lurch knocked Octavia sideways, half sprawled in Mrs. Stout’s plush, purple lap. Chuckling, the older woman set Octavia upright and patted her hand. “That’s just the takeoff, dear. Normally there’s a bit more of a gap between the warning bell and that first lurch. Quite hasty of them. That does mean, however, if you wish to see the city we must get to the promenade straightaway.”
“Oh, yes! I would love to see the view.” Octavia bounded to her feet, catching herself against the wall for balance. She edged her suitcase into the tight confines of the closet and then hoisted her satchel onto her shoulder again. She didn’t place any faith in a room key.
Mrs. Stout shook her head, grinning. A wisp of silver hair draped along her cheek. “Ah, to be young and on an adventure! Come along. I believe the library side will offer the best view.”
CHAPTER 3
As they walked down the hallway, the craft made another small lurch. This time, Octavia was ready and braced herself against the wall. “Does the airship always bounce around so much?”
“Takeoffs and landings have the most careening,” said Mrs. Stout. “Once we’re in the air, it tends to be quite smooth.”
They passed the staircase and mechanical birds and through another door. Octavia paused in shock. After the cavelike labyrinth she had encountered thus far, she hadn’t expected the promenade to consist of sterile panels and round white tables. Glittering chandeliers swayed slightly and made no sound; the crystals and glassware had been spaced so they did not strike. The clink of goblets and muffled laughter completed the scene. A liveried steward rushed past them with a tray of wineglasses.
A mechanical band sat in the middle of the room, motionless and quiet, burnished nickel skin a contrast to the glaring whiteness of the walls and tables. The four figures looked downright primitive in construction; it’s a wonder they hadn’t been scrapped in the war. The flutist had to be little more than skin, gears, and automated bellows.
“I like to consider myself an accomplished traveler,” continued Mrs. Stout. “My husband often journeyed for business, and after the children were grown, I accompanied him. Airship travel isn’t quite what it was before the recent war, but this seems to be a decent craft.”
Long rows of windows flanked the promenade and angled out at forty-five degrees. As she approached, Octavia could see the blur of buildings below and the fair blue of the sky. Tucked against the wall were several shelves of books and padded lounge chairs. A woman in a periwinkle shift sat in one of the chairs, a child on her lap. The babe couldn’t have been more than two, his face beet red and dark eyes too large. He had the drawn look of one accustomed to eating little, as did his mother. A rag doll of a mechanical man lay at the mother’s feet.
“Our airship is already angled south toward Leffen,” Mrs. Stout said as she leaned forward against the glass, her bosom like a mighty cushion.
A few windows were open. Cool, refreshing air gushed against Octavia’s face. Strands of hair tickled her cheeks and nose. No matter how she fussed with her headbands, she could never contain her crazed hair for long. The window felt chilled through her gloves as she leaned forward. The peaked roofs already looked smaller, like a confectioner’s village at Winter Solstice, the red tiles shining beneath the sun. The mooring towers were barely in sight at the lower right. The tethered airships reminded her of a beached whale she’d seen as a girl, bobbing and struggling to return where it belonged. Long puffs of steam trailed from smokestacks. A few sails on naval vessels marked the far edge of Vorana. Beyond that, the wide mouth of the river looked more white than blue in the midday light. The ocean was a sliver at the horizon.
Beautiful. So beautiful. A view like this made the anxiety of Vorana worthwhile. The words of her father came to mind and how he regarded the airship flights he’d taken as a young soldier, back in the first war: When up on high and looking down, I was reminded of how small I am in the scheme of the world. No more than a speck in God’s eye, but what a brilliant speck I shall be!
Father had always been something of a poet, reading old tomes of verses by the light of an oil lamp. Mother would shake her head with a slight roll of her eyes as Father muttered poems to himself, but she didn’t mind, not really.
“Here, let’s read this one,” said the mother in the chair. The child fussed, and Octavia cringed. Crying children made her think of dying children. “It’s the tale of the missing princess. Oh, this was one of Mummy’s favorites, too. ‘King Kethan ruled Caskentia and everyone was happy. They had meat for supper every day. But over the mountains, there were bad men. Terrible men. They did not like King Kethan. They sneaked over the mountains and to Mercia. They crept into the palace. The princess was sleeping in her bed.’ Look, isn’t she pretty?”
Mrs. Stout laid a hand on Octavia’s forearm. “Come, come. The other side will show more of a view inland.” The song of her body remained stable, but a sheen of sweat glistened across her skin. Odd, considering the chill air, but she is at the time of life when such sweats occur.
As they walked across the promenade, the mother’s story continued: “ ‘The princess screamed! She did not want to go with the bad men. Her guards arrived. The bad men used the princess as a shield, and oh, she is shot! Her blood stains the floor and cries for justice, for her countrymen to avenge her! The bad men carry her away . . . ’ ”
“I haven’t heard that tale since I was a girl,” Octavia said.
Miss Percival didn’t keep storybooks around unless they involved herb lore or something of educational use. Besides, the girls were all intimately aware of the reasons for Caskentia’s wars with the Waste. They all knew of the princess who had been kidnapped in their grandparents’ time, and whose loss began the cycle of conflict. One that became worse that next year when Wasters sent infernal magi into Mercia and left half the city in cinders.
“It’s a story that plays wells to patriotic sentiments,” said Mrs. Stout with a dainty sniff.
The neutrality of the answer surprised Octavia. Does she actually sympathize with the Waste? Or did her husband? Mrs. Stout had t
aken care to not mention his employment or home. Actually, she hadn’t said outright that he was dead.
The more she spoke to Mrs. Stout, the more curious she became.
Three men and a woman chatted along the windows on the dining room side of the airship. The men wore badges on their heart pockets and sleeves, designating them as members of some academic league. They looked strangely young to Octavia, though she had to be only five or so years older. The war. It aged me, aged all of us. Judging by their high giggles and staggered movements, they were well into the drink before they had even boarded. The woman was draped on a man’s arm, glittery baubles dangling low from neck to hip and accentuating a waistless dress.
The little steward approached Octavia with a bow. “Ladies, may I get you something to drink? A tonic, perhaps? Aerated water? Royal-Tea?”
The very mention of the tea drink soured her taste buds. “An aerated water, thank you,” said Octavia.
“I’ll do without right now, thank you kindly,” said Mrs. Stout.
He bowed again. “If you change your mind, I’ll be serving here until supper time. You can also ring me from your room. I’m called Little Daveo.” He hurried away, his short legs agile as he dodged tables and drinking men.
“With my aptitude on the marksmanship test, the old man said I could very well qualify for the rank of Clockwork Dagger soon out of the academy.” The young man spoke loudly, his accent Mercian.
“A Clockwork Dagger!” The woman practically cooed. “Do you think you’ll have to kill people?”
Octavia resisted the urge to recoil in disgust.
“If I must, in defense of the Queen,” he said with melodramatic gravitas.
“How long do qualifications take?” asked another man. “I thought they preferred veterans from the war, officers.”
“They do. But exceptions are made for those with certain skills. Quick language acquisition, marksmanship, a knack for poison”—the woman gasped—“anything that will provide an edge over the Waste. Only the best qualify for such an elite guard.” His smug smile included himself as such, of course.