The Clockwork Dagger

by Beth Cato

  It would be impossible to keep the creature hidden the entire trip. She knew that, and yet she couldn’t withhold her fondness for this little gremlin the same color as spring leaves. Leaf. The perfect name for a gremlin. Mrs. Stout would never approve of the attachment it implied, so Octavia kept it to herself. Her fingers trailed down Leaf’s spine to the small nub of his tail.

  A bell rang out in the hall. “Come now, little one, and try out the cage,” Octavia said.

  To her shock, the gremlin flew right inside the silver-barred cube. Mrs. Stout did the latch. Leaf had barely enough room to spread his wings, but he didn’t seem perturbed by his new confines.

  “Well! The creature learned what a cage was right away,” said Mrs. Stout. “My oh my. I wonder what else we could teach him?”

  “Yes. There’s something special about him.” Leaf. The name fit the chimera well. He was an aberration without a true place in this world, just like her.

  “I SUSPECT THIS MAY be horse, not beef, but it’s cooked too long to tell.” Mrs. Stout’s nostrils flared as she sniffed at her supper stew. “Well, meat is meat!”

  I couldn’t eat flame-cooked meat for years after I moved to the academy. Couldn’t even be in its presence without retching.

  Octavia let a lump of gristle roll over the back of her spoon. “I suppose.” The afternoon had passed in blissful peace as they taught Leaf the names of some twenty objects, but now darkness had fallen beyond the promenade’s windows.

  “You’re fussing, not eating.” Mrs. Stout pointed her spoon accusingly. “Our gremlin is caged and safe. Soon enough he’ll be free, and you will have nothing to worry about!”

  Today has been one new worry after another.

  “Oh.” Mrs. Stout’s eyes widened as she looked across the room. She reached to her lap and, to Octavia’s surprise, pulled out a small notebook and nubby pencil. She began to scribble, her tongue jabbing at her red-painted lip.

  “What are you doing, Mrs. Stout?”

  “I am a keen observer of humanity. That woman over there, her dress is coarse, like a pony in winter. I must record that imagery. It’s perfect.”

  “You’re a poet?” Octavia leaned forward with eagerness. The mechanical band played softly in the background, the sound of the mandolin soothing like a body in good health.

  Mrs. Stout tilted her head, her expression mildly aghast. “Goodness, no. Though I do write. On occasion.” Her scrutinizing gaze traveled elsewhere, and her pencil scratched more words on paper. Octavia noted their fellow diners made no move to socialize. Apparently, one doesn’t make friends by assaulting fellow passengers with a serving tray.

  Their soup bowls were empty when Mr. Garret approached and leaned over the table, his hands hovering near their dishes.

  “There has been a disturbance in your room,” he said, his voice low. “People complained of noise. I had seen you both at supper, so I unlocked the door, expecting a burglar.”

  The two women shared an expression of white-faced dread.

  “Mr. Garret, I can explain—” Octavia began.

  “I know what happened earlier and I can guess what happened now.” His tone was mild, not indignant as she expected. “How long did you plan to keep the beastie?”

  “Only until tonight,” Mrs. Stout said. Octavia felt a wave of sadness at the words.

  “If people already suspect something about our room, is there someplace where no one will find him?” Octavia asked. “Until we can free him, of course.”

  Mr. Garret considered her. “The cargo hold should do until the promenade empties about midnight. No one will hear him there. He’ll be safe, Miss Leander.”

  Octavia released a deep breath. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Garret. And your humanity.” Each time I meet this man, I like him a little more.

  “Bludgeoning a defenseless creature is no sport, m’lady.” His words reflected his Tamaran heritage: all logic and clear morality, even as his lilting accent was pure Mercian. For the first time, Octavia wondered what it would be like to settle in Tamarania, a city-state known for sparse crime, pacifism, and street-corner philosophers.

  Mrs. Stout dabbed her lips with a napkin. “If we must wait until late for our clandestine activities, I do believe I’ll retire to bed.”

  “Your cots can certainly be set up now, m’ladies,” Mr. Garret said in a louder voice, backing up. They followed him from the promenade as Octavia scrutinized him.

  Romantic entanglements, however brief, were dangerous. She knew that from the medical wards and the heartbreaks she’d witnessed time and again. A girl would heal a soldier. Enjoy his company. Think cozy what-ifs. He returns to duty. Dies in some terrible, instantaneous way.

  I’ll know Mr. Garret for only a few days. I’m not some flibbertigibbet out for a fling. Our relationship is temporary. Professional.

  Though Mrs. Stout is right. His uniform pants do fit in an extremely flattering way.

  She was so busy looking down that she almost walked into him as he stopped at their room. A self-conscious flush warmed her cheeks as she fumbled for her key.

  She entered first. The thin bunk mattress was flipped onto the floor. A splash of water across the sink revealed that the tap had been running. A handle along the wall had been flipped down, revealing a small foldout writing surface. In the midst of the maelstrom sat Leaf. His ears perked up at the sight of Octavia and he launched himself at her shoulder, squawking.

  “Shush, shush,” she said, nudging aside the open cage so she could squeeze beside the sink. She noted the undone padlock and scanned the floor. There was no sign of the key that had been left hooked atop the cage. Perhaps Leaf was too intelligent for his own good.

  Mrs. Stout and Mr. Garret entered, and he shut the door behind him. Standing there, they occupied almost all the space in the room.

  “This is what we will do,” Mr. Garret said, then paused, his brows lowered in thought. “I will escort Miss Leander into the cargo hold. Mrs. Stout, I hate to leave this mess for you—”

  “Tosh and fiddlesticks.” Mrs. Stout flicked her hand, then smoothed the blue streak in her hair. “I’m not an invalid. I can tidy things and then call a steward to ready our beds.”

  “What of you, Mr. Garret?” Octavia asked. “Yet again, you go beyond the duties of your station to assist me.”

  “Doing what is right is often an unpopular choice. That said, I am not often popular.” He softened the words with an almost bashful shrug.

  Octavia pressed her fingers to her mouth as if she could hide her smile. “Oh. Perhaps that’s why we get along so well, Mr. Garret.”

  Amusement glittered in his eyes. “Perhaps, m’lady. Now, can you cage the beastie?”

  “Certainly.” Octavia made a kissing noise to attract the gremlin’s attention. He remained precariously balanced on her shoulder, his wing like a fan by her ear. “Into the cage and quiet, little one. We must take you someplace safe.”

  Leaf chittered and half slid down the slope of Octavia’s breasts. He glided into the cage at her feet.

  “Oh my. Whatever happened to my key?” asked Mrs. Stout. “Surely he didn’t eat it?”

  “I have a spare lock in my quarters,” said Mr. Garret.

  Octavia refastened the ineffective latch and grabbed two towels from the rack. Overlapping each other, the two cloths covered the cage perfectly. She adjusted the satchel strap on her shoulder as she stood upright again.

  “People will assume there’s a bird under here. I hope,” said Octavia. She hoisted up the cage and checked the towels again. “That’s not an unusual thing on board, is it?”

  Mr. Garret shook his head, his expression one of composed amusement. Perhaps that was all this was to him—a diversion to liven up a monotonous day. He was a general’s son. He may be a steward now, but certainly he’d been raised in the high society of Mercia.

  Maybe I’m a mere country curiosity to him, but it’s only fair. I find him equally intriguing.

  Most everyone else s
till ate dinner in the promenade. Mr. Garret walked at a brisk pace downstairs to deck B and along a corridor. The clatter of pans and the heavy scent of stew revealed the kitchen on the left. He opened the “Crew Only” door, and with a quick finger to his lips, led her down another hallway. Gaping doors showed berthing stacked three beds high, the wood panels torn from the wall to reveal steel. Another door opened, and the warm light of the hallways vanished in an instant.

  Dim rows of glowstones illuminated a gloomy cavern suited for hibernation, the space perhaps fifteen feet in length. A musty stink pervaded along with the heavy rumble of machinery. As her eyes adjusted, she made out a few tall stacks of boxes covered with blankets and strapped to the walls.

  “You risk too much in bringing me here,” Octavia whispered. Instead of being fearful, she felt an excited tingle of secrecy set her body alight.

  “You risk yourself.” Mr. Garret frowned, shaking his head. “You are too trusting of me, m’lady. If most men took you to a place like this . . .”

  You’ve already proven you’re not most men. “So what are your motives, Mr. Garret?”

  “You recognized my surname, did you not?” he asked. She nodded as she set down the cage and tossed the towels aside. Leaf’s black eyes glistened in the dimness, but the rest of his green skin seemed to blend with the shadows. “Then you know that my father was not . . . regarded well for his style of command.”

  “I know he invented the buzzer, and about how he died.” She paused, surprised. “I never thought of it that way, but it is unusual for a general to die in such a manner.”

  “Soldiers are considered expendable, not generals.” His deep voice softened. “But for missions of particular danger, he knew the buzzer best, and took the risk himself.”

  He’s as haunted by the crash of the Alexandria as I am. Octavia had been the only survivor from her village. She had never known another person who suffered—who even remembered—the events of that night.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  Mr. Garret met her eyes, gaze fierce. “Too many have died these recent years. I am weary of men being regarded as wood for a fire, and I will not see gremlins treated as such either.”

  “You fought at the front.” That’s where he lost his leg.

  He looked away. His answer needed no words. She felt the profound urge to hug him, to tell him she understood about the death of his father, about the horrors of war, but she couldn’t quite move. Awkwardness thickened the air.

  Leaf trilled, the sound so sudden and silly that Octavia couldn’t help but laugh. A smile warmed Mr. Garret’s face.

  “Ah, we cannot forget about the beastie. Move the cage into the shadows here.” The cage rattled as Octavia shuffled it over a few feet. “Later, the smoke room will be busy, but the kitchen will not be. Duck in there, if you must. If a crewman catches you in the hallway, you can play as innocent and lost.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “You think they’ll believe that?”

  “That you are innocent, or lost?” The white of his teeth shone in the thin light.

  “Did I come across as either earlier?”

  “Indeed. And I think you can play the part again.”

  She gasped in mock indignation. “Play the part! Which one? Mr. Garret, are you insinuating that I’m not innocent? Must I remind you that I’m carrying capsicum, and not afraid to use it?”

  The darkness hid it well, but she was certain he blushed deeply. “I certainly do not wish to get on your bad side, Miss Leander.”

  “You’re a wise man.” And a collection of other positive adjectives. “I . . . I do believe you said something about getting a lock for his cage?”

  He nodded. “Yes, of course. My berthing is close by. I will return as soon as I can.” He slipped away, the door shutting behind him with a soft click.

  Alone in the darkness, Octavia backed up until her heels found the curved steel of the wall. “Oh, goodness. What am I doing, Leaf?” she whispered. “I only said farewell to Miss Percival this morning, and that was hard enough. She didn’t even hug me good-bye. She’s always been rather stoic, but not with me, not until these past few months.” The lingering hurt stung her eyes. “And now I meet this Mr. Garret. I’m only going to know him for a few days, and then I’ll never see him again. Rather like you, I suppose.”

  The gremlin chirped in return.

  “You silly thing. My heart must be made of silver, the way you’ve stolen it.” She lowered her satchel to the floor as she stared at the door.

  Octavia waited. And waited. She angled her watch toward the light as the minutes passed.

  “It’s as though Mr. Garret’s been swallowed up by a geologica sinkhole. I can’t leave you here, Leaf, not without a good lock on your cage. I hope Mrs. Stout has gone on to sleep and isn’t fretting.”

  She shuffled her feet and kicked something solid. Crouching down, she found a hard ninety-degree angle of polished wood. A frame? Curious, she lifted it into the light, and found herself staring Queen Evandia in the eye. Octavia snorted.

  “How appropriate, to find you skulking about in a place like this.” She blew a raspberry at the Queen’s face.

  It was an older portrait, showing Evandia as young and haughty. Prim, painted lips, eyes lined by kohl and crimson. Streaks of red livened the black updo of her hair—that trendy dye alone showed the portrait’s age. The canvas reeked of urine. Deep slash marks almost bisected the image, chin downward dangling like degloved skin. The work of soldiers, perhaps. Angry, starving soldiers, unpaid in months like Miss Percival. Or grieving family. Or hungry civilians, or the jobless, the sick . . . Well, that narrowed down the possible culprits to the majority of Caskentia.

  It was funny, in a terrible way. Queen Evandia was so rarely seen in public due to the threat of the Waste. Now her own people would riot and lynch her on sight. Maybe that’s one reason why the war dragged on—Caskentia had someone to fight other than itself. A dozen corrupt, bickering municipalities; the city of Mercia with its half million; the palace, a world unto itself. One could argue that Evandia didn’t really rule at all. She was simply . . . there. Governing the palace, while the rest of the kingdom succumbed to verdigris and rot.

  “I’m sorry you’ll have to be left here in such poor company,” Octavia said to Leaf. The gremlin emitted a soft screech. “Yes, my sentiments exactly.”

  The cargo access door opened again with a burst of light. She cowered behind the boxes, willing Leaf to silence with a hand on his cage.

  “Miss Leander?” Mr. Garret’s voice was low.

  She emerged from her hiding place, her eyes still dazzled by the brightness. “I’m over here,” she said, stepping forward. The door shut, reducing the glare, and she could see Mr. Garret’s face sag in relief.

  “My apologies. My absence had been noted and I was required to clean up in the promenade. I hope you were not overly vexed. Here is the lock.”

  She stroked the lock with her thumb, absorbing the lingering warmth of Mr. Garret’s body, and then fastened the metal onto the cage. She tucked the key into her satchel, knowing better than to leave it in reach of the gremlin again.

  “I’ll be back soon,” she whispered to Leaf. He trilled a soft farewell.

  “Come. I will walk you back to your room,” said Mr. Garret.

  The kitchen had quieted, the smell of food replaced by the fresh odor of soap and lemons. As they passed the smoke room, a deep masculine laugh carried through the walls. Her hand felt strangely empty as she traveled up the stairs. Already, she missed Leaf’s companionship.

  Please, Lady, let him stay safe there.

  They reached the top of the stairs. Sudden and discordant music froze her in place, her hand gripping the rail.

  “Miss Leander?” Mr. Garret stopped and turned, his expression quizzical.

  She pushed past him, following a mad cacophony only she could hear. Bleating trumpets and crazed drums competed for dominance. Nothing spoke louder than blood, and this symphony of
agony originated behind her very own door.

  “Oh, Mrs. Stout,” she whispered.

  CHAPTER 4

  Octavia grabbed the doorknob. It was locked as securely as the Caskentian royal vault. Her hand dove into the satchel pocket, numb and fumbling.

  “Miss Leander?” asked Mr. Garret.

  “She’s dying.” Octavia stabbed the key into the lock and jerked the knob. It spasmed open. Absolute darkness filled the room, but she didn’t need light to see. Shrill flutes and wild drums originated from the bottom bunk. She staggered forward and dropped to one knee, doffing the satchel strap from her shoulder. Mr. Garret’s feet were heavy on the floor behind her. The light clicked on.

  Crimson pooled beneath the cot. Both beds had been assembled, a steel ladder leading to the top. A black canvas tent surrounded both bunks. The bottom bed was zipped shut, slash marks sagging open.

  “My God,” said Mr. Garret. The door shut behind him.

  That was meant to be my bed.

  Someone had carried through with the threat from the note. Why? Why her, why this? The shrillness of the blood in her ears grounded her, forcing her through shock to the duty at hand.

  Octavia unfastened the middle segment of her satchel. Shoving her bag away, she stood and fluffed out her medician blanket. At seven feet by three feet, it filled up the entire floor space with some folding at the edges. In the middle lay the circle—an oval, really—woven of copper thread and honeyflower stems, which created a permanent healing surface bound to the cloth.

  Octavia tore open the tent flaps, her breath catching at the sight of Mrs. Stout. The woman was as pale as death, a blue undertone to her skin. The human body contained some six quarts of blood, and Mrs. Stout’s volume screamed like a thousand starving cats.

  “What can I do?” asked Mr. Garret.

  “Lift her at the shoulders.” He deftly stepped around Octavia, taking care not to place his feet within the sanctity of the circle. They set Mrs. Stout on the blanket. Octavia’s fingers brushed the copper weave of the circle. A spark crackled in the air as the enchantment activated.

  Mrs. Stout’s night shift was more red than white. Her large breasts lay like mashed rounds of bread at each armpit. Through the jelling blood, Octavia judged the stab wounds to be in the upper quadrant of the abdomen, most likely striking the kidneys.