The Clockwork Dagger

by Beth Cato

  Head down in focus, she walked smack-dab into Mr. Garret.

  The steward hop-stepped with the agility of a dancer. Octavia, however, lacked that grace. She flopped backward, tailbone and pride painfully meeting the worn carpet. Clutched with her left arm, her satchel swayed and landed in her lap. The well-packed jars didn’t so much as jingle.

  “Miss Leander!” Mr. Garret extended a hand. “I am terribly sorry—”

  “It was my fault, I wasn’t looking—”

  “I visited your quarters and was told you came down here. We have something of a situation aboard ship.”

  “This situation involves the people in the privy?” she asked, and he nodded. “When did these symptoms begin, Mr. Garret?”

  “The past hour. Thus far, I count six men, including one of our crew.”

  “Did all of them eat breakfast this morning?”

  “Some did, but many were up quite late. All of the affected were guests of the smoking room last night.”

  Octavia’s head jerked up. “Is that so?”

  “Miss Leander.” He lowered his voice. “The sick crewman is Captain Hue. If the copilot comes down ill as well, we may be forced to make an emergency landing.”

  An emergency landing. No mooring tower.

  The conflagration of the village. The Alexandria, a deflating oval as it scraped the night sky with flames. Screams—Mother—Father. The crackle of flames in their bodies’ songs—

  A strong hand clutched her arm, anchoring her to reality. “Miss Leander? Are you well?”

  No. I’ll never be well in that regard. She caught a whiff of his scent, reminiscent of cinnamon, and breathed in deeper. “Was anyone ill when they came aboard?”

  “No. Anyone with obvious signs of illness is denied entry. We dare not risk a contagion like pox.”

  She gnawed on her lower lip. “Some zymes can remain dormant for days or weeks without causing outward symptoms, but for so many to get sick at once, it sounds like some kind of contamination. It could be an accident, or . . .”

  It’s like the poisoning at the northern pass. But why would Wasters—so soon after armistice—bother with a small, ramshackle airship like this? They favor showy productions. Mass casualties. Widespread terror. This is too meager in scope.

  “What should we do, m’lady?” Mr. Garret looked on her with absolute trust.

  Fiddlesticks. “Do you have a list of the ill passengers?”

  “Yes. What do—”

  “As you noted last night, my presence creates an unusual fuss on board. I’m about to create a further fuss within the smoke room. Are you available to join me?”

  A smile, albeit weary, warmed Mr. Garret’s face. “If you are about to be meddlesome, Miss Leander, then it will be my pleasure to join you.”

  TO ENTER THE SMOKING room, they passed through a small air lock. The door sucked shut behind them, a vent clacking in the ceiling above. “ ’Tis a characteristic of hydrogen-aether airships,” Mr. Garret said, proceeding through the next door. “Of course, this is a helium model, so it does not have those same flammability issues.”

  Flammability issues. Hydrogen vessels. No, she would not think on such things, not now. Not with the captain and others ill. Her legs quivered, and she steadied herself on the wall.

  The smoking room was dark, darker than even the paneled corridors and rooms of the outer ship. The cold gray steel of the walls was exposed, spaced metal sconces breaking the stark monotony. The bar sat immediately to her right, its backdrop of glistening green and amber bottles. A magicked lighter on the counter practically buzzed with the potency of its enchantment. She pursed her lips, pausing. It was old infernal magi work, and the enchantment wasn’t confined to spark-lighting cigarettes and cigars; no, it encouraged people to utilize it. Good for business, bad for lungs.

  On the other side of the room was a Warriors table. The metal pyramid was scraped and dented with several bolts missing. The warriors themselves—fighting mechanicals the size of mice—rested in an obscene tangle at the base of the board.

  Mr. Garret rapped his knuckles on the hard wood of the bar. “Vincan, you around?”

  A long, hoarse groan emanated from the other side of the stanchion. It was the sound one expected from a bear awakening from hibernation, a warning to skedaddle quickly lest one become a spring breakfast. A hulk of a man rose, his jaw stretched in a yawn so wide it revealed a flash of uvula.

  Octavia was considered to be of pale skin, but not compared to this man. His skin seemed drained of pigment, so clear that the veins in his neck were visible to the eye. His hair was almost equal in tone, a stark, silvery white, but not because of age. Acne flecked the broadness of his cheeks and his flattened, crooked nose—not a feature he was born with, she was quite sure of that. His smile revealed dark gaps in his teeth.

  “Eh, Alonzo,” said the bearish man, yawning again. His chest seemed to swell as he craned back, biceps tight through the poor fit of his crimson uniform jacket. A jacket that was completely unbuttoned in the front. The union suit beneath was as brown-stained as a nappy passed down to the third consecutive babe in a family.

  Mr. Garret cleared his throat and tilted his head toward Octavia. The man eyed her up and down, his jaw still agape, then grabbed at his chest. His eyes widened and both hands reached beneath his waist and below the bar. He turned and showed the expanse of his back, his fingernails clumsily scratching at buttons. She pressed a fist against her mouth to keep from laughing.

  “Well then, er.” The man turned, still working the buttons on his coat. Crookedly, she noted, but at least he tried. “Sorry then, er, miss, but see, I don’t fit in any of the bunks aboard ship, so I sleep back ’ere during the day. Not supposed to get patrons in the morning, not normally.”

  Mr. Garret was a man of strong build with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, but this man seemed twice as big at the same height. He doesn’t need a bed. He needs a stall suited for draft horses.

  “ ’Tis not a normal morning, Vincan,” said Mr. Garret. “We have sickness aboard and everyone is a smoker.”

  “Now, Mr. Vincan—” she began.

  To her surprise, he burst out laughing. “By Allendia’s ghost! Listen to that, eh? Mr. Vincan. I sound all fancy ’n something when put like that. The surname’s Page, but not a soul ever calls me that. We’re not so formal down here, miss.”

  “I see. Mr.—er, Vincan, did anyone act sickly or strange last night?”

  He grinned again. “My goodness now. She makes it sound like she’s a proper medician or somethin’.” He chuckled at his joke.

  Mr. Garret’s expression pleaded for tolerance. She shook her head, smiling. “Mr. Garret, you said you had a list of the ill?”

  “Certainly, m’lady.” He passed her a pad of paper. She skimmed the names. Only Captain Hue’s was familiar.

  “Well, Mr.—um, Vincan, I need to know where these men were sitting or if they shared the same drink or snack. Do you know where a Mr. . . . Wexler sat?”

  Vincan stared at her, blinking.

  Mr. Garret clucked his tongue. “He will not know them by their surnames. Mr. Wexler. A tall, reedy fellow with a mustache about the width of a toothpick—”

  “Oh, ’im.” Vincan nodded. “Yes, I know ’im. ’E sat there.” He pointed a beefy arm toward the far corner of the room, in direct view of the bar. “Drank whiskey. When his drunk was up, he had a wheezy laugh, like some sneezing dog.”

  “I believe the next on the list was Mr. Grinn,” said Mr. Garret. Octavia passed the list back to him. “Mr. Grinn is a big fellow. He has a gut like a bag of grain.” He mimed the curve of a pregnant belly. “The fellow speaks only a few words in Caskentian.”

  “Yes, ’im. Fluent in grunt. Favored malt beers. Hiddly Hops, mostly, though he may have had a shot ’r two of harder stuff. He was just on t’other side.” Vincan leaned to tap on the wall between the bar and the sitting area.

  “Hmm. They had different drinks, then.” Octavia drummed her fin
gers on the counter. A bowl of flatbread crisps sat about a foot away. Her stomach groaned. “Did they eat any of this?”

  “Well, yes, miss, jus’ ’bout everyone does.”

  “Did you?” she asked.

  “No, not me. If I did, that bowl’d be empty, wouldn’t it?”

  For now, at least, she could eliminate alcohol as being suspect. That was a relief, as there had to be a hundred bottles along the wall. Testing each would present a tedious chore. She knew better than to ask if the patrons had ingested water; at a place like this, it was unlikely. Unless . . . “Do you serve ice in your drinks?”

  Vincan looked at her as if she was daft. “Most assuredly I do, miss. Keep a cooler under the bar an’ fetch more ice from the kitchen if needin’ more.”

  She turned to Mr. Garret. “I’m afraid I have a rather grotesque favor to ask of you.”

  “For you to preface it like that does not bode well.” He braced himself. “Ask away, m’lady.”

  “I need a sample of . . . expulsions from an ill man.”

  “Oh, is that all?” An eyebrow arched high, his lips already contorting in disgust. “Miss Leander, as I said before, you do bring new life to a dull job. I will be right back.” The air-lock door whooshed shut behind him.

  “He’s fetching . . . er, what?” asked Vincan.

  “Vomit, most likely,” Octavia said in an upbeat tone. “It’d be the pleasanter choice.”

  “You are a strange one, aren’t you, miss?”

  “So I’ve been told.” And I’m about to prove my oddness once again.

  Mr. Garret returned with a chamber pot in hand. The foul, fermenting stew of stomach acids and alcohol caused her to crinkle her nose.

  “I intercepted a steward just out in the hall. Everyone is on cleanup duty.” His expression turned grim. “And you should know, the copilot is now ill as well.”

  No. Don’t picture the flames. Don’t imagine the screams. She took a steadying breath, and immediately regretted it. “How soon until we’re forced to land?”

  “Less than thirty minutes. If anyone else in the cabin shows symptoms, sooner.” He set down the pot.

  “Kethan’s bastards. I dunno if I should be around for this,” muttered Vincan. “Miss is the real deal, in’t she? Magic ’n all? I just . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “Go back to sleep, big lug. ’Tis far past your bedtime,” said Mr. Garret.

  “Yes. Yes. Believe I shall.” Vincan lowered himself behind the bar.

  “I confess, Miss Leander, I am not sure what you are doing either,” muttered Mr. Garret.

  “Are you afraid of me?” she asked softly. I’m so sick of being feared.

  “Afraid of the chaos in your wake? Perhaps. But of you, m’lady? Certainly not.” His smile created cozy warmth in her chest—quite an accomplishment, considering the task at hand.

  She looked down at the chamber pot, steeling herself. “I’ve only done this once before. It’s only been done once, period.”

  “Surely medician texts—”

  Octavia shook her head, loose hair whipping her cheek. “There’s nothing similar chronicled. I may be the only one who’s done this, ever.” The words emerged as a whisper.

  He arched a black brow. “Most interesting.”

  “In this regard, perhaps, though I fear I’m rather dull at parties.” She tucked the strand of hair behind her ear and set her satchel on the floor. “Can you lock the door, please?”

  Octavia pulled out the bag of honeyflower and crouched close to the chamber pot as she created a tight circle. “You’re aware of the science of zymes? It comes out of Tamarania.”

  Mr. Garret shook his head. “I am Caskentian, born and raised. I have never been to Tamarania, though my mother maintains Father’s old household there.”

  Octavia stood, dusting her fingers against her parasol. “Zymes are living creatures so small they cannot be seen with the eye, though they show up in a magnifying scope. Some zymes make a person ill, while others do nothing at all.”

  “I note you are not using your blanket this time,” said Mr. Garret.

  She studied him before answering. His eyes were keen as he absorbed every detail of her operation. Mr. Garret did a decent job of playing an amiable lackey, but a man of his class didn’t belong in a servile role on an airship. Compared to that bragging buck on the promenade, Mr. Garret would make an excellent Clockwork Dagger—he had the agility and intelligence—but he was far too . . . nice to take on such a callous role. Of course, with the economy as it was, even displaced earls begged on street corners. A man had to earn his bread somehow.

  “For this, I prefer to use the smaller circle. It focuses the magic.” She looked toward the bar. “Vincan, is it possible to pull out that cooler?”

  There was a feral grunt. “ ’M pretending not to be here, miss. Magic and me, we’s not friends, even if it’s the pleasant sort.”

  “He was branded.” Mr. Garret’s voice was barely audible.

  In that instant, Octavia understood. Branding was a peculiar act committed by Waster infernals—a perverse show of respect for soldiers who managed to get within range of physical touch. Such marks were small, painful, and always left scars as they were far too minor for doctoring.

  Magic terrified many people. For a person’s sole exposure to be the violence of an infernal—Vincan was certainly not the first she had encountered with such an aversion to magi.

  “Vincan, I’m a medician, as you surmised, and I need your help. This does involve magic, yes, but I suspect that Wasters may be at fault for these illnesses.”

  The floor shuddered as Vincan emerged, his pale skin strangely ruddy. “Wasters, on my ship?”

  She nodded. “Not long before armistice, they used zymes to poison the water at the northern pass—”

  “Oh, damn the day, miss, my brother was there and lived and has a wee baby girl to bounce on his knee now. Whatever you need, s’yours, specially if it’s Wasters causing the fuss.”

  He ducked down again and groaned, staggering out with a cooler that looked to be of lead. Condensation and ice coated the lower half of the cube. He set it down at her feet and tossed the lid aside.

  Octavia made another circle in honeyflower and lowered herself to the floor. The wood was hard and cold through the cloth at her knees.

  “Lady, hear my plea,” she murmured. “There is illness aboard this ship. Your Tree is the encourager of all life, roots mooring the world. I fear that zymes are being wielded as swords. Please, Lady, reveal the rhythm of this illness, so that I may find the cause and treat the suffering.”

  When she closed her eyes, images loomed in her mind: the Tree, the branches, the bobbing leaf she yearned to catch. She breathed in the mustiness of a world freshened by rain and extended her hands beneath the leaf, waiting. Praying. The drop fell slowly, like a single coursing tear. It trailed along the membranes and to the very tip of the five-pointed leaf, hesitating, and then fell. She shivered at the warmth of the drop as it met her skin and lapped the length of her forefinger to her palm, as though she had submerged her full hand in water.

  She bent in basic Al Cala pose, arms extended to reach the chamber pot’s circle. Powdery honeyflower dug beneath her nails.

  Awareness flared through her body, adrenaline surging through her nerves as if reacting to an exploding incendiary. Her ears seared and throbbed, but not with pain. It was heat and sensitivity and a pressure beyond all comprehension. She opened her eyes. The world outside the circles looked the same as before. She leaned forward, knees grinding into the hard floor, and tapped the circle around the icebox.

  “Grace me, Lady,” she whispered. The sound began, like the gnawing of a hundred mice beneath the floorboards. Being surrounded by humanity is bad enough. If I could hear microscopic beings everywhere, I’d go mad, that’s for certain.

  This was what Miss Percival had termed a new eccentricity—something no medician had ever asked before of the Lady. When Octavia had performed this at t
he front, with a thousand men dying around her, her fellow medicians could not replicate the act. Nor could Miss Percival.

  That horrible, ugly envy on Miss Percival’s face. That’s when things changed between us.

  And yet—Miss Percival asked Mrs. Stout to be here with me, and that action says a great deal. She still loves me, even if she cannot show it.

  The music wavered, and she focused. Octavia bowed over the chamber pot. The fetid stink no longer assaulted her nostrils. The noise increased, the clacking rhythm of the zymes. They sounded like a marching band featuring tinny drums and a high whistle, looping in a brief and singsong manner. Octavia let her eyes half close as she hummed the tune beneath her breath.

  She shifted to the icebox and listened, still humming. The rhythms matched. They met together, note to note, and she could swear the song was the same one she had heard months before.

  This sickness wasn’t an issue of some filthy hand glancing the ice in passing. The entire block is rife with contamination. The Wasters chose water as their medium again—appropriate, since the last war started with irrigation rights as the excuse.

  She touched the circle around the icebox. “Lady, thank you for extending your branches.” The heat in her ears and beneath her fingers vanished within a breath. She looked up at the men.

  “Vincan, can you pick up the box again? The entire thing needs to be purged, and the rest of the ice supply must be checked as well.” He didn’t move. “I’ll use my wand on your hands and most everything else in here soon. I won’t let you get ill, I promise.”

  That was good enough for him. Vincan grunted as he moved the icebox several feet away.

  “Is it that bad, m’lady?” asked Mr. Garret.

  For my herb supply, yes. Still, she didn’t hesitate. “Please assemble the afflicted. I’ll treat the captain and copilot first, and any other crewmen. When you have the chance, I’d also appreciate it if you could fetch breakfast for Mrs. Stout.” She lowered her voice. “There’s also a hungry gremlin.”