by Beth Cato
Octavia’s arm ached, the pain sudden and penetrating to the marrow. She bit her lip to hold back a yelp. She circled the grove. The pressure in her arm intensified step-by-step, pain drowning out sensations in her fingertips. Peculiar, how sudden it was.
“I need a moment of privacy,” she called over her shoulder.
“Oh.” He paused. “Do be careful.”
She edged around a thick bush, but instead of lifting her skirt for privy business, she rolled back her sleeve. Pain prickled like hot nettles, causing her fingers to fumble. She worked the bandage loose. The seal of wax practically popped into her right hand, followed by a gush of blood that pattered on the ground. Octavia gasped.
“Octavia?” Alonzo’s pitch rose in alarm.
“I’m fine! I almost slipped. Mud.” She stared at the blood still flowing from her arm, at the ground where little green leaves were sprouting. The tiny incision was vertical so that it would release a mere trickle of blood, but this . . . Why was the Lady demanding this much of her? The flow resembled a tipped teakettle. For most medicians, a few drops would suffice.
Finally, the blood slowed to a dribble. With trembling fingers, she replaced the wax, then rewound the bandage. Her wand eradicated any spatter on her hand and clothes. The loss of blood left her cold, shivering. Scared. A waft of cinnamon caused her to turn, afraid Alonzo was spying on her, and then she realized the scent came from her feet.
Where her blood fell, pampria grew.
Octavia choked back a hysterical giggle. Were her herbal woes that easy to remedy? No. These sprouts would need months or years until they were large enough to be harvested. She had never heard of a bloodletting causing the Lady’s own blessed plants to grow.
At least now I’m away from Miss Percival and the others. This . . . this would give them another reason to hate me.
Alonzo wouldn’t hate me, if he knew. He’d perk up like a cat spying a mouse, want to know more details. That coaxed a slight smile. I almost wish to tell him, just to point out how dangerous I am—look, plants grow from my blood. Caskentia should be terribly frightened.
I’m peculiar, not powerful.
She headed around the bush again, skirting the road, and glanced down. Footprints in the mud led back toward the road.
Alonzo was half sitting on the backside of the wreck as he dug through the remnants. “I found the placard,” he said, not looking up. “The craft is from a rental company out of Leffen. ’Tis a normal two-seater, as I suspected. The automatic gun was hastily installed on the front seat. The bolts are clean and new, likely done today.”
“Ah. Someone was hunting for us.”
“Yes.” When he did look at her, his face was grim. “Either there is another assassin on the Argus, or Mr. Grinn failed to meet with someone this morning and they tailed us.”
“Or perhaps both.”
Alonzo’s caramel skin seemed to darken. “Yes. Though I do not like to think of that possibility. The Dallowmen want you alive. No one in his right mind would want you dead.” His expression was fierce.
“Well, someone’s obviously not in his right mind.” She motioned behind her. “I found footprints in the mud leading toward Leffen.”
He stared south. “Might it be possible to reattach my leg?”
“I’ll do my best.”
She found a dry patch of dirt and grass and spread out the medician blanket. After drying the socket and mechanical leg, she tapped the edge of the copper circle. The Lady’s scrutiny tingled across her skin as the conduit opened.
Usually in such operations, the medician would apply pampria to enhance the connection between nerves and wire while the mechanist verified that the mechanism worked. The task required synchrony between the two professionals as they melded magic and machine.
She pushed the leg into place. The sockets fit, but there was no change in the song of Alonzo’s body—a song already strained by the stress of the day. She closed her eyes, then sprinkled the tiniest amount of pampria over his leg as she focused on both the intense muscle strain in his good leg and the connections in the amputation.
“Try to move your mechanical foot now.” She placed a hand on his quadriceps just above the knee. The muscles hardened in quite an appealing way as he tried to move. The toes didn’t bend.
“Can you feel anything?” she asked, frowning.
“I can feel the connection, but ’tis as though the leg is asleep. Dead.” The stoicism in his words couldn’t mask his concern.
“Drat. Perhaps the mechanism is shut off. I dare not open the compartment; I’d likely cause more harm than good. Can you try standing up within the circle?”
“Certainly.” Alonzo pushed up from his hands, placing all his weight on the good leg as he stood erect. She eyed the mechanical leg. It didn’t fall off, which was a good sign. The connectors had locked as soundly as the royal vault. He placed the sole against the blanket. The ankle flexed, barely, making the leg appear quite wooden.
“I think that’s as good as we’ll get,” she said, shaking her head. At least the application of pampria would make him feel better. A curl of hair brushed her cheek and she tucked it beneath her headband again. She murmured thanks to the Lady as her fingers touched the copper threads of the blanket.
“At least ’tis connected, which is more than I had before,” he said, stepping from the blanket. “Thank you.”
“I wish it fully functioned. Do be careful. You can’t move fast. You won’t feel your toes if you trip on something, and you’ll be more conscious of the weight of it as well.”
“We do need to move, as fast as possible,” he said, his jaw set grimly. “Or we have an even longer walk ahead of us.”
Her head jerked up as she caught his meaning. “Oh. The wagon.”
She quickly packed her satchel. Alonzo didn’t need constant support but they still remained close, just in case.
It didn’t come as a great surprise that their horse and wagon were gone. Fresh wheel tracks showed that the vehicle had gone south toward Leffen. Alonzo stood there for a moment, his jacket stained dark, his fists balled at his sides. If he still had a hat, she suspected he would have thrown it to the ground.
“I think I’m most upset that the assassin stole our lunch,” said Octavia, sighing. She pressed a hand to her hollow, growling stomach. After that heavy bloodletting, she needed food, meat. She clenched her fists to hide the trembling.
Alonzo said nothing as his shoulders heaved up and down. She stared at him in alarm, and then his laughter boomed out so loudly it scared the birds from the tree above.
“You . . . after all that . . .” He faced her, wiping tears from his eyes. “Ah, Octavia. You do keep things in perspective.” He looked toward the sky, where the sun had already descended forty-five degrees toward the horizon.
“Someone will drive along this road,” she said.
Alonzo sighed. The poor man’s good leg probably throbbed like fire, and Octavia had her own share of stiffness and strain.
“Eventually.”
They both stared to the tapered point of the horizon, no horses or cabriolets in sight, and they began to walk.
CHAPTER 12
“Now, really! Are you going to sleep until that Lady’s Tree of yours dies and turns the world to ice?”
Mrs. Stout’s voice rang, clear and obnoxious, directly into Octavia’s ear. Octavia moaned and turned her head away, her arm flailing to find a pillow. A beam of sunlight sliced through her shut lids and she couldn’t help but wince.
“Tired,” she said, the words hot and muffled against the pillow.
“Of course you’re tired, child. You didn’t get here until an obscene hour of the night.” The words sounded harsh, but Mrs. Stout spoke with the same scolding fondness she had used for Leaf.
“Timeszit?”
“Past eight.”
“Eight? Balderdash.” She propped herself up. A mat of crazed brown hair blinded her. She shoved the hair from her eyes to see Mrs. Stout sitting
on a chair beside the bed. She appeared especially prim in a powder-blue gown far superior in quality to anything she had worn on the airship. The shimmery blue complemented the bold streak in her hair. An antiquated corset uplifted her bosom in a spectacularly gravity-defying way, creating planets of flesh that hovered above an unblemished satin sky.
Octavia pushed her feet out onto the floor. Fierce cramps jolted through both legs and sent her sprawling backward onto the bed. They had walked for hours until a farmer with a wagon had come along.
Mrs. Stout’s expression softened. “Oh, child. You should see about healing yourself.”
“There’s no time.” And definitely not the supplies. She gritted her teeth and made herself stand, sparing a moment to massage both calves. Her stomach rumbled, clearly still in need despite the four stale scones she’d inhaled when they arrived at the hotel. The blood loss and the day of exercise had drained her. “This is the only full day in Leffen I have. You said it could take hours at the bank, and I must reattach Mr. Garret’s leg this afternoon.”
“You’ll be the death of me, child.” At that, Octavia arched an eyebrow, and Mrs. Stout burst out laughing. “Sorry.”
“It would be funnier if it didn’t nearly come to pass.” Octavia stepped behind a dressing partition and found her burgundy and sailor dresses already laid out. Goodness, she had been sleeping soundly. She sniffed at the red dress, approving of the lingering lavender scent from the hotel laundry.
“I do need to talk to you, Octavia.” Mrs. Stout stood on the other side of the screen. Octavia flinched in full expectation of more nagging about Alonzo, and at the same time was surprised to hear the woman use her first name. “I understand your circumstances yesterday were quite . . . extraordinary.”
Octavia snorted softly as she slipped off her clothes. She had relayed some story about the stolen wagon, conveniently omitting the whole strafing assassin episode.
“I had a brief chat with Mr. Garret last night.” Mrs. Stout spoke with the enthusiasm of one discussing a loved one’s terminal illness. “He was quite apologetic, for all that means. But my concern is not with his behavior, but with appearances.”
Octavia paused as she pulled on the burgundy dress. “Appearances?”
“You’re young. He’s young. You spent the entire day together in the countryside and return covered in muck—”
“Now, really, Mrs. Stout. You make it sound as though we took a rest day’s carriage ride through the country and rutted like pigs. It was a swamp.”
Not at all a proper locale for wooing. The memory of that conversation made her smile, even as it vexed her. What did Alonzo Garret really intend? His interest in her was clear, but it seemed unlikely they’d stay together long enough for anything to come to fruition. Whether she traveled to Delford or—Lady help her—stayed in Mercia, Alonzo would soon be out of her life.
Like Leaf. Please, let him have flown away somewhere safe, somewhere away from people.
“I just worry about you, that’s all.” Mrs. Stout sounded as if she would cry.
“I’m more concerned with staying alive,” Octavia muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.” Octavia stood in front of the full-length mirror. She ran a hand through her thicket of hair. It was free of tangles due to a thorough brushing last night, yet still the slightest bit damp because she had fallen asleep so soon afterward. She worked her hair into three segments and formed a quick braid, then used some pins to bind it in a bun at her neck.
A quick check of her satchel found the signed letter from Miss Percival to present to the bank. Lifting the satchel strap into place, she discovered her shoulder sore as well.
“Come,” Octavia said. “This will be a busy day.”
LEFFEN WAS BUSTLING, BUT it was a different sort of bustle than that of Vorana. Certainly, there were draymen and steam cabriolets and horses, all competing for the same spot of road at the same time, but the buildings here were taller and more austere. The gray bricks wore a patina of soot. Wide cobbled sidewalks allowed people to flow like a river in spring thaw. In the press of humanity, Octavia found it hard to know which way was which. There were too many clashing hums of music, too many conflicting smells. She detected the hollow echo of amputated limbs, the weak notes of hunger, the distorted wails of severe infection. Alone in the crowd, Octavia would have hunkered against a wall and fought the urge to scream to block out the disorienting burble.
Mercia will be a thousand times worse.
Thank goodness, Mrs. Stout showed no hesitation, advancing through the crowd like a barge on a river and forcing lesser boats aside. Octavia’s fingers clutched at her satchel strap as if it were a lifeline in a tempest, and she followed. As if the cacophony of ill health wasn’t enough, there was also the fact that her would-be assassin was somewhere out there, biding time until he struck again.
Alonzo had been grieved that he couldn’t guard her as he had to work this morning, and last night Octavia had been dismissive of the risk. Now she acutely felt her vulnerability.
“News! Get your news from Mercia!” a man shouted over the din. “Waster kidnappings! Faltering banks! Auxiliary League Protests Eradication of Death Village! Read it all for a copper!”
“Waster kidnappings?” Octavia looked at Mrs. Stout, whose face had paled. “Have you heard anything about this?”
“No, child. I stayed in my room all day yesterday. I wonder . . . !”
Octavia wondered as well. If other medicians were being kidnapped, her recent ordeals might make more sense. No way was she paying a copper for the news, though. Trailing in Mrs. Stout’s wake, she edged closer to the street and studied the ground as they walked several blocks. Finally, in the gutter she spied a discarded newspaper. With a quick eye to traffic, she stepped out and scooped up the sheet.
The signs for the Golden Harvest Bank jutted from the building. Glowstones lined the top and bottom, creating a mild glimmer even in broad daylight. Sheaves of wheat in shimmering bronze accompanied the words.
Octavia gasped as they entered the building, and the sound echoed. The Hotel Nennia had nothing on the opulence of this place. The floor was black marble so shiny she could see her own image at her feet. Crimson velvet panels adorned the walls accompanied by wainscoting of alabaster and gold leaf. Any metal surfaces gleamed in gold as well. Probably some forty people stood ahead of them, mostly men in suits, clutching hats. Ahead of the snaking line, attendants sat behind a gilt cage and a marble counter.
They shuffled into the queue. Octavia’s feet throbbed, but she did her utmost to ignore it. She glanced at the newspaper in her hand. A bold headline read CASKENTIA FIRE-BOMBS DEATH VILLAGE; LADIES’ AUXILIARY PROTESTS. “What is a death village?” she asked.
“That’s a newfangled term for a village overwhelmed by pox. Caskentia has taken to eliminating everyone to prevent the spread of disease. Now, child, calm yourself—”
“Everyone?” Octavia did her best to keep her voice low, but several men turned to frown at her. “Pox is survivable, especially by healthy adults if they have proper hydration and care. Caskentia can’t, they . . .”
She closed her eyes for a moment, swaying. She shouldn’t be surprised. This was the country she loved, the country she labored for, and she knew well how they treated their own. The war was over. The killing needed to be over.
“Tut, tut. Of course they can. If killing a hundred means stopping the spread of illness that could kill five thousand. It’s all about control.”
“You can’t believe that this . . . firebreak strategy is right, Mrs. Stout. Or just. Pox is terrible, that’s true, but it can be survived with some care.”
“Oh, child.” Mrs. Stout’s expression was of pity. “Who do you expect to care? The Queen?” She kept her voice at a discreet level. “Her Daggers—which likely include some infernals who set that village ablaze—would raze the majority of the kingdom if it meant preserving the royal family. The crown is the kingdom. They won’t risk th
is new bout of pox working its way into Mercia or the palace.”
“Ah yes. It’s easier to burn the illiterate nothings. No one will miss them.” Octavia barely managed to utter the words. Just as no one spared a memory for her village, no one but her—and Alonzo.
Fire. Caskentia using fire, just like the Waste.
“I wish this were a different world, child.” Pain flashed through Mrs. Stout’s colorfully shaded eyes. “Now, to change the subject! Where’s that story about the kidnappings?”
Yes. The kidnappings. As if that were a pleasanter topic. Octavia blinked the heat of memory away and read on. YOUNG SOCIALITE KIDNAPPED; THIRD GIRL IN MERCIA THIS WEEK: “IT’ S THE WASTERS!” CRIES FATHER. A small picture of the man showed his face as distraught and ruddy in shaded gray.
A quick scan revealed no mention of medicians. The kidnapping incidents involved teenage girls of solid moral repute and upper-tier families.
“I had hoped the news would be more relevant,” Octavia muttered, shoving the newspaper onto a credenza as they shuffled forward. She certainly didn’t fit with the pattern. She was too old and too poor.
“Kethan’s bastards!” a customer at the counter yelled, grabbing her attention. Two bank clerks in white grabbed the man by the arm and dragged him toward the door. “One payment late, and you take my farm? Where’m I supposed to live, what do I tell my—” He sobbed as he was shoved out the door.
Mrs. Stout flinched. “I do hate when people say that. King Kethan . . . was a man of discretion. He should be remembered for the Gilded Age, not in tavern footle!” She lowered her voice to a murmur. “I suspect my cousin was behind the popularity of the saying.”
“Did you know your . . . cousin well?” Octavia thought of the haughty-looking portrait stashed aboard ship.
“A bit, yes, but we were never close. She was a nesh of a girl. Would sob at the slightest thing, quite insecure. Certainly not the one anyone expected to be Queen.”
At long last, they stood at the head of the line. Octavia pulled out the sealed paperwork from Miss Percival. Her thumb stroked the circle of hardened wax. A light flashed at a teller station far down the row, and she headed that way.