The Clockwork Dagger

by Beth Cato

  “Take it slowly. Put the pressure on your good leg and then bear down on the mechanical toes first.”

  “I have done this before, you know.” He stared at where her fingers clutched his arm. The muscles were tight in her grip, his skin delightfully warm, but she shivered as if she were cold. She relinquished her hold and looked away, making sure her supplies were packed.

  “Knowing this fool, he’ll be back again,” Dryn muttered.

  Alonzo gingerly stepped across the floor, with Octavia lingering behind as a precaution. By the time he reached the hallway, his stride was back to normal. The song of his body rang as strongly as when they’d first met. The blessing had allowed him to mend from yesterday’s travails abnormally fast.

  Relieved as she was, she felt a tinge of regret, selfish as it was. She’d lost her excuse to touch him.

  Kellar Dryn stood by the door to the atelier. “It was an honor to meet you, Miss Leander.” He bowed and extended a hand. Octavia recognized the gesture and reached outward. His kiss to her knuckles was quick and professional.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’m glad to know you’re here, in case.”

  But Alonzo will not die. I won’t let him.

  Factory exhaust blotted out the sky. Octavia gagged at a foulness like ammonia. Bells chimed from the nearest building, and not two seconds later, workers exited in a flood. They scarcely talked. They were an exhausted mob, blackened by coke. Even the children looked old beyond their time—backs stooped, faces sagging with exhaustion.

  She took it all in as she struggled to breathe against the stench. “Mercia is like this, isn’t it?”

  “ ’Tis. With a thousand more factories and far more people, besides.”

  “The beautiful places you spoke of before. I would never see them, would I? What about blue sky? Here, there’s a strong wind, but in Mercia . . .”

  “Octavia . . .”

  “Yes, yes. I know you mean well. But this . . . everything . . . I want a cottage and a garden. A home, a family.” She flinched, not intending to say the last out loud. It wasn’t something she even wanted to think about.

  “Trees,” she continued, looking around. “I cannot imagine living without the sight of trees.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Will sorry keep me alive? Will sorry grant me freedom and peace? Oh Lady. I’m the one who’s sorry, Alonzo. This isn’t your fault, not at the heart.”

  He stopped. “Do not apologize, Octavia. You asked for none of this. But I want you to look around us, right now.”

  She did. They had entered the commercial district, and the crowd had thickened around them like a stew set to simmer for hours. Cabriolet horns blared their crude symphony as a buzzer whined somewhere above.

  Alonzo stepped closer, dangerously close, his shoulder at face level. She breathed in, detecting the clarity of his scent even through foul exhaust from the smelters.

  “I do not want you to die.” His voice was soft, tender. His eyes searched hers. “Anyone around us could be your assassin. They could trail us, even now. I am one man, Octavia. One inadequate man.” Bitterness seeped into his tone. “I have . . . my orders, but I think that once we are in Mercia, you will be in good care. Medicians are few. This arrangement will be temporary. Caskentia should be blessed to have you.”

  “Oh. Keeping me alive is for the benefit of Caskentia. I see.” For some silly reason, she was disappointed.

  He brought his hand to her face, and with one callused finger he followed the line of her cheek. The pressure was as glancing as a feather’s stroke, and yet it sent shivers through her. “Perhaps I have my own selfish reasons,” he said, then turned toward the hotel again.

  “Oh,” Octavia said, and followed.

  CHAPTER 14

  “I need to speak with Mrs. Stout,” Alonzo said. The high brick spire of the Hotel Nennia was visible ahead. He had said nothing for blocks, and now his voice had lost that huskiness that caused Octavia’s heart to race a little faster. Instead, he sounded confident, assured.

  “Do you, now? If you’re truly in need of more prickling wit and lectures on morality, I would be happy to oblige.”

  A half smile softened his face. “I will endure her sharp commentary. This is necessary.”

  She eyed him with suspicion. “Very well.”

  The hotel lobby was bustling with the evening’s flow of guests. She recognized several people from the airship and nodded greeting. A mechanical dog scampered underfoot and emitted tinny barks. At the far side of the lobby was the other steward, Little Daveo. He wore similar clothes to Alonzo, a brown suit tailored to his small body.

  “Look! There’s Little Daveo,” she said, nodding toward him.

  “Indeed.” Alonzo and Daveo waved to each other across the room.

  The lift doors opened. “Oh! Miss Leander!” Mrs. Wexler stood there, her pale-faced husband at her side.

  “Mr. Wexler, Mrs. Wexler,” said Octavia. Beside her, Alonzo bowed low and repeated the names as well.

  Mrs. Wexler focused her steely gaze on Octavia. “You did not come to our symposium.”

  Octavia didn’t reply immediately, taking several long seconds to grind her teeth. “I never said I would, Mrs. Wexler. I had other engagements. Mr. Wexler, how are you recovering?”

  “Well.” The Wexlers stepped from the lift, and she followed Alonzo’s lead and slipped inside.

  “Miss Leander—” Mrs. Wexler began.

  Octavia granted her a pleasant smile and pressed the button to close the doors. “Have a good evening.” The wrought-iron doors shut with a whoosh of air, as tight as the royal vault. Octavia sagged against the wall as the lift began to rumble upward. “Goodness. That woman is like a barnacle.”

  “That barnacle is on the passenger list for the final leg to Mercia.”

  She sighed. “And here I am, unable to afford laudanum.”

  “As pesky as Mrs. Wexler may be, ’tis worth keeping an eye on her and her husband, even from afar. As you noted, they have stayed close to you.”

  “Oh, no. You . . . you think they could be behind these attacks?” She couldn’t repress a chill.

  “We must consider everyone.” A bell dinged and the cage doors opened.

  Octavia unlocked the room door without a sound. She heard mumbling and the rustling of papers as she entered the parlor of the suite. Mrs. Stout sat hunched over an ornate desk, leaning on one elbow and scribbling with her free hand. A stack of books sat beside her—thin composition books, their bindings worn and in shades of yellow and blue.

  “Mrs. Stout?” Octavia said.

  Mrs. Stout screeched and leaped up. The chair toppled backward and papers danced through the air. She whirled around, pen in hand like a dagger. “You!” She sagged forward, gasping. “Don’t startle me like that, child! Oh goodness, you gave me a start! I thought someone . . .”

  The dread expression said it all. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Stout. That wasn’t my intent at all. I brought up Mr. Garret as well. He wished to speak with you.”

  Alonzo plucked one of the papers from the floor and examined it as he stood. “I do believe that Mrs. Stout may wish to speak with us as well.” His face turned stony as he held the page toward Octavia.

  She squinted to read it. “That’s sheer footle.” Line after line consisted of absolute gibberish, dashes and lines and shapes that bore no resemblance to letters of the alphabet.

  “No, ’tis not.” His grim gaze focused on Mrs. Stout. “This is a cipher. And who are you working for in this regard?”

  Octavia looked between them. “Are you suggesting Mrs. Stout is . . . ? That’s as likely as Caskentia creating the Waste, Al . . . Mr. Garret.”

  Mrs. Stout raised her chin, eyes defiant. “I work for no one but myself, Mr. Garret. I do not have to explain myself to an airship’s steward.”

  “Then explain it to me, please,” said Octavia, matching Mrs. Stout’s imperious tone.

  Mrs. Stout pursed her lips. “Well, yes. I should explain
this matter to you, but must he be present?”

  “I believe Mr. Garret to be much more knowledgeable than I in the way of ciphers, and I trust him with my life. Whatever you’re doing, please, kindly explain it to the both of us.”

  “A steward, knowledgeable in ciphers? That does not comfort me any. Quite the contrary.”

  “Please, Mrs. Stout,” said Octavia. Mrs. Stout sighed heavily and nodded as she motioned to the vacant chairs of the parlor.

  Octavia set down her satchel and claimed one of the plush armchairs. Alonzo’s body seemed strung so tight he could have been played like a harp. He sat straight in a chair, one hand near his waist where his gun was holstered. Surely he wouldn’t shoot Mrs. Stout? Octavia felt the urge to get between them, to soften this terrible tension, but forced herself to sit and wait. To listen. Mrs. Stout gathered that stack of books and carried them to Alonzo. He accepted them, surprise on his face.

  “If you must know, I’ve been deciphering this code for the past day and a half. I have made some progress, I think.” She sat down, primly, ankles crossed. Her white-gloved hands rested on her lap. At that moment, she was the very picture of a dowager queen.

  “And where have you seen such codes before?” Alonzo flipped a book open and scanned through its pages, all while keeping a chary eye on Mrs. Stout.

  “Well! You know, or suspect. I may as well not pretend otherwise. I encountered it as a girl, of course. Father often used such codes in communicating with his Daggers throughout the realm. I wasn’t supposed to pay attention to such things, but being of a stubborn nature and an only child, I did as I would. These books came from the luggage of Mr. Grinn.”

  “Mr. Grinn!” Octavia gasped.

  Mrs. Stout granted her a small nod and smug smile. “When we walked into the promenade and I saw him at the window, I knew he was suspect. I knew it! While Mr. Garret ran to the window, I struck the service bells. With everyone clustered at the windows, I dashed to Mr. Grinn’s berth. I picked the lock—yes, gape as you will, but I do have some tricks up my sleeve! My immediate assumption was that Mr. Grinn was behind my . . . incident and the poisoning as well. I wanted proof. I found it.”

  “This is a highly sophisticated code from the Dallows,” Alonzo said, frowning as he skimmed. “These are your pencil notations?”

  “Yes. You do know your ciphers. By my count, there are over four hundred different symbols used in those pages. It’s a work in progress, of course. I first tried applying mathematical formulas or letter codes, but with that number it was clear that the method was more complex. I believe that each symbol represents a syllable of speech.”

  Alonzo rubbed at his bristled chin. “I do believe in one day you have progressed further than some of the best minds in Mercia have in months.”

  “And where have you seen such codes before, Mr. Garret?” Mrs. Stout’s tone was ice.

  “You did not tell her?” Alonzo said, looking at Octavia.

  “Of course I didn’t! What do you take me for? It was enough that we both knew who she . . . might be. I had no desire to compound things unnecessarily.” Mr. Grinn, Mrs. Stout, Alonzo, the Dryns—is anyone who they appear to be?

  Alonzo leaned back. “Majolico.”

  “What?” Octavia stared at him. The word was nonsense, same as that code on the page.

  “Oh my.” Mrs. Stout raised a hand to her lips. “You’re a Dagger.”

  “ ’Tis an old code word,” he said to Octavia. “Still used with the royal family. Pretend you didn’t hear it.”

  She nodded as she committed it to memory, picturing the spelling in her mind.

  “You’re a Clockwork Dagger. And you know who I am. Oh God.” Mrs. Stout leaned forward, both hands against her face. “You’ve sworn an oath to Evandia, haven’t you? Then you must . . . I . . .”

  “I have sworn no oath to your cousin the Queen, not yet.” His tone was gentle. “I am, in truth, little more than an apprentice. My taking the oath has been delayed by my superiors. I am not breaking my word to Queen Evandia by keeping your secret. It will not be forced from me.”

  Mrs. Stout nodded. She worked her jaw as if she would speak, jowls jiggling, and was quiet several long moments. “The word of a Dagger is everything, or so my father said. Trust above all.”

  “Trust above all,” Alonzo repeated.

  “But I have no reason to trust you. Clockwork Daggers—Caskentia itself—are not what they used to be. Evandia, she . . . sits in her palace as everything rots around her. Even if you say you’re not part of that lot, the corrosion is on you. If you keep my promise, it means you violate your oath as a Dagger once you have taken it. What will your word mean then, steward?”

  Mrs. Stout and Alonzo stared at each other from across the room. The tension between them was thick, suffocating.

  “I trust him.” Octavia broke the silence.

  Weary gratitude softened Alonzo’s face. “That means much to me, Octavia. As for what my word becomes, Mrs. Stout, I see what Mercia is. I do not plan to stand by idly and accept corruption as the status quo. Things have changed for the worse. They can change for the better.”

  “He’s an idealist,” Octavia said, echoing Dryn.

  Mrs. Stout arched an eyebrow, revealing the broad purple of her eye shadow. “You intend to take a stand against Evandia? Truly?” A smile quirked the corners of her lips. “Well, you’re a fool then, albeit a noble one.” Like one of Mrs. Stout’s book heroes, no doubt. She scrutinized Alonzo, nodding as if he suddenly met some standard of approval.

  “Yet I am left wondering how you were able to break such an advanced code on your own, Mrs. Stout,” said Alonzo. “Surely as a child this was not your hobby?”

  “It was all a game to me, back then. But I have developed the skill in recent years. My husband was Donovan Stout, you see, of Cloak and Cowl Publishing.”

  Octavia burst out laughing. “You mean, all of those copper novels you read . . . ?”

  Mrs. Stout beamed. “Are from my husband’s company, yes. Well, my company now. I have penned some fifty novels myself. Dreadful, delightful little things, under a dozen different names. I often incorporate ciphers based on the ones I recall as a child. Simplified, of course, but it adds to the aura of mystery. We’ve even published a few books composed entirely of codes and they sold quite well. Most of the books are murder mysteries, of course.”

  “Speaking of murder mysteries.” Alonzo met Octavia’s eyes, and she had a sudden sense of dread. “The reason why I wished to palaver with you, Mrs. Stout, is to help me to convince Miss Leander here that voluntarily coming with me to Mercia is in her best interest. You see, in the past day there has been another attempt on her life—”

  At that, Mrs. Stout exploded in indignation. “What?” She stood, face flushed, bosom heaving. “Are you all right, child?”

  “I’m quite all right,” Octavia said, giving Alonzo a pointed glare.

  “As you see, she is intact and well.” He said this the way a person soothes a spooked horse. Immediately, Mrs. Stout’s agitations decreased. “The latest attempt—”

  “The second,” interjected Octavia. “Saying ‘latest’ makes it sound as if there’ve been a dozen.”

  Annoyance drove his brows together. “Second, yes. It took place in the swamp yesterday. A buzzer with an automated gun attacked us. It crashed, and the assailant then stole our wagon.”

  “A thief and a would-be murderer,” muttered Mrs. Stout. Her flush darkened and she sat down again as if deflated. “My goodness.”

  “I have the jurisdiction, of course, to take Miss Leander into my custody and force her into a ward in Mercia.” Or do the same to Mrs. Stout. The intensity of his gaze made Octavia turn away and study the paisley pattern on the parlor walls. “She is opposed to this for various reasons. But damn it all, whoever is behind these attempts will not give up.”

  “Oh dear. This is quite serious,” Mrs. Stout said in a most droll tone. “Child, you have driven this man—a Clockwork Dagger—t
o swear in the presence of ladies.”

  “I haven’t driven him to do anything!”

  Alonzo cleared his throat. “You know what I am up against, Mrs. Stout.”

  “Yes, quite. A stubborn girl is a particular sort of creature. I know from experience.” She gave Octavia a gimlet eye. “I’ve had to be in such a position before, of course, leaving behind my expectations and loved ones.” Mrs. Stout took in a deep, quivering breath. “To survive, I sacrificed part of myself. My name, my heritage, the very essence of who I was. You may very well need to do the same.”

  Octavia stood, fists balled. “I know that guarded custody in Mercia will likely preserve my life, but . . .”

  Gray skies. Gray buildings. People gray with soot and sickness. No Delford or garden or greenery or birds.

  But if that’s what it takes to stay alive . . .

  “How long would I need to stay in Mercia?” Octavia asked, forcing the words through her clenched throat. She knew he didn’t know the answer, but she had to ask nevertheless.

  Deep inside, it was as though part of her started to atrophy and turn gray as well.

  Alonzo remained quiet for several long seconds. “I must speak with my superiors, make them understand . . . the situation has changed.”

  “Wasters.” Mrs. Stout’s voice was sharp. “I still cannot see why they would want Octavia dead. Her worth is greater than gold. Even during combat, Wasters have never targeted medicians.”

  “ ’Tis why the situation is so perplexing. No one should desire her death.” Alonzo sank into his chair, haggard and weary.

  “I’ll go with you to Mercia, Mr. Garret,” said Octavia, the words a hoarse whisper. “With the hope that it’s temporary, that you and your Daggers can figure out why this is happening and that I can carry on soon.”

  The people of Delford will continue to die. I may not have been able to do much for them now, with my supplies as they are, but I could have doctored them. Done something.

  “Oh, child, I know this is hard for you.” Mrs. Stout walked over and embraced her, the scent of rose water like a cloud around her. Octavia allowed herself to be squeezed. “But it will keep you alive. Focus on that!”