by Beth Cato
Octavia could only nod.
Mr. Garret stood as well, hat in his hands. “I must get to work now that my leg is fully functioning again. Oct—Miss Leander, I will see you at nine in the morning for our appointment? And these books . . . I know this is your dedicated project, Mrs. Stout, but tomorrow we meet with an authority of the Waste and its literature. She would find this work most intriguing.”
“A woman, is it? A Caskentian agent?” asked Mrs. Stout. Her eyes narrowed.
“Not directly. An academic with a full department at her disposal. She is a resource for the government, but is her own person, without question.”
“Mercia is less than two days away with a good wind. There’s no way I can translate it all on my own.” Mrs. Stout released a huff of breath. “The words in those books may save Miss Leander’s life. That’s the only reason I will hand them over, you understand?” She aimed a pudgy finger at Alonzo’s face. “It’s not because I trust you, or that woman academic. It’s not even because I like you. I don’t. But if you can help keep this girl alive, then so be it. Give me tonight to draft my own copies of my work. I can hand you the books tomorrow.”
“Understood. Miss Leander, I wish you a good night.” Mr. Garret bowed, his gaze on her heavy.
“Mr. Garret.” She bobbed her head stiffly.
He left with a quiet click of the door. Mrs. Stout immediately turned to her. “Oh, child. I know this is so difficult for you—” She stepped forward as if to hug her again and Octavia retreated, a hand raised.
“Please, Mrs. Stout. I know you mean well. I just . . . I need to be alone for now.”
“I see. Of course. Whatever you need. Let me know when you are ready for dinner. Oh goodness, I have a lot to do. I’d best get started again . . .”
Octavia retreated to her room. Mercia. I’m going to Mercia. Just for a while. Just to survive. The pressure of withheld sobs tightened her chest. She looked out the window. The winds had shifted, bringing billows of filthy gray to suffocate downtown and blot out the blue heavens. Below, people walked with veils and scarves draped across their faces, most all of them accustomed to the foulness.
Could I adapt like that? Will I?
She curled up on the carpet, her face pressed to her knees. The vision of the Lady’s Tree came to mind, as brilliant and green as ever beneath a gray sky—a cozy one, the scent of rain thick on the air.
To think, I’ll be locked in that landscape of steel and brick, so very close to true artifacts of the Lady, and I will never know them myself.
Tears flowed, and in her mind, even the Tree was deluged by the torrents.
CHAPTER 15
Mr. Garret awaited her outside the lobby the next morning. “Miss Leander, I hope sleep was kind to you.” He accepted the extra parcel from her arm. Mrs. Stout had gathered the stolen materials and packaged them in burlap and twine.
“It wasn’t, but I appreciate the thought.” The brisk morning air did little to improve her mood.
His expression was guarded as he nodded, taking her arm snugly against his, as if he could keep her safe by sheer force of will.
She studied their fellow pedestrians with suspicion. Everyone looked absolutely normal. Many men openly carried a sidearm. Any cabriolet or wagon could become a weapon. She glanced up, as if expecting a buzzer to come barreling from the heavens. Death could come in so many forms. She might not even see its approach.
She smelled trees before she saw them, and deeply inhaled, a smile already easing the hard lines of her face. They rounded a corner to find a sentinel row of oaks, their trunks scarred by scrapes with cabriolets and buggies. Even so, the trees stood resolute and strong, leading them toward the university just down the drive.
Leaves crunched underfoot. A bluebird chirped on a branch and hopped to the sidewalk, beak jabbing at detritus, then fluttered away as it realized their proximity. More bicycles than cabriolets rolled by, most everyone quiet. Reverential.
A piece of paradise tucked away here, just when I needed it most.
“ ‘Sing, sweet bird, of crowns and kings, of armies and castles and various things,’ ” said Alonzo, his deep voice finding the singsong rhythm. “ ‘But the bird said nay, of these I sing not: of men who died, and battles fought. I sing of flowers and bees and trees and sun; I sing of spring to everyone. I sing of cool dew and the crunch of seeds, I sing of what the heart truly needs. Lo, I sing of spring.’ ”
Octavia looked at him in surprise, not sure whether to be delighted or annoyed.
Alonzo shrugged, suddenly bashful. “I contrived the verse as a mere boy and the words stuck in my memory, wretched as ’tis.”
“Oh, it’s not that bad. Really. You would have liked my father. He adored verse. He was a teacher, as was my mother before she married and began to doctor instead. But Father loved his poems. He would work on the farm in the wee hours of the morning, and I always knew where he was because he composed poetry out loud. He then would come inside and scribble like a madman before walking down to the schoolhouse.”
“I have been known to have my own madman moments.” He continued his surveillance as they walked. “Less frequently in recent years, I fear. But the thoughts are always there, even if I lack a pen in my hand.”
“You could carry a little notebook, like Mrs. Stout. Do you work on verses out loud?”
“Sometimes, if I am alone. Not often these days. Aboard ship, someone is always sleeping in the berths. ’Tis always unpleasant to be awakened by a voice, but for it to be the musings of a poet . . . ! I may as well stand in place and accept my beating.”
Despite the fact that death could await her in any shadow, Octavia laughed.
Student tenements huddled together as if trying to keep warm. A tall wall skirted the walkway and wore a thick layer of posters for various events. Her eyes skimmed the mishmash of colors and words, and she was pleased that she couldn’t find mention of the Wexlers’ lecture on medicians.
Mr. Garret squeezed her arm against his. “You know I will do my utmost to keep you safe on the remaining journey, and to have you in the best of care in Mercia.”
She forced her gaze ahead. He had admitted himself that he was barely more than an apprentice and that only his mother’s influence had gotten him the job.
She couldn’t completely rely on him, or Mrs. Stout.
The university literature building consisted of gray stones almost obscured by thick honeysuckle. With winter near, the vines had shriveled, the dead growth still tenuously clinging to the facade. They passed through the entrance and into an echoing atrium. Octavia gazed up at the high point of the ceiling, her hands clutched together at her waist. Alonzo told a clerk of their appointment, and her footsteps faded down the hall.
After a brief wait, they were guided into a room. Octavia took in high bookshelves and the delightfully musty smell of leather before noticing the figure at the desk. Adana Dryn’s silver hair was cropped short in a most unconventional yet flattering way, her eyes almond-shaped and as intense as knife blades. She seemed to assess Octavia in a piercing glance, nodding.
“Welcome. Please, take a seat. I understand we have little time.”
“Yes,” said Alonzo, clearing his throat as he sat.
Octavia claimed a chair as well, doing her utmost not to gawk at the rainbow of soiled leather bindings around her. It was rare to see so many old books; Caskentia lost its greatest libraries in the fire-bombing of Mercia. In Tamarania, sights like this were likely commonplace. Octavia looked past Adana Dryn and noted a familiar window of stained glass that was almost obscured by heavy curtains. A beam of sunlight framed Adana in white.
“That’s the same window as in your husband’s atelier, depicting the Saint’s Road,” Octavia said.
Adana glanced over her shoulder. “Oh. Yes. They were gifts. I forget it’s there most of the time. Not as though I need a reminder.” Octavia blinked, not understanding, and Adana cocked her head to one side. “You didn’t tell her, Alonzo?”
&
nbsp; “I saw no need to.”
“Well, Octavia, perhaps you’d know me better by my maiden name, Adana Murg.”
Octavia straightened. “Adana Murg, the Sainted Fool? The one who finished the Saint’s Road?” She gaped in awe.
“With the aid of my husband forty years ago, yes, though his role is often forgotten. That suits him quite well.” By the way Adana shifted, it was clear that she would rather the matter were forgotten, too.
Adana Murg, the one chosen by God to finish the road. Her touch alone had been able to set stones aglow. The man who aided her had only been able to help because his frost-damaged hands had been amputated. His mechanical replacements didn’t cause the stones to dim. Kellar Dryn had indeed lacked both hands.
Goodness. The tale of the Sainted Fool was my favorite as a child. To be in her very presence . . . !
Adana averted her gaze and Octavia flushed, realizing that she had been staring. “Alonzo,” said Adana, her voice rusty with age, “Kellar has already told me about your discussion, and I’m not sure what insights I can offer.”
“We have discovered something more since speaking with your husband. Allow me to show you these books.”
Alonzo handed over the burlap bundle. He explained that Mrs. Stout was a pulp book publisher with a keen interest in ciphers, and pointed out her marginalia.
“Your friend is brilliant,” said Adana. Octavia imagined Mrs. Stout preening at the praise. “I have seen many Dallowmen codes before, but to possess such a trove! Usually the most Caskentia intercepts is a note or two within a year, nothing like this. Whoever this man was, he was high up in their organization or a scholar himself. You say he had no traveling companions?”
Alonzo shook his head. “None registered. He was the only non-Caskentian-speaking passenger.”
“The Dallows encourage settlers from all nations. Most of them are multilingual by necessity. I would guess that he could understand Caskentian, even if he couldn’t speak it.” Pages crinkled as she flipped through. “I believe at least one of these volumes consists of bound correspondence. I recognize the formality in the formatting. This seems to be quite recent.”
“Perhaps it will explain these attempts on my life?” asked Octavia.
“We can certainly hope. I will have my assistants begin work on this immediately.” Adana rose from her desk and walked toward the door. Octavia blinked.
The glow of the window stayed on Adana.
Her entire body was illuminated by a thin white nimbus. It clung to each strand of hair and traced the tailored lines of her high-waisted pants. Octavia looked to Alonzo. He showed no reaction, but he had said that something was intimidating about this woman.
“Alonzo,” she murmured. “Do you see anything . . . strange about her?”
“Ah, her trousers and cropped hair? She is quite bold, is she not?” His nod was of admiration.
“I . . . never mind.”
Octavia gnawed on her lip as she studied the glow. This is some new insight from the Lady. Adana once bestowed light on stones; maybe some of that blessing lingers on her still.
“How soon will the deciphering be done?” asked Alonzo as Adana returned to her desk.
“The booklets are slender and your Mrs. Stout already did the hard work of unraveling the cipher. I have thirty eager students ready to translate, and I’ll join them once we’re concluded here. Please inform your captain that a buzzer will arrive this evening, by supper if all goes well.”
“Goodness. By supper!” Octavia couldn’t help but be impressed. To her, the pages still made as much sense as trying to read raindrops.
Alonzo stood, and Octavia followed suit. “I am relieved and grateful for your aid, Adana. We must return to our hotel if we are to make our departure on time.”
Adana nodded briskly and walked them to the door. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, Octavia. Perhaps we can meet again and speak at greater length. I’ll keep you in my devotions as you continue your journey.”
This close, the light of Adana’s presence caused her eyes to ache. “Mrs. Dryn—Adana—thank you. It’s been a special honor to meet you.”
“Alonzo?” Adana’s voice was soft as she faced him.
“Yes?”
“Be careful.”
Alonzo nodded as he hooked Octavia’s elbow. They walked out together, murmuring their thanks to the clerk as they passed. Alonzo seemed lost in thought as they headed away from the university. Their footsteps crackled on drying leaves. Octavia breathed in the musty scent as if she could carry it with her.
Along the street, the construction equipment wasn’t idle now. Instead, it clattered and boomed, mighty wheels turning as a refitted tank mounted with a shovel blade worked at the pavement. Another large machine followed close behind, its large scoop mounded with steel pipes. Octavia covered her nose and mouth with her hand and pressed through a cloud of foul exhaust, the joyous scent of the trees utterly gone. Alonzo’s lips moved but she heard nothing. The black cloud cleared, and she could see people and wagons before the hotel entrance.
A man near the doors turned, twiddling with his mustache. Octavia stopped cold. Mr. Drury. She hadn’t seen him since jabbing him aboard the airship, and had no desire to see him now. Especially as the timing of his departure meant he was likely boarding the Argus again.
“Octavia?” Alonzo’s lips were beside her ear, his breath hot and tickling.
She shook her head. Walking past Mr. Drury was unavoidable, but she refused to show any fear to that man. Mr. Drury faced them, his thick eyebrows rising. Octavia glared. He smiled as if nothing were amiss.
“Miss Leander.” Mr. Drury’s voice was almost obscured by the noise of construction. Behind him, a small child in homespun clothes bounced and pointed toward the machinery, his face rapturous with delight.
Leaves rustled and brushed against her face, almost ticklish, and she raised a hand to force them away. There were no plants nearby, only the street. As she lowered her hand the sensation came again, a twig scratching against the high bones of her cheek. She turned to look that way and caught the glint of light off flying metal.
Yelping, she dropped to the ground, dragging Alonzo with her. The steel beam flew past. Her gaze on the cracked pavement, she didn’t see the metal impact with the child, but she heard it. She felt it. The violent smack, the rush and scream of blood, the mother’s wail. Behind it all was the roar of the machine. Octavia looked across the street. The smaller of the refitted tanks spun in a tight circle, the scoop’s burden of metal rendered into missiles with each rotation.
Something heavy struck her, knocking her flat onto the sidewalk. Grit cut into the tender flesh of her hands. Glass shattered. Screams resounded. Screams of voices, screams of blood—more blood. She remained still, dizzied by the sudden barrage of traumas around her. Chaos rang out around her, horses neighing and wagons rattling, but all she could see was the pool of blood expanding around the child’s limp and upturned hand.
CHAPTER 16
“My boy! Someone help my boy!” Out of all the surrounding noise, that voice rang out the loudest.
The cacophony of screams and hooves kicking at buckboards was muted by the sudden flare of music from the boy’s blood. It wailed, stomping a frantic jig for attention. Not two seconds had passed since the child fell, and the very life was seeping from his body. Octavia pressed herself onto her forearms, struggling to rise, move, edge over a foot more to see the injury for herself.
“Stay down, woman.” The voice was cool at her ear, a hand pressed at her waist. The scent of cloves wafted over her. Mr. Drury. Revulsion shuddered through her body.
“I must get to him,” she gasped, struggling to rise again. More yells, more breaking glass. A horse emitted a sharp scream, only to suddenly go silent.
“Get her out of here.” Alonzo’s voice was sharp. “I will get the boy.”
Another attempt on my life, and this time others are dying in my stead. Horror paralyzed her against the sidewalk as anot
her metal beam whirred overhead.
Mr. Drury wasted no time. She had witnessed his agility on the ship but was stunned at his speed now. In one deft move, he scooped her up, arms around her waist, and hauled her toward the spinning lobby doors. She thought to screech or fight, suddenly more afraid of Mr. Drury despite the fact that he had used his own body to shield her from an assassin, but she wouldn’t run from him. That meant running from that child, dying there on the pavement.
Dying because of me.
The ornate lobby held its usual crowd of stewards and idlers. Trained by years of war, they all remained prostrate on the glimmering marble and handwoven rugs, hands over their heads. Two children peered from behind a heavy chair, their eyes wide even as a maternal arm yanked them back again. Mr. Drury whirled her to the side and away from the windows and doors. With a wall at her side, her feet alighted on the floor. She flinched from him, already dropping her satchel. Two seconds later and the medician blanket fluffed out.
“You shouldn’t do this here. It’s still too vulnerable,” said Mr. Drury.
She spared the split second to shoot him a venomous glare and then Alonzo backed through the doors. The child was a bloodied doll in his arms, the mother as their shadow.
“Oh Lady,” Octavia choked. Pampria. Heskool root, to ward against infection brought into the wound. A pinch of bellywood. Her shaking fingers twisted open the lids as Alonzo set the boy down in the midst of the woven oval.
“My boy!” The mother was like a shawl draped from Alonzo’s arm, limp and ragged.
A sharp whistle of the wind had joined the dismayed symphony of the boy’s body. Brain fluid. Louder than the screams of blood, the whistle pierced the chatter of faceless others in the lobby and the whistles coming from somewhere beyond.
Oh Lady, Lady. A brain injury, the most dire.
“M’lady. Come with me. Let her work.” Alonzo pulled at the mother, dragging her back.