The Clockwork Dagger

by Beth Cato

  The browned skin of her face had blanched. “My son, he’s all I have left, I—” Alonzo yanked her away.

  Octavia touched the circle and heat surged. “Pray, by the Lady let me mend thy ills.” She waited, breath held, watching. Is his soul still present to acquiesce?

  “Don’t die because of me,” she whispered. Her gaze darted to the street. There were others in need. Not even the horses should suffer, not because of her.

  Horses had screamed the night her parents died, too. She heard them in the fiery barns. Trapped. Octavia’s fingers trembled.

  The conduit opened. The music of the boy’s body was like the susurrus of an airship high above, more distant by the second. She scooped up the pampria without looking and let the dried leaves sift over his face. The pallor of death had already claimed him, his jaw slack and lips devoid of color.

  This boy was all his mother had left. Octavia knew what it was like to lose everyone. She couldn’t let that happen.

  The fresh scents of pampria and heskool root replaced the coppery scent of blood and the chemical odor of brain, but only for a matter of seconds. His colors hadn’t shifted. Bartholomew’s tincture. Shards of the skull may be lodged in the flesh, preventing healing. She unscrewed the lid and used a small spoon to scoop out the blessed white powder.

  She hunched over, her prayer wordless in its agony. A loosened curl tickled her cheek but she didn’t brush it away. With both hands, fingers colored with herbs, she clutched the boy’s limp and pliable fingers. They were so small, so delicate. He couldn’t be older than six.

  The boy’s chest arched upward as he took in a sudden gasp of air. His eyes shot open.

  “What happened?” His voice was soft with wonder.

  Octavia sagged forward. “You were injured, but the Lady intervened.”

  She expected blankness, confusion. So few children knew of the Lady. To her surprise, his face brightened.

  “The Lady. I saw her. The Tree, I mean. I sat on a branch and swayed my legs and swung from a vine. She talked to me. She told me to tell you something.”

  Octavia stilled as ice crept through her veins. “The Lady told . . . told you something? For me?”

  “Yes. She said, ‘Listen to the branch and look to the leaves.’ ” A smile lit his face.

  And then he died.

  The music snuffed out in a single instant. His head fell slack against the reflective marble, eyes closing gently. A wisp of a smile lingered on his lips.

  “Child?” Octavia stared, sitting up on her knees. She squeezed the hand in her grip. It was limp, already cooling. Certainly, she had seen death before. There were always ones who were too far gone, whose pain the Lady could only relieve as she soothed their passing. But this? He came back. He spoke, and then he . . . he . . .

  “Octavia.” Alonzo’s voice was hot and husky against her ear. “He is gone.”

  She glanced back. Alonzo had penetrated the circle. Octavia had never even disengaged it. The Lady had withdrawn entirely on her own.

  Listen to the branch and look to the leaves. What did that even mean? It’s as if the Lady had revived the child just long enough for him to speak, to make him the conduit, and then withdrew her breath of life.

  “That doesn’t happen,” she whispered out loud. “The Lady doesn’t . . . doesn’t do that.”

  “Octavia.” Alonzo’s hand rested heavily on her shoulder. “We cannot stay here. The police are questioning witnesses. If we are held, the Argus departs without us.”

  She began to sway but Alonzo grip’s anchored her as strongly as a steel girder. “There are others who were injured. I need to—”

  “No.”

  “I can’t leave them. This is . . . someone . . . how?”

  “The rig driver was bludgeoned and someone set the machinery to drive in a tight circle, just as we passed. ’Tis shut off now.” He took in a shuddering breath. “Do you have money?”

  That took her off guard. “Wh-what?”

  “We must bribe the investigator. All my money paid for the wagon and Kellar’s services. I . . . I have not been paid by Caskentia in three months. I live on my steward’s salary and that alone.”

  They were equals in their poverty. Part of her wished to laugh, but she knew it’d only trigger hysterics. “I have coppers . . .”

  “Coppers are not enough.” He pulled back so she could see the chagrin on his face. No, outright embarrassment.

  “A silver, then.” It’s not as if she had any use for the money where she was going. “Can you pass me my wand?”

  “Of course.”

  The smooth staff of wood and copper was a comforting weight. She tended to her hands, clothes, and jars. She packed everything, then looked to the boy.

  “Where’s the mother?”

  “She swooned. Hotel stewards are tending to her.”

  Why, Lady? Why use this child in such a way? Octavia pressed a fist to her chest and fought a tide of tears. She was meant to be the conduit, not him. Why bring him back—with such sweet hope—only to take him again seconds later?

  “I can lift him up,” Alonzo said, his voice gentle.

  “I’ll take his feet.” Mr. Drury had been standing some distance away, near the door, but now he approached and stepped onto the blanket. Octavia was so numb she registered his return without any fear or revulsion. The two men hoisted up the lad and set him to one side. Her hands folded the blanket, knowing the creases without aid of sight.

  “I don’t even know his name.”

  Alonzo stood over her and she knew what he wanted. She nestled the blanket into its place and then went to the coin pouch to pull out a silver.

  “I am sorry,” he said. Whether he spoke of the child and the others, the shameful matter of the money, his failure to provide protection . . . she knew not. Some nebulous emotion wavered in his eyes and he approached a nearby officer. There were many, she realized as she looked around the lobby. The real world returned to her ears as though a fog lifted. The chamber echoed with dozens of conversations.

  “They’ll blame the Waste,” said Mr. Drury, his tone one of disgust. “They always do, even with no evidence. As though only men from there are capable of crime and vice.”

  “Men and women in Caskentia are quite capable of vice.” She watched Alonzo shake the hand of an officer in a gray suit, the silver coin slipped from hand to hand.

  “You are well? Unhurt?” Mr. Drury asked.

  “I’m unhurt. I’m not well.”

  “What is this? What has happened?” The regal voice of Mrs. Stout carried across the room.

  Octavia sucked in a breath as she stood. “Spare her this scene. Please.”

  “There’s another exit,” said Mr. Drury. “On the far side of the counter.”

  She scooped up her satchel as Alonzo rejoined them. “There are others who are still alive, even horses, I—”

  “Miss Leander, no.” Alonzo shook his head. “We must get you aboard before that investigator decides to gouge us for more money.”

  Rage and frustration flushed her cheeks as she glared past Alonzo to the officer, but the vivid red on Alonzo’s clothes caught her eye. “Wait. Mrs. Stout hasn’t noticed us yet. Let me clean you up.” Octavia pulled out the parasol and made quick passes over his attire. A hand clenched her upper arm and she cringed.

  “My dear lady, I’m so very glad you’re unhurt. I must say farewell to a companion.” Mr. Drury tipped his hat as he released his hold on her. “I will see you on board.” He stepped aside just as Mrs. Stout advanced on them, almost shoving her way through the crowd in the process.

  “What has happened? So many screams! Are you—”

  “I’m fine,” said Octavia, surprised at the evenness in her voice. She tucked the parasol away.

  One of the hotel bellboys lingered behind Mrs. Stout. He pulled a small cart of luggage. Octavia recognized her suitcase on the bottom.

  “This . . . does it continue the same matter as before?” Mrs. Stout asked. Her l
ower lip tucked in against her teeth.

  “It does. And we must board now and pray we leave the assailant behind.” Alonzo put a guiding hand at Mrs. Stout’s elbow to direct her toward the far exit.

  “Oh dear. Oh dear,” muttered the woman.

  “And what if we don’t leave them behind?” asked Octavia.

  Alonzo paused. “The next stretch will be the most perilous. The route skirts close to the southern pass and various other winding trails through the mountains.” His voice was soft. “But Mercia is a day and a half away. We are almost there.”

  A day and a half fraught with danger, before her relative safety in imprisonment. Octavia nodded as she wavered in place, her hand clutching the strap to her shoulder, and forced her suddenly wooden legs to walk onward.

  THIS TIME AS SHE boarded the Argus, the prevailing scent was of chicken and rosemary. It was normally one of Octavia’s favorite dishes, one that evoked fond memories of Mother’s cooking, but now the redolent scent did little to relax her.

  A child was dead because of her, and countless other people as well. The airship did not feel like a refuge. The corridors seemed to press in on her shoulders, the warm wood of the walls dark and confining. She kept one hand near her torso and the capsicum flute, though she knew it might be in vain. Thus far, her assassin—or assassins—had only gotten close enough to push her from behind. And if more than one attacked at once, she only had a singular shot of pepper from her pipe.

  She kept seeing that young boy, the brilliant smile on his lips when he returned to life just for an instant. Why, Lady? Why? This was a time when she knew she should absorb herself in her Al Cala and take comfort in the cycle of life and all it entailed, but instead she ached to scream and cry and hit and pummel at the faceless figures who kept committing such atrocities in their pursuit of her.

  I’m a medician. Why kill me? What have I done?

  Alonzo escorted her and Mrs. Stout to the same quarters as before. It was a tight fit with the three of them together, but he closed the door to address them.

  “I must dress and attend to our embarking procedures.” Alonzo’s hard gaze focused on Mrs. Stout. “Stay together at all times. Watch for anyone suspicious.”

  “I’ll do my utmost to take care of her.” Mrs. Stout raised her chin. “And she will tend to me, as she already has. Now go about your duties, young man. It will help neither of us if you get the chuck.”

  That coaxed a weary smile onto his face. “Yes, m’lady. Octavia . . .” His voice faltered, emotion swimming in his eyes.

  “You have done all you can, Alonzo,” she said softly. “Go.”

  His gaze lingered on her and then he nodded. The door shut behind him with a soft click. Octavia sank into the bench seat as if her bones had turned to porridge.

  “Oh, child.” Mrs. Stout sat down beside her, plush hip pressed close, and wrapped an arm around. “It’s a terrible burden, I know it is. I’m just glad you’re all right.”

  “The Lady . . . I don’t understand . . .”

  “Well! Some things aren’t meant to be understood. I mean, look at me. I’ve seen parts of the Tree, but the nature of the Lady . . . well, she wasn’t for me, but I fully accept she exists.” Mrs. Stout’s hand squeezed her upper arm. “Do remember, the Lady suffered as well. She was the mourning mother, beseeching God for those she had lost. Whatever burdens your heart, she understands, even if you don’t.”

  Octavia nodded. Hot, slow tears coursed down her cheeks. “Yes. You’re quite right, Mrs. Stout. Thank you for putting things in perspective for me.”

  Not that her grief had been assuaged so quickly. Her anger and frustration at the Lady stewed in her chest, but Mrs. Stout was right that the Lady would understand those very emotions. The Lady would accept the turmoil, mighty branches waving as if in a typhoon, and eventually the storm would pass and the sun would shine through again.

  Just not today. For now, the storm will continue.

  A bell dinged in the hallway. Octavia braced both hands against the edge of the seat. Despite her readiness, when the lurch came, her stomach heaved at the abrupt motion.

  “Well,” said Mrs. Stout. “It may be tempting to hide away in here, but considering the threat against you, I think it would be best for you to be seen by as many people as possible. They must know you are present and alive, and therefore if you are absent, you’ll be missed.”

  “Under such guidelines, it sounds as if I should be installed in the smoking room for the rest of the trip.”

  Mrs. Stout snorted. “That might not be a bad idea. There are several men on board who are already indebted to you for your kindness after that zyme poisoning! They would likely watch your back under unpleasant circumstances.”

  Mr. Grinn should have also been indebted to me for my kindness, and we know how that turned out. The image of him flashed in her mind: his bed of blood-drenched cattails, the limp thickness of his arm.

  As Octavia entered the promenade, the first person she spied was Mr. Drury. He stood by a table chatting with another man. A wood-slatted box of canned drinks sat in front of him. Mr. Drury met her gaze across the room and granted her a gracious nod, as if nothing had been amiss in town.

  In the library was a mother with two young girls whose hair was done up in sagging bows. More children. Will they die because of me as well? Octavia shuddered. The very figure of a husband stood behind them, a newspaper in his hands. The headlines of the previous day returned to her mind, the death villages and kidnappings.

  So many questions, no answers. Only the echoing screams of blood and a mother’s cries. The mechanized band played a jolly tune, and she wished to tear apart the metal constructs with her bare hands.

  Several other passengers idled with drinks by the windows. She had no desire to go that way. The last thing I need right now is to see Leaf, waiting against the glass.

  “Oh, Miss Leander!”

  Octavia’s spine went rigid. Not Mrs. Wexler. Not now.

  The woman was alone and her smile focused on Octavia. “I did hope to chat with you again. Our symposium in Leffen was such a grand success that we’ll continue the series in Mercia and I had hopes—”

  “No.”

  Mrs. Wexler blinked rapidly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Now, Miss Leander.” That was Mrs. Stout, a note of warning in her voice.

  “No, Mrs. Wexler. I believe in the Lady.” Even with deaths weighing on her, Octavia could say that without a doubt. She didn’t need to see inside the royal vault for physical proof. “I believe in a Tree whose roots anchor the world, whose branches stir the wind. Science is a glorious thing, but it’s not my faith. Please, do not approach me again.”

  “Well.” Mrs. Wexler stiffened. “If I had known you were a pagan, I would not have invited you at all. You are young, and you have time yet to change your quaint ways. When you do—”

  “I will say this bluntly, Mrs. Wexler. Shut your pie hole.”

  The woman blinked rapidly as she backed up, then turned, her skirts flouncing as she hurried away.

  “That was uncalled for,” snapped Mrs. Stout.

  Octavia stared at her hands against the table. Somehow she thought that putting Mrs. Wexler in her place would vent some of the awfulness that weighed on her spirit. Instead, she felt neither guilt nor catharsis, only emptiness.

  “Miss Leander, Mrs. Stout.”

  She wasn’t surprised to turn and find Mr. Drury there, smiling, his box in his hands. “Mr. Drury.” Octavia kept her voice cool.

  “You are recovered from the incident at the hotel?” he queried as if she had stepped in a puddle and soaked a stocking.

  “Well enough.”

  “Ah, the resiliency of a master medician.” His broad, toothless smile stretched his mustache. Her distrust in him flared again. Though he did just save my life. I cannot dismiss that fact.

  “Ah. You are the vendor of Royal-Tea. On our last trip, I heard that one of our fellow passengers peddled the drink.” Mrs. Stout
stared into the box.

  “I am indeed, good madam.” He bowed with grace, showing no strain from the weight of his burden. “I have an excessive inventory after my stop in Leffen and am offering tins to everyone aboard. Please, take one at no cost.”

  Octavia did not like this man, but some small measure of gratitude was warranted. She reached into the box, probing lower for a cooler can. Mr. Drury’s smile softened into something more genuine.

  “Do let me know what you think, Miss Leander. We only use the best ingredients. Mrs. Stout . . . ?”

  “Oh, no thank you.”

  “Do you need assistance in opening your tin, Miss Leander? I have—”

  “No, thank you. I have my own opener.”

  “Very well. I will speak to you ladies again later, I’m sure.” With another graceful bob of his head, he continued to the next table.

  Octavia examined the can in her hands. It was slender and fit perfectly within the cup of her palm. The container bore the crown logo of the company and fine calligraphy touting the health benefits of the drink, including boosted energy, salved spirits, ease of digestion, and steady hands for fine motor work.

  “This is nothing more than a paroxysm pill,” she said in disgust. “No medicine can do all of that.”

  “It’s a sales pitch, no more.” Mrs. Stout tried to wave down Little Daveo across the room, but he didn’t seem to see her. “I’ll be right back. I believe I need a glass of aerated water.”

  “Very well. Don’t go far.” Octavia kept an eye on her surroundings as she reached into her satchel for her tin opener. Using the triangular tip, she pressed down on the lid. The tin emitted a slight spurt. She raised it to her nose. Bubbles fizzled through the small hole. Mr. Drury was watching her from ten feet away, his face impassive. His bland observation set her on edge, as if he expected something to happen.

  Goodness, I am being paranoid. It’s just canned tea. Everyone else is drinking it. She took a sip.

  The flavor of tea lapped against her tongue, mild and fragrant. She detected a subtle note of cinnamon. To her surprise, it was quite good. Not as good as chocolate, but then nothing could equal that. She shot Mr. Drury a brief nod and he returned to his conversation with the others. She had another long drink, the fluid bubbling in her throat.