by Beth Cato
It struck her then. Her head jerked toward Mr. Drury and then her gaze flew to the window, where the roofs of Leffen were fading to the size of miniatures. Mr. Drury saved my life and yet I feel no obligation from the Lady, no debt. When I was pulled from the side of the airship, awareness of the debt was almost instantaneous. The Lady knew the aether magus had assisted in saving me, though I had never seen the man before.
And then there was the obvious debt to Alonzo, which lingered on her until his leg had been restored.
Mr. Drury had shielded her and she felt nothing. What does that mean? What does the Lady know that I do not? Octavia set down the can and opener, unwilling to finish the drink despite the pleasantly warm fizz it left on her tongue.
“Well!” Mrs. Stout plopped down in her seat again with a slight huff. She set a glass of effervescent water on the table. “I do believe that little steward injured himself when we were in port. The poor man!”
“Oh?” Octavia forced her attention to her companion.
“He has quite a limp. Said he had a close call with a drayman’s cart! The driver didn’t see him due to his size. Drivers these days, all fuss and hurry.” She tsked under her breath. “I asked if he wanted healing from you, but he quite adamantly refused, said he could never afford a medician.”
“That hasn’t stopped anyone else.” Or taught me how to say no when their bodies call to me with such great need.
“Watch the attitude, child. I was going to point him out so you could judge his injury yourself, but it seems he’s gone about his business. These stewards never stay still, do they?”
Octavia touched the can, gliding her fingers along the cylindrical curve. She had no desire to drink any more; she had little desire to do anything at all. Simply sit there, staring into space as Mrs. Stout’s voice droned on. Empty. She felt empty. A day from now, Octavia would either be dead or, if she was lucky, imprisoned.
So this was how it felt to lose hope.
CHAPTER 17
The sun had dwindled to a pink sliver in the western sky when Octavia heard the telltale buzzing of the arriving craft. She set down her fork in her half-eaten dinner. Silently, she headed to the far side of the ship, Mrs. Stout following close behind.
In the increasing darkness, the silhouettes of the mountains loomed just beyond the window. Octavia sucked in a breath. The Pinnacles, the only wall that stood between her and the Waste.
Small-engine cars protruded from the sides of the Argus. She had scarcely paid them heed before, other than noticing that a bundled-up crewman seemed to be out there at all times. Now another person crossed the gap to the port car, hands on the railings, his back hunched against a buffeting wind. Without seeing his face, she knew it had to be Alonzo. He would trust no one else to handle the delivery from Adana Dryn.
The buzzer loomed close like an oversize wasp, the propeller a dark blur.
“Goodness! If it gets any closer, it could hit us!” shrieked a woman beside her. Octavia recoiled in surprise. Most of the dining room had gathered to watch the show.
“Calm yourself,” said an older man. “This is a common occurrence. Buzzers are trained to make such deliveries.” Still, the man watched with curiosity that dulled the impact of his words.
Octavia’s gut lurched as the buzzer came alongside, almost directly above the engine. A long shaft extended downward and joined with the car. Using that pole, a black object slid down and directly into Alonzo’s hands. He disengaged the staff and it telescoped up again. The buzzer pilot pulled away, sparing one brief wave for the audience at the window. Alonzo clutched the parcel against his chest as he marched back inside.
“Come,” Octavia said to Mrs. Stout. They headed down to deck B to intercept Alonzo.
Octavia had her hand on the door to the crew compartments when she spied Alonzo’s face through the circular window. He was still attired in a thick leather jacket. A woolen collar fluffed out like a mane. Thick goggles rested atop his forehead, the glass fogged from the sudden temperature shift. He smiled briefly in greeting and opened the door from his side to allow them through.
“Follow me. I explained to the captain that you expected urgent news from Leffen and he has granted us the privacy of the officers’ mess.”
Alonzo motioned to a door farther down the passage. The heavy scent of aether and ozone hovered around him like a cloud.
The mess was a small, cramped space, barely larger than their berthing. The walls were patchy and ugly with bared bolts, and she surmised that some metal entertainment apparatus had been removed and sold for scrap. Two tables, one rectangular and one round, were each surrounded by scuffed brown leather seats much like the ones in the smoking room. Octavia immediately went to the circular table at the back. Mrs. Stout wedged in beside her, the medician satchel between them. The staff of the parasol gouged Octavia’s thigh. She clutched her hands together and stared up at Alonzo.
He locked the door and then worked at the latches on the leather satchel. It was slender, not much different from a shoulder book bag used by university students. He pulled out papers and let the bag fall to the table. Octavia glanced inside and saw nothing else.
He was silent for a long moment as he skimmed, and she felt as if she would burst. “Can’t you just hand out sheets to everyone?” Octavia snapped.
“There are only two. Adana summarized everything as best she could and inscribed it in one of her codes. I fear handing it to you would be of little help.”
Octavia slumped over, most unladylike.
“Oh gracious! I would like to see,” said Mrs. Stout, perking up far too much.
“Maybe later, Mrs. Stout.” Alonzo took in a deep breath and met Octavia’s gaze. The pale blue of his eyes seemed to stare into her soul. “We were correct in surmising that Mr. Grinn was an agent of the Dallows. He, along with the rest of his crew, were tasked with crossing the mountains to retrieve Miss Octavia Leander, a recent graduate of Miss Percival’s Academy, and rendezvous with the rest of their team at a place that has some vernacular name. They dubbed it Black Heaps.”
“A team? You said they have a team?” Octavia shivered as if chilled, even as sweat rolled a long course down her spine.
“Yes.” His jaw was set in a grim line. “No numbers set. It may not be as daunting as you fear.”
“Still too many,” muttered Mrs. Stout. Her red nails drummed on the tabletop. “What of the attempts on Octavia’s life?”
Alonzo shook his head. “There is nothing. On the contrary, it states that they are to do everything possible to protect her. They used the phrase ‘guard her as you would a daughter,’ which is a high-level vow amongst the Dallowmen. Their daughters live hard, short lives and are prized more than oil.”
“Oh Lady. I don’t understand. Why did Mr. Grinn push me? Was he a double agent?” Octavia pressed a hand against her brow.
“Nothing in the booklets suggested such. Instead, it seemed as if they had selected the best of the best for this mission, regarding it as a primary operation for the Dallows.”
“Primary operation.” Mrs. Stout’s voice was dull. “That’s what I was.”
Me, a prime target for an entire rogue territory? Octavia’s scant supper threatened to make a return visit. Maybe I truly am a threat to Queen Evandia and Caskentia. But how? Alonzo’s eyes skimmed the paper, one hand at his mouth.
“This is not good,” he said.
“You mean it gets worse?” asked Octavia. “How can it get worse?” She regretted the words the instant they escaped her lips.
Alonzo’s eyes shifted from her to Mrs. Stout. “When they bring in Octavia, they are also to retrieve her roommate, a Mrs. Viola Stout, wife of the late publishing magnate Donovan Stout. There is no exact reason given, though the matter is presumed—”
“No.” Mrs. Stout stood. “You did this. You’re the only one here who knew. Octavia wouldn’t tell! I know she wouldn’t, but you. Oh God.” Her lips opened and closed for a moment, no speech emerging. Her jowls jiggl
ed.
“Mrs. Stout. Viola.” Octavia stood and grasped the older woman by the shoulder. “That is completely absurd. You can’t possibly believe—”
“No, she is right to suspect me, even if she is wrong,” Alonzo said, his voice quiet. “She has survived by keeping her identity under strict confidence. How many people know the truth, Mrs. Stout?”
“My husband. You. Octavia. Nelly.” She sank into the cushioned seat and stared into space. “Nelly.” The name was a gasp.
“No,” said Octavia. “Absolutely not. You’re trying to suggest that Miss Percival . . . no.” She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.
“She begged me to escort you on this trip,” Mrs. Stout murmured, her eyes wide with horror. “Said it would be good for me to get out, that I could take you under my wing, we could be roommates. Just like she and I used to be roommates. Oh God.” She shrank and shielded her face behind her hands.
Alonzo paced in short, abrupt strides. “These letters go back for weeks. This was not a spontaneous operation. Now, Octavia—”
“Don’t even look at me. Don’t consider this. Miss Percival raised me from the time I was twelve. She was a second mother to me.” Not only a mother. My only friend. The only one who understood how it felt to be different, blessed . . . until I proved to be the more blessed. “Why would she . . . ?”
“Money.” Alonzo said it with a shrug. “Caskentia has not paid her. How much does it cost to run that institution?”
That’s why I wasn’t paid what I was owed. It’s because I was the one who had been sold. No. No, it can’t be. Miss Percival wouldn’t do that. Not to me.
But she’s been so cold these past few months. Was it all leading up to this?
“Nelly would do anything for that school of hers,” murmured Mrs. Stout. “Anything. But even then, I never thought . . . she has kept my identity a secret for fifty years. Why now?”
“Desperation,” said Alonzo. “No one has coin these days. How close is the school to failing completely?”
Octavia struggled to piece together enough logic to prove his argument invalid. “But the letters never identified who Mrs. Stout used to be, correct? Wasters are kidnapping young women for ransom. The Stout family has money. Maybe this has nothing to do with her past after all. Maybe it’s all for ransom.”
Alonzo shook his head. The fluff of his collar scuffed against his prickly jaw. “Even if someone high up in the organization knew, they would not inform a lackey of the truth. There would be too much prestige in being the one to finally kidnap or kill the princess. That attempt on Mercia was the Dallows’ first great offensive toward independence, and their greatest failure.”
“Back then, they thought to wed me to Archibald Taney, the one who became grand potentate ages ago. He had a dozen titles, probably as many wives. In my brief time in their hands, I was told I would be a princess of the Dallows, my children raised in the wild Promised Land. And now . . . I am too old for children, but my own children . . . the babe . . . if someone knows the truth about me . . .” Mrs. Stout’s words were muffled behind her hand. She stared at Octavia. “Remember what I told you?”
The royal vault. Mrs. Stout’s blood was the key. Caskentia could certainly misuse the contents of the vault, but the Waste . . . Oh Lady.
“Your family needs to go into hiding,” said Alonzo. “Leave Caskentia. Head to the southern nations.”
“All my children know of my history is that I’m an orphan and a failure as a Percival girl,” Mrs. Stout said. “To force them into that sort of life, I . . .”
“Caskentia would want them dead just as much as the Waste.” Alonzo’s voice carried a grim tone that made Octavia shiver. “The Queen will not abide with living rivals for the throne, not during this time of unrest. Too many people are desperate for a bowl of food and a ruler to save them. Your father and grandfather are still idolized, and some would believe you are the very person to create a new Gilded Age.”
Mrs. Stout emitted a wordless moan against her hands.
“There’s no hard proof that Miss Percival is behind this,” Octavia said. “She’s not named, is she?”
“No. The Dallowmen would not be that foolish. As ’tis, I am sure these letters were meant to be burned as soon as Mr. Grinn reached Leffen. Adana noted that some pages were missing. Those likely contained the most sensitive data.”
Oh Lady, why is this happening? “Will Adana be handing this information over to the government?”
“Yes. Too many people know of the books for them to be secret. But the interpretation would be that Mrs. Stout is intended for ransom. Not even Adana suggests any other truth.”
Octavia had known the news wouldn’t be good, but she had never expected such a turn. She stood, leaning on the table with both hands. “I would like to retire to my room and commune with the Lady.” There was much to dwell on. The dead boy. Miss Percival. The peculiar nature of Mr. Drury. Mrs. Stout. Her throat burned, and she had the sudden longing to scream, as if that would vent her worries and make everything well. Instead, she forced herself to swallow, a taste as bitter as bile on her tongue.
Alonzo nodded, empathy clouding his eyes. “I understand. I suggest you sleep in shifts tonight as well. I will watch over you as best I can, but I cannot always be at your door. In an emergency, go to Vincan.”
“Vincan? Who is this Vincan?” asked Mrs. Stout.
“The bartender in the smoking room,” Alonzo said. “Big fellow, very pale.”
“Oh. I do believe I saw him once. Can he be trusted?” Her voice quivered.
“I know ’tis not in you to trust him, and I well understand, but I served with Vincan at the front. I trust him with my life. If anything can be said for him, he hates the Waste.”
Mrs. Stout sucked in a breath. “In our desperation, that must suffice, though I fear those loyal to my cousin just as much. And you think that these Wasters will make their move soon?”
“Within the next day, while we are still in the countryside.”
Mrs. Stout nodded, eyes closed, the gesture automatic like a mechanical bird. “Very well. Sleep in shifts. I can do that. We’ll be over the sprawl of Mercia soon. It’s not that far, truly.”
Octavia had no faith in sleeping at all this night, shifts or otherwise. Too many things stirred in her head, roiled in her gut.
They walked down the hall and Alonzo motioned them to wait. He entered the open kitchen door and exchanged quick words with one of the cooks. The man opened the hatch beneath the stove. Alonzo stuffed the papers into the flames. The sheets curled and blackened as he shut the door again, giving a quick nod of thanks to the workers.
They headed upstairs, Alonzo guarding their flank. Octavia rounded the stairwell and stopped, a familiar sound assaulting her ears.
“Blood,” she said. Alonzo bounded ahead of her.
Fresh blood cried out along with a drumbeat of fists on flesh. The wall ahead shuddered and an idyllic print of an airship and clouds tilted off-kilter. She rushed forward right behind Alonzo, one hand at her waist, the other on her satchel. The door to their room was open, and in the narrow hallway tussled Mr. Drury and Little Daveo, both men battered and bruised and showing no indication of ending their fight.
Even Alonzo was rendered still for several seconds. One nearby berth door cracked open to reveal wide, frightened eyes.
Mr. Drury flew back against the wall, arms up, and in an instant sprang forth again, just missing a low-aimed kick from the little steward. The wooden boards on the wall clacked and rattled against the metal frames beneath. Watching the two men in action was like witnessing a fight between two tomcats. Mr. Drury moved with delicacy and finesse, sinuous as a snake. Little Daveo may not have grown above five feet in height, but the man had brute strength and agility. His stubby legs dodged a kick and he practically bounced off the wall. Daveo caught himself on his hands and spun around.
“What is the meaning of this?” barked Alonzo.
Mr. Drury’s eyes raked over them and
settled on Octavia. He seemed to nod to himself, not responding to a solid jab to the chest. “This steward intended to poison Miss Leander!” He faced Daveo again to block another assault.
“Daveo? What is this?” asked Alonzo. Nearby, an alarm bell dinged four times.
The steward offered no reply. He wiped a line of blood from his cheek and had eyes only for his opponent. Several gold buttons had been ripped from his jacket, leaving the flap dangling open to show the worn silk beneath. Strains of blood sang stronger and Octavia wavered, catching herself against the wall. Both men’s noses were bloodied, their faces cut, but she couldn’t see any knives or evidence of stab wounds.
“What manner of poison?” she called.
“Tampering within your faucet.” Mr. Drury panted heavily as he dodged another punch. “I suspect he added a filter laden with zymes, in the very method of the Dallows.”
Is Little Daveo my assailant? She narrowed her eyes as she laid a hand on Alonzo’s arm and he tilted an ear toward her. “He offers no defense or explanation.”
“He does not.”
Mr. Drury smacked into the wall again, this time with adequate force to break a wall panel in half with a resounding crack. Even so, his next kick landed in Little Daveo’s gut, causing the shorter man to double over. The two men crashed into the floor in a mad knot of legs and arms.
Octavia stepped past Alonzo, following the call of blood. It reached a crescendo over the men. There was something else, too—the quivering note of extended agony.
“Lady, lend me your aid,” she whispered, and breathed in, willing her olfactory sense to extend. It was subtle, that note of charred flesh, the lingering stink of diesel, but she knew it all too well. Her gut clenched in response as screams—human, equine, blood—boomed in her memory.
She pried out the capsicum flute. Raising the weapon to her lips, she leaned forward and exhaled through the short pipe.
A red plume of mist flowed over the fighting men. Octavia’s nose burned at the harsh pepper, but their reactions were more blatant. The tussling ceased. Screaming and writhing, they pulled apart, hands covering their eyes.