The Clockwork Dagger

by Beth Cato

  A muffled yell escaped from Daveo’s gag as he began to wrestle and kick. The other men subdued him in a knot of fists.

  “Prairie justice. Oh God,” moaned Mrs. Stout.

  “Who is this other woman?” asked Lanskay. “Surely not another medician? Did you find a sale price on Percivals?”

  Octavia stepped to shield Mrs. Stout. “She’s someone who should have been left on the ship.”

  “Such nobility in guarding her friend,” said Mr. Drury, quite pleased. “This is one Viola Stout, the publisher’s wife. Taney advised us to bring her in.”

  A Taney used to be grand potentate. Is this a relation?

  “Surely she isn’t a virgin!” said Lanskay. The others laughed. Some fifty feet away, the sound of pounding metal rang out. A stake was being driven into the ground, and Daveo secured to it.

  “No, no. She has two grown children, from what I gather. But Taney has something in mind,” said Mr. Drury. Octavia reached behind her and found Mrs. Stout’s cold and trembling hand. “Tell me, Miss Leander, do you ride?”

  “I can give her something to ride!” called one of the men.

  Drury whirled on his heel. “Who said that? Come forward, please.”

  The man left his horse ground-tied and approached. He stopped before Mr. Drury, head up and hands clasped at his back, and without a word he accepted Mr. Drury’s knife to the gut. The man sank to his knees, groaning. Blood and bowel fluid screamed, high and anxious.

  “Mr. Drury!” Octavia couldn’t help but step forward. Oh Lady. Not another death, not because of me. “He’s going to—”

  “See, men? Look at her benevolence. Insulted in such a crude way, yet still willing to save him. My dear lady, he’s not worth the herbs. Unlike in your corrupt land, we do not tolerate such behavior. We live by a higher code.” Mr. Drury waved to the other men, who waited close by, motionless, and pointed toward Octavia. “That woman is one of God’s chosen. Regard her as a High Daughter. The next man to commit such an affront will not have such a merciful death. Is that understood?” They murmured assent. The screams of blood dulled to a whimper.

  “That means you’re regarded with the esteem of a daughter of their potentate,” Mrs. Stout murmured, her voice trembling.

  “I’m quite content as the daughter of a village doctor and teacher,” Octavia whispered back. The Dallowman’s blood quieted, his soul departing. So fast. Mr. Drury kills with chilling efficacy.

  “Now.” Mr. Drury turned to Octavia. “Do you ride?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you, good woman?” He looked to Mrs. Stout.

  “I do not.” Her voice was scarcely audible.

  “Bring forward their mounts, please.”

  A chestnut bay and an all-white mare were led forward. In that instant, Octavia knew that the mare was intended for her. Despite the remoteness of their location and the burs in the grass, the mare’s mane and tail had obviously been brushed through recently, her legs free of filth. This wasn’t a mere horse. It was a symbol, and here she was in her shimmering white medician’s garb, groomed to match.

  Mrs. Stout’s chilled and sweaty fingers dug into her hand. “We have to do something. We can’t go with them. We can’t.”

  “We can’t run here. If I try to fight, they’ll kill you or others,” Octavia murmured.

  “Run away. We have to run away.” Mrs. Stout shrieked and tried to pull away, out of Octavia’s grip.

  “Listen to me.” Octavia bent her head close. “We will live. We will get out of this. But for now, we must play along. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Please. I can’t bear to lose anyone else.” She focused on keeping her voice level. Despite her terror, despite the shakiness of her faith, she refused to show weakness before these men.

  Hooves crunched in the grass and Octavia faced the two men. A beam from the tower highlighted them for mere seconds. They wore the rough dungarees of workmen, their faces creased by sun and toil.

  “M’lady,” said the one leading the white mare. “I can help you up—”

  “No. But let me assist my friend first. She is very scared, and with reason. I expect you to show her the same regard as you do me, do you understand?” The fierceness of her tone caused his eyes to widen.

  “I—of course, m’lady.”

  “Her skirt isn’t suited for riding. May I have a knife to cut a slit?”

  To her shock, he instantly handed over his knife. The blade was warm from its proximity to his thigh, the handle worn. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if she could strike. No. That’s not my way, not the Lady’s way. Besides, we couldn’t escape this number of men, not here. Octavia crouched down before Mrs. Stout’s skirt. The blade sliced through the cloth with ease, and she returned it to its owner.

  “I’ll stay with you right here,” said Octavia, soothing Mrs. Stout as she would a patient. As the other man held the bay still, Octavia helped Mrs. Stout to clamber into the saddle. The older woman sat awkwardly, thick thighs jutted out on either side, her hands clutching the saddle horn for dear life. Under Octavia’s glare, the man secured Mrs. Stout’s wrists to the horn. Octavia noted that the rope was slack enough to not immediately chafe.

  Octavia mounted up on her own. The mare shifted beneath her, light on her hooves, and calmed with a quick stroke to the withers. This was not the thick-furred pony or heavy draft horse one associated with the Waste, but a creature of fine breeding, probably from the southern nations. The sick knot clenched in her stomach again. How many months have they planned this escapade, to fetch such a horse?

  Mr. Drury trotted up beside her. His stallion was chestnut like so many of the others. “Miss Leander, I want you to note that your hands are free. I have your satchel here.” He motioned to where it was secured behind his saddle. “And we have your friend. I believe you’re familiar with the expert marksmanship of the men of the Dallows. Should you make any move to escape, Mrs. Stout will be shot in the head. Is everything clear?”

  She ground her teeth together. “Perhaps you should go ahead and secure my wrists, then.”

  “That would hardly build a relationship of trust between us, now, would it?” His smile was pleasant and toothless. The symphony of his body was calm despite his injuries, the blood crusted and quelled.

  The lights from the tower flicked off, casting them into complete darkness. Octavia blinked rapidly to encourage her eyes to adjust.

  “A small crew will stay behind and dismantle the tower and then catch up with us,” he said. “We will be riding for some hours before we set up camp. Do let me know if you are hungry. Lanskay?”

  The blond man pointed toward where Daveo sat, tethered to the ground. Prickles of magic whirled in the air, stinging Octavia’s nostrils and whirling across her scalp, and then the heat came. It was a flash from this distance, a beam of flame from Lanskay’s fingertip to Daveo. The little steward screamed, arching his back, and then the flames consumed him whole. His agony smacked into her senses, dizzying her for a moment, and then it stopped. Another quick blast, and the dead Dallowman was incinerated as well. The image of flames burned in her retinas for a second more and then there was only the blackness of the night. She sucked in a breath and almost retched at the odor of cooked meat. Oh Lady, Lady. She could only stare at where Daveo once knelt. He’s dead. Burned alive, like Mother and Father.

  “Could I hit the airship from here, you think?” Lanskay called.

  Octavia sucked in a breath. The Argus was a gray cylinder above, well beyond accurate gun range, but that meant nothing to an infernal. “No!” she yelled, digging her heels into the mare’s sides. The horse took off with a snort. Some of the others yelled, but she rode directly into the mob of men, not away from them.

  “Those are innocent civilians,” she snapped as she reined up in front of Lanskay, as if she could shield the ship from him. “Don’t you dare.”

  He cocked his head, his lazy smile growing colder. He worked the tobacco against his jaw and then spat into the grass. �
��No one in Caskentia is innocent.”

  She wouldn’t win any argument on that subject, not with a Waster. “Then I beg you, spare my friends aboard. Please.”

  He hummed a lively tune beneath his breath, casting idle eyes to the starry heavens. It disturbed her to think he must have a lovely singing voice. “Oh, very well. I should save my energy, anyway.”

  And energy he had. It rolled from him like heat from a house fire. Powerful as he was, he might feel the same from her.

  Lanskay burns people. He burns them with a flick of his fingers. An infernal like him stood on the deck of the Alexandria, ready to destroy my village, only that time the magus burned with everyone else.

  How many times has Lanskay fire-bombed Caskentia? How many thousands burned as he lit a load of oil that was dropped upon a city below?

  Octavia hated him from the depths of her soul.

  “Come,” said Mr. Drury. His tack jingled as he rode alongside them. “Let the ship be. They can carry word to Mercia, work the government into a tizzy, make them pretend they can actually rally their troops to try and stop us.” The other men raised a cheer, and she was filled with dread at the dark intentions left unsaid.

  Octavia cast a glance to Mrs. Stout, hunkered over the saddle horn and sobbing, and then to the airship dwindling in size above. “Lady, be with us,” she whispered, and encouraged her mare to join the rest in a canter toward the looming mountains.

  CHAPTER 19

  Unseen birds cawed, wings flapping somewhere in the ebony night. The group accelerated from a lope to a gallop. Octavia and Mrs. Stout were kept penned in the middle of the pack. They entered the hills and found a trail that quickly narrowed so that only two could ride abreast. Branches slapped at Octavia’s legs, gouging them. The moon played peekaboo with the clouds.

  The men were quiet. Far ahead she could see the silhouette of Mr. Drury’s hat and the pale sheen of Lanskay’s ponytail. Their armaments gleamed in the scant light. Every man had at least a pistol, while others had rifles holstered to their saddles. As Wasters and soldiers both, they no doubt were excellent shots. Then there was the matter of Lanskay.

  If—when—Alonzo comes in pursuit, he’ll be slaughtered.

  No. There must be a way for us to escape. Somehow.

  Al Cala meditations would have soothed her spirit, but right now Octavia wanted to be angry. And though she knew the Lady was there with her, the fragrance of blessed herbs drifting from her chest, she didn’t wish to fixate on the Tree. That would only make her think of that boy, of the life that flared so briefly in his eyes.

  If I’m supposed to be so extraordinarily blessed, why did the Lady betray me at that moment, toying with a child as one would a puppet on strings? I’ve had patients die, but none like that. None claiming to see the Lady and bearing a message to me, only to expire once the enigmatic words were uttered.

  Her chest ached deep within, tears smarting her eyes.

  “Father said . . . Father always said be strong. Be strong. Like a little soldier, hair done up in curls,” Mrs. Stout mumbled beneath her breath. She was hunched over like an old man hauling full water jugs on a yoke.

  “Mrs. Stout?” Octavia whispered.

  “I can get back home. Guards will be looking for me. The whole kingdom will be looking.” A strange keening sound escaped her throat. “I just want to get home.”

  Oh Lady. Octavia had seen this sort of behavior before in soldiers who had endured some terrible trauma. Even if they emerged with sound bodies, it was as though mental shrapnel had lodged in their brains, sending them back to the past. Once a soldier had witnessed his brother immolated by a Waster infernal’s blast. The man lay in his cot, reliving some childhood moment when that brother had burned his leg on a stove and his mother had doctored him with an aloe salve. “Mama will make it all better, Mama will make it all better,” he had chanted all night long.

  “Mrs. Stout.” Octavia reined her horse closer to the other woman, causing their legs to scrape together. “Viola. Viola.”

  Mrs. Stout showed no response, her mumbles continuing as her gaze focused on her horse’s withers.

  Octavia had to ground Mrs. Stout in the present, as unpleasant as it might be. It would be safer than focusing on the past and everything that came with it. “Mrs. Stout. Viola? Viola?” She sucked in a breath, lowering her voice even more. “Allendia? Princess?”

  Mrs. Stout’s head slowly turned, her shoulders not moving from their stiffened state.

  “Look here. Remember me? Octavia Leander? We are roommates aboard the Argus. You are Viola Stout. Your husband was Donovan Stout. Your children . . .” Her voice trailed away. She was certain Mrs. Stout had mentioned their names, but she couldn’t recall.

  “My children.” Mrs. Stout’s voice cracked. Tears flooded her eyes. Octavia reached over and squeezed her hand.

  “Hey now,” called one of the men behind them. Octavia shot him a venomous glare.

  “We are going to get through this,” Octavia whispered. “I know you’re scared, but you must maintain control. You must remember who you are. You must have hope.”

  “But they are taking me . . . us . . . to Mercia or the Waste . . . the Waste.”

  “They are trying, yes, but we’re not there yet. That’ll take days or weeks, depending on the route and the passes.” She paused. Snow could fall this early in the season. She and Mrs. Stout weren’t attired for extreme weather, though she was sure the men would tend to them should the need arise. Snow would make them far too easy to track if they did try to escape, though. Wasters were master huntsmen and horsemen, crude technologically yet capable of making do with little at their disposal. They had to be to survive in that desiccated land. “Look at me, Mrs. Stout. Focus.”

  Soft sobs shuddered through the older woman’s body. “They are going to use my babies to kill people, then kill them. It’s my fault. I should have warned them. I shouldn’t have stayed here. Nelly . . . how could Nelly do this?”

  Those words sent a nauseating chill through Octavia. “Look at me, Viola. Don’t focus on the past or what might happen. Say to yourself, ‘I am Viola Stout and I am brave.’ ”

  Mrs. Stout’s tongue darted out to lick the dry crevices of her lips. “I am Viola Stout and I am brave?”

  “Yes. But say it like you believe it.” The trail widened and hoofbeats approached them from behind.

  “What’s wrong with her?” asked one of the guards. He wore a black beard thick enough to shield him from frostbite.

  “She’s terrified witless,” Octavia said, hoping for sympathy.

  He snorted. “The women of Caskentia are too soft.”

  Octavia stiffened. “I’m a woman of Caskentia, and I assure you, I am not soft.”

  “You are of the Tree.” He raised a fist to the center of his chest and nodded.

  This esteem for me might be the best way for me to keep Mrs. Stout safe and alive.

  “I am, and this woman is both my patient and my dear friend, and I’m worried for her. She’s not of an age to handle such strain.”

  “We won’t ride all night. It’ll help her to get some sleep.” His voice was softer, almost kind. Octavia afforded him a polite smile in thanks, and he pulled back to join his comrades as the brush squeezed in on them again.

  “I am Viola Stout and I am brave, I am Viola Stout . . .” The crackling whisper kept time with the thud of hoofbeats. Viola took in a deep breath and sat straighter. Octavia recognized the regal carriage that had become so familiar in recent days.

  “Thank you, Octavia,” said Viola, her whisper hoarse. “The fear, the memories, it all came back to me. It felt so real. More real than this.” She shuddered. “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s no need to apologize. You’re a strong woman, Viola, and this is a terrible test to endure again. But you will endure.”

  Viola nodded, tears glistening in her eyes. “Yes. Yes. We will endure. I am Viola Stout and I am brave.” She lifted her chin, her chest puffing outward.
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br />   Octavia shifted in her saddle and looked to the moon where it sat between the hills. Somewhere far away, that same moon hovered in the branches of the Lady’s Tree.

  “I am Octavia Leander and I am brave,” she whispered. Her chilled hands clenched the reins as she repeated the mantra.

  TIME LOST MEANING AS they rode on. Adrenaline was replaced by weariness that seeped into Octavia’s bones. Mrs. Stout’s whispers faded and she slumped forward, this time dozing. On occasion she awakened with a start and Octavia calmed her again, reminding her of where she was and why. But Octavia shook off the urge to nap, alert for any useful scrap of information on their whereabouts or plans. To her frustration, the men remained silent, or murmured too low for her ears to catch.

  Then the trail opened up to reveal a clearing. Mr. Drury raised an arm and the column shuffled to a halt.

  “Set up,” Mr. Drury said. “Get the ladies’ tent established first.”

  “Yes sir,” answered one of the men. He and the others dismounted and scurried into action.

  Octavia groaned as she dismounted. It had been a few months since she had ridden—the academy had sold everything but the Frengian draft horses for the plow and wagon—and she felt the strain. She took Mrs. Stout’s horse by the bit and led both it and her own to one side. Mrs. Stout dozed in the saddle, and Octavia was unwilling to wake her until the tent was ready. She noted that several men stayed quite close to her. Another guarded the trailhead whence they had come. Beyond the clearing and the shadows of trees, it was difficult to ascertain their surroundings.

  Something chittered in the branches above, sounding rather like a gremlin. She glanced up but it was far too dark to see anything. A guard looked up at the tree, frowning.

  How quickly would Alonzo follow? Could he follow? The airship didn’t dare linger close to those Wasters disassembling the mooring tower. As it was, the Argus would have to hover close to the ground for Alonzo to make a jump, which held plenty of dangers for both man and ship. The Wasters hadn’t taken pains to hide their trail—these men were an arrogant lot—but with Alonzo on foot, he would never catch up.