The Clockwork Dagger (10 page)

“Yes, well, and the old Miss Percival knew, of course, and I told Donovan before we married. Scariest night of my adult life, saying those words to him.”

“Your children don't know?”

Mrs. Stout shook her head. “No. That's what scares me now, if the truth comes out. I'm old. If I die, well, I die. But my children, their children . . .” Fear crept into her eyes. Octavia squeezed her hand. “It's not just about our lives. It's about Caskentia. Evandia . . . dear God, look how she's mucked up everything! If she had even more power, I dread to think what would happen.”

“More power? How . . . ?”

“The vault.” Her voice lowered to a hoarse whisper. “The access is magicked to my bloodline, through my father. Evandia and her lot . . . there are things in there that aren't to see the light of day.”

Octavia stared, blinking. The royal vault? It was treated as a joke, to say something was locked as secure as the royal vault. It was said to be the only thing standing after the Wasters fire-bombed the palace.

“Are . . . you talking about weapons? Things that can be used against the Waste?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Stout's lips were thin and pale. “Books. Artifacts. I was but a slip of a girl, of course, so I only understood so much. But there are . . . what would you say if I told you I had seen parts of the Tree? The real Tree?”

Octavia's jaw fell slack. “What?”

Smugness touched Mrs. Stout's expression, and awe. “I've seen them. Touched them. A leaf of the Tree—said to bring back the dead, you know. A seed—Father wouldn't let me near that. It sat up on a pedestal. A branch, long as most tree trunks, its bark green and alive. To this day I remember the smell of the thing, all musty like fresh rain. It'd been locked in there for God knows how long—centuries, certainly—without any dirt, light, or water.”

I'd do most anything to see those relics with my own eyes, and to think they're in Mercia, mere days away! For that, I'd brave the horrors of the city.

Octavia brought her hands to her chest in a gesture of respect, to which Mrs. Stout blew a raspberry.

“Child, really. There's no need of that.”

“Yes, there is! So few people know about the Lady these days. If they could—”

“No.” Mrs. Stout's voice was sharp. Octavia reared back in surprise. “Bringing people to your faith would be a glorious thing, I understand that well. But there's a reason those artifacts are locked away, child. And I'm telling you, just as I told Nelly when she was your age, that there was something dark about that place. When my father walked me through, he pointed to books of ancient magi, the swords and wands of a past age, even bullets of particular enchantment. But then he motioned to those pieces of the Tree and said, ‘And these are the most dangerous of the lot.' ”

“That's ludicrous! To say the Lady—”

“Your Lady is the protector of the living, yes? She's powerful?”

“Of course she is, but—”

“If she controls life, then what can she do with death?”

“I . . .” Octavia didn't know how to rebut that.

“Those bits of the Tree scared me. Even though they smelled of dirt and rain, I could feel their power. They crackled like a lightning storm, as if they were angry to be there. Maybe that's why I never had promise as a Percival girl. I never had any issues with being around medicians, mind you, or their healing, but something about the Lady herself . . . perhaps she's too mighty for my liking.”

The Lady should be mighty.
“Queen Evandia can't access the vault?”

“No. She's kin through my mother. No one can get in but me and mine. That door is sealed with the life's blood of a Clockwork Dagger–sworn magus. It's the sort of enchantment that won't wear off in time. I'm a key, child. What would Caskentia do with the contents of the vault?” She lowered her voice to a shaky whisper. “What would the Waste do? You have to promise me, Miss Leander.” Mrs. Stout's hand grasped hers, suddenly strong and desperate. “If you are with me and I'm betrayed, you must . . .” With her free hand, she slashed across her neck.

“Never!”
That's melodramatic, even for a woman with a blue streak in her hair.
“I couldn't do that. Don't even think about such things, Mrs. Stout. Your secret is safe.”

“Is it?” Mrs. Stout's bloodshot eyes narrowed and she glared toward the door.

C
HAPTER 6

Despite solid hours of
sleep, Octavia staggered down the quiet hallway. Perhaps she should have kept her mouth shut and acted like they hadn't seen Mrs. Stout's scar at all.
Mrs. Stout . . . the princess, grown into a flamboyant enigma with bright blue hair.

Octavia felt an excited tingle at the very thought of her roommate; in truth, she was more awed that Mrs. Stout had been graced with the presence of the Tree than that she was the fabled lost princess.

She heard the cacophony as she hopped down the last few steps onto deck B. She stopped, one hand on the wall. The sound wasn't the wild thunder of instruments that warned her of Mrs. Stout's perilous condition, but something milder, made more potent by the numbers of the suffering. Steps hurried, she rounded the small hallway into the tiled privy.

The wailing symphony of bodies in agony was accompanied by a chorus of groans, retches, and other bombastic intestinal functions. Her hand reached for her satchel and she forced her fingers into a fist. This was probably influenza spread through the confined quarters aboard the airship. Not dire. It'd pass on its own within a few days.

A man stampeded past, almost shoving her aside in his urgency. She retreated to the corridor.
How widespread is this illness? If I set a patient in a circle . . .

No, no, no. I'm a businesswoman, not a charity worker. I can't save everyone.
She forced herself to walk away, both hands brushing against the parasol handle strapped to her bag. Her priority needed to be breakfast for herself and Mrs. Stout, and then to sneak food to Leaf.

Head down in focus, she walked smack-dab into Mr. Garret.

The steward hop-stepped with the agility of a dancer. Octavia, however, lacked that grace. She flopped backward, tailbone and pride painfully meeting the worn carpet. Clutched with her left arm, her satchel swayed and landed in her lap. The well-packed jars didn't so much as jingle.

“Miss Leander!” Mr. Garret extended a hand. “I am terribly sorry—”

“It was my fault, I wasn't looking—”

“I visited your quarters and was told you came down here. We have something of a situation aboard ship.”

“This situation involves the people in the privy?” she asked, and he nodded. “When did these symptoms begin, Mr. Garret?”

“The past hour. Thus far, I count six men, including one of our crew.”

“Did all of them eat breakfast this morning?”

“Some did, but many were up quite late. All of the affected were guests of the smoking room last night.”

Octavia's head jerked up. “Is that so?”

“Miss Leander.” He lowered his voice. “The sick crewman is Captain Hue. If the copilot comes down ill as well, we may be forced to make an emergency landing.”

An emergency landing. No mooring tower.

The conflagration of the village. The
Alexandria,
a deflating oval as it scraped the night sky with flames. Screams—Mother—Father. The crackle of flames in their bodies' songs—

A strong hand clutched her arm, anchoring her to reality. “Miss Leander? Are you well?”

No. I'll never be well in that regard.
She caught a whiff of his scent, reminiscent of cinnamon, and breathed in deeper. “Was anyone ill when they came aboard?”

“No. Anyone with obvious signs of illness is denied entry. We dare not risk a contagion like pox.”

She gnawed on her lower lip. “Some zymes can remain dormant for days or weeks without causing outward symptoms, but for so many to get sick at once, it sounds like some kind of contamination. It could be an accident, or . . .”

It's like the poisoning at the northern pass. But why would Wasters—so soon after armistice—bother with a small, ramshackle airship like this? They favor showy productions. Mass casualties. Widespread terror. This is too meager in scope.

“What should we do, m'lady?” Mr. Garret looked on her with absolute trust.

Fiddlesticks
. “Do you have a list of the ill passengers?”

“Yes. What do—”

“As you noted last night, my presence creates an unusual fuss on board. I'm about to create a further fuss within the smoke room. Are you available to join me?”

A smile, albeit weary, warmed Mr. Garret's face. “If you are about to be meddlesome, Miss Leander, then it will be my pleasure to join you.”

T
O ENTER THE SMOKING
room, they passed through a small air lock. The door sucked shut behind them, a vent clacking in the ceiling above. “ 'Tis a characteristic of hydrogen-aether airships,” Mr. Garret said, proceeding through the next door. “Of course, this is a helium model, so it does not have those same flammability issues.”

Flammability issues. Hydrogen vessels.
No, she would not think on such things, not now. Not with the captain and others ill. Her legs quivered, and she steadied herself on the wall.

The smoking room was dark, darker than even the paneled corridors and rooms of the outer ship. The cold gray steel of the walls was exposed, spaced metal sconces breaking the stark monotony. The bar sat immediately to her right, its backdrop of glistening green and amber bottles. A magicked lighter on the counter practically buzzed with the potency of its enchantment. She pursed her lips, pausing. It was old infernal magi work, and the enchantment wasn't confined to spark-lighting cigarettes and cigars; no, it encouraged people to utilize it.
Good for business, bad for lungs.

On the other side of the room was a Warriors table. The metal pyramid was scraped and dented with several bolts missing. The warriors themselves—fighting mechanicals the size of mice—rested in an obscene tangle at the base of the board.

Mr. Garret rapped his knuckles on the hard wood of the bar. “Vincan, you around?”

A long, hoarse groan emanated from the other side of the stanchion. It was the sound one expected from a bear awakening from hibernation, a warning to skedaddle quickly lest one become a spring breakfast. A hulk of a man rose, his jaw stretched in a yawn so wide it revealed a flash of uvula.

Octavia was considered to be of pale skin, but not compared to this man. His skin seemed drained of pigment, so clear that the veins in his neck were visible to the eye. His hair was almost equal in tone, a stark, silvery white, but not because of age. Acne flecked the broadness of his cheeks and his flattened, crooked nose—not a feature he was born with, she was quite sure of that. His smile revealed dark gaps in his teeth.

“Eh, Alonzo,” said the bearish man, yawning again. His chest seemed to swell as he craned back, biceps tight through the poor fit of his crimson uniform jacket. A jacket that was completely unbuttoned in the front. The union suit beneath was as brown-stained as a nappy passed down to the third consecutive babe in a family.

Mr. Garret cleared his throat and tilted his head toward Octavia. The man eyed her up and down, his jaw still agape, then grabbed at his chest. His eyes widened and both hands reached beneath his waist and below the bar. He turned and showed the expanse of his back, his fingernails clumsily scratching at buttons. She pressed a fist against her mouth to keep from laughing.

“Well then, er.” The man turned, still working the buttons on his coat. Crookedly, she noted, but at least he tried. “Sorry then, er, miss, but see, I don't fit in any of the bunks aboard ship, so I sleep back 'ere during the day. Not supposed to get patrons in the morning, not normally.”

Mr. Garret was a man of strong build with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, but this man seemed twice as big at the same height.
He doesn't need a bed. He needs a stall suited for draft horses.

“ 'Tis not a normal morning, Vincan,” said Mr. Garret. “We have sickness aboard and everyone is a smoker.”

“Now, Mr. Vincan—” she began.

To her surprise, he burst out laughing. “By Allendia's ghost! Listen to that, eh? Mr. Vincan. I sound all fancy 'n something when put like that. The surname's Page, but not a soul ever calls me that. We're not so formal down here, miss.”

“I see. Mr.—er, Vincan, did anyone act sickly or strange last night?”

He grinned again. “My goodness now. She makes it sound like she's a proper medician or somethin'.” He chuckled at his joke.

Mr. Garret's expression pleaded for tolerance. She shook her head, smiling. “Mr. Garret, you said you had a list of the ill?”

“Certainly, m'lady.” He passed her a pad of paper. She skimmed the names. Only Captain Hue's was familiar.

“Well, Mr.—um, Vincan, I need to know where these men were sitting or if they shared the same drink or snack. Do you know where a Mr. . . . Wexler sat?”

Vincan stared at her, blinking.

Mr. Garret clucked his tongue. “He will not know them by their surnames. Mr. Wexler. A tall, reedy fellow with a mustache about the width of a toothpick—”

“Oh, 'im.” Vincan nodded. “Yes, I know 'im. 'E sat there.” He pointed a beefy arm toward the far corner of the room, in direct view of the bar. “Drank whiskey. When his drunk was up, he had a wheezy laugh, like some sneezing dog.”

“I believe the next on the list was Mr. Grinn,” said Mr. Garret. Octavia passed the list back to him. “Mr. Grinn is a big fellow. He has a gut like a bag of grain.” He mimed the curve of a pregnant belly. “The fellow speaks only a few words in Caskentian.”