The Clockwork Dagger (11 page)

“Yes, 'im. Fluent in grunt. Favored malt beers. Hiddly Hops, mostly, though he may have had a shot 'r two of harder stuff. He was just on t'other side.” Vincan leaned to tap on the wall between the bar and the sitting area.

“Hmm. They had different drinks, then.” Octavia drummed her fingers on the counter. A bowl of flatbread crisps sat about a foot away. Her stomach groaned. “Did they eat any of this?”

“Well, yes, miss, jus' 'bout everyone does.”

“Did you?” she asked.

“No, not me. If I did, that bowl'd be empty, wouldn't it?”

For now, at least, she could eliminate alcohol as being suspect. That was a relief, as there had to be a hundred bottles along the wall. Testing each would present a tedious chore. She knew better than to ask if the patrons had ingested water; at a place like this, it was unlikely. Unless . . . “Do you serve ice in your drinks?”

Vincan looked at her as if she was daft. “Most assuredly I do, miss. Keep a cooler under the bar an' fetch more ice from the kitchen if needin' more.”

She turned to Mr. Garret. “I'm afraid I have a rather grotesque favor to ask of you.”

“For you to preface it like that does not bode well.” He braced himself. “Ask away, m'lady.”

“I need a sample of . . . expulsions from an ill man.”

“Oh, is that all?” An eyebrow arched high, his lips already contorting in disgust. “Miss Leander, as I said before, you do bring new life to a dull job. I will be right back.” The air-lock door whooshed shut behind him.

“He's fetching . . . er, what?” asked Vincan.

“Vomit, most likely,” Octavia said in an upbeat tone. “It'd be the pleasanter choice.”

“You are a strange one, aren't you, miss?”

“So I've been told.”
And I'm about to prove my oddness once again.

Mr. Garret returned with a chamber pot in hand. The foul, fermenting stew of stomach acids and alcohol caused her to crinkle her nose.

“I intercepted a steward just out in the hall. Everyone is on cleanup duty.” His expression turned grim. “And you should know, the copilot is now ill as well.”

No. Don't picture the flames. Don't imagine the screams.
She took a steadying breath, and immediately regretted it. “How soon until we're forced to land?”

“Less than thirty minutes. If anyone else in the cabin shows symptoms, sooner.” He set down the pot.

“Kethan's bastards. I dunno if I should be around for this,” muttered Vincan. “Miss is the real deal, in't she? Magic 'n all? I just . . . I don't know . . .”

“Go back to sleep, big lug. 'Tis far past your bedtime,” said Mr. Garret.

“Yes. Yes. Believe I shall.” Vincan lowered himself behind the bar.

“I confess, Miss Leander, I am not sure what you are doing either,” muttered Mr. Garret.

“Are you afraid of me?” she asked softly.
I'm so sick of being feared.

“Afraid of the chaos in your wake? Perhaps. But of you, m'lady? Certainly not.” His smile created cozy warmth in her chest—quite an accomplishment, considering the task at hand.

She looked down at the chamber pot, steeling herself. “I've only done this once before. It's only been done once, period.”

“Surely medician texts—”

Octavia shook her head, loose hair whipping her cheek. “There's nothing similar chronicled. I may be the only one who's done this, ever.” The words emerged as a whisper.

He arched a black brow. “Most interesting.”

“In this regard, perhaps, though I fear I'm rather dull at parties.” She tucked the strand of hair behind her ear and set her satchel on the floor. “Can you lock the door, please?”

Octavia pulled out the bag of honeyflower and crouched close to the chamber pot as she created a tight circle. “You're aware of the science of zymes? It comes out of Tamarania.”

Mr. Garret shook his head. “I am Caskentian, born and raised. I have never been to Tamarania, though my mother maintains Father's old household there.”

Octavia stood, dusting her fingers against her parasol. “Zymes are living creatures so small they cannot be seen with the eye, though they show up in a magnifying scope. Some zymes make a person ill, while others do nothing at all.”

“I note you are not using your blanket this time,” said Mr. Garret.

She studied him before answering. His eyes were keen as he absorbed every detail of her operation. Mr. Garret did a decent job of playing an amiable lackey, but a man of his class didn't belong in a servile role on an airship. Compared to that bragging buck on the promenade, Mr. Garret would make an excellent Clockwork Dagger—he had the agility and intelligence—but he was far too . . . nice to take on such a callous role. Of course, with the economy as it was, even displaced earls begged on street corners. A man had to earn his bread somehow.

“For this, I prefer to use the smaller circle. It focuses the magic.” She looked toward the bar. “Vincan, is it possible to pull out that cooler?”

There was a feral grunt. “ 'M pretending not to be here, miss. Magic and me, we's not friends, even if it's the pleasant sort.”

“He was branded.” Mr. Garret's voice was barely audible.

In that instant, Octavia understood. Branding was a peculiar act committed by Waster infernals—a perverse show of respect for soldiers who managed to get within range of physical touch. Such marks were small, painful, and always left scars as they were far too minor for doctoring.

Magic terrified many people. For a person's sole exposure to be the violence of an infernal—Vincan was certainly not the first she had encountered with such an aversion to magi.

“Vincan, I'm a medician, as you surmised, and I need your help. This does involve magic, yes, but I suspect that Wasters may be at fault for these illnesses.”

The floor shuddered as Vincan emerged, his pale skin strangely ruddy. “Wasters, on
my
ship?”

She nodded. “Not long before armistice, they used zymes to poison the water at the northern pass—”

“Oh, damn the day, miss, my brother was there and lived and has a wee baby girl to bounce on his knee now. Whatever you need, s'yours, specially if it's Wasters causing the fuss.”

He ducked down again and groaned, staggering out with a cooler that looked to be of lead. Condensation and ice coated the lower half of the cube. He set it down at her feet and tossed the lid aside.

Octavia made another circle in honeyflower and lowered herself to the floor. The wood was hard and cold through the cloth at her knees.

“Lady, hear my plea,” she murmured. “There is illness aboard this ship. Your Tree is the encourager of all life, roots mooring the world. I fear that zymes are being wielded as swords. Please, Lady, reveal the rhythm of this illness, so that I may find the cause and treat the suffering.”

When she closed her eyes, images loomed in her mind: the Tree, the branches, the bobbing leaf she yearned to catch. She breathed in the mustiness of a world freshened by rain and extended her hands beneath the leaf, waiting. Praying. The drop fell slowly, like a single coursing tear. It trailed along the membranes and to the very tip of the five-pointed leaf, hesitating, and then fell. She shivered at the warmth of the drop as it met her skin and lapped the length of her forefinger to her palm, as though she had submerged her full hand in water.

She bent in basic Al Cala pose, arms extended to reach the chamber pot's circle. Powdery honeyflower dug beneath her nails.

Awareness flared through her body, adrenaline surging through her nerves as if reacting to an exploding incendiary. Her ears seared and throbbed, but not with pain. It was heat and sensitivity and a pressure beyond all comprehension. She opened her eyes. The world outside the circles looked the same as before. She leaned forward, knees grinding into the hard floor, and tapped the circle around the icebox.

“Grace me, Lady,” she whispered. The sound began, like the gnawing of a hundred mice beneath the floorboards.
Being surrounded by humanity is bad enough. If I could hear microscopic beings everywhere, I'd go mad, that's for certain.

This was what Miss Percival had termed a new eccentricity—something no medician had ever asked before of the Lady. When Octavia had performed this at the front, with a thousand men dying around her, her fellow medicians could not replicate the act. Nor could Miss Percival.

That horrible, ugly envy on Miss Percival's face. That's when things changed between us.

And yet—Miss Percival asked Mrs. Stout to be here with me, and that action says a great deal. She still loves me, even if she cannot show it.

The music wavered, and she focused. Octavia bowed over the chamber pot. The fetid stink no longer assaulted her nostrils. The noise increased, the clacking rhythm of the zymes. They sounded like a marching band featuring tinny drums and a high whistle, looping in a brief and singsong manner. Octavia let her eyes half close as she hummed the tune beneath her breath.

She shifted to the icebox and listened, still humming. The rhythms matched. They met together, note to note, and she could swear the song was the same one she had heard months before.

This sickness wasn't an issue of some filthy hand glancing the ice in passing. The entire block is rife with contamination.
The Wasters chose water as their medium again—appropriate, since the last war started with irrigation rights as the excuse.

She touched the circle around the icebox. “Lady, thank you for extending your branches.” The heat in her ears and beneath her fingers vanished within a breath. She looked up at the men.

“Vincan, can you pick up the box again? The entire thing needs to be purged, and the rest of the ice supply must be checked as well.” He didn't move. “I'll use my wand on your hands and most everything else in here soon. I won't let you get ill, I promise.”

That was good enough for him. Vincan grunted as he moved the icebox several feet away.

“Is it that bad, m'lady?” asked Mr. Garret.

For my herb supply, yes.
Still, she didn't hesitate. “Please assemble the afflicted. I'll treat the captain and copilot first, and any other crewmen. When you have the chance, I'd also appreciate it if you could fetch breakfast for Mrs. Stout.” She lowered her voice. “There's also a hungry gremlin.”

“Consider it done, Miss Leander. If there is anything else I can do, please let me know.”

Yes. Can you restock my herbs, even with supplies so low across the kingdom since the last war? Or explain to the people of Delford that I'm still worthy of a home there, though my doctoring is probably as good as what any local midwife or physician can already offer?

She squeezed her hands into fists, allowing herself brief seconds of selfish fear and frustration, and then she stood. Lives needed saving.

At this rate, by the time the
Argus
landed in Mercia, Octavia's charity would leave her begging on the streets for charity as well.

C
HAPTER 7

After Captain Hue and
the copilot, she healed each man in turn, starting with the most severe cases. Her supply of bellywood bark dwindled pinch by pinch. Mrs. Wexler succumbed to bedside theatrics due to her husband's condition, and had to be treated as well.

Her last patient was Mr. Grinn. As Mr. Garret had described him, he was a hefty man with a gravid swell to his gut. He stood in the disengaged circle of the blanket, teetering slightly, and reached for his stained suit jacket.

“Dank,” he mumbled as he thrust an object at Octavia.

It took her a moment to realize he wasn't commenting on the moisture in the room but was trying to express gratitude. She accepted the item from his hand—a watch, the glass cracked and the once-ornate case worn smooth by use.

More useless payment.
The other men had also offered what they could, poor as they all were—another broken watch, a scattering of copper coins, and a voucher to visit the Museum of Amazing Mechanicals in Mercia. The fine print on the latter stated that it had expired six months ago.

“It's appreciated, Mr. Grinn,” she murmured. “Please rest so your body can continue its recovery.”

He stared at her, froglike face vacant of expression, and then he shuffled onward.

“No other illnesses have manifested. Are you well?”

She turned to see Mr. Garret in the entrance of her makeshift clinic. The crew had set up stanchions to block off a quarter section of the promenade, even going so far as to lay down oilskin tarps to protect the carpet.

She packed up her supplies. “Tired, but that's to be expected. How is Mrs. Stout?”

“Much improved,” he said. “People have inquired, and with regret I told them she also had a mild touch of sickness, but as her roommate, you treated her privately during the night.”

“Well put, Mr. Garret, thank you. And . . . ?”

He stepped closer. “The beastie has been sleeping each time I checked on him, and the food I left vanished. Tonight we pass over the Saint's Road. It may be difficult to release him, with the smoking room and promenade busy until late.”

“Oh! I've always wished to see the road, especially by air. Do you really think people will frequent the smoking room, even after the events of the day?”

Mr. Garret snorted. “You have been to the front, m'lady. Threats of poison or death do not make men relinquish a favored vice.”

“True. I've seen soldiers shot because they simply had to stand outside for a smoke, even though it made them an easy target against the snow. Some of them still had the cigarette between their lips as they were hauled in for a healing.” She shook her head. “By the time Miss Percival was done scolding them, the bullet seemed minor in comparison!”