The Clockwork Dagger (13 page)

“On some trips, most every passenger comes to view the road. Other times, none at all. Here. The library will offer the best view.”

I'm alone with him, but I've been alone with him several times already, even in my own berthing. He's a gentleman.

Mr. Garret worked the latches and slid a window open. A gust of cold air caused her to gasp, her skirt lapping against her thighs. She smoothed her wayward dress and stepped closer to the window. The forty-five-degree angle of the opening caused her to gaze into almost complete blackness below. She noted a faint string of road and a distant glimmering light.

“Is that it?” She pointed as she set down her satchel.

He bent down to look. “No, 'tis likely a house amidst the marshes. You will know the road. The ship will turn to follow its brief length.”

“I see. Well, I understand. I don't actually see it yet, of course.”
I'm yammering like a ninny. I should stop talking.

So close, his sleeve brushed hers and his radiant masculine warmth was bold against the chill of the night. “Tell me, Miss Leander, about the destination of your journey.”

She blinked, surprised by the question. “Oh. Uh. I've been employed by the village of Delford. It's a two-day wagon ride from Mercia, to the south of the Giant. There are no medicians in the vicinity. The Wasters staged an attack there, you see, some new kind of poison. It didn't kill people immediately, but has created slow and terrible suffering.”

“I have not heard of any such attack.”

“Oh, there's a reason for that. Their representatives told me that Caskentia has kept their suffering quiet, lest it create a panic amongst the greater population.”

He grunted. “That I can believe. Secrets would keep well there. 'Tis quite remote.”

“You've been to Delford?”

“I have been all around the Giant. If you think it appears huge looking south on a clear day, wait until you stand within the foothills and gaze up.” He shook his head, hair whipping at his shoulders.

“I read up on it as much as possible, of course. They sent three men to the academy's hiring fair. There's a house for me there, barely more than a shed, but I can build onto it in time. The winters are a tad milder in the south with a mere touch of snow, but they said bellywood trees grow and pampria and heskool are native and . . . oh dear, I am going on, aren't I?”

“Quite all right.” His grin seemed to glow in the faint light. “Your enthusiasm is a delight. You are blessed to have such a bounty awaiting you.”

Anxiety twisted in her gut.
I will scavenge the underbrush to find herbs, take on most any farm labor needed to earn food. I'll prove to them that I belong, even if I cannot tend to the worst of their maladies straightaway.

She forced her dry throat to swallow. “I do look forward to settling in. I want to plant my own roots, like the Lady's Tree.”

“ 'Tis the hope of most.” Something sad seemed hidden in his words.

“Not pleased with a steward's life?” Octavia cocked her head to one side.

He remained quiet for a time, staring into the darkness as if he could see something of interest. “I had hoped to make a career as a soldier.”

“Ah.” Mechanical limbs greatly improved quality of life, but they weren't allowed in the enlisted ranks. Conditions in the field were too adverse, and even the best of mechanicals could fail.

A glimmer of light caught her eye and she pointed out the window. “Look! Is that . . . ?”

“Indeed. Feel the airship turning?” The rumbling of the ship shifted, deepening. The little stub wing of the craft gleamed silver in the darkness, its rotor a constant blur as the airship turned. The thatched lines of a city emerged, tucked between the hills, and beyond that lay the Saint's Road.

Stones glowed in white, green, and gold, the colors braided. The airship was low enough that she could see people on the ground below, but none on the path itself. The mob shifted in a peculiar way. A faint melody rang in Octavia's ears.

“They're dancing,” she whispered. Tears smarted her eyes, and not from the gushing air.

In the colorful illumination of the road, skirts twirled and black coats gleamed, but not all to the same beat. Some moved slowly, as if to a waltz, while others twirled like Mendalian dagger fighters.

“The road sings, but no one hears the same song,” Mr. Garret whispered, reverence in his tone.

Blood screamed in Octavia's ears, but the road purred its melody. A memory flashed in her mind, one long lost to time.
I awakened in my bed. I was so little—maybe five, with that sheet of alphabet letters glued by my bed. Mother hummed a melody in the kitchen. There was no denying that Mother sang like a hungry cat, but her humming—off-key as it was—conveyed pure joy at the start of a new day. The sound made me smile and wriggle deeper in my nest. The scent of fresh-baked bread sifted into the room. The world outside my blankets was fiercely cold, but I was warm, so perfectly warm.

A strong beat carried through the rhythm of the song, matching time with her mother's hummed melody.

A sob choked out. She pressed a fist to her lips. “I . . . I always heard people traveled here, even from the southern nations, and everyone always said it was beautiful, that there was nothing like it, but . . .”

“No one can do it justice with mere words.” Tears left glistening trails down his cheeks.

How is his song different? Does he hear his father?
But she knew she could never ask, never pry in that way.

She held an arm out of the window, the wind a weight against her spread fingers, almost as if she could feel power like an aether magus.

“Careful. Do not lean far.” Mr. Garret laid a heavy hand on her forearm as if to bind it to the sill.

“The road has such a presence. To think, one woman laid that, stone by stone.”
This is probably as close as I'll ever get to the Lady's Tree: a place sanctified and alive.

“ ‘A constellation bound to soil, by sweat and loss and toil,' ” Mr. Garret sang, his baritone husky and surprisingly soft. “ ‘Stone by stone and tear by tear, fear ye not for God is near.' ”

“You show yourself to be a poet again, Mr. Garret. My father . . . he loved that verse.” A tear dried on her cheek and stiffened the skin.

He shrugged, suddenly shy. “ 'Tis a pleasant tune, especially with strings in accompaniment.” His hand remained on her arm, his fingers thick and dark against the pale blue. The road's song was already fading as the airship sailed on, but the strong beat lingered. Octavia looked from her arm to his face.

It's Mr. Garret. His body's song. It was one with the road's melody, with Mother's humming. The three braided together like the colors of the Saint's Road itself.

What does that mean?

The world beneath them darkened. The motors revved again. She sensed the subtle shift as they redirected due south.

It was cold. She knew, logically, that the window was open and she should be feeling quite numb by now, but the sensations from her childhood memory had returned to her like a real thing, like her visions of the Lady's Tree. Octavia was warm, cocooned in the strange awareness that this was one of the most perfect moments she would encounter in her life.

So she kissed him.

She leaned forward, her lips swooping onto his. The tiniest gasp escaped his mouth. His lips were soft, broad, strong. He kissed back with a gentle intensity, his fingers crawling up her arm to cradle her cheek. She almost jerked back—his fingers were like ice cubes. Instead, she opened her eyes. His were shut in bliss, but as if feeling her scrutiny, they opened. His blue eyes regarded her with wonderment.

They pulled apart, staring at each other, blinking.

“Miss Leander.” He croaked out her name.

“Mr. Garret, I . . .”
I'm sorry? No, I'm not sorry, but why did I do that? What if he thinks I'm some floozy?

A bell rang from the stewards' station on the far side of the promenade. They jolted farther apart as if scalded.

“ 'Tis a summon to the berths.”

“Yes.” She stared down at her arms against the sill.

“I am the one on duty upstairs. I will be back as soon as I am able.”

She couldn't even look at him. “Do your duty, Mr. Garret.”

He lingered there a moment, as if he would speak, and then trotted away.

She buried her head in both hands.
What am I doing? I've known him for scarcely a day. A few spins of the world, and I'll never see him again. Just like Leaf, and Mrs. Stout. I'm only creating more grief for myself. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Octavia briskly ran her hands over her face. She knew the cold now—the tip of her nose numb, her eyes as dry as the Waste. The light of the road was utterly gone, the landscape rendered even blacker in its absence.

Her feet nudged against her satchel as she leaned on the sill and stared out. “Oh Lady, what am I going to do?” she whispered.

Then two hands pressed against her lower back and shoved.

C
HAPTER 8

Octavia's scream sounded shrill
and impossible to her own ears as she tipped forward, floundering in space. The sleek, silver roundness of the hull came into view as her legs kicked out, seeking hold on the window, on something, anything. Her skirt slipped forward, and of all of the ridiculous things, she realized she would die, splatting into the ground with her skirt upended.
Knickers exposed for all the world to see.

Then she saw the swag fluttering beneath the window.

It had been a minor detail when she boarded, but now that triangle-adorned ornamentation was her lifeline. She grabbed hold of the swag's cord with both hands just as her full body weight tipped out the window. The coldness of the metal sliced into her palms. Blood rushed to her head as another scream tore from her throat, her legs swinging downward. She dangled on the string like an acrobat, the sudden pain in her fingers so overwhelming she almost let go. Almost. The entire world became a vision of darkness as she swayed. She forced herself to twist in place, switching her hands around so she faced the silver lines of the hull. Agony burned through her palms as blood wept rivulets down her arms.

Don't look down. Don't look down.
Terror and bile rose in her throat as she continued to rock on the swag. Her boots kicked the underbelly of the airship, seeking purchase, instead pushing her away.

“Help!” she screamed. She bobbed and managed to look up.

A massive bulk of flesh filled the angled window overhead, froglike jowls looming. Mr. Grinn. The last passenger she healed, the one who didn't speak Caskentian.

“Help me!” she cried. He stared at her, jaw agape, as though frozen in shock.
Oh, sweet Lady. He shoved me out the window.

“Octavia!”

There was a blur of motion. Mr. Grinn rumbled something in a foreign tongue and vanished from sight. Thunks resounded through the wall at her head level, and Octavia forced her gaze forward as sudden dizziness overwhelmed her. She adjusted her grip, screeching again as the cord sliced into her fingers. Thank the Lady, the swag was made strong to withstand wind along the hull. Agony quivered down her arms and burned through her strained muscles. Her swaying decreased and the toes of her boots found the tiniest bit of a ledge along the hull. Probably no more than an inch in width, but it was something. She pressed her body against the iciness of the curved base of the airship, trying to take as much weight off her hands as possible. Little triangular flags rippled along the rope.

An especially heavy thud caused her head to jerk up. A blob filled the window and blocked light like an eclipse. Then the blob fell. Toward her. Toes edging over on her slight ledge, she forced her bloodied hands to move, and just in time. The hulk of Mr. Grinn dropped from the window. She didn't see him grab the swag, but she felt it. The cord went taut in her fingers and dipped in a most precarious way. Mr. Grinn had to be three hundred pounds of solid weight. Soft yet wild music drifted from his hands and face; without seeing him clearly in the dark, she surmised that his nose had been bloodied.

A soft pinging sound pulled her gaze to the left. It sounded like a button popping from a coat. The swag dipped again.
Oh Lady. It's ripping away from the hull.

“Octavia!” She looked up. A pair of black boots dangled about six inches above her head.

“Mr. Garret!” she cried.

“Grab hold of my leg! I have a grip on the sill!”

It was a brilliant idea, making his body into a human ladder. Unfortunately, Mr. Grinn agreed.

More fortunately, Octavia knew which leg to grab.

They each grasped Mr. Garret's legs at the same time. The swag's bolts continued to ping and loosen around them. Octavia wrapped one hand around the curve of Mr. Garret's ankle, and then gripped with her left. Her boots worked up the hull and found another small ledge. Blood and pain challenged her grasp, and she relied on the extra buckles on his boot to enhance her hold.

Beside her, Mr. Grinn grappled for purchase. She caught a glimpse of his face in a pained grimace and then came the sound of wrenching metal. Mr. Garret screamed, raw and deep. Mr. Grinn dropped away.

Don't look down.
She tried to press against the hull and was nearly kicked in the face by Mr. Garret's heel.

“Haul 'im in!” bellowed a deep voice.
Vincan.
She jerked upward. Adrenaline flooded her senses as her feet lost their hold, sending her legs flailing. Time seemed to slow, her maimed fingers slipping on the slick leather. Her weight was too much.

“Oh Lady,” she whimpered, clenching her eyes shut.

Lightness wrapped around her being. She was reminded of how it felt when she was a child, swung in her father's arms. Legs outstretched, toes pulled straight by centrifugal force. No gravity, no cares—but in this case, no joyful laughter either.