The Clockwork Dagger (18 page)

Alonzo's smile thinned. “He invented it for the Caskentian military. They own it, not him. Besides, my father's name does not earn me any favors.”

“I see.” Octavia pursed her lips. “At times you seem rather bitter toward Caskentia, yet you work for them as a Clockwork Dagger. Why?”

The grind of the wagon's wheels filled the silence as Alonzo stared into the marshes. “You do not mince around, do you?”

“You needn't—”

“I can answer, once I find the words. I have battled and embraced my father's legacy my entire life. He was a brilliant man, and brilliance does not often fit with a military that wishes one to conform. I always assumed I would follow in his footsteps and rise through the ranks. Then I found myself without a foot at all.” He stared at the folded pant leg over his stump. “I am little more than an apprentice as a Dagger. My Tamaran heritage makes my appearance too memorable to work undercover. If not for the sway of my mother, I likely would not have this job at all.”

“And what is this job exactly?”

Something shifted in the song of his body. The tempo of his heartbeat increased. His posture stiffened. “Clockwork Daggers are the defenders of the realm, the guardians of the royal family. By preserving the Queen—”

“Oh, I wasn't trying to say that I was . . . like her. That would be ridiculous. I'm just not sure why I'm important enough to warrant this attention at all.” She clicked her tongue and the horse began to trot.

Silence stretched out between them. “Octavia. You have no idea how dangerous you are, do you?”

“Dangerous?”

“You're the most powerful medician in recorded history. You use a minimal amount of herbs. You ask the Lady for aid, and she answers with swiftness. Your fatality rate at the front was three percent, compared to a forty-four percent average for the other Percivals—”

“Wait, there are statistics on us? I never . . .”

“The only other person we know of with such gifts, such blessedness, was the Lady herself—and in Mercia, she is largely regarded as a mythological figure. There is no one like you in Frengia, the southern nations, or across the sea. Caskentia has Daggers abroad. They have searched. They know. There is no one who can do what you do, Octavia.
No one
.”

“Oh.” She folded her arms against her stomach. Was she supposed to be proud, pleased? Instead, she blinked back tears.

“Yes, you are dangerous. What is Caskentia supposed to do with someone of your skill? You are a conduit to God, Octavia. How can the government control that?”

Control. With Caskentia, things always came back to control.
Rage flickered in her chest. “Then it'll certainly be to your benefit when you bring in a rogue like myself, alive and well,” she said, and immediately regretted the words. She took a few long breaths. “Pardon my tone. It's the lack of sleep.”

And Mrs. Stout's nagging, and the itchiness of the life debt, and the fact that people are trying to kill me, and that Caskentia regards me with the same fear as the other Percival girls.
“But I've no desire to stay in Mercia. That kind of life . . . isn't living.”

That line between his brows persisted. “If you think the people of Delford have suffered already, how much more will they endure because of your presence and the danger it brings? I am sorry, I know these words pain you. If anything, Wasters are stubborn. In Mercia there are safe houses and guards aplenty. It may not be ideal, but you will live.
You will live.
”

Locked in a city of endless cobblestones and smokestacks and crushing humanity and disease in every song.
“And how long will I be expected to live like that? How many years? I . . .”

A red-leafed bush caught her eye and she abruptly pulled up. Her fears of Mercia slipped from her mind in an instant. “Is that . . . ?” she asked breathily. She slid off the seat, reins still in hand, and her feet impacted on the ground with a cloud of dust.

“What?” asked Alonzo as she looped the reins over a gnarled, cutoff trunk.

“Pampria.”
Pampria!
She wanted to whirl and dance as she had as a child. “Do you mind if . . .”

“Not at all, though it goes without saying we should not tarry.”

Octavia nodded and half slid down the embankment. The bush stood as high as her shoulder, its red brilliant as blood. She leaned over to breathe in the faint odor of cinnamon. Her arm throbbed again, as if the proximity to pampria intensified the need to bloodlet.

She passed a hand over the wand. Keeping her satchel on her shoulder, she opened it to dig out a treated leather bag. With her clean hand, she plucked the waxy leaves from the bush. It would take them days to dry, but a full bag would be enough, once it was ground down, to replenish her jar.

“Can I help?” Alonzo asked. The wagon creaked as he eased off, and as she turned to advise caution, he came down the embankment. Down, hard. He all but tumbled head over heels and practically decapitated Octavia with a swipe of his crutch.

“Sorry about that,” he said, gasping. He somehow managed to land on his working leg.

“Please be careful, Alonzo!” She frowned at him. He looked suitably chagrined. “When you look at the leaves, get ones that are fully red. The slightest tinge of green to the tip, they're not ripe.”

“Understood.” He began to pick leaves. His fingers were fast, and the bag quickly filled as they both worked. Alonzo shifted slightly, reaching over her, and the crutch found a soft spot. She sensed his loss of balance before it happened. The bag fell from her hand as she leaned to catch him. He had moved to catch himself as well, relying on the most stable object within reach: Octavia. One hand landed on her shoulder and the other on the narrowness of her waist. Her hands slammed against the solid warmth of his chest, the crutch hitting the earth with a soft thud.

“Oh.” She gasped. That particular cinnamon smell wafted across her nostrils again, stronger due to the proximity of the pampria, and she breathed in deeper.

Alonzo's face hovered inches above hers. “Balance is an art form I have taken for granted. My apologies.”

Her fingers pressed into him through the cloth. His chest was as firm as it had looked when she had seen him shirtless aboard the
Argus
. She was keenly aware of how his hand curved against her waist as well, like interlocking puzzle pieces. Heat crept up her neck and to her cheeks.

“Oh. Uh. There's no need to apologize, but you should certainly be more careful. If I wasn't here to catch you, you could've broken your hand or arm when you struck the ground.”

He grinned. “Perhaps 'tis a way to earn your continued attention.” His lilt was soft, dangerous.

Instead of fading, the warmth in her face worked downward into her chest and belly. She swallowed drily. “Surely there are ways to attract my eye that don't involve maiming oneself.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Truly? Do tell. It may come as a surprise, but I am not keen on self-injury.”

He's a Clockwork Dagger. He wants to take charge of me in Mercia for my own safety. Being this close, wanting to be this close, is absolutely idiotic.

“You could always do this.” She eased a hand from his chest, slow to make sure he had regained his balance, and did a tentative wave in front of his face.

“Yet that seems so . . . common.” His breath was hot against her cheek as he leaned closer. She placed her hand against his chest again, her fingers curling.

“Sometimes . . . sometimes common approaches are surprisingly effective.”

“I must keep that in mind. I suppose it would not always be convenient to fly laps over the Saint's Road at night.”

“Oh. No. The road—that was extraordinary, but afterward . . .”

Alonzo's lips quirked. “I promise, if ever we fly over the Saint's Road again, it will only be pleasantness.”

“You mean, I won't be thrown out of the window?”

“I promise.” His hand found hers and their fingers twined together. Octavia's heart threatened to lift off like a dirigible.

It was at that moment that a sharp beep emanated from his pocket. She jerked back with a yelp.

“Oh! It beeped,” she said, stating the obvious. She was surprised at the huskiness of her own voice.

“Indeed.” His blue eyes searched hers for a long moment and then he stepped back. His breathing, his heartbeat were rapid, his song quickened. “We must move along. Do you have enough?”

“Enough what?” She blinked. “Oh, yes. The pampria. Of course.” The bag had snagged on the lower branches of the shrub. She checked the amount, nodded, then stuffed the bag inside her satchel.

Alonzo stooped to pick up his crutch. “Here,” Octavia said, holding out her right hand. Leaning her left arm against the embankment, she practically dragged him upward. His crutch was useless against the loamy soil.

They sat on the seat, maybe a little closer than before, though not quite meeting each other's eyes.

They rode on. The beeps grew louder and closer together mile by mile, and the silence between them deepened. Finally, with the sound from the device almost continuous, she drew the wagon just off the road and secured the reins to a tree branch. Alonzo worked his way down from the seat and grabbed hold of his crutch. The instant he placed weight on it, a solid six inches of the crutch sank into the earth. He tipped forward. Octavia leaped to throw out an arm and catch him by the sleeve.

“Damn it.” He tried to stand erect and the crutch only sank more.

“Hold on to me,” she said, her tone quiet. Alonzo pivoted to grab her. Her face was at the level of his shoulder, his hand a warm weight.

Octavia stepped back so that he could lean on the wagon. The crutch stood straight up like a sapling. She uprooted it, the mud gushing in an obscene way, and threw it into the bed of the wagon. The detector continued to squeal. She motioned for him to pass it over, and she tucked the device into her apron.

“Pardon my language, but if I feel infantile without my leg, and in a swamp . . .”

“I understand it's quite frustrating, but you'll work yourself into a fury if you try to manage on your own.”
To think, that was his original plan. He'd have died out here.
That awareness sent a terrible chill through her. “You have two choices: you either wait at the wagon, or you lean on me.”

He grumbled beneath his breath. “You do not mind? We will have to be in rather close proximity.”

“I'll try not to grope you without a legitimate medical excuse.”

Alonzo barked out a laugh. “Perhaps I should fall down more often, then.”

Mud squished beneath Octavia's boots as she stepped into the water. She cringed at the repulsive sound. Alonzo's hand was steady on her left shoulder as he hopped alongside her. The foulness of the place increased.

“Let's be honest, Alonzo. This isn't an ideal place for wooing.” She kept her steps slow as she tested the ground. The tree behind them faded behind tall stands of tule reeds.

He grunted a reply as he fought for balance. Their breaths huffed as they slogged onward.

The detector beeped from her pocket, but soon the sounds waned, so they turned to walk north again. The beeps increased in volume and frequency. Water lapped just above her knees and stank of things dead and dying. Alonzo's hand draped to grip at her elbow, his weight often heavy against her side. The mud sucked on his boot, causing them to take slow, wobbly steps together.

“Tell me, Octavia, what would be a good locale for wooing you?” He spoke between heavy breaths. Sweat and swamp water had soaked him through.

The words stopped her in her tracks. “What?”

Alonzo's expression was as mild as if he had inquired about the weather. “You said a swamp was not ideal. What would you prefer?”

“Goodness.” She staggered onward. “Someplace green, with trees. I love to work in a field, or forage in a forest. I need space to breathe, to feel the Lady breathe. I suppose that I'm happiest when I'm busy and no one is hurting.”

“You despise cities.” He spoke loudly to be heard over the device.

She glanced at him in surprise. “Is it that obvious?”

“I have watched you in Vorana and now Leffen, how you react at the mention of Mercia. You seem far more at ease here, even with me as a burden.”

“You're not a burden. Not much of one.”

He looked at her in a way that sent a jolt of heat straight to her belly. Something in the water snared her foot and she jerked her gaze away as she caught herself on reeds. The detector beeped without ceasing.

She forced her dry throat to swallow. “It's rather cruel to ask questions about wooing me considering the temporary status of our relationship.”
Medician and patient; passenger and steward; prisoner and jailer.
Her gaze went to a cluster of cattails ahead and she sucked in a sharp breath. “Also, rather inappropriate with dead bodies about.”

The arm dangled over the reeds at about her shoulder level. They hobbled closer, and dread filled her stomach. Not that she was perturbed to face a dead body; no, it was the manner of his death. The corpse sprawled facedown on its prickly bed. Several reeds impaled him completely, their soft brown heads drenched in blood that did not scream.

“He was likely killed the instant he landed,” she said.
Good. He didn't suffer.

“ 'Tis a shame. He could have wallowed in his misery for a little while,” Alonzo growled. She stared at him, speechless. He let go of her arm and clutched the thick reeds as he hopped around.

“Do you think the leg's under him?”

“No. More likely, they drifted apart as they fell.”

Octavia stepped away from Alonzo, all the while keeping an eye on him in case he stumbled. She studied the surface of the water and wondered how likely a leg was to float. The detector paused in midbeep and she turned back toward Mr. Grinn.