The Clockwork Dagger (19 page)

“I found it!” Alonzo held on to the reeds with the leg in his other hand.

She hurried over, water sloshing against her thighs. “Wonderful! How does it look?”

“Wet through, but the boot looks good. I would hate to lose one of my favorite boots.”

She opened her pocket and shut off the blaring noise. The sudden quiet was a surprise. She wiggled her head as if to adjust her ears. The sound of buzzing lingered, along with the persistent nagging of her life debt. Perhaps she had sustained temporary hearing damage from that obnoxious device.

“Well, let's get back to the road and I can take a thorough look at your leg,” she said.

Alonzo frowned and gazed up. The skies were pale blue with infrequent clouds. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“It sounds like a buzzer.”

“Oh.” Octavia looked up again. “I thought it was an echo from that device.”

“No. 'Tis definitely a buzzer.” He hopped forward and away from the tules, and Octavia caught him against her side.

“Probably someone following the road?”

Alonzo pointed. She could see the craft now. The lower part of the buzzer resembled a bicycle, though broader and flatter with a three-wheeled design for landing. On a high shaft, the propeller whirled about five feet above the sitting pilot.

Alonzo's hand stilled on her arm. “The sun, the way it glints on the front passenger seat. 'Tis wrong. It looks like the military version of the rig.”

Yellow lights flashed at the front of the buzzer. “Get down!” yelled Alonzo, throwing himself over her as bullets pinged around them.

C
HAPTER 11

Octavia stumbled backward and
they both went down, water splashing to her shoulders. Stones and debris stabbed into her derriere. Bullets zipped past and sliced into the nearest stand of reeds. Alonzo sputtered in the water and managed to regain his footing. His hat had vanished but his grip on the leg seemed quite secure.

“Are you well?” he asked, panting. Water dripped from his face.

“No, I'm not well! Someone's shooting at us!” Cold dread trembled through her veins as they both scrambled for the shelter of the thicket of reeds. The buzzer whirled overhead again.

“Hold me steady.” He set the leg in the water and unholstered his gun. Octavia placed her hands on his waist, gripping at his flesh beneath sopping layers of cloth. The buzzer passed overhead and began to turn. Alonzo brought up the gun, squinting, and fired. Her eyes caught the glint of the bullet bouncing off the chassis of the craft hundreds of yards away.

“You're a crack shot!”

“Or I would be, if I had my damned balance.” He glared at the sky, holstering the Gadsden and picking up his leg again.

Octavia took in a deep breath to calm her fluttering heart. “How much diesel do buzzers hold?”

“Probably six hours' worth. If it took off from Leffen, they probably have four hours' worth left.”

The sound of the buzzer faded as it made another loop. Octavia sidled forward, half dragging Alonzo by one arm as she shoved through the reeds. The sour smell of the water caused her stomach to roil. She hooked her arm to hold back the tules as she checked the area ahead, revealing a patch of clear water. Dozens of elegant white egrets glided across the pool. She glanced up. The buzzer was making another direct approach.

“Lady, forgive me,” she said, touching a wet finger to her lips as she shrugged off Alonzo's hold. He grasped hold of the reeds. “Hold this, please.” She shoved her satchel's strap into his hand. In a snap, she had unfastened the parasol.

“Octavia, what scheme are you hatching?” The buzzing grew louder.

“One that works, I pray. Wait here.”

Leaving him clutching the reeds, she sloshed out into the exposed pool, all too keenly aware that the shimmering white of her uniform would lure the craft in like a beacon. A few egrets fluttered their wings. She marched forward and then the ground was gone. Octavia went under, the world turning black and fetid. Gasping, she kicked out her legs and found solid ground again, the parasol still clutched in her hand. She spat out water, gagging at the taste, and flared out the dripping parasol. She dug her boot soles into the mud to propel herself forward and screamed as she stampeded the egrets.

The birds squawked and rustled as they rose in a mass. The sharp whine of bullets pierced the air. Octavia threw herself into the water and opened her eyes. Everything was black and she couldn't see far, but she did spy several perfect trails of bubbles. The wakes of bullets. She yanked down on the parasol handle but the cursed thing was too buoyant, marking her location with all the clarity of skyward beacons and glittery dancing girls. She emerged, gasping, flung the parasol away, and hurled herself into the nearest thicket. Reeds sliced at her arms but she barreled her way inside the shelter. The ground was higher here, and she sank to her knees to rest. Gasping for breath, she needed several seconds to realize how quiet it was. The buzzing had gone away.

She thrashed her way out of the thicket again and into thigh-deep water. Her parasol was upside down in the pool, lazily circling. She searched the sky.

“The birds took him down,” called Alonzo. She looked toward him, and then past. A black plume of smoke rose into the air.

“Excellent!” she said, wading to her parasol. She dumped out the water and held it overhead as she made her way back to him. The guilt hit her then, followed by the backlash of adrenaline. She had, after all, forced innocent and beautiful birds to die in her stead. Closing her eyes, she paused in the middle of the water.

“Lady, I'm sorry,” she whispered. “Please, take them to your branches. I pray they didn't suffer.”

She reached Alonzo and found herself quivering without control. Saying nothing, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Her lips pressed against the soggy cloth of his jacket and she took in the reassurance of his embrace.

Even without a leg, he's solid as an oak.
She pressed closer against him, trembling as if boneless. After a long minute, she pulled back.

“Thank you,” she said softly. His arm rested on her shoulder to keep him upright.

“You were very lucky,” he said. He pointed up at her parasol. Two neat holes had pierced the fabric.

“Oh.” She took in a rattling breath.
I'm well. He's well. Thank the Lady.

Octavia accepted her satchel and draped it over her shoulder again. With Alonzo holding tight to his leg, they worked their way toward the plume of smoke in the west. Toward the road.

“Here,” he said as they got closer. She accepted the leg and had her first good look at it. Most of the mechanical limb was covered by a black leather boot. At the top was a shred of cloth—from a union suit, perhaps—and an inverted cone of metal. Divots and gears showed where it would lock in place with the rest of his leg. It all looked quite intact. Whether the internal mechanisms worked was something else entirely.

Alonzo unholstered the Gadsden .45 and hefted it in his hand.

“Are you shooting to kill?” she asked.

“The pilot may well be dead already, but I would much rather bring him in alive. I have a few questions to ask.”

“True. The dead aren't quite so forthcoming.” She paused. “If we're under fire, don't hesitate on my account. The Lady understands matters of self-defense. So do I.”

He nodded. His queue of hair was a dark lump on his back, several curling strands dangling free to frame his face. They trudged forward, taking cover behind rushes as they approached. The raised bank of the road was visible not far ahead—thank goodness—and the buzzer had crashed beneath a small cluster of big-leaf maples. It smoldered in a heap of metal.

“No movement,” Alonzo muttered. “Proceed with care.” They worked their way up an embankment and onto dry land for the first time in hours. Octavia yearned to flop down and rest, but not yet. Not now. She could feel the tension carry through Alonzo's hand, as though he were a cat ready to spring.

Upon their arrival at the buzzer, it was clear why there had been no movement. No one was there. Blood and charred tissue smeared the cockpit where the legs would rest. The burns were serious, but evidentally the pilot could still walk.

Nausea struck her like a hoof to the gut.
The stillness of a purple dawn. The house a crisp shell. Mother and Father's bodies blackened, embracing. My bare feet lodged in mud as though I'm a tree. The air: smoke, ash, and the faint scent of cooked meat.

“Lady, spare me,” Octavia whispered, forcing her mind to the image of the Tree. The branches swayed, stroked by light rain. She breathed through her Al Cala exercise and straightened, casting a glance back at Alonzo. His focus was on the wreckage. Calmer, she considered the smoldering heap as well.

Our attacker was seriously injured in the crash, the legs in particular. Burned flesh radiates a particularly loud song. If this person tries to strike at close range, I might have some warning.

“Damn.” Alonzo glowered. He clenched his jaw and he holstered the gun again, staring at the empty craft as if he could make a body magically appear.

Octavia's arm ached, the pain sudden and penetrating to the marrow. She bit her lip to hold back a yelp. She circled the grove. The pressure in her arm intensified step-by-step, pain drowning out sensations in her fingertips. Peculiar, how sudden it was.

“I need a moment of privacy,” she called over her shoulder.

“Oh.” He paused. “Do be careful.”

She edged around a thick bush, but instead of lifting her skirt for privy business, she rolled back her sleeve. Pain prickled like hot nettles, causing her fingers to fumble. She worked the bandage loose. The seal of wax practically popped into her right hand, followed by a gush of blood that pattered on the ground. Octavia gasped.

“Octavia?” Alonzo's pitch rose in alarm.

“I'm fine! I almost slipped. Mud.” She stared at the blood still flowing from her arm, at the ground where little green leaves were sprouting. The tiny incision was vertical so that it would release a mere trickle of blood, but this . . . Why was the Lady demanding this much of her? The flow resembled a tipped teakettle. For most medicians, a few drops would suffice.

Finally, the blood slowed to a dribble. With trembling fingers, she replaced the wax, then rewound the bandage. Her wand eradicated any spatter on her hand and clothes. The loss of blood left her cold, shivering. Scared. A waft of cinnamon caused her to turn, afraid Alonzo was spying on her, and then she realized the scent came from her feet.

Where her blood fell, pampria grew.

Octavia choked back a hysterical giggle. Were her herbal woes that easy to remedy? No. These sprouts would need months or years until they were large enough to be harvested. She had never heard of a bloodletting causing the Lady's own blessed plants to grow.

At least now I'm away from Miss Percival and the others. This . . . this would give them another reason to hate me.

Alonzo wouldn't hate me, if he knew. He'd perk up like a cat spying a mouse, want to know more details.
That coaxed a slight smile.
I almost wish to tell him, just to point out how dangerous I am—look, plants grow from my blood. Caskentia should be terribly frightened.

I'm peculiar, not powerful.

She headed around the bush again, skirting the road, and glanced down. Footprints in the mud led back toward the road.

Alonzo was half sitting on the backside of the wreck as he dug through the remnants. “I found the placard,” he said, not looking up. “The craft is from a rental company out of Leffen. 'Tis a normal two-seater, as I suspected. The automatic gun was hastily installed on the front seat. The bolts are clean and new, likely done today.”

“Ah. Someone was hunting for us.”

“Yes.” When he did look at her, his face was grim. “Either there is another assassin on the
Argus,
or Mr. Grinn failed to meet with someone this morning and they tailed us.”

“Or perhaps both.”

Alonzo's caramel skin seemed to darken. “Yes. Though I do not like to think of that possibility. The Dallowmen want you alive. No one in his right mind would want you dead.” His expression was fierce.

“Well, someone's obviously not in his right mind.” She motioned behind her. “I found footprints in the mud leading toward Leffen.”

He stared south. “Might it be possible to reattach my leg?”

“I'll do my best.”

She found a dry patch of dirt and grass and spread out the medician blanket. After drying the socket and mechanical leg, she tapped the edge of the copper circle. The Lady's scrutiny tingled across her skin as the conduit opened.

Usually in such operations, the medician would apply pampria to enhance the connection between nerves and wire while the mechanist verified that the mechanism worked. The task required synchrony between the two professionals as they melded magic and machine.

She pushed the leg into place. The sockets fit, but there was no change in the song of Alonzo's body—a song already strained by the stress of the day. She closed her eyes, then sprinkled the tiniest amount of pampria over his leg as she focused on both the intense muscle strain in his good leg and the connections in the amputation.

“Try to move your mechanical foot now.” She placed a hand on his quadriceps just above the knee. The muscles hardened in quite an appealing way as he tried to move. The toes didn't bend.

“Can you feel anything?” she asked, frowning.

“I can feel the connection, but 'tis as though the leg is asleep. Dead.” The stoicism in his words couldn't mask his concern.

“Drat. Perhaps the mechanism is shut off. I dare not open the compartment; I'd likely cause more harm than good. Can you try standing up within the circle?”