The Clockwork Dagger (26 page)

“That was uncalled for,” snapped Mrs. Stout.

Octavia stared at her hands against the table. Somehow she thought that putting Mrs. Wexler in her place would vent some of the awfulness that weighed on her spirit. Instead, she felt neither guilt nor catharsis, only emptiness.

“Miss Leander, Mrs. Stout.”

She wasn't surprised to turn and find Mr. Drury there, smiling, his box in his hands. “Mr. Drury.” Octavia kept her voice cool.

“You are recovered from the incident at the hotel?” he queried as if she had stepped in a puddle and soaked a stocking.

“Well enough.”

“Ah, the resiliency of a master medician.” His broad, toothless smile stretched his mustache. Her distrust in him flared again.
Though he did just save my life. I cannot dismiss that fact.

“Ah. You are the vendor of Royal-Tea. On our last trip, I heard that one of our fellow passengers peddled the drink.” Mrs. Stout stared into the box.

“I am indeed, good madam.” He bowed with grace, showing no strain from the weight of his burden. “I have an excessive inventory after my stop in Leffen and am offering tins to everyone aboard. Please, take one at no cost.”

Octavia did not like this man, but some small measure of gratitude was warranted. She reached into the box, probing lower for a cooler can. Mr. Drury's smile softened into something more genuine.

“Do let me know what you think, Miss Leander. We only use the best ingredients. Mrs. Stout . . . ?”

“Oh, no thank you.”

“Do you need assistance in opening your tin, Miss Leander? I have—”

“No, thank you. I have my own opener.”

“Very well. I will speak to you ladies again later, I'm sure.” With another graceful bob of his head, he continued to the next table.

Octavia examined the can in her hands. It was slender and fit perfectly within the cup of her palm. The container bore the crown logo of the company and fine calligraphy touting the health benefits of the drink, including boosted energy, salved spirits, ease of digestion, and steady hands for fine motor work.

“This is nothing more than a paroxysm pill,” she said in disgust. “No medicine can do all of that.”

“It's a sales pitch, no more.” Mrs. Stout tried to wave down Little Daveo across the room, but he didn't seem to see her. “I'll be right back. I believe I need a glass of aerated water.”

“Very well. Don't go far.” Octavia kept an eye on her surroundings as she reached into her satchel for her tin opener. Using the triangular tip, she pressed down on the lid. The tin emitted a slight spurt. She raised it to her nose. Bubbles fizzled through the small hole. Mr. Drury was watching her from ten feet away, his face impassive. His bland observation set her on edge, as if he expected something to happen.

Goodness, I am being paranoid. It's just canned tea. Everyone else is drinking it.
She took a sip.

The flavor of tea lapped against her tongue, mild and fragrant. She detected a subtle note of cinnamon. To her surprise, it was quite good. Not as good as chocolate, but then nothing could equal that. She shot Mr. Drury a brief nod and he returned to his conversation with the others. She had another long drink, the fluid bubbling in her throat.

It struck her then. Her head jerked toward Mr. Drury and then her gaze flew to the window, where the roofs of Leffen were fading to the size of miniatures.
Mr. Drury saved my life and yet I feel no obligation from the Lady, no debt. When I was pulled from the side of the airship, awareness of the debt was almost instantaneous. The Lady knew the aether magus had assisted in saving me, though I had never seen the man before.

And then there was the obvious debt to Alonzo, which lingered on her until his leg had been restored.

Mr. Drury had shielded her and she felt nothing.
What does that mean? What does the Lady know that I do not?
Octavia set down the can and opener, unwilling to finish the drink despite the pleasantly warm fizz it left on her tongue.

“Well!” Mrs. Stout plopped down in her seat again with a slight huff. She set a glass of effervescent water on the table. “I do believe that little steward injured himself when we were in port. The poor man!”

“Oh?” Octavia forced her attention to her companion.

“He has quite a limp. Said he had a close call with a drayman's cart! The driver didn't see him due to his size. Drivers these days, all fuss and hurry.” She tsked under her breath. “I asked if he wanted healing from you, but he quite adamantly refused, said he could never afford a medician.”

“That hasn't stopped anyone else.”
Or taught me how to say no when their bodies call to me with such great need.

“Watch the attitude, child. I was going to point him out so you could judge his injury yourself, but it seems he's gone about his business. These stewards never stay still, do they?”

Octavia touched the can, gliding her fingers along the cylindrical curve. She had no desire to drink any more; she had little desire to do anything at all. Simply sit there, staring into space as Mrs. Stout's voice droned on.
Empty.
She felt empty. A day from now, Octavia would either be dead or, if she was lucky, imprisoned.

So this was how it felt to lose hope.

C
HAPTER 17

The sun had dwindled
to a pink sliver in the western sky when Octavia heard the telltale buzzing of the arriving craft. She set down her fork in her half-eaten dinner. Silently, she headed to the far side of the ship, Mrs. Stout following close behind.

In the increasing darkness, the silhouettes of the mountains loomed just beyond the window. Octavia sucked in a breath. The Pinnacles, the only wall that stood between her and the Waste.

Small-engine cars protruded from the sides of the
Argus.
She had scarcely paid them heed before, other than noticing that a bundled-up crewman seemed to be out there at all times. Now another person crossed the gap to the port car, hands on the railings, his back hunched against a buffeting wind. Without seeing his face, she knew it had to be Alonzo. He would trust no one else to handle the delivery from Adana Dryn.

The buzzer loomed close like an oversize wasp, the propeller a dark blur.

“Goodness! If it gets any closer, it could hit us!” shrieked a woman beside her. Octavia recoiled in surprise. Most of the dining room had gathered to watch the show.

“Calm yourself,” said an older man. “This is a common occurrence. Buzzers are trained to make such deliveries.” Still, the man watched with curiosity that dulled the impact of his words.

Octavia's gut lurched as the buzzer came alongside, almost directly above the engine. A long shaft extended downward and joined with the car. Using that pole, a black object slid down and directly into Alonzo's hands. He disengaged the staff and it telescoped up again. The buzzer pilot pulled away, sparing one brief wave for the audience at the window. Alonzo clutched the parcel against his chest as he marched back inside.

“Come,” Octavia said to Mrs. Stout. They headed down to deck B to intercept Alonzo.

Octavia had her hand on the door to the crew compartments when she spied Alonzo's face through the circular window. He was still attired in a thick leather jacket. A woolen collar fluffed out like a mane. Thick goggles rested atop his forehead, the glass fogged from the sudden temperature shift. He smiled briefly in greeting and opened the door from his side to allow them through.

“Follow me. I explained to the captain that you expected urgent news from Leffen and he has granted us the privacy of the officers' mess.”

Alonzo motioned to a door farther down the passage. The heavy scent of aether and ozone hovered around him like a cloud.

The mess was a small, cramped space, barely larger than their berthing. The walls were patchy and ugly with bared bolts, and she surmised that some metal entertainment apparatus had been removed and sold for scrap. Two tables, one rectangular and one round, were each surrounded by scuffed brown leather seats much like the ones in the smoking room. Octavia immediately went to the circular table at the back. Mrs. Stout wedged in beside her, the medician satchel between them. The staff of the parasol gouged Octavia's thigh. She clutched her hands together and stared up at Alonzo.

He locked the door and then worked at the latches on the leather satchel. It was slender, not much different from a shoulder book bag used by university students. He pulled out papers and let the bag fall to the table. Octavia glanced inside and saw nothing else.

He was silent for a long moment as he skimmed, and she felt as if she would burst. “Can't you just hand out sheets to everyone?” Octavia snapped.

“There are only two. Adana summarized everything as best she could and inscribed it in one of her codes. I fear handing it to you would be of little help.”

Octavia slumped over, most unladylike.

“Oh gracious! I would like to see,” said Mrs. Stout, perking up far too much.

“Maybe later, Mrs. Stout.” Alonzo took in a deep breath and met Octavia's gaze. The pale blue of his eyes seemed to stare into her soul. “We were correct in surmising that Mr. Grinn was an agent of the Dallows. He, along with the rest of his crew, were tasked with crossing the mountains to retrieve Miss Octavia Leander, a recent graduate of Miss Percival's Academy, and rendezvous with the rest of their team at a place that has some vernacular name. They dubbed it Black Heaps.”

“A team? You said they have a team?” Octavia shivered as if chilled, even as sweat rolled a long course down her spine.

“Yes.” His jaw was set in a grim line. “No numbers set. It may not be as daunting as you fear.”

“Still too many,” muttered Mrs. Stout. Her red nails drummed on the tabletop. “What of the attempts on Octavia's life?”

Alonzo shook his head. “There is nothing. On the contrary, it states that they are to do everything possible to protect her. They used the phrase ‘guard her as you would a daughter,' which is a high-level vow amongst the Dallowmen. Their daughters live hard, short lives and are prized more than oil.”

“Oh Lady. I don't understand. Why did Mr. Grinn push me? Was he a double agent?” Octavia pressed a hand against her brow.

“Nothing in the booklets suggested such. Instead, it seemed as if they had selected the best of the best for this mission, regarding it as a primary operation for the Dallows.”

“Primary operation.” Mrs. Stout's voice was dull. “That's what I was.”

Me, a prime target for an entire rogue territory?
Octavia's scant supper threatened to make a return visit.
Maybe I truly am a threat to Queen Evandia and Caskentia. But how?
Alonzo's eyes skimmed the paper, one hand at his mouth.

“This is not good,” he said.

“You mean it gets worse?” asked Octavia. “How can it get worse?” She regretted the words the instant they escaped her lips.

Alonzo's eyes shifted from her to Mrs. Stout. “When they bring in Octavia, they are also to retrieve her roommate, a Mrs. Viola Stout, wife of the late publishing magnate Donovan Stout. There is no exact reason given, though the matter is presumed—”

“No.” Mrs. Stout stood. “You did this. You're the only one here who knew. Octavia wouldn't tell! I know she wouldn't, but you. Oh God.” Her lips opened and closed for a moment, no speech emerging. Her jowls jiggled.

“Mrs. Stout. Viola.” Octavia stood and grasped the older woman by the shoulder. “That is completely absurd. You can't possibly believe—”

“No, she is right to suspect me, even if she is wrong,” Alonzo said, his voice quiet. “She has survived by keeping her identity under strict confidence. How many people know the truth, Mrs. Stout?”

“My husband. You. Octavia. Nelly.” She sank into the cushioned seat and stared into space. “Nelly.” The name was a gasp.

“No,” said Octavia. “Absolutely not. You're trying to suggest that Miss Percival . . . no.”
She wouldn't. She couldn't.

“She begged me to escort you on this trip,” Mrs. Stout murmured, her eyes wide with horror. “Said it would be good for me to get out, that I could take you under my wing, we could be roommates. Just like she and I used to be roommates. Oh God.” She shrank and shielded her face behind her hands.

Alonzo paced in short, abrupt strides. “These letters go back for weeks. This was not a spontaneous operation. Now, Octavia—”

“Don't even look at me. Don't consider this. Miss Percival raised me from the time I was twelve. She was a second mother to me.”
Not only a mother. My only friend. The only one who understood how it felt to be different, blessed . . . until I proved to be the more blessed.
“Why would she . . . ?”

“Money.” Alonzo said it with a shrug. “Caskentia has not paid her. How much does it cost to run that institution?”

That's why I wasn't paid what I was owed. It's because I was the one who had been sold. No. No, it can't be. Miss Percival wouldn't do that. Not to me.

But she's been so cold these past few months. Was it all leading up to this?

“Nelly would do anything for that school of hers,” murmured Mrs. Stout. “Anything. But even then, I never thought . . . she has kept my identity a secret for fifty years. Why now?”

“Desperation,” said Alonzo. “No one has coin these days. How close is the school to failing completely?”

Octavia struggled to piece together enough logic to prove his argument invalid. “But the letters never identified who Mrs. Stout used to be, correct? Wasters are kidnapping young women for ransom. The Stout family has money. Maybe this has nothing to do with her past after all. Maybe it's all for ransom.”

Alonzo shook his head. The fluff of his collar scuffed against his prickly jaw. “Even if someone high up in the organization knew, they would not inform a lackey of the truth. There would be too much prestige in being the one to finally kidnap or kill the princess. That attempt on Mercia was the Dallows' first great offensive toward independence, and their greatest failure.”