The Clockwork Dagger (27 page)

“Back then, they thought to wed me to Archibald Taney, the one who became grand potentate ages ago. He had a dozen titles, probably as many wives. In my brief time in their hands, I was told I would be a princess of the Dallows, my children raised in the wild Promised Land. And now . . . I am too old for children, but my own children . . . the babe . . . if someone knows the truth about me . . .” Mrs. Stout's words were muffled behind her hand. She stared at Octavia. “Remember what I told you?”

The royal vault. Mrs. Stout's blood was the key. Caskentia could certainly misuse the contents of the vault, but the Waste . . .
Oh Lady.

“Your family needs to go into hiding,” said Alonzo. “Leave Caskentia. Head to the southern nations.”

“All my children know of my history is that I'm an orphan and a failure as a Percival girl,” Mrs. Stout said. “To force them into that sort of life, I . . .”

“Caskentia would want them dead just as much as the Waste.” Alonzo's voice carried a grim tone that made Octavia shiver. “The Queen will not abide with living rivals for the throne, not during this time of unrest. Too many people are desperate for a bowl of food and a ruler to save them. Your father and grandfather are still idolized, and some would believe you are the very person to create a new Gilded Age.”

Mrs. Stout emitted a wordless moan against her hands.

“There's no hard proof that Miss Percival is behind this,” Octavia said. “She's not named, is she?”

“No. The Dallowmen would not be that foolish. As 'tis, I am sure these letters were meant to be burned as soon as Mr. Grinn reached Leffen. Adana noted that some pages were missing. Those likely contained the most sensitive data.”

Oh Lady, why is this happening?
“Will Adana be handing this information over to the government?”

“Yes. Too many people know of the books for them to be secret. But the interpretation would be that Mrs. Stout is intended for ransom. Not even Adana suggests any other truth.”

Octavia had known the news wouldn't be good, but she had never expected such a turn. She stood, leaning on the table with both hands. “I would like to retire to my room and commune with the Lady.” There was much to dwell on. The dead boy. Miss Percival. The peculiar nature of Mr. Drury. Mrs. Stout. Her throat burned, and she had the sudden longing to scream, as if that would vent her worries and make everything well. Instead, she forced herself to swallow, a taste as bitter as bile on her tongue.

Alonzo nodded, empathy clouding his eyes. “I understand. I suggest you sleep in shifts tonight as well. I will watch over you as best I can, but I cannot always be at your door. In an emergency, go to Vincan.”

“Vincan? Who is this Vincan?” asked Mrs. Stout.

“The bartender in the smoking room,” Alonzo said. “Big fellow, very pale.”

“Oh. I do believe I saw him once. Can he be trusted?” Her voice quivered.

“I know 'tis not in you to trust him, and I well understand, but I served with Vincan at the front. I trust him with my life. If anything can be said for him, he hates the Waste.”

Mrs. Stout sucked in a breath. “In our desperation, that must suffice, though I fear those loyal to my cousin just as much. And you think that these Wasters will make their move soon?”

“Within the next day, while we are still in the countryside.”

Mrs. Stout nodded, eyes closed, the gesture automatic like a mechanical bird. “Very well. Sleep in shifts. I can do that. We'll be over the sprawl of Mercia soon. It's not that far, truly.”

Octavia had no faith in sleeping at all this night, shifts or otherwise. Too many things stirred in her head, roiled in her gut.

They walked down the hall and Alonzo motioned them to wait. He entered the open kitchen door and exchanged quick words with one of the cooks. The man opened the hatch beneath the stove. Alonzo stuffed the papers into the flames. The sheets curled and blackened as he shut the door again, giving a quick nod of thanks to the workers.

They headed upstairs, Alonzo guarding their flank. Octavia rounded the stairwell and stopped, a familiar sound assaulting her ears.

“Blood,” she said. Alonzo bounded ahead of her.

Fresh blood cried out along with a drumbeat of fists on flesh. The wall ahead shuddered and an idyllic print of an airship and clouds tilted off-kilter. She rushed forward right behind Alonzo, one hand at her waist, the other on her satchel. The door to their room was open, and in the narrow hallway tussled Mr. Drury and Little Daveo, both men battered and bruised and showing no indication of ending their fight.

Even Alonzo was rendered still for several seconds. One nearby berth door cracked open to reveal wide, frightened eyes.

Mr. Drury flew back against the wall, arms up, and in an instant sprang forth again, just missing a low-aimed kick from the little steward. The wooden boards on the wall clacked and rattled against the metal frames beneath. Watching the two men in action was like witnessing a fight between two tomcats. Mr. Drury moved with delicacy and finesse, sinuous as a snake. Little Daveo may not have grown above five feet in height, but the man had brute strength and agility. His stubby legs dodged a kick and he practically bounced off the wall. Daveo caught himself on his hands and spun around.

“What is the meaning of this?” barked Alonzo.

Mr. Drury's eyes raked over them and settled on Octavia. He seemed to nod to himself, not responding to a solid jab to the chest. “This steward intended to poison Miss Leander!” He faced Daveo again to block another assault.

“Daveo? What is this?” asked Alonzo. Nearby, an alarm bell dinged four times.

The steward offered no reply. He wiped a line of blood from his cheek and had eyes only for his opponent. Several gold buttons had been ripped from his jacket, leaving the flap dangling open to show the worn silk beneath. Strains of blood sang stronger and Octavia wavered, catching herself against the wall. Both men's noses were bloodied, their faces cut, but she couldn't see any knives or evidence of stab wounds.

“What manner of poison?” she called.

“Tampering within your faucet.” Mr. Drury panted heavily as he dodged another punch. “I suspect he added a filter laden with zymes, in the very method of the Dallows.”

Is Little Daveo my assailant?
She narrowed her eyes as she laid a hand on Alonzo's arm and he tilted an ear toward her. “He offers no defense or explanation.”

“He does not.”

Mr. Drury smacked into the wall again, this time with adequate force to break a wall panel in half with a resounding crack. Even so, his next kick landed in Little Daveo's gut, causing the shorter man to double over. The two men crashed into the floor in a mad knot of legs and arms.

Octavia stepped past Alonzo, following the call of blood. It reached a crescendo over the men. There was something else, too—the quivering note of extended agony.

“Lady, lend me your aid,” she whispered, and breathed in, willing her olfactory sense to extend. It was subtle, that note of charred flesh, the lingering stink of diesel, but she knew it all too well. Her gut clenched in response as screams—human, equine, blood—boomed in her memory.

She pried out the capsicum flute. Raising the weapon to her lips, she leaned forward and exhaled through the short pipe.

A red plume of mist flowed over the fighting men. Octavia's nose burned at the harsh pepper, but their reactions were more blatant. The tussling ceased. Screaming and writhing, they pulled apart, hands covering their eyes.

“Oh God! Oh God!” cried Little Daveo.

Octavia was in no mood for sympathy. “The steward's injuries indicate he was the pilot in the buzzer that pursued us. He's our man. Or one of them.”

Alonzo stared at her, agape. “How . . . ?”

“I just know.”

That was enough for him. Alonzo motioned to some stewards who had gathered behind them. They grabbed the two men. Mr. Drury sobbed, tears streaking a path in the red powder on his face.

“Where are you taking them?” asked Octavia.

Alonzo spared her a glance, his eyes blinking rapidly. “The promenade is where we assemble in most emergencies.”

The stewards had already corralled the dining passengers at the far side of the promenade, where they jabbered amongst themselves. The windows showed absolute darkness. The captain had already arrived. Octavia stalked forward with Mrs. Stout in her wake.

“Captain,” Octavia said.

He grunted in greeting, his breathing heavy. He must have run from the control room. “It seems you are the focal point of more disturbances aboard my ship.”

“Much to my regret, yes.”

“This have anything to do with that buzzer drop earlier?”

She hesitated. “Perhaps.”

Alonzo bound Daveo's wrists together and poured a pitcher of water over the man's face. Another steward was doing the same with Mr. Drury, though he was not bound. Excess water coursed along their faces and puddled on the dark carpet.

“Thank you, thank you,” murmured Mr. Drury with a smile for his steward. He stood and staggered away. Octavia opened her mouth, wanting to shout for them to stop him, to do something, but had no reason. As if reading her mind, Mr. Drury looked at her with a patient smile as he walked by, as if saying all was forgiven.

Octavia forced her attention back to the more immediate matter. “Al—Mr. Garret, I think it'll ease matters if someone—I'll put it bluntly—undoes Daveo's pants to show the extent of his injuries.”

“Undo his pants? Here?” The captain waved an arm. “Clear the promenade. There are ladies present.”

“Could take them to the mess, sir,” muttered one of the stewards.

“I'm not having capsicum in a smaller enclosed space. Get someone cleaning that hallway, too,” he growled.

Octavia turned to Mrs. Stout. “You don't have to stay.”

“I will. I'm not leaving you, child! Besides, I've seen wounds before. And if this man . . . if he has done what you think . . .”

Octavia doubted Mrs. Stout had seen the ugliness of poorly treated diesel burns, but she nodded. She would have felt ill at ease had they separated, anyway.

“And what, pray tell, is it you think my steward has done?” asked Captain Hue.

She met Alonzo's eyes, wondering how much to tell the man.

“Captain,” said Alonzo. He set the pitcher down. “When we ventured to retrieve my leg in the swamp, we were attacked by an assailant in a modified buzzer. It crashed and the pilot escaped, but not without injury.”

“What makes you suspect Daveo?” Captain Hue asked, arms crossed over his chest.

“I . . . I am close to the Lady. I have a way of . . . sensing these things,” said Octavia.

Daveo blinked rapidly, his eyes still red. His jaw was set in a defiant grimace.

“Like how you managed to find the source of that poison in the smoke room? Magic!” An expression somewhere between disgust and fear twisted Captain Hue's lips. He did a quick turn to look around the room, then faced Daveo. “Nothing to say for yourself, eh? Drop his trou.”

Two of the other stewards tugged down Daveo's pants. Mrs. Stout made a slight clucking sound and cleared her throat, but Octavia was unmoved. The dark trousers wadded around his ankles. Both legs were swathed in bandages, filthy in rusty red. His skin—what was left of it—warbled in its agony without need of a circle to enhance the sound, and she detected frantic notes indicative of infection.

“Blimey,” muttered one of the men.

Captain Hue grunted beneath his breath. “This is a matter of increasing sensitivity. Men, strip him of his coat and sleeves and check for armaments, and secure him to the post. Then go and guard the door.”

The crewmen did as asked. Little Daveo's chin continued its defiant tilt as they stripped him to his undershirt. When his pants were lifted up again, they found two knives strapped to his boots. Another small blade was sheathed close to his forearm. Had Mr. Drury been less of a fighter, he likely would have been stabbed. They hauled Daveo back and used decorative cord to fix him to the pillar. Daveo sat on the carpet half undressed, his mauled wounds weeping through the bandages. The men backed away, offering bows to the captain, and headed toward the entry.

For Daveo to tolerate his injuries in such a way suggested heavy doses of tinctures or training in matters of extreme pain, or both.

Octavia met Daveo's gaze evenly. “Why?”

“As a citizen of Caskentia, you are subject to the rules and laws of Caskentia,” Daveo said, his voice husky with pain. “Therefore, as an agent of the Queen—”

“You, an agent to the Queen? You are naught but a brigand. You have no power to arrest Octavia,” said Alonzo. “She has committed no crime. And as a Clockwork Dagger and agent of the crown, 'tis I who shall arrest you for repeated attempts at homicide.” He straightened and stood, as if he wore regalia and not a common steward's garb.

Daveo laughed. It began with a low wheeze and grew to a wild cackle. “Oh, listen to the general's son, talking as if he still owns the world. I do indeed have the power to arrest her, general's son, and to kill her as I will, just as you were supposed to.”

“What?” squeaked Octavia. Alonzo's face was of stone. “Kill me?”

Daveo continued, “I am a true Clockwork Dagger, tasked to eliminate Octavia Leander lest she fall into the hands of the Dallows and turn traitor to Queen Evandia. The key Dallowmen agent here is Mr. Drury, whom you just let walk away.”

Alonzo, kill me? All along, it could have been him. Was supposed to be him. And I trusted him. I was that stupid.

The captain sucked in a sharp breath. “Two Daggers aboard my ship, playing rivals?”

“You, a Dagger . . .” Alonzo's expression stiffened in disbelief. “All along, it was you?”

“What does he mean, you were supposed to kill me?” demanded Octavia. The words were raw in her throat.