The Clockwork Dagger (28 page)

Alonzo shook his head. “Octavia, believe me, I never would have. By orders, your death was to be a last resort. That is why I wanted you to return to Miss Percival—to scare you away with that note in your quarters—or for you to be escorted to Mercia, where I could convince—”

Believe him? Why should I believe anything this man says? From the very moment we met in the streets of Vorana, his close proximity was intended to realize one purpose: my death.

“And what if you hadn't been able to convince them?” she asked, a quiver in her voice. To Caskentia, she had been nothing more than another pox-ridden village. It didn't matter how many lives she had saved, or would save.

If I cannot be controlled, I will be killed.

“Oh, he wouldn't have. But he would have tried, I grant him that. We would have provided a cleaner death within Mercia, in any case.” Daveo paused as he spat out a tooth and then looked to Alonzo. “Do you really think they would send someone as inexperienced as you on a mission this vital? We wanted you out of the way for months, to silence your mother's trap. We doubted you had the nerve to carry through. You're too much like your father, a diplomat. Soft.” His face contorted in disgust. “Not even I thought you'd become besotted with the quarry.”

“ ‘Trust above all' is the Daggers' motto. This deceit . . . I do not believe you,” Alonzo said stiffly. But she could see he did believe, and how gravely the words wounded him. The words were intended to wound him.

Little Daveo sneered. “Come closer, then, if you doubt.”

“Are any of my damned stewards who they claim to be?” asked the captain. No one paid him heed. Alonzo edged forward.

“Is it wise to get so close to him?” Octavia asked. What if they had not found all of the man's weapons? What if this was all some terrible ploy? And should she care what happened to Alonzo? His allegiance to the Daggers would have led to her death, despite his best intentions.

His best intentions. He was supposed to kill me. He didn't. That means something—everything.

“I must,” said Alonzo. He leaned closer to Daveo as the short steward whispered something.

Alonzo straightened. The lean skin of his face had gone haggard, taking on a yellow tint in the lamp and glowstone light. “He is telling the truth.”

“That's it?” Octavia stared.

“ 'Tis proof enough for me.” Alonzo sounded as though he was the one who had been beaten and peppered in the face. She recalled the code word he had uttered to Mrs. Stout in Leffen. Daveo must have offered something similar.

“You have a job to do, general's son,” said Little Daveo. “Can you do it? Can you act in the name of Queen Evandia?”

The Queen who would burn thousands of her own people to keep her precious palace safe, who did nothing as her people starved and corruption ruled. What was one more body on the pyre?

“Oh God,” Mrs. Stout murmured behind her.

Octavia's blood ran cold.
Kill me. Alonzo can kill me and prove himself as a Clockwork Dagger.
She clutched a hand to her waist, where her capsicum flute used to be.
First Miss Percival, now Alonzo.

His gaze met hers, eyebrows drawn and expression agonized. Her heartbeat seemed to slow. Alonzo lowered himself as if to speak with Daveo again and then his arm blurred in motion. There was a magnificent crunch and spew of blood as Daveo's head flew back, chin skyward. The back of his head smacked the pillar. The man's head lolled on his neck and drooped downward. Octavia flinched at the hue and cry of the gore, but couldn't help but smile as Alonzo stood and shook out his fist.

“Kellar was right. I make a lousy Dagger.” Alonzo looked to the captain. “If what Daveo said about Mr. Drury is true, he must be apprehended, and quickly.”

Captain Hue nodded and turned toward the door. “Rogers! Mayhew!” He looked back to Alonzo, his voice lowering. “I know well what a Clockwork Dagger is, boy, and if you two are at odds and he is the superior, you just created a fine mess of trouble for yourself. You'll be the quarry next.”

“Indeed.” Alonzo's face was grim. “But if Mr. Drury is a Waster, we need to—” He froze in place. “Do you feel that?”

Captain Hue extended a hand, as if feeling for a breeze. “God.” His leathered face clenched.

“What? What?” Octavia looked between them.

“We're turning.” Cold anger sparked in Captain Hue's eyes. “Someone is piloting the
Argus
off course.”

C
HAPTER 18

Octavia thought Alonzo had
an imposing figure, but no one could match Captain Hue in presence. He stalked through corridors, not running and yet urgent in his stride. A gaggle of gossiping passengers had stayed around the top of the staircase on deck A. At Captain Hue's approach, they parted, wide-eyed and wordless, allowing him clear passage to the stairs.

Alonzo dropped back to join Octavia. “I want both of you to go to Vincan in the smoking room. Tell him to shut down. He will know what that means.”

“Is he a Dagger as well?” she said in a whisper, panting as she hopped down the stairs. She could scarcely hear herself against the thudding of so many feet on metal.

“No, nor does he know I am one, just that I am an agent of some sort.”

Octavia flinched at the tautness in his voice. He had defied orders to keep her alive, believing he could persuade his superiors of their error. In truth, he had been regarded as a child at a Solstice dinner. Meddlesome, unwanted, and best exiled to a far distant table.

“I want to stay with you,” she said. “I need to. This is about me—”

“And why is it about you?” Captain Hue stopped cold, whirling on his heel to confront her. He stood a few steps below but seemed to tower over her.

“I . . . I am close with the Lady, and the Waste desires my skills,” she stammered, the words sounding lame and boastful.

Captain Hue snorted. “Religion be damned.” He continued down the steps, his breaths an enraged huff.

“I need to stay with Octavia,” said Mrs. Stout.

Alonzo released a heavy exhalation. “You all will be the death of me.”

“Then it's a good thing I'm a medician.”

Captain Hue rounded a corner on deck B, going in the opposite direction from the smoking room and through another door. A few crewmen stood in the hallway. “Both of you, follow me.”

“Yessir,” they chimed in melody.

Captain Hue reached into his jacket and pulled out an ivory-handled knife. With the flick of his wrist, he extended the blade. He then shoved his way through the next door and into the control car.

It was a narrow space some ten feet in length. At the far end, rounded windows stared into the bleak night. Men in trim crimson uniforms stood in various positions throughout the room, utterly silent. Mr. Drury stood at the far end beside the rudder wheel. He faced them, his expression cool, eyes bloodshot from the capsicum. He held a young crewman, one hand gripping his hair and the other holding a knife to his throat.

“Miss Leander,” he said pleasantly, as if they had just encountered each other on the street.

“What are you doing to my ship?” snarled Captain Hue.

“A slight detour, that's all. I do hope you kept that little steward in custody. I would like to talk with him some more.” Mr. Drury leaned to one side as if to nudge the rudder wheel.

“You don't know what you're doing,” said the captain, his chest puffing like a roused prairie grouse.

“Actually, I do. I have piloted airships for over twenty years. Don't worry, I'll return your ship and your son to you soon enough.” He gave the boy's blond hair a hard tug, jerking his head back more.

Octavia had no intention of squandering any more time. “Mr. Drury, are you a Waster?”

“ ‘Waster' is such a crude term, my lady. We prefer the term ‘Dallowmen,' don't we, boys?”

At Mr. Drury's motion, the two crewmen they had met in the hall stepped forward. One pounded Captain Hue in the back of the head while the other kicked the backs of the captain's knees, sending him crumpling to the floor. The hostage whimpered and struggled against the knife. Octavia heard the cry of the blood before she saw the red drip down the pale line of his neck. Alonzo backstepped, herding Octavia and Mrs. Stout toward the hall.

“Get to Vincan,” he muttered over his shoulder. “See if he can get you out through the aft keel. I will hold the hallway as long as I can. If they get you off the ship, I will follow.”

“Alonzo—”

“Where are you taking my medician?” asked Mr. Drury. The captain groaned on the floor.

“Don't you
dare
get yourself killed,” Octavia whispered.

“Go!” yelled Alonzo.

Octavia gripped Mrs. Stout by the arm and half dragged the woman down the hall. She hated fleeing, but she was no use in a fight, not in there. Her satchel bounced between her hip and the wall. Deep yells echoed behind her. The women burst through the door to the public quarters of deck B. A few passengers were on the stairs coming down.

“Mutiny!” Octavia cried. “Wasters have taken control of the ship!”

Their expressions shifted from curiosity to outright panic. Yelps from above indicated her voice had carried up the stair tower. Octavia pushed through to the hallway.

Mrs. Stout panted and whimpered at her arm. “Wasters, Wasters,” she repeated in a dark mantra.

Past the lavatories, through the double-doored air lock. She entered the smoking room, pausing there for a moment, heaving for breath. The freshness of cloves and tobacco assailed her nostrils. Vincan stood behind the bar, a glass in hand. He resembled a pale wall against a dark backdrop.

“Wasters!” Octavia managed. “Have taken over the control car. The captain. Alonzo's trying to hold them off.”

“Wasters.” Vincan bristled. The word echoed in the room as a few other men stepped forward.

“Wasters, here?” growled one, guzzling down the rest of a beer. He wiped his mustache clean with a swipe of his wrist. “Where?” In front of him, two mechanical warriors continued to skirmish for dominion atop the pyramid board. Metal ground on metal, and a mecha snake tumbled to the floor with a pathetic cry.

“They are piloting the ship. Mr. Drury is a Waster, and at least two of the crewmen are as well.” Octavia dropped her satchel to the ground, even as Mrs. Stout collapsed into the nearest seat.

The men slammed their glasses on the counter, heading out into the corridor. Octavia looked to Vincan. “Alonzo said to tell you to ‘shut down,' whatever that means.”

“Eh. Means all the bloody hell's 'bout to break loose. B'why?” he asked, his gaze direct.

“Me. They are after me.” Part of her wanted to sink into the floor and sob.
I don't want anyone to fight, to die. Not over me.
“Alonzo said you could get us out the aft keel hatch?”

“Aye, if we're fifteen feet off the ground,” growled Vincan. “Hardly gonna toss y'out at five hundred feet, am I?”

Alonzo's intention became clear as the ship tilted to one side. Octavia gripped the sill of the door with one hand and her satchel in the other. Mrs. Stout's thick calves flew up in the air as she grasped the table for dear life. Glass tinkled behind the counter and there were a few resounding crashes from the seating area. Something cold slid against Octavia's leg—it was the mechanical snake, its fangs still bared.

“Oh Lady, he's trying to get control of the ship. That blessed, stupid man.” The ship righted and Octavia bumped back against the doorframe. She kicked the little snake, vaulting it into the far wall with a metallic ping.

“Come'n,” Vincan said. He reached beneath the counter and pulled out a knife as thick as his forearm. He wedged past Octavia and into the hallway. Before Octavia even had a glimpse of the corridor, he shoved her back again. “Fighting at the stairwell, and somethin' going on down by the crew area as well.” A gunshot cracked through the ship and Octavia hit the ground flat.

“Thank God this isn't a hydrogen vessel,” said Mrs. Stout in a quivering voice.

“Oh, it can still crash and burn, maybe not so pretty like,” Vincan said, quite matter-of-factly.

“That's enough of that talk.” Octavia scampered to her feet again, picking up her satchel.

“Eh. So who all is playin' traitor on the crew?”

“Two men that I saw,” said Octavia. “One maybe in his twenties, pock-faced, no mustache. The other is bald with a red face and—”

“I know 'em. They like their whiskey.”

Something clattered against the outer door. It flew open, revealing a man in steward's garb with a shiny bald pate and ruddy skin.

Vincan's grin was gap-toothed and wide. “Why 'ello.”

Octavia retreated behind the inner door, but could still hear the faint mew of blood and the thuds and grunts of combat.

“We can't get out? We're trapped?” asked Mrs. Stout. Her skin was impossibly pale.

Octavia's mind raced. She had a strong feeling that Drury had more than two men on his side aboard. He had planned this operation far too well. If that traitor crewman had already gotten past Alonzo, she had to assume that Alonzo had fallen.
Lady, let him be alive, please.

“Mrs. Stout, come around here. There's more shelter behind the bar.” She motioned Mrs. Stout behind her and toward the corner, near what appeared to be Vincan's pillow and assorted toiletries.

The airship wobbled again as Octavia dropped to both knees and opened up her satchel. Upon her capture, they would undoubtedly take her satchel away. It was the most assured way of keeping her in line. That, and using Mrs. Stout or Alonzo as leverage to keep her cooperative.
I'll need my supplies more than ever. How can I smuggle them on my person?

“Mrs. Stout, are you quick with a needle?” Octavia began unbuttoning the front of her dress.