The Clockwork Dagger (30 page)

Loud scrambling on metal caused her to turn. A mustached crewman walked Daveo down the stairs. The steward had been stripped to the waist, revealing a torso darkened with blood and contusions. His hands were secured behind his back and a gag muzzled him. Even so, his chin was tilted up and defiant. Octavia looked up the tower. A man at the top was disengaging the airship. The
Argus
was going to leave.

“Who is the little man?” asked Lanskay.

“One of the stewards on the ship. I do believe he is the Dagger sent to kill our medician.” Drury stepped forward to wrest Daveo from the other guard, half dragging him to his companions.

“Kill the medician!” Lanskay drew in his breath with a hiss. “With so few born with the gift . . . !”

Drury loomed over Daveo and then bent to look him in the eye. “Even more, he let our friend Mr. Grinn be blamed for one of his attempts on Miss Leander. Did you not, little man?” He grabbed him by the scruff of his hair and shook him.

“You mean, Mr. Grinn was . . .” Octavia began.

“Likely trying to save you when the others found him there and assumed the worst. Not that I can blame them, as the appearance was quite deceiving. And I bet you were hiding under one of those tables in that dark room, like a little cockroach, now, weren't you?” He shook Daveo again. “Do you know what we do with cockroaches in the Dallows, steward? We eat them.”

“Sometimes you can feed a whole family on cockroaches alone,” added Lanskay. The other men laughed.

“Where are Mr. Grinn's books, little man? Did you send them along to your friends in Mercia?” Drury lowered his voice to a deadly hiss. Behind Octavia, Mrs. Stout gasped. Octavia gave her a sharp look to silence her.

“Take off his gag, Drury. I can make him talk. I might even make him sing,” said Lanskay.

Oh Lady, let them keep him gagged so he cannot utter a word about Alonzo.
From twenty feet away, Daveo's eyes met hers, dark and cold. The airship's motors thrummed above as the craft began to pull away.

“His actions have condemned him more than any words. We can't waste any more time on this filth.” Drury let Daveo drop to the ground with a solid thud. He made a quick gesture and a group of men advanced. They hauled Daveo away, his heels dragging through the grass. “Secure him. We'll grant him prairie justice.”

A muffled yell escaped from Daveo's gag as he began to wrestle and kick. The other men subdued him in a knot of fists.

“Prairie justice. Oh God,” moaned Mrs. Stout.

“Who is this other woman?” asked Lanskay. “Surely not another medician? Did you find a sale price on Percivals?”

Octavia stepped to shield Mrs. Stout. “She's someone who should have been left on the ship.”

“Such nobility in guarding her friend,” said Mr. Drury, quite pleased. “This is one Viola Stout, the publisher's wife. Taney advised us to bring her in.”

A Taney used to be grand potentate. Is this a relation?

“Surely she isn't a virgin!” said Lanskay. The others laughed. Some fifty feet away, the sound of pounding metal rang out. A stake was being driven into the ground, and Daveo secured to it.

“No, no. She has two grown children, from what I gather. But Taney has something in mind,” said Mr. Drury. Octavia reached behind her and found Mrs. Stout's cold and trembling hand. “Tell me, Miss Leander, do you ride?”

“I can give her something to ride!” called one of the men.

Drury whirled on his heel. “Who said that? Come forward, please.”

The man left his horse ground-tied and approached. He stopped before Mr. Drury, head up and hands clasped at his back, and without a word he accepted Mr. Drury's knife to the gut. The man sank to his knees, groaning. Blood and bowel fluid screamed, high and anxious.

“Mr. Drury!” Octavia couldn't help but step forward.
Oh Lady. Not another death, not because of me.
“He's going to—”

“See, men? Look at her benevolence. Insulted in such a crude way, yet still willing to save him. My dear lady, he's not worth the herbs. Unlike in your corrupt land, we do not tolerate such behavior. We live by a higher code.” Mr. Drury waved to the other men, who waited close by, motionless, and pointed toward Octavia. “That woman is one of God's chosen. Regard her as a High Daughter. The next man to commit such an affront will not have such a merciful death. Is that understood?” They murmured assent. The screams of blood dulled to a whimper.

“That means you're regarded with the esteem of a daughter of their potentate,” Mrs. Stout murmured, her voice trembling.

“I'm quite content as the daughter of a village doctor and teacher,” Octavia whispered back. The Dallowman's blood quieted, his soul departing.
So fast. Mr. Drury kills with chilling efficacy.

“Now.” Mr. Drury turned to Octavia. “Do you ride?”

“Yes.”

“And you, good woman?” He looked to Mrs. Stout.

“I do not.” Her voice was scarcely audible.

“Bring forward their mounts, please.”

A chestnut bay and an all-white mare were led forward. In that instant, Octavia knew that the mare was intended for her. Despite the remoteness of their location and the burs in the grass, the mare's mane and tail had obviously been brushed through recently, her legs free of filth. This wasn't a mere horse. It was a symbol, and here she was in her shimmering white medician's garb, groomed to match.

Mrs. Stout's chilled and sweaty fingers dug into her hand. “We have to do something. We can't go with them. We can't.”

“We can't run here. If I try to fight, they'll kill you or others,” Octavia murmured.

“Run away. We have to run away.” Mrs. Stout shrieked and tried to pull away, out of Octavia's grip.

“Listen to me.” Octavia bent her head close. “We will live. We will get out of this. But for now, we must play along. Don't draw attention to yourself. Please. I can't bear to lose anyone else.” She focused on keeping her voice level. Despite her terror, despite the shakiness of her faith, she refused to show weakness before these men.

Hooves crunched in the grass and Octavia faced the two men. A beam from the tower highlighted them for mere seconds. They wore the rough dungarees of workmen, their faces creased by sun and toil.

“M'lady,” said the one leading the white mare. “I can help you up—”

“No. But let me assist my friend first. She is very scared, and with reason. I expect you to show her the same regard as you do me, do you understand?” The fierceness of her tone caused his eyes to widen.

“I—of course, m'lady.”

“Her skirt isn't suited for riding. May I have a knife to cut a slit?”

To her shock, he instantly handed over his knife. The blade was warm from its proximity to his thigh, the handle worn. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if she could strike.
No. That's not my way, not the Lady's way. Besides, we couldn't escape this number of men, not here.
Octavia crouched down before Mrs. Stout's skirt. The blade sliced through the cloth with ease, and she returned it to its owner.

“I'll stay with you right here,” said Octavia, soothing Mrs. Stout as she would a patient. As the other man held the bay still, Octavia helped Mrs. Stout to clamber into the saddle. The older woman sat awkwardly, thick thighs jutted out on either side, her hands clutching the saddle horn for dear life. Under Octavia's glare, the man secured Mrs. Stout's wrists to the horn. Octavia noted that the rope was slack enough to not immediately chafe.

Octavia mounted up on her own. The mare shifted beneath her, light on her hooves, and calmed with a quick stroke to the withers. This was not the thick-furred pony or heavy draft horse one associated with the Waste, but a creature of fine breeding, probably from the southern nations. The sick knot clenched in her stomach again.
How many months have they planned this escapade, to fetch such a horse?

Mr. Drury trotted up beside her. His stallion was chestnut like so many of the others. “Miss Leander, I want you to note that your hands are free. I have your satchel here.” He motioned to where it was secured behind his saddle. “And we have your friend. I believe you're familiar with the expert marksmanship of the men of the Dallows. Should you make any move to escape, Mrs. Stout will be shot in the head. Is everything clear?”

She ground her teeth together. “Perhaps you should go ahead and secure my wrists, then.”

“That would hardly build a relationship of trust between us, now, would it?” His smile was pleasant and toothless. The symphony of his body was calm despite his injuries, the blood crusted and quelled.

The lights from the tower flicked off, casting them into complete darkness. Octavia blinked rapidly to encourage her eyes to adjust.

“A small crew will stay behind and dismantle the tower and then catch up with us,” he said. “We will be riding for some hours before we set up camp. Do let me know if you are hungry. Lanskay?”

The blond man pointed toward where Daveo sat, tethered to the ground. Prickles of magic whirled in the air, stinging Octavia's nostrils and whirling across her scalp, and then the heat came. It was a flash from this distance, a beam of flame from Lanskay's fingertip to Daveo. The little steward screamed, arching his back, and then the flames consumed him whole. His agony smacked into her senses, dizzying her for a moment, and then it stopped. Another quick blast, and the dead Dallowman was incinerated as well. The image of flames burned in her retinas for a second more and then there was only the blackness of the night. She sucked in a breath and almost retched at the odor of cooked meat.
Oh Lady, Lady.
She could only stare at where Daveo once knelt.
He's dead. Burned alive, like Mother and Father.

“Could I hit the airship from here, you think?” Lanskay called.

Octavia sucked in a breath. The
Argus
was a gray cylinder above, well beyond accurate gun range, but that meant nothing to an infernal. “No!” she yelled, digging her heels into the mare's sides. The horse took off with a snort. Some of the others yelled, but she rode directly into the mob of men, not away from them.

“Those are innocent civilians,” she snapped as she reined up in front of Lanskay, as if she could shield the ship from him. “Don't you dare.”

He cocked his head, his lazy smile growing colder. He worked the tobacco against his jaw and then spat into the grass. “No one in Caskentia is innocent.”

She wouldn't win any argument on that subject, not with a Waster. “Then I beg you, spare my friends aboard. Please.”

He hummed a lively tune beneath his breath, casting idle eyes to the starry heavens. It disturbed her to think he must have a lovely singing voice. “Oh, very well. I should save my energy, anyway.”

And energy he had. It rolled from him like heat from a house fire. Powerful as he was, he might feel the same from her.

Lanskay burns people. He burns them with a flick of his fingers. An infernal like him stood on the deck of the
Alexandria,
ready to destroy my village, only that time the magus burned with everyone else.

How many times has Lanskay fire-bombed Caskentia? How many thousands burned as he lit a load of oil that was dropped upon a city below?

Octavia hated him from the depths of her soul.

“Come,” said Mr. Drury. His tack jingled as he rode alongside them. “Let the ship be. They can carry word to Mercia, work the government into a tizzy, make them pretend they can actually rally their troops to try and stop us.” The other men raised a cheer, and she was filled with dread at the dark intentions left unsaid.

Octavia cast a glance to Mrs. Stout, hunkered over the saddle horn and sobbing, and then to the airship dwindling in size above. “Lady, be with us,” she whispered, and encouraged her mare to join the rest in a canter toward the looming mountains.

C
HAPTER 19

Unseen birds cawed, wings
flapping somewhere in the ebony night. The group accelerated from a lope to a gallop. Octavia and Mrs. Stout were kept penned in the middle of the pack. They entered the hills and found a trail that quickly narrowed so that only two could ride abreast. Branches slapped at Octavia's legs, gouging them. The moon played peekaboo with the clouds.

The men were quiet. Far ahead she could see the silhouette of Mr. Drury's hat and the pale sheen of Lanskay's ponytail. Their armaments gleamed in the scant light. Every man had at least a pistol, while others had rifles holstered to their saddles. As Wasters and soldiers both, they no doubt were excellent shots. Then there was the matter of Lanskay.

If—when—Alonzo comes in pursuit, he'll be slaughtered.

No. There must be a way for us to escape. Somehow.

Al Cala meditations would have soothed her spirit, but right now Octavia wanted to be angry. And though she knew the Lady was there with her, the fragrance of blessed herbs drifting from her chest, she didn't wish to fixate on the Tree. That would only make her think of that boy, of the life that flared so briefly in his eyes.

If I'm supposed to be so extraordinarily blessed, why did the Lady betray me at that moment, toying with a child as one would a puppet on strings? I've had patients die, but none like that. None claiming to see the Lady and bearing a message to me, only to expire once the enigmatic words were uttered.

Her chest ached deep within, tears smarting her eyes.

“Father said . . . Father always said be strong. Be strong. Like a little soldier, hair done up in curls,” Mrs. Stout mumbled beneath her breath. She was hunched over like an old man hauling full water jugs on a yoke.

“Mrs. Stout?” Octavia whispered.

“I can get back home. Guards will be looking for me. The whole kingdom will be looking.” A strange keening sound escaped her throat. “I just want to get home.”