The Clockwork Dagger (31 page)

Oh Lady.
Octavia had seen this sort of behavior before in soldiers who had endured some terrible trauma. Even if they emerged with sound bodies, it was as though mental shrapnel had lodged in their brains, sending them back to the past. Once a soldier had witnessed his brother immolated by a Waster infernal's blast. The man lay in his cot, reliving some childhood moment when that brother had burned his leg on a stove and his mother had doctored him with an aloe salve. “Mama will make it all better, Mama will make it all better,” he had chanted all night long.

“Mrs. Stout.” Octavia reined her horse closer to the other woman, causing their legs to scrape together. “Viola. Viola.”

Mrs. Stout showed no response, her mumbles continuing as her gaze focused on her horse's withers.

Octavia had to ground Mrs. Stout in the present, as unpleasant as it might be. It would be safer than focusing on the past and everything that came with it. “Mrs. Stout. Viola? Viola?” She sucked in a breath, lowering her voice even more. “Allendia? Princess?”

Mrs. Stout's head slowly turned, her shoulders not moving from their stiffened state.

“Look here. Remember me? Octavia Leander? We are roommates aboard the
Argus
. You are Viola Stout. Your husband was Donovan Stout. Your children . . .” Her voice trailed away. She was certain Mrs. Stout had mentioned their names, but she couldn't recall.

“My children.” Mrs. Stout's voice cracked. Tears flooded her eyes. Octavia reached over and squeezed her hand.

“Hey now,” called one of the men behind them. Octavia shot him a venomous glare.

“We are going to get through this,” Octavia whispered. “I know you're scared, but you must maintain control. You must remember who you are. You must have hope.”

“But they are taking me . . . us . . . to Mercia or the Waste . . . the Waste.”

“They are trying, yes, but we're not there yet. That'll take days or weeks, depending on the route and the passes.” She paused. Snow could fall this early in the season. She and Mrs. Stout weren't attired for extreme weather, though she was sure the men would tend to them should the need arise. Snow would make them far too easy to track if they did try to escape, though. Wasters were master huntsmen and horsemen, crude technologically yet capable of making do with little at their disposal. They had to be to survive in that desiccated land. “Look at me, Mrs. Stout. Focus.”

Soft sobs shuddered through the older woman's body. “They are going to use my babies to kill people, then kill them. It's my fault. I should have warned them. I shouldn't have stayed here. Nelly . . . how could Nelly do this?”

Those words sent a nauseating chill through Octavia. “Look at me, Viola. Don't focus on the past or what might happen. Say to yourself, ‘I am Viola Stout and I am brave.' ”

Mrs. Stout's tongue darted out to lick the dry crevices of her lips. “I am Viola Stout and I am brave?”

“Yes. But say it like you believe it.” The trail widened and hoofbeats approached them from behind.

“What's wrong with her?” asked one of the guards. He wore a black beard thick enough to shield him from frostbite.

“She's terrified witless,” Octavia said, hoping for sympathy.

He snorted. “The women of Caskentia are too soft.”

Octavia stiffened. “I'm a woman of Caskentia, and I assure you, I am
not
soft.”

“You are of the Tree.” He raised a fist to the center of his chest and nodded.

This esteem for me might be the best way for me to keep Mrs. Stout safe and alive.

“I am, and this woman is both my patient and my dear friend, and I'm worried for her. She's not of an age to handle such strain.”

“We won't ride all night. It'll help her to get some sleep.” His voice was softer, almost kind. Octavia afforded him a polite smile in thanks, and he pulled back to join his comrades as the brush squeezed in on them again.

“I am Viola Stout and I am brave, I am Viola Stout . . .” The crackling whisper kept time with the thud of hoofbeats. Viola took in a deep breath and sat straighter. Octavia recognized the regal carriage that had become so familiar in recent days.

“Thank you, Octavia,” said Viola, her whisper hoarse. “The fear, the memories, it all came back to me. It felt so real. More real than this.” She shuddered. “I'm sorry.”

“There's no need to apologize. You're a strong woman, Viola, and this is a terrible test to endure again. But you will endure.”

Viola nodded, tears glistening in her eyes. “Yes. Yes. We will endure. I am Viola Stout and I am brave.” She lifted her chin, her chest puffing outward.

Octavia shifted in her saddle and looked to the moon where it sat between the hills. Somewhere far away, that same moon hovered in the branches of the Lady's Tree.

“I am Octavia Leander and I am brave,” she whispered. Her chilled hands clenched the reins as she repeated the mantra.

T
IME LOST MEANING AS
they rode on. Adrenaline was replaced by weariness that seeped into Octavia's bones. Mrs. Stout's whispers faded and she slumped forward, this time dozing. On occasion she awakened with a start and Octavia calmed her again, reminding her of where she was and why. But Octavia shook off the urge to nap, alert for any useful scrap of information on their whereabouts or plans. To her frustration, the men remained silent, or murmured too low for her ears to catch.

Then the trail opened up to reveal a clearing. Mr. Drury raised an arm and the column shuffled to a halt.

“Set up,” Mr. Drury said. “Get the ladies' tent established first.”

“Yes sir,” answered one of the men. He and the others dismounted and scurried into action.

Octavia groaned as she dismounted. It had been a few months since she had ridden—the academy had sold everything but the Frengian draft horses for the plow and wagon—and she felt the strain. She took Mrs. Stout's horse by the bit and led both it and her own to one side. Mrs. Stout dozed in the saddle, and Octavia was unwilling to wake her until the tent was ready. She noted that several men stayed quite close to her. Another guarded the trailhead whence they had come. Beyond the clearing and the shadows of trees, it was difficult to ascertain their surroundings.

Something chittered in the branches above, sounding rather like a gremlin. She glanced up but it was far too dark to see anything. A guard looked up at the tree, frowning.

How quickly would Alonzo follow?
Could
he follow? The airship didn't dare linger close to those Wasters disassembling the mooring tower. As it was, the
Argus
would have to hover close to the ground for Alonzo to make a jump, which held plenty of dangers for both man and ship. The Wasters hadn't taken pains to hide their trail—these men were an arrogant lot—but with Alonzo on foot, he would never catch up.

Or he was already dead or dying on the
Argus
. Oh Lady.

She wasn't going to wait for rescue. They needed horses. Octavia needed her satchel. She could set simple snares so they wouldn't starve once they escaped. But how to prevent pursuit?

“Tent's ready,” said one of the men gruffly. He cut through the ropes at Mrs. Stout's wrists. The woman awoke with a start.

“What? Where are we? Octavia?”

“I'm here, Viola.” Using Mrs. Stout's first name seemed prudent, and showed the closeness of their friendship. “Lean on me and I'll help you down.” Gravity did the rest. Mrs. Stout landed in a heap and stood again, bowlegged.

A faint sound came from above, and not the jabber of a gremlin. Octavia tilted her head toward the night sky. Around her, the men stilled as well. The man who held the horses' reins placed one hand to his gun and looked up.

“A buzzer?” one man asked, his voice low.

“Yeah. High up.” Another man spat on the ground. “Could be following the pass.”

The man with the horses grunted. “Maybe, maybe not.” The buzzing sound was gone.

Mr. Drury made a crude motion to the men. “If a buzzer comes low, shoot it down. We can't afford to be seen. You, get these women prepared for their respite.”

Octavia and Viola were permitted a few minutes of privacy in the bushes and then led inside the tent. The space was small but adequate. Two bag-blankets had been laid out along with a single glowstone to grant them some light.

“I don't suppose I should take off my dress,” said Viola, brushing some dirt from her skirt as she sat on a blanket. Her voice trembled, but that defiant gleam had returned to her eyes. She was doing her utmost to be strong.

“No. Keep on your shoes as well.” Octavia claimed the blankets nearest the door and touched the fabric of the flap, testing it. The weave was coarse, with the outer layer soaked in oil to render it waterproof. The scissors concealed in Viola's hair would probably pierce it, but go dull all too soon. Perhaps one of the scalpels could slash through.

“Miss Leander.” Mr. Drury's silky voice caused her hand to immediately go where the capsicum flute once lay against her ribs.

“I'm here.”

“I would speak to you alone.”

“I'm not leaving Viola. We're both awake.”

“Very well.” Mr. Drury entered, doffing his tweed cap as he did. “You ladies are well?”

“As well as prisoners can be,” she said.

“It's my hope you will not see yourself as a prisoner much longer. We are blessed to have you among us.”

“The feeling is not mutual, Mr. Drury. I want to know your intentions.”

“The good of the Dallows, most assuredly. But it is not my place to speak more on that matter. We'll be joined by more comrades in the morning.”

Her stomach clenched as in a fist. “More comrades?”

“Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

“I am surprised you haven't offered some of that Royal-Tea of yours.”

Mr. Drury laughed, the sound so light and casual it made her wince. “I do have some with me. Its properties are quite useful at times, but you will learn more of that in the morning as well. Do you need food?”

Octavia didn't trust these poisoners, but she and Viola needed their strength if they were to escape. “Yes, please. Viola?” The older woman nodded, her lips compressed tight as if she didn't trust herself to speak.

Mr. Drury turned and hollered, “Bring the ladies some food.” Octavia heard heavy footsteps outside. Mr. Drury looked toward her again and held out a small parcel. She accepted it and looked inside, angling the bag toward the weak glowstone light. There were several cakes of corn pone, the disks as wide as her hand, and a few broad pieces of dried meat.

“If you have need of anything, ask one of the guards.” Mr. Drury turned toward the flap again. The compulsion overcame her and she had to ask.

“Mr. Drury.” Oh, how she hated how his eyes lit up when she spoke. “Tell me, did you kill anyone aboard the
Argus
?”

“A few fools put up a fight. One man was shot and a few were stabbed. We didn't go out of our way to kill anyone, but . . .” He shrugged and his eyes narrowed. “Be sensible, Miss Leander. Don't expect anyone from the airship to come to your rescue. They will limp toward Mercia to spread their tales of woe, but they'll all be silenced soon enough.”

“Silenced? How?”

“Why, they'll be dead.” Mr. Drury's smile was dazzling. “Sleep well, Miss Leander.”

O
CTAVIA DID SLEEP, BUT
only due to sheer exhaustion. Her restless slumber was plagued by the sensation that she was still swaying back and forth on a saddle.

And then there was the matter of Mr. Drury's threat.
How can these Wasters slaughter a city of Mercia's size and scope? Are they plotting some attack with zymes, infiltrating the water supply? Are they going to access the vault—and can they somehow use the elements of the Tree against Caskentia?

She wasn't sure how the Tree could be dangerous, but she couldn't completely ignore the words of King Kethan. The city itself was strongly warded so that infernals such as Lanskay couldn't enter. The Wasters would have to choose some other means of attack.

A streak of daylight and the ruckus of horses finally caused her to fully awaken. She lay there for a moment, breathing through sudden panic at her whereabouts. Mrs. Stout was curled up in her blankets, her face a mask of peace. Octavia pushed herself upright and went to the tent flap.

The massive peak of the Giant dominated the southern sky. She had never seen the volcanic mountain so close before, its broad cap white with snow all year long. Though it had to be several days distant, it looked close enough to reach out and touch. Closer, there were large black mounds as big as the surrounding hills. The surface looked strangely rough in texture, though not like a hillside charred in a wildfire. It took her a moment to recall a similar sight in the north. The blackened mounds were copper slag; this was, or used to be, a copper-mining facility.
This is the Black Heaps mentioned in the correspondence of Adana Dryn.

Noise drew her attention to the camp itself. A large cluster of men were on horseback, milling at the far side. Was the camp packing up so soon? She eyed her surroundings. No. Many men were still lying on the ground near their fires, though one large tent had been erected in the center of the camp. The rattle and creak of wagon wheels was new as well. That meant a passable road was nearby.

It also meant reinforcements had arrived.

“Do you need anything?” asked a gruff voice. The guard stood only a few feet away.

“I am hungry.”

“Food will be brought.” With his fingers to his mouth, he blew a piercing whistle. Behind her, Mrs. Stout stirred with a loud gasp. Near one of the fires, a man shuffled forward and ladled something steaming from a pot.

“What's going on?” Octavia asked.