The Clockwork Dagger (7 page)

“Oh my. Whatever happened to my key?” asked Mrs. Stout. “Surely he didn't eat it?”

“I have a spare lock in my quarters,” said Mr. Garret.

Octavia refastened the ineffective latch and grabbed two towels from the rack. Overlapping each other, the two cloths covered the cage perfectly. She adjusted the satchel strap on her shoulder as she stood upright again.

“People will assume there's a bird under here. I hope,” said Octavia. She hoisted up the cage and checked the towels again. “That's not an unusual thing on board, is it?”

Mr. Garret shook his head, his expression one of composed amusement. Perhaps that was all this was to him—a diversion to liven up a monotonous day. He was a general's son. He may be a steward now, but certainly he'd been raised in the high society of Mercia.

Maybe I'm a mere country curiosity to him, but it's only fair. I find him equally intriguing.

Most everyone else still ate dinner in the promenade. Mr. Garret walked at a brisk pace downstairs to deck B and along a corridor. The clatter of pans and the heavy scent of stew revealed the kitchen on the left. He opened the “Crew Only” door, and with a quick finger to his lips, led her down another hallway. Gaping doors showed berthing stacked three beds high, the wood panels torn from the wall to reveal steel. Another door opened, and the warm light of the hallways vanished in an instant.

Dim rows of glowstones illuminated a gloomy cavern suited for hibernation, the space perhaps fifteen feet in length. A musty stink pervaded along with the heavy rumble of machinery. As her eyes adjusted, she made out a few tall stacks of boxes covered with blankets and strapped to the walls.

“You risk too much in bringing me here,” Octavia whispered. Instead of being fearful, she felt an excited tingle of secrecy set her body alight.

“You risk yourself.” Mr. Garret frowned, shaking his head. “You are too trusting of me, m'lady. If most men took you to a place like this . . .”

You've already proven you're not most men.
“So what are your motives, Mr. Garret?”

“You recognized my surname, did you not?” he asked. She nodded as she set down the cage and tossed the towels aside. Leaf's black eyes glistened in the dimness, but the rest of his green skin seemed to blend with the shadows. “Then you know that my father was not . . . regarded well for his style of command.”

“I know he invented the buzzer, and about how he died.” She paused, surprised. “I never thought of it that way, but it is unusual for a general to die in such a manner.”

“Soldiers are considered expendable, not generals.” His deep voice softened. “But for missions of particular danger, he knew the buzzer best, and took the risk himself.”

He's as haunted by the crash of the
Alexandria
as I am.
Octavia had been the only survivor from her village. She had never known another person who suffered—who even remembered—the events of that night.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered.

Mr. Garret met her eyes, gaze fierce. “Too many have died these recent years. I am weary of men being regarded as wood for a fire, and I will not see gremlins treated as such either.”

“You fought at the front.”
That's where he lost his leg.

He looked away. His answer needed no words. She felt the profound urge to hug him, to tell him she understood about the death of his father, about the horrors of war, but she couldn't quite move. Awkwardness thickened the air.

Leaf trilled, the sound so sudden and silly that Octavia couldn't help but laugh. A smile warmed Mr. Garret's face.

“Ah, we cannot forget about the beastie. Move the cage into the shadows here.” The cage rattled as Octavia shuffled it over a few feet. “Later, the smoke room will be busy, but the kitchen will not be. Duck in there, if you must. If a crewman catches you in the hallway, you can play as innocent and lost.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You think they'll believe that?”

“That you are innocent, or lost?” The white of his teeth shone in the thin light.

“Did I come across as either earlier?”

“Indeed. And I think you can play the part again.”

She gasped in mock indignation. “Play the part! Which one? Mr. Garret, are you insinuating that I'm not innocent? Must I remind you that I'm carrying capsicum, and not afraid to use it?”

The darkness hid it well, but she was certain he blushed deeply. “I certainly do not wish to get on your bad side, Miss Leander.”

“You're a wise man.”
And a collection of other positive adjectives.
“I . . . I do believe you said something about getting a lock for his cage?”

He nodded. “Yes, of course. My berthing is close by. I will return as soon as I can.” He slipped away, the door shutting behind him with a soft click.

Alone in the darkness, Octavia backed up until her heels found the curved steel of the wall. “Oh, goodness. What am I doing, Leaf?” she whispered. “I only said farewell to Miss Percival this morning, and that was hard enough. She didn't even hug me good-bye. She's always been rather stoic, but not with me, not until these past few months.” The lingering hurt stung her eyes. “And now I meet this Mr. Garret. I'm only going to know him for a few days, and then I'll never see him again. Rather like you, I suppose.”

The gremlin chirped in return.

“You silly thing. My heart must be made of silver, the way you've stolen it.” She lowered her satchel to the floor as she stared at the door.

Octavia waited. And waited. She angled her watch toward the light as the minutes passed.

“It's as though Mr. Garret's been swallowed up by a geologica sinkhole. I can't leave you here, Leaf, not without a good lock on your cage. I hope Mrs. Stout has gone on to sleep and isn't fretting.”

She shuffled her feet and kicked something solid. Crouching down, she found a hard ninety-degree angle of polished wood. A frame? Curious, she lifted it into the light, and found herself staring Queen Evandia in the eye. Octavia snorted.

“How appropriate, to find you skulking about in a place like this.” She blew a raspberry at the Queen's face.

It was an older portrait, showing Evandia as young and haughty. Prim, painted lips, eyes lined by kohl and crimson. Streaks of red livened the black updo of her hair—that trendy dye alone showed the portrait's age. The canvas reeked of urine. Deep slash marks almost bisected the image, chin downward dangling like degloved skin. The work of soldiers, perhaps. Angry, starving soldiers, unpaid in months like Miss Percival. Or grieving family. Or hungry civilians, or the jobless, the sick . . . Well, that narrowed down the possible culprits to the majority of Caskentia.

It was funny, in a terrible way. Queen Evandia was so rarely seen in public due to the threat of the Waste. Now her own people would riot and lynch her on sight. Maybe that's one reason why the war dragged on—Caskentia had someone to fight other than itself. A dozen corrupt, bickering municipalities; the city of Mercia with its half million; the palace, a world unto itself. One could argue that Evandia didn't really rule at all. She was simply . . . there. Governing the palace, while the rest of the kingdom succumbed to verdigris and rot.

“I'm sorry you'll have to be left here in such poor company,” Octavia said to Leaf. The gremlin emitted a soft screech. “Yes, my sentiments exactly.”

The cargo access door opened again with a burst of light. She cowered behind the boxes, willing Leaf to silence with a hand on his cage.

“Miss Leander?” Mr. Garret's voice was low.

She emerged from her hiding place, her eyes still dazzled by the brightness. “I'm over here,” she said, stepping forward. The door shut, reducing the glare, and she could see Mr. Garret's face sag in relief.

“My apologies. My absence had been noted and I was required to clean up in the promenade. I hope you were not overly vexed. Here is the lock.”

She stroked the lock with her thumb, absorbing the lingering warmth of Mr. Garret's body, and then fastened the metal onto the cage. She tucked the key into her satchel, knowing better than to leave it in reach of the gremlin again.

“I'll be back soon,” she whispered to Leaf. He trilled a soft farewell.

“Come. I will walk you back to your room,” said Mr. Garret.

The kitchen had quieted, the smell of food replaced by the fresh odor of soap and lemons. As they passed the smoke room, a deep masculine laugh carried through the walls. Her hand felt strangely empty as she traveled up the stairs. Already, she missed Leaf's companionship.

Please, Lady, let him stay safe there.

They reached the top of the stairs. Sudden and discordant music froze her in place, her hand gripping the rail.

“Miss Leander?” Mr. Garret stopped and turned, his expression quizzical.

She pushed past him, following a mad cacophony only she could hear. Bleating trumpets and crazed drums competed for dominance. Nothing spoke louder than blood, and this symphony of agony originated behind her very own door.

“Oh, Mrs. Stout,” she whispered.

C
HAPTER 4

Octavia grabbed the doorknob.
It was locked as securely as the Caskentian royal vault. Her hand dove into the satchel pocket, numb and fumbling.

“Miss Leander?” asked Mr. Garret.

“She's dying.” Octavia stabbed the key into the lock and jerked the knob. It spasmed open. Absolute darkness filled the room, but she didn't need light to see. Shrill flutes and wild drums originated from the bottom bunk. She staggered forward and dropped to one knee, doffing the satchel strap from her shoulder. Mr. Garret's feet were heavy on the floor behind her. The light clicked on.

Crimson pooled beneath the cot. Both beds had been assembled, a steel ladder leading to the top. A black canvas tent surrounded both bunks. The bottom bed was zipped shut, slash marks sagging open.

“My God,” said Mr. Garret. The door shut behind him.

That was meant to be my bed.

Someone had carried through with the threat from the note. Why? Why her, why this? The shrillness of the blood in her ears grounded her, forcing her through shock to the duty at hand.

Octavia unfastened the middle segment of her satchel. Shoving her bag away, she stood and fluffed out her medician blanket. At seven feet by three feet, it filled up the entire floor space with some folding at the edges. In the middle lay the circle—an oval, really—woven of copper thread and honeyflower stems, which created a permanent healing surface bound to the cloth.

Octavia tore open the tent flaps, her breath catching at the sight of Mrs. Stout. The woman was as pale as death, a blue undertone to her skin. The human body contained some six quarts of blood, and Mrs. Stout's volume screamed like a thousand starving cats.

“What can I do?” asked Mr. Garret.

“Lift her at the shoulders.” He deftly stepped around Octavia, taking care not to place his feet within the sanctity of the circle. They set Mrs. Stout on the blanket. Octavia's fingers brushed the copper weave of the circle. A spark crackled in the air as the enchantment activated.

Mrs. Stout's night shift was more red than white. Her large breasts lay like mashed rounds of bread at each armpit. Through the jelling blood, Octavia judged the stab wounds to be in the upper quadrant of the abdomen, most likely striking the kidneys.

Whoever did this knew exactly how to kill.

The discordant music wailed as it began to fade. Mrs. Stout's soul was slipping away.

Octavia grabbed Mrs. Stout's hand. “Pray, by the Lady let me mend thy ills.” For several long seconds, Octavia didn't breathe, the very air still in anticipation. The access came with a slight pop, the music louder again due to the circle, but still far too faint.

Octavia brushed her hands over her concealed wand in her parasol. The puppy that morning had required no more than a pinch of pampria; now she scooped up a full palm.

“Lady, hear me. Mend the body of this kind soul. Lady, be with us . . .” The ground red leaves fluttered through the air and vanished. A strangled gasp escaped Mrs. Stout's throat. Octavia bent over her and turned Mrs. Stout's head to the side just in time. The acidic stench of the vomit didn't distract Octavia from the prayer repeated beneath her tongue.

Falling back to her haunches, she reached for the jar of heskool root. The boiled roots were soft beneath her fingers, the chunks fibrous like jerky. She flicked three pieces against Mrs. Stout's skin. The marching-band rhythm of the heart's drum immediately steadied.

Lady, thank you, thank you.
She added a sprinkle of bellywood bark to counter any infection from lingering zymes, and a glob of Linsom berries to mend the skin. The clamor dulled. Mrs. Stout's chest rose and dipped. Octavia allowed herself to sag onto her knuckles, loosened strands of hair snagging on her eyelashes. The wax-sealed incision on her forearm tingled, as if to remind her of its presence.

“That was amazing,” whispered Mr. Garret. “Never have I seen a healing so fast.”

Octavia recoiled. She had broken Miss Percival's most vital rule for this journey, and in a spectacular way. Mrs. Stout may have somehow guessed at what she was, but Mr. Garret had absolute proof.

Her fingers trembled as she packed her jars. The pampria was half full, enough for two or three trauma cases as bad as Mrs. Stout's—certainly not adequate to start her practice.
Without the Lady's herbs, I'll be almost useless in Delford. Doctoring can only do so much for poison cases as bad as theirs. It would take months to grow pampria until it's ripe enough to harvest. There may be an apothecary in Leffen, but it would be far too overpriced, and I barely have the funds for my journey.

She brushed her fingers against Mrs. Stout's arm, now warm to the touch. She was grateful to be able to save her friend, but the consequences were dire.