The Clockwork Crown

by Beth Cato

  She pictured the continent she knew from maps and matched it with the topography below. Caskentia, a long valley tucked against the western coast. This ravine formed the southern border. Here, the land of Tamarania tapered in a jagged peninsula with the collective southern nations at the tip. To the far north of Caskentia lay Frengia, a country known for its endless forests and bitter cold. The high peaks of the Pinnacles formed Caskentia’s natural eastern border, though Caskentia had for centuries claimed ownership of the sprawling plains beyond the mountains: the Waste.

  Many centuries ago, the Waste had been known as the Dallows. Then something changed—­according to the Wasters, Caskentia had laid a magicked curse on the land. Whatever the reason, it became an inhospitable wasteland. Only in the past hundred years had the terrain been settled again—­and half of the time since had been devoted to a near-­constant war for independence from Caskentia.

  War is all we know, all we’ve known since my grandparents’ time. No wonder Caskentia thinks it’s best to kill me. It’s their easiest solution for any problem.

  Alonzo yelled something that was lost against the wind and engine. She leaned forward. Even with the bite and clarity of the air, he exuded that particular masculine ripeness that couldn’t be helped after over a week without baths.

  “Watch that buzzer!” He had to yell it three more times before she discerned what he was saying.

  Octavia craned around in the seat to check. “Far away! Staying on Caskentia side!” she yelled right into his ear. Alonzo nodded.

  “More military, then!”

  Caskentia knew they were alive. Knew where they were. The buzzer might not cross in their pursuit, but plenty more threats awaited them on the ground.

  Oh Lady. I’m a medician. I want a quiet cottage with an ­atelier, a garden, and woods for gleaning. I don’t want any of this attention. The icy wind blasted tears from her eyes and dried them upon her cheeks. The warmth of the dead man’s blood was utterly gone. Her warded uniform had absorbed it.

  Tall steam plumes stroked the gray sky up ahead. Alonzo aimed directly for them. Some civilization might be a good thing. Perhaps they could buy horses. There was still a good bit of wilderness to travel until they reached the city-­states.

  The buzzer dipped. Octavia yelped and flung an arm out to protect her satchel. Snow-­crested pines crowded the ground below.

  Trees. A realization struck her like a slap to the face. The blessed branch of the Lady’s Tree. She had left it tied to her mare’s saddle.

  Octavia moaned and pressed her forehead to Alonzo’s back. Of all the stupid, foolish things. A holy icon, something that had actively assisted in saving their lives, and she’d left it behind. Lost it. Over the past week, she had toyed with the thought of planting it in the ground again to harvest more leaves, but it had never happened. She was always too bone-­tired after each long day in the saddle, and more than that, she was afraid of what might happen. The tree had been vicious before. It killed men. It had tried to physically grab her and force her to the safety of its branches. It was an aspect of the Lady, but nothing like the Lady, whom Octavia thought she understood and worshipped. The grieving mother. The protector of the lost. The balm for any ill. The entity whose vines ripped the leg from a living Waster and dragged the limb across the dirt, like a dog toying with a bone.

  Now the branch was gone. The only other one she knew of was in the palace vault in Caskentia, protected behind blood-­magicked wards that only the true royal bloodline could penetrate.

  Then there was the actual Tree, hidden somewhere in the Waste.

  She worked a hand to Alonzo’s ribs and clutched him as tightly as she could, as if she were able to siphon his strength. The buzzer bobbed again.

  “ . . . problem!” he yelled.

  “What?”

  “First bullet—­maybe did not miss.”

  It took her a few seconds to decode what he meant. The buzzer dropped. Something shifted in its high, obnoxious whine. Oh Lady, they were going to crash.

  She held on to him tighter for a whole new reason. The old fears flowed over her again. Fire. The crash of the Alexandria. My parents. The village. The screams of blood, bodies, horses. Me, twelve years of age, utterly alone.

  She countered her fear with reality—­the gas tank of the buzzer was small and would most likely sear their lower bodies, as it had burned her would-­be assassin in a buzzer crash the week before. He had survived, though in agony.

  Besides, from here it looked far more likely they’d crash straight into the woods. Ah yes. That’s much preferable to immolation.

  Alonzo’s elbow angled back and he laid his hand atop hers, briefly, before taking full grip of the controls again. She breathed through her terror as she did in her Al Cala meditations. Alonzo’s father had created the buzzer. Alonzo had experience in piloting. He could do this.

  He guided them lower and lower. Growls and odd hiccups interrupted the steady buzz. He wound them between several massive pines, so close she could hear the life thrum of startled birds, and then they were in the open. She gasped in relief. A meadow stretched before them, factories beyond. She almost closed her eyes but couldn’t.

  With a final, desperate wheeze, the engine stopped completely.

  This was no airship with momentum behind it. The rotor seized. They dropped in the space of a gasp.

  Metal met dirt with a violent crunch. The impact jarred through her legs and spine. Her head snapped back against the seat. Alonzo’s body followed, crushing her like meat in a pressed sandwich. She listened. She knew the terror in his heart, the rush of adrenaline, how the force and pressure of gravity roiled through his body. But he was well. As well as she was, in any case.

  Then she heard something more—­the trickling of liquid.

  “Petrol!” Alonzo shoved himself off of her.

  Octavia didn’t need further motivation. Her trembling hands managed to unlatch the restraints. Alonzo already had hold of his bag and leaped out. He pivoted to give her a helping hand. Her black coat snagged on debris and ripped, but that didn’t slow her exit in the slightest. She stumbled into a run, gasping for breath. The saturated grassland sloshed underfoot. Her satchel slapped against her hip. Alonzo led her halfway across the meadow before he dropped to his knees on a dry rise. She fell beside him. His eyes grazed over her, worried, and she offered him a nod. His blue eyes crinkled in relief.

  “Well, then!” Alonzo sat up, hands on his hips as he panted heavily. “Welcome to Tamarania and the southern nations.”

  EVEN THOUGH CASKENTIA HAD done its utmost to kill her, it still somewhat unnerved Octavia to be in a different country for the first time, and for it to be Tamarania of all places. Everyone spoke of the southern nations in such glowing terms: cities where ­people didn’t starve, libraries abounded, and every child was guaranteed free schooling until age twelve. Plus, the region was known for its importation of cocoa and its numerous chocolatiers. If not for the threat of imminent death or capture, she could have played tourist.

  Alonzo led the way toward the nearest factory. She felt the old familiar pressure in her chest—­a life debt to Alonzo. It was the Lady’s way of thanking those who directly saved the lives of her magi. It was regarded as a rare event among medicians, but the feeling had lingered on her every day of their journey. It was comforting and unsettling to know the Lady kept such a watch on her.

  “Alonzo.” He paused, and she rested her hand on his bristled jaw.

  “Another blessing?” He looked discomfited by the attention, as he always did.

  “For preserving the life of her medician, the Lady blesses you.” The bothersome pressure dissipated. “Well, you do have a knack for saving my life.”

  New vigor carried through his stride as he continued. The blessing would enable him to heal faster and sleep more soundly, and spared her from hearing an aggravating repetition of
debt in the back of her brain that was reminiscent of a colicky baby’s cries.

  “ ’Tis a mutual thing.”

  “True. I suppose you need a patron to bless me in turn,” she said. Alonzo chuckled. “How far are we from the cities now?” This late in the year, the veiled sun already leaned toward the western horizon. She dreaded nightfall. Their extra blankets had been abandoned with their packhorse.

  “A few days of walking, I think, though other options may be available. I believe I saw a rail line from above.”

  “A train! A train would be wonderful.” Walking felt strange after so long in the saddle. She had some iodine for doctoring their tender feet, but not enough for extended days on foot.

  “Octavia, I must urge you to act with special caution. I know on the Argus you intended to travel incognito. Here, ’tis essential. The southern nations do not look kindly upon magic. To them ’tis an antiquated practice, regarded with revulsion.”

  “The Wexlers on the ship acted like that. I’ve known others as well.”

  “This is a full culture with such an attitude, nor do they look kindly upon Caskentians.” He grimaced.

  “Your father. Was he . . . disowned because he moved north?” There seemed no delicate way to broach the subject of Solomon Garret. He had been a general in Caskentia, regarded as a hero when she was a girl. He was also the reason her parents were dead. He’d piloted a buzzer against a Waster airship over her village. The ensuing crash caused a conflagration that left Octavia as the sole survivor—­all because she’d been a silly git and run off to the woods in search of herbs.

  When she first met Alonzo, she had been appalled to learn his last name. Now she understood that he was likely the only other person who comprehended the terrible grief of that night.

  “According to my mother, my father was regarded with bewilderment by other Tamarans, as someone who stepped down from paradise to muck in with the commoners. I have never ventured to Tamarania. The few kin I have met came to visit our estate in Mercia.”

  Estate. A keen reminder of how Alonzo was raised among the elite in Mercia, though the inelegant manner of Solomon Garret’s death had caused a significant fall in status.

  “You said before that your mother maintains a household in the south.”

  “Yes. She lives part of the year in a flat that overlooks a blue fountain on the plaza. A cozy abode, I am sure, but we cannot go there. ’Tis the first place any Dagger would look for us.”

  “The gilly coins Mrs. Stout gave me. What value will they carry here?” Octavia felt the small purse as a heavy lump in her brassiere.

  “Their value is not as it would be in Caskentia, but gold is gold.” He frowned. “Is the Lady’s branch squeezed inside your satchel?”

  She flinched and looked away. “No. I—­in the rush to grab everything, I left it on the saddlebag.”

  “Oh. I am so sorry, Octavia.”

  “Sorry” is such an inadequate word. I think I would have rather lost part of my leg, like Alonzo, than that blessed branch, that proof of the Lady.

  They reached a stand of trees. Beyond that lay a field of tree stumps—­a graveyard of mighty pines—­with the log-­hewn factory on the far side. It looked some five stories in height, chimneys reaching far higher. A trestle stood just beyond. A train idled there. White steam drifted upward, some men in black milling about.

  “The dormitories are just over there,” Alonzo murmured, and glanced at the sun. “Shift whistle should have blown a short while ago. The train’s presence is auspicious. The week is at an end.”

  Octavia thought about what she knew of factories. “The workers will be traveling to Tamarania City for the weekend?”

  “Yes. The train likely delivered fresh workers for the coming week. This crew will return to civilization. This remote locale is not a place where they would expect to run into any hitchhikers. Perhaps we can blend in.”

  “Let me take care of our bloodied coats.”

  She pulled out her parasol. Her medician wand was hidden in the handle. The copper-­and-­wood stick carried enchantments to dry blood and kill zymes. A few minutes later, their coats were somewhat cleaner. Alonzo rigged his saddlebag strap beneath his coat, closer to his body. Octavia almost laughed. Here they were, stinky and harried and hungry, and those were the very qualities that would likely help them to blend in with the workers.

  They crept closer to the train. Alonzo had tucked his pistol out of sight, but she knew he’d have it ready if needed. A whistle blew. Workers poured from a brick dormitory. Most wore black coats, many of which had faded to shades of gray. Unlike most factory employees she had seen, these ­people smiled and talked amongst themselves, even if it was an exhausted-­sounding murmur. Clearly, an impending return to the city had brightened their spirits.

  Suddenly her acute awareness of the workers’ health woes draped over her like a suffocating quilt.

  Noises. Songs. Tweets, bells, off-­key trumpets. Cancer, a thudding, drumming mass. The sweetness of pox. The first stirrings of a pregnancy. Dragged notes of exhaustion—­plenty of that.

  Cities had always overwhelmed her, but this . . . this. These ­people were still thirty steps away, more following behind, and their needs swarmed her like bees. Octavia moaned, both hands to her ears as she slid down the wall to the ground.

  “Octavia?” Firm hands gripped her shoulders. “What is the matter?”

  “The ­people. I hear them. I hear inside them.” Lady, what’s happening to me?

  “Stand. I am with you, Octavia.”

  Yes, she had Alonzo. Her legs like gelatin, her brain addled, she managed to stand. ­People surrounded them. Hums, buzzes, bleats. Voices—­familiar words. Refugees from her land. Caskentians would be more likely to recognize her as a medician. That brought a whole different kind of danger than what Alonzo had warned against.

  His hand was her tether, the steady marching band of his heart clear even amidst the din.

  “Separate!” a man’s voice boomed. ­People jostled and shifted around her. A heart skips beats like a child learning to jump rope. Stomachs moan in hunger. The baby in the womb writhes as if it knows the excitement to come.

  “Octavia.” Alonzo’s breath was hot on her ear. “They are separating the men and women, you must—­”

  “Come along, then! Board! Say your farewells, it’s only a few hours’ ride—­”

  “Separate?” The horror of that word cleaved through her mental fog. “We can’t! How will I—­”

  The train roared. Alonzo’s hand jerked from hers. She struggled to focus, to see with her eyes and hear with her physical ears. Faces around her ranged from milky pale to deep coffee in tone, men and women both. Alonzo, tall as he was, had turned toward her, the determination on his face visible above another man’s shoulders. The tide of humanity carried him away.

  Women’s voices jabbered around her, higher in pitch. Giggles punctuated conversations. The press of women ebbed and flowed toward a black train car and groups began to split off. Octavia found herself at a short set of stairs. Passing hands had smoothed the wooden banister to burnished gold. She staggered up the steps and tripped at the top. She caught herself on a knee and forced herself up and inside.

  She had been on a train once, as a child. Mother and Father took her to the beach. To her delighted eyes, the train car had been a palace on wheels, even if she realized in hindsight that the velvet seats had been bald in spots like a mangy dog and the brakes had squealed like a pen of hogs.

  But in comparison to this place, the train car of her youth had indeed been a palace.

  The floor had been stripped down to coarse planks. Ridges of splinters snagged her shoes. Bleak wooden benches sat in rows, many of them already occupied. No seat backs, no comforts. Women laughed and murmured as their cases slid beneath benches. They doffed their hats and smoothed their bound-­up hair. Oct
avia sat, hatless and conspicuous. She breathed as she did in her Al Cala. It was easier to focus with fewer ­people close by and metal walls separating her from the rest. Her fingers clutched at her satchel as she had desperately clung to Alonzo.

  The train lurched forward, steam whistle piercing, the rollicking rhythm of the wheels shuddering through the hard bench. Where will this train stop? How will I find Alonzo?

  “Hey. Who’re you?” asked a raspy voice. The woman’s face was creased and dented like an apple left to rot in the sunlight. Her body rang out its exhaustion. Hollowness echoed in her abdomen. Somehow, many years ago, she had lost a babe . . . and much more.

  “I’m new,” Octavia managed.

  “New. New, aye. Nice coat.”

  She looked down as if seeing it for the first time. Wasters did know how to dress warmly to survive their godforsaken plains. “Ah, thank you.”

  Gnarled fingers plucked at her elbow. “Wool, I think.” The woman bent close to Octavia’s chest and breathed in. “Yes, wool.”

  Prickles of unease trickled down Octavia’s spine.

  “Kethan’s bastards. Look at that,” said another woman, her body craning around to stare. “What’s that cloth there?”

  More eyes turned Octavia’s way. Another woman leaned over and tugged back Octavia’s torn coat to reveal the pristine white of her medician robes. The cloth, which was unrealistically clean despite a week in the wilderness, shimmered with its enchantment.

  It made her a gleaming target.

  “It’s beautiful, like silk.”

  “That’s a Percival robe!”

  “No. It can’t be. Here?”

  “It is! I swear on King Kethan’s tomb! I saw one once. My mum took me—­”

  “A medician. A magic user?” Expressions varied from disgust to delight to sly assessment.

  Miss Percival had warned Octavia of this very risk, so many times. These Caskentian refugees would tear her apart with their need.

  Octavia had a gun but only four bullets. There had to be thirty women crammed into this space, and she didn’t want to kill anyone. These women had suffered—­did suffer. She knew their agonies, loud as steam whistles.