The Clockwork Crown

by Beth Cato

  “Check her bag,” the commander said to a soldier, pointing to Octavia.

  She hugged her satchel closer, the parasol banging against her arm. Alonzo gave his head a quick shake. Grinding her teeth, she relinquished her death grip. The soldier made no effort to take the satchel strap from her shoulder. Instead, he opened the main pocket and rummaged under the blanket. He held up the newly filled jar of pampria.

  The commander nodded. “A medician indeed. Check the other pockets. If nothing stands out, let her keep it.”

  Octavia almost sagged in relief. The soldier made a quick check of the other compartments and then her coat. He took her gun without a word and backed away.

  Esme’s limp body lay sprawled on the carpet. One of the men, eyes averted, tugged her skirt to a proper length past the knee.

  A woman in a skirted version of the blue uniform rushed up just as Octavia finished refastening her satchel. She wore a black leather medic bag against her hip.

  “What’s this about, then?” asked the newcomer.

  “Woman took a dose of cyanide, they say.” The commander gestured toward them.

  The doctor crouched. Her thick black hair was pinned in a massive roll like a ball of yarn. She muttered beneath her breath as she checked Esme’s pulse, opened her mouth, and glanced at her fingernails. “Cyanide, absolutely. The good stuff, from the look of it.” She looked up at Octavia. “You family? Friend? Do you have any claim to her?”

  “Claim?” asked Octavia. “No. She tried to kill us by tipping the shelves!”

  “Perfect. I claim the body, then. My students need to see the internal results of a cyanide poisoning.” The woman brushed her hands on her skirt as she stood.

  “That’s it? You’re not going to do anything else?” The mews faded to nothing. The drumbeat, gone.

  The doctor looked Octavia up and down. “What would you have me do, a song and dance and plead for help from above? Footle. There are other, living ­people who need aid now. This one made her choice when she bit down on a tablet.”

  That terrible sense of frustration threatened to overwhelm Octavia again. I could use a leaf. We could question her, find out how she followed us here, what she has reported to Mercia.

  “Miss Leander.” Alonzo’s voice was soft. “No. Not on her.”

  Of course he knows what I’m thinking. He knows me so well.

  “You’re both hale, then? No injuries after this attack?” asked the commander. Alonzo and Octavia shook their heads. At that, the doctor turned on her heel and left. The soldier continued, “We’re here to fetch you, and with right good timing, it seems. We’re private guards for august Balthazar Cody. You’re invited to his household.”

  “Right now?” Octavia asked.

  “Now,” said the soldier. He and the other men bristled with weaponry, their expressions grim.

  “Well, as I was raised, invitations were best handled by a calling card and a gift of flowers, but I suppose this will do.” She said this as brightly as she could, trying to ignore the worry that raced through Alonzo’s song. “Lead on, please.”

  “I DO NOT LIKE this,” murmured Alonzo.

  They sat across from each other on a small passenger airship decorated in lush brown leather and gold rivets. The engine was so quiet and smooth that Octavia wouldn’t have known they were moving but for the shifting cityscape beyond the window.

  “It’s not as if we had much of a choice.”

  “All the more reason to dislike it.” His dark brows drew together. “We are being placed in obligation to Mr. Cody. Several patrons saw the woman push over the shelves, then all were too busy to witness our full conflict. By public appearances, his men saved us from an assassin, or at the very least compelled her to commit suicide.”

  “This plays into what you said before, about how Tamarans regard personal accomplishment?” she asked, and Alonzo nodded. “It must be my fault that the Dagger and Mr. Cody tracked us down within a day. My accent, my clumsiness, something. I’m so sorry, Alonzo.”

  “Look at it in this positive light—­we can meet Balthazar Cody and directly inquire about his library.” He didn’t sound too positive, though. Something about this Mr. Cody obviously unsettled him.

  “True. It’s just as well we didn’t pursue your idea of infiltrating his household. You may be able to playact as a steward, but I’d have been dreadful as house staff. I wouldn’t have lasted a day before getting the chuck.”

  “Be gentler with yourself, Miss Leander.” Alonzo paused as he glanced outside. “It might have taken two days, at least, until you tried to save some life in peril.”

  “More likely a matter of hours.” Octavia fidgeted with her headband again and stared out the window.

  Advertisements plastered the long horizontal gaps between the high-­rise windows, an ad for Royal-­Tea included. The calligraphy boasted ENERGY AND FORTITUDE accompanied by a large emblem of the crown as it was shown on Caskentian coins. The Wasters had a sick sense of humor to market their tea using the image of King Kethan’s crown, commonly known as the clockwork crown. The crown had been presented to him by a conglomerate of metalworkers at the height of the Golden Age. As a symbol of the industrial boom, the points of the crown had been designed like the teeth of a cogwheel. Kethan increased his popularity with commoners by declaring it his favorite crown and wearing it most often, even though it was basic silver and unadorned by jewels.

  King Kethan was said to have worn it as he died in the infernal attack by the Waste.

  The ship’s engine purred louder as the craft rose. A gauzy layer of clouds drifted below them and hid the advertisements. With a metallic clatter and a jolt, the ship docked. The engine wound down.

  The cockpit door opened and the pilot gave them a nod. “If you’ll come with me, sir, m’lady.”

  Wind whistled through the short mooring tower atop the building. Octavia was grateful for the high railing along the curved staircase. She was curious about the view of the ground below, but dared not lean to look. She all too clearly recalled the time when she had been defenestrated aboard the Argus.

  The pilot led them to what seemed to be a long shanty in the middle of the roof. Octavia entered a downward stairwell and paused to look up. Body songs rang out from the attic—­dozens upon dozens, all in an excited clamor. Little heartbeats. Odd, disjointed bodies, yet healthy.

  “Gremlins,” she whispered to Alonzo with a nudge.

  Mrs. Stout said that gremlins hate being in the city, but this doesn’t feel like a city, this high up. She also said ­people in the southern nations could talk to gremlins.

  If anyone could, surely it would be their creator.

  The stairwell led directly into a domicile.

  The Garret flat had embodied controlled opulence. Cody’s showed no such restraint. If a surface could be adorned with gold leaf, it was; if it needed cloth for texture, vivid blue velvet was the choice. The floor consisted of alabaster marble tiles large enough for an adult to stretch out supine. Mechanical detritus sat on display along the walls: metal men, armaments, artistic odds and ends from engines of all sizes. No silver, though. A wise precaution with gremlins about.

  They entered a masculine den seemingly carved out of dark wood, as if they had entered a cave within a giant tree. Octavia stepped onto the carpet and stared down. The lush blue pile was as high as real grass and hid the toes of her shoes. Two bookshelves flanked a desk in mahogany with carved dragon-­claw legs. A man stood behind the desk. Prolonged bladder infection. His unbuttoned coat revealed a curved gut girthed by a burgundy vest. His skin tone was a few shades darker than Alonzo’s. Frizzy black hair, white-­striped, had been cut to about three inches in length.

  “You are the very image of your father,” said the stranger as he rounded the desk. “Except the eyes. That blue is purely your mother.” His posture, clothing, everything about him announce
d that he was either a horse trader, politician, or some other swindler of grand tradition.

  “You are Balthazar Cody. I know of you from my mother.” The men clasped hands. “ ’Tis good to meet you, sir.” A lie, though courteously said.

  Mr. Cody turned to Octavia, bowing as he took her hand. His lips hovered at her gloved knuckles about two seconds longer than was proper. “Ah, the famed Octavia Leander. My little birds tell me extraordinary tales about you, my dear.”

  “Perhaps your little birds shouldn’t spread gossip, Mr. Cody.” Alonzo was right to describe this man as dangerous.

  Mr. Cody burst out laughing. “That would make for a dull world.” He waved the pilot away.

  “Your birds must work well for you to know so many things,” said Alonzo. His song raced with unease. His Gadsden and knives had been confiscated, yet he was ready to uncoil in an instant.

  “Oh, they only tell me so much. The rest comes from good old-­fashioned spies. This is my city, you understand. It’s my place to know what goes on here. Nothing brings ­people together like a similar taste in books, correct?”

  Octavia glanced at Alonzo. His mouth was set in a grim line.

  “Unfortunately,” Mr. Cody continued, “you had rather poor timing in your choice of libraries. That Caskentian Clockwork Dagger, Esme Spencer, visits—­visited—­that library at this time each day as part of her guise as a student. When you waltzed in, she must have been as happy as a pilot atop the Warriors’ mountain. A shame she had to die like that. Now we get to start from scratch with someone new.”

  At least the Dagger didn’t follow us there. Maybe she didn’t get to report our whereabouts either.

  Alonzo, however, didn’t look relieved. “Are you aware of why she attacked us?”

  “Direct, are you? Very well. The game will be more fun if I continue to show my hand. Yes, I’ve intercepted recent bulletins sent down from Caskentia. You, Alonzo Garret, have been declared a collaborator of the Dallows. You, Miss Leander, have been kidnapped. By him.”

  Her jaw dropped. “What?”

  “I am not surprised,” said Alonzo. “Miss Leander, you know well how Caskentia is.”

  Such orders explained why the woman had not killed Octavia when it would have been easy to do so, but Octavia’s death would have still been the end result. The Lady knew as much or she wouldn’t have bestowed another life debt on Alonzo.

  Mr. Cody sat on the corner of his desk and leaned on his higher knee. “The subject of religion has made our libraries very attractive to you. I’m going to surmise that you’re most likely looking for books on medician magi. A search that frustrated you, I imagine, because I possess all the available literature on the subject. Miss Leander here has something of a reputation since that zyme contamination. Maybe you have questions on the subject, questions Caskentia can’t answer. Questions Caskentia might not want answered. Yes?”

  Octavia tried to keep her face impassive, even as her gut soured with dread. “You think differently from your countrymen.” A shame that his genuine enthusiasm for her kind didn’t make her like the man.

  “Others here in the south have a narrow view of what powers are worthwhile. Power is power. It should be respected. I respect the two of you immensely, and I hope the three of us might strike a bargain.”

  Octavia shot Alonzo a worried look. He appeared stoic, arms crossed over his broad chest. Daggers must stare into a mirror to practice that blank countenance.

  Mr. Cody waddled around them. “Walk with me, please.” His shoes clattered on the fine floor of the hall. Octavia hugged her satchel a little tighter. A lift awaited them, the ornate doors in gold.

  “We’re going all the way to the shop,” Mr. Cody said to the operator as the man bowed low.

  The lift’s motor was nearly silent as they descended. Mr. Cody clutched both sides of his unbuttoned coat. “Mr. Garret, your father had a knack for operating most all machines. I remember the first time I saw a buzzer in the skies here—­quite a legacy he left with such an invention. According to your army file, you are an adept buzzer pilot yourself.”

  Alonzo stared at the door. Through the mesh of the lift gates, building floors zoomed by in light and dark blurs. “I can pilot,” he said at last.

  “What do you have in mind, Mr. Cody?” asked Octavia.

  “Well, you have been in the city for only a day, so I know you haven’t seen a bout, but how much do you know of my Arena?”

  “ ’Tis a life-­size version of the game of Warriors, set before a large audience. Piloted mechas battle their way to the top of a metal pyramid.”

  Octavia’s fists clenched. “You’re not suggesting Mr. Garret pilot one of those things, are you?” Oh Lady. ­People die in those matches. The audience cheers.

  “I have a new mecha. It combines my interests for the first time. The problem is, no one can pilot it. There’s a bout the day after tomorrow, and my other mechas are sidelined by repairs. Here you are, like an answer to prayer.”

  “No one else has piloted it, Mr. Cody, or no one has survived piloting it?” asked Octavia.

  “Now, now. Not all of them have died.”

  “Is that what you’re asking of me? To treat the injured?”

  “No. Doctors have handled them. My request of you is special.” The lift dinged and the operator opened the portal. The dial showed them at a basement.

  The high ceiling reminded Octavia of an airship repair hangar she had seen at the front. Partitions divided the floor like a giant stable. Bright electric bulbs dangled from pendulums, but the overwhelming gray of the floor and walls cast a dour mood over the massive space. The air stank of heated metal and mustiness.

  “A tunnel over there leads directly to the Arena.” Mr. Cody pointed.

  “We’re right on the plaza, then?” Octavia asked.

  “Quite. I believe in being in the center of any action.”

  Mr. Cody led them onward. Crews worked on massive war machines twenty, thirty feet in height. The constructs were not in stark metal shades like common working vehicles; no, these were characters. One was a porcupine, its back a mass of deadly spikes. A standing cockpit occupied the space from chest to where the creature’s head would be. Another was a threem from mythology. The scaled horse stood on four cloven hooves, the pilot’s seat a shielded cage set into the back. The lower part of the horse’s face had been removed, and several men currently shoved a long piece of pipe into the gullet.

  They have it rigged to breathe fire like in the stories. Mr. Cody wants Alonzo in a machine like that.

  She brought her hands together and found the small scar on her wrist, the gift given to her by the infernal Lanskay. Among Waster fire magi, it was considered impressive if an enemy soldier made it within range of touch—­and therefore, they were allowed to live with a scar as something of a trophy. Counting coup, the airship bartender Vincan had called it. Octavia’s mark was tiny—­the imprint of the tip of Lanskay’s finger and nail—­and enduring it had been agony. It was nothing compared to what Alonzo had survived during the same incident. His entire arm had been burned to make her compliant. Now he could burn again.

  It always comes back to fire. My parents’ deaths. The village. Alonzo, tortured, only for the Lady’s leaf to heal him completely as he returned from the dead.

  “Alonzo, I don’t like this.” She spoke loud enough for Mr. Cody to hear.

  “Nor do I.” Heart rate elevated. Breaths rapid. Fear. Alonzo had survived the front. He had lost half a leg. He had no interest in the wanton waste of life.

  “Miss Leander,” said Mr. Cody. He paused long enough for them to walk closer together. “It’s my understanding that you have something of an affinity for gremlins.”

  An icy sensation trickled through Octavia’s veins. How does he know that, of all things? Only Mrs. Stout and Alonzo know how I hid Leaf on the airship. She forced h
erself to remain calm, as if she could mimic Alonzo’s Dagger stoicism. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  The headband filtered out many of the extraneous songs of workmen, but up ahead, a body rang as particularly bold. No men worked in this station. It was a body by itself, and yet . . . She frowned, trying to make sense of it. It felt like there were layers involved, and dead zones, hollow spaces like amputations.

  Mr. Cody guided them around a brass partition. “As I told you already, my little birds whisper all sorts of things.”

  Three hearts, beating in rhythm. Atrophied muscles. A song dragging in despair. The trill of gremlins.

  Not gremlins. A singular gremlin, thirty feet tall. Green skin soldered to brass extensions. Batlike wings folded close, the webbing in brilliant metal. Separate arms attached just below in full copper, the hands endowed with three fingers each, like Leaf’s hands. The eyes—­black, round, and filled with sorrow.

  “Oh Lady,” Octavia whispered. “No. No.”

  CHAPTER 5

  This mecha was a chimera in the most extreme sense. From what Octavia understood, first-­generation gremlins had been made of cats, dogs, bats, and other creatures; this monstrosity included those beasts and so much more. Short hind legs, bent like that of a crouched human, were made of copper to match the stubby arms. The body and head were largely flesh, though enhanced by metal for the sake of shielding. The long, tapered ears, as an obvious point of vulnerability, had been capped by copper spikes as if they were horns.

  The gremlin chirped, the sound like a magnified version of Leaf’s adorable greeting. The creature shuffled. Massive chains rattled at the movement. A twenty-­foot copper oval was inlaid into the tiles; it sparked with life as Octavia crossed the line, but didn’t fully activate. The chains kept the chimera well away from the boundaries of the circle.

  “Good God. You have made a beastie into a mechanical,” said Alonzo.

  Not just one beastie. Many. The layers. Multiple souls. Pieces of the whole animal bodies, reused, altered. To her mind’s ear, it created a crude symphony similar to a body in ill health, but more complex. It’s like the few human transplant patients I have worked on, where the healthy body fights the new organ it views as invasive. Here, that physical fight is over, and yet . . . Facts, realities tumbled through her brain.