The Clockwork Crown

by Beth Cato

  The gremlin flew toward the terminal, turned to glance at her, and then arced down. He did another loop and looked back to see if she was watching, then again flew at the terminal. This time he kept going.

  As if he wants me to follow. Octavia frowned.

  “Miss Leander.” Alonzo’s song rang as the healthiest it had been since they first journeyed on the Argus. Several days of good food and restful sleep had worked wonders.

  “Al—­Mr. Garret.” Despite her frustration regarding the Arena, she couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him. His fitted jacket was in the bright blue of Mr. Cody’s household, the flap in an unusual diagonal cut. Black jodhpurs tucked into knee-­high black boots. From paintings and artwork around the library, she knew it to be the distinctive attire of Mr. Cody’s Arena pilots. Alonzo looked smashing in it, as he did in most every uniform—­but then, he had even managed to add artistic merits to common dungarees.

  “We have a few minutes together. Mr. Cody will follow shortly,” he said. Octavia fidgeted with the urge to stroke his newly shaven jaw, know the smoothness beneath her fingertips. “Have you had any luck?”

  She shook her head as she motioned to her notes. “It’s amazing how many different books can exist that say almost exactly the same thing. Some of the inaccuracies are downright ridiculous. One book painted medicians as divine beings that require no food, water, or sleep, because they can survive solely on ­people’s appreciation.” She rolled her eyes. “Clearly, this author never emptied bedpans in the middle of the night.”

  “You mean my appreciation alone cannot be your sustenance?” He pressed a hand to his heart.

  A flush crept up her neck. “Your gratitude can sustain me in many ways, Mr. Garret, but it cannot replace almond chicken accompanied by a good, hard cheese.”

  “I suppose I must live with that.”

  Oh, how she loved those warm crinkles that lined his eyes when he smiled. She could imagine how they would deepen as he aged.

  “Does that mean you plan to stay in my company for some time?”

  “Yes.” The word was soft, husky. “So long as we are not assassinated in the near future. Or until you do prefer a good, hard cheese to my appreciation and companionship.”

  “It would need to be an especially good cheese.”

  His lips quirked. “I will be wary of such worthy rivals.”

  Oh Lady. The intensity of his gaze rooted her in place. Giddy warmth bloomed deep in her belly as she drily swallowed. A servant whistled as he passed by the open doorway. The tension between them snapped.

  Alonzo looked to the stacks of books across the table and cleared his throat. “I will be glad to join you here for a time. The beastie is as bright as we hoped. She learns words after only a few examples and understands well that her goal is the top of the pyramid. She has quickly gained the knack of how to handle foes.”

  Octavia’s joy dimmed significantly. “The knack to kill.”

  “No. Killing is not the goal.”

  “That’s right, death is a mere side effect of a pitched battle against five other twenty-­ton mechas who happen to breathe fire, fly, or wield claws like scythes.” She pressed a hand to her face. “I’m sorry. You know how I feel about this.”

  “I do. And you above all should know that I have no death wish, but this . . .” He hesitated. “I will not lie to you. ’Tis a glorious thing to sit atop that chimera as she climbs a metal mountain. It reminds me of the first time my father set me in his lap while he steered an airship. Not simply power, but perspective, looking down on the world from a fresh vantage.”

  Lady help her, but she wanted to kiss that man. Throttle him, and kiss him. “I don’t care if it’s frowned upon in Tamarania. If you or Chi is hurt, I’m going to rush down there to help.”

  “I pity the fools who would attempt to stop you.” He motioned to the books. “These, you have read?”

  “Yes. This smaller stack needs to be skimmed. There are more books on the shelf that cover religion and mythology in general.”

  His lips compressed. “This worries me.”

  “More than the Arena?”

  “More that the Arena will be in vain if we have no useful information to show for our effort.”

  If this is a dead end, there’s always the royal vault in Mercia. She was reluctant to say the words. She had a strong hunch he’d be opposed, with valid reasons. Her arms irritated her and she checked the urge to rub them.

  She needed answers about the Lady, or from the Lady. Soon.

  Mr. Cody’s ailment announced his arrival as his footsteps still tapped down the hall. So aware of his health, she self-­consciously averted her gaze as he entered. Miss Percival used to say that some ­people deserved to suffer. Mr. Cody, for all he’d done to gremlins, was one of those ­people.

  “Greetings to you, Miss Leander! Pleasant reading? Any intriguing new insights?”

  She pasted on a smile as she tucked her notes into her satchel. “You have an amazing collection here, Mr. Cody.”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.” He looked between her and Alonzo. “I’m happy to say that the buzz is growing about the match tomorrow. Someone happened to start some rumors, you see. Tickets have already sold out. Ah, and before I forget again, Mr. Garret, I heard back from your sister. She agreed.”

  Octavia’s head jerked up. “Pardon? What have I missed?”

  Alonzo leaned against the table. “I asked Mr. Cody to invite Tatiana to the bout tomorrow, to join you in his suite. ’Tis private there and easily secured.”

  Yes, I’m sure we’ll have a pleasant conversation about how much she hates me and how repulsive the Lady is. “Something else to be excited about, then.”

  A woman in household livery darted into the room and bowed to Mr. Cody. “Pardon the interruption, sir, but there’s a major disturbance down in the terminal.”

  “What kind of disturbance?” asked Mr. Cody, his brow furrowed.

  “An attack occurred on the Beautiful Varya from Caskentia and now a woman is in labor. There’s already a doctor attending. The incident has stalled all progress on the line. The backup of ­people is starting to impact other corridors.”

  “An attack by whom?” snapped Mr. Cody.

  “Dallowmen, if the Caskentians onboard are to be believed, though they blame every cloudy day on that lot.” The woman seemed to suddenly recall that she was in the presence of two Caskentians, and flushed as she offered an apologetic bow.

  Leaf had followed Octavia from Leffen to the Waster encampment. It wasn’t farfetched to think that a gremlin might follow Mrs. Stout on her train journey south. That strange gremlin at the window had definitely pointed Octavia toward the terminal.

  Octavia grabbed her satchel and stood. “I need to get down there. Mrs. Stout was going to persuade her daughter to flee south, and the daughter is pregnant and due soon.”

  The Wasters knew the truth of Mrs. Stout’s identity, thanks to Miss Percival. They would still want to grab Mrs. Stout and steal her away to the Waste—­to the Dallows.

  Mr. Cody looked vexed. “I don’t care who this Mrs. Stout is. Miss Leander, I must protest. You already had terrible timing in encountering that Dagger at the library. To go into the terminal is to be seen by many, especially Caskentians—­”

  “If my friend is in danger and her daughter in labor, you can protest all you want. I’m going.” The messenger stared agape as she passed. Octavia guessed ­people didn’t normally speak to Mr. Cody as she just had. She pounded the button to summon a lift. Alonzo’s marching-­band brasses grew louder as he approached and stood behind her.

  “What makes you certain ’tis her?” Alonzo asked in a low rumble. She whispered about the gremlin at the window. He took in this latest revelation with a nod. She could see the gears turning beyond his eyes. “ ’Tis good to know we have allies.”

  “Yes. Cas
kentia has its army and Daggers. Mr. Cody has his network here. Lady knows the Waste has spies everywhere as they sell that blasted tea. But here we are, allied with small flying creatures who resemble naked cats.”

  “You are not being entirely facetious.”

  “No. I know better. My friends tend to surprise me.” The door dinged as the lift opened.

  “If this is truly Mrs. Stout and her daughter, the labor may be a feint, a distraction,” murmured Alonzo. “Or a trap.”

  “Do you think that will stop me?”

  “ ’Tis best to be prepared for any possibilities.”

  At that, she clutched her satchel even tighter against her hip. Unfortunately, my possibilities always seem to involve blood.

  They rushed through the lobby and into the plaza. Octavia made sure to tuck her headband more firmly into place. Even so, the sheer numbers of humanity disoriented her. She took in several breaths as she did in her Al Cala. Either she’d become spoiled by the isolation of Mr. Cody’s lush flat, or her skills had become even stronger in the past day. She stared at Alonzo’s bright coat as a point of focus. Foggy as her brain was, she noted that she wasn’t the only one eyeing his clothes and urgent stride. ­People sidestepped to let them through, whispering excitedly to each other. Several lanes of steam cars stopped to grant them passage. Drivers leaned on their horns and waved at him.

  “A pilot! Godspeed!”

  “Cody’s man! Look at him!”

  “The pilot looks like that? I’ll place a wager on him.”

  Alonzo’s stride stiffened, shoulders bracing. His song ticked higher in response—­anxious, self-­conscious, embarrassed.

  I didn’t even think of his uniform and what would happen if we left the building. Now we’ll absolutely need to keep our time in the southern nations brief. ­People will see him, know him, ask his name.

  No turning back now. Octavia grimaced and hurried in his wake.

  The terminal bustled and echoed just as it had before, voices, footsteps and songs stirring a maddening stew. It took all of Octavia’s concentration to shadow Alonzo. He stopped the first employee they encountered. “The Beautiful Varya. Where is it?”

  “Terminal A, on down. You’ll see signs. You’re Cody’s man? How about that—­”

  They rushed onward until the ­people compressed like a Caskentian army division at a beer delivery. Octavia grabbed hold of the tail of Alonzo’s jacket as he barreled his way through.

  “Let us through! Pardon, pardon! My apologies!” Alonzo almost crushed a man against a pillar as he shoved past.

  Octavia caught snippets of conversation as they ru­shed by.

  “They said Dallowmen attacked a family!”

  “Come on. It can’t take that long to mop up some blood. If it doesn’t leave soon, I’ll—­”

  “Is that a pilot? Here?”

  “I got that dame’s wallet! Let’s—­”

  “—­typical Caskentian violence. Such a barbarous lot of—­”

  Beyond the bobbing waves of hats and hair bows, the sleek silver of the train resembled an elongated bullet. This was undoubtedly a higher-­class transport. At last they reached a door to a train car. Alonzo hopped up two steps only to be stopped by a steward in deep green attire.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but we have a situation on board, we cannot—­”

  “I work for august Balthazar Cody. Which way to the woman in labor?”

  The steward, though Caskentian by his accent, took in Alonzo’s apparel and pointed to the right as he stepped back.

  “Your uniform may have garnered us a lot of attention, but it also got us through the crowds ten times faster than otherwise,” Octavia murmured as they entered a narrow passage of glossy wood and flocked wallpaper.

  Alonzo grunted, clearly not pleased. “I should have given more thought to my attire. And yours.”

  That’s right. She still wore her uniform. She hadn’t spared the time to grab so much as a coat or hat.

  “Speed saves lives in my job. Think on that.”

  “I will think more positively on it when we are far from Tamarania without assassins lurking two steps behind, all because I made a damned juvenile mistake.” Anger shook his voice.

  “Oh, Alonzo,” she said softly. “You know, you really are a good Clockwork Dagger, despite how Caskentia treated you. I can prove it.”

  “And how is that?” His posture was so rigid it was painful.

  “Esme was a full Dagger. Who won that fight?”

  He conceded the point with a soft grunt.

  Through the open doors, a cluster of ­people could be seen at the far end of the next car. “You can’t keep ’er from ’er girl. Don’t make me make you move, ’cause I can.” The voice boomed. The man was built like a Frengian draft horse, his shoulders far wider than the doorways of the train. Vincan! His skin lacked almost all pigment, making him far paler than most Caskentians. He had the flattened, scarred face of a man who had naturally healed after being used as a battering ram.

  “I don’t respond to threats. You must let the doctor work in peace.” A steward had his arms extended to block the doorway behind him.

  “The man is incompetent!” An imperious tone rang out. “He may wear the title of doctor, but—­”

  “Mrs. Stout!” Alonzo called.

  Mrs. Viola Stout, the long-­lost princess of Caskentia, looked around the hulking form of Vincan and gasped in obvious relief. Her rounded face was flushed, her silver hair accented by a mustard-­yellow swirl. Fresh blood smeared the bodice of her flower-­patterned dress.

  “Miss Leander! Thank God! Thank that Lady of yours! Hurry, hurry! To the next car up, child! The doctor in there is killing my Mathilda!”

  CHAPTER 7

  A man’s body huddled on the floor behind them. He wore a suit jacket over faded black trousers. Blood was almost invisible on the dark fabric, a mere wet splotch, the klaxons already silenced. His soul was gone.

  “How many assailants?” asked Alonzo.

  “Two Wasters. Both deader’n Kethan’s ashes. Them been with us the ’ole ride, bidin’ their time. Didn’t make to kill Mrs. Stout, just grab’er and run.” Vincan was a former Caskentian soldier and the bartender aboard the Argus. He had been Mrs. Stout’s escort back to Mercia, but evidently their partnership hadn’t ended there.

  “Your daughter was injured in the attack?” asked Octavia.

  “No! Her labor started first. Those ruffians sought to take advantage and abscond with me. The greater issue now is this doctor! He watched Mathilda these past few hours, and all seemed fine until he cut her open—­”

  Octavia didn’t need to hear any more. She stalked toward the steward. “I’m getting through that door.”

  The man’s nervous eyes looked past her to Vincan and Alonzo and he stepped aside. “You don’t understand, this physician has an excellent reputation, he—­”

  Through the doorway, Octavia heard nothing but blood, the noise as piercing as steam whistles. The doctor knelt beside a woman. Crimson dyed his sleeves to the elbows. Mrs. Stout’s daughter was utterly still. An incision split open her lower abdomen. Blood obscured the rest. Octavia dropped her satchel to the floor.

  The doctor looked up, blinking as if he had just awakened. “A medician! Good God, that woman is desperate. I . . . everything here will be fine. It was a hard birth. That happens.” His voice shook, as did his hands. Through the hue of blood, she heard the tremor as it echoed through his body. This isn’t a mere reaction to the Waster attack; this is a nervous-­system deficiency. He can’t even hold a pencil, and yet he wielded a knife.

  She listened beyond him, beyond Mathilda. “Where’s the baby?” Even as she asked, her eyes found a bloodied lump on the carpet. A napkin draped over the babe. There was no song, but heat lingered. A live birth, botched.

  “Sometimes these trage
dies happen,” said the doctor. He said the words, but by the terror in his eyes, he knew what had happened. He knew he had caused this.

  Heavy footsteps shuddered through the floor. Octavia glanced over her shoulder. “I need this man out.”

  “You ’eard the lady,” growled Vincan.

  “Can’t leave a patient open. I can’t. It’s not . . . it’s not professional.”

  “To ’ell with this.” A few long strides, and Vincan had hold of the man by the collar. The doctor sobbed quietly as Vincan dragged him past. Octavia had her medician blanket fluffed out before the door shut behind them. She set out her jars along the mended edge.

  “What happened to your blanket?” asked Alonzo. He holstered the Gadsden as he crouched down; she hadn’t even known that Mr. Cody had returned the weapon. Alonzo lifted the shroud from the babe, just enough to look, and turned away with a grimace.

  “The train ride to Tamarania happened. Help me move the daughter.”

  Alonzo took Mathilda’s shoulders while Octavia grabbed the feet. Together they shuffled her to the oval. The woman was limp, her song dim. Like Mrs. Stout was when I found her on the Argus, when she almost died in my stead. Such a dreadful similarity.

  Octavia’s fingers pressed against the honeyflower and copper weave of the circle. Heat crackled as the magic awoke. “Pray, by the Lady let me mend thy ills.” She felt no resistance, no barrier. This woman wanted to live.

  Through the cloth over Octavia’s ears, the music became clearer, faint as it was. Thank you, Lady, for the discovery of that pampria bush in the swamp, and for the time to finally grind those leaves. She scooped out a handful of the cinnamon-­scented herb. The pampria drifted to Mathilda’s skin and was absorbed in an instant.

  Octavia had a keener awareness than ever before of the layers within a woman’s body and of the damage done to a patient. She knew to add a pinch of heskool, a chunk of bellywood, and three globs of Linsom berries. Upon contact with Mathilda, each herb was absorbed without a trace. Skin drew together; the window closed. The woman’s music wailed and softened. Rhythm returned.

  That left one more vital task.