The Clockwork Crown

by Beth Cato

  “Alonzo. Pass me the babe.”

  Octavia lifted the napkin from the light bundle on her lap and sucked in a sharp breath. That doctor . . . ! Oh, this poor child. She passed her hands over the stick of her parasol; blood fell away as dust. Looking up at Alonzo, she reached into her apron pocket. He nodded understanding, his lips a hard line.

  The leaf of the Lady’s tree was as long as her palm, its green vivid and texture pliable, as if just plucked from the twig. Octavia rolled it as if making a cigarette. The little jaw opened easily. She tucked the rolled leaf beneath the babe’s stubby tongue and gently closed the toothless mouth.

  As if tickled by a feather, the child shivered. Pudgy fingers convulsed and straightened, arms relaxing as they folded over his belly again. Skin melded with a tiny slurp. A red flush crept across his pale skin. Dark eyes squinted as they viewed the world for the first time.

  “Oh God.” Mrs. Stout’s weak voice came from behind them.

  “Vincan—­” said Alonzo.

  “You try to keep ’er out! Like tryin’ to keep a bull still by the tongue, it is.”

  Octavia didn’t look around. “Viola, they are both alive. Please step out so I can clean up. You don’t need to see this.” She reached inside the babe’s mouth and pulled out the leaf. Just as when she revived Alonzo, the leaf crumbled to dust in her hand.

  Mrs. Stout didn’t move. “I . . . I . . . Mathilda, she’s alive, too? She’s not moving.”

  “Mrs. Stout.” Alonzo padded past Octavia. “Just a few minutes more. Octavia knows best.” The door shut with a gentle click.

  Octavia allowed herself a few long Al Cala breaths. The crisis was past. “Thank you, Lady, for extending your branches.” She touched the circle. With an audible pop, the Lady’s scrutiny diminished, heat fading.

  Alonzo’s hand rested on her shoulder and she leaned into him. He lowered beside her, his song strong and comforting. Like my mother’s humming. A memory of sound that made her want to nestle deeper into a warm and cozy bed in defiance of the chilly morning that lurked beyond.

  His lips pressed against her temple. She probably hadn’t been kissed like that since she was a child. Octavia looked up at him.

  “I fear we’ve set a terrible precedent,” she said. The babe wiggled on her lap.

  “Oh?”

  “The last time I—­we—­kissed was right after I used a leaf on you. I only have three left.”

  His lips quirked in a smile. “I will do my utmost to defy our established pattern. Such intimacy deserves a change in scenery as well.”

  “Yes. We’re too often surrounded by blood.” The air stank with iron. She used the concealed medician wand to clean the baby’s body. “Well! Do you mind passing him to Mrs. Stout? I think there was a dining cart with napkins and tablecloths in that last car.”

  “I do not mind at all.” He made kissing noises as he stood with the babe. She shook her head, smiling. The man must be a natural with children—­quite unlike her. Octavia had rarely been around healthy babies. If she was present, the situation all too often involved crying, screaming, blood, and grief.

  Not that today has changed that.

  She cleaned Mrs. Stout’s daughter and covered her sliced dress with a tablecloth. Another man’s body lay on the floor a few feet away—­blood cooled, body silent, neck broken. Ligature marks formed a purple torque around his neck.

  Alonzo returned. “Mr. Cody is here.”

  “It’s probably just as well. We’ll need help to get Mrs. Stout’s daughter out of here.”

  “He is already arranging that, and much more.” Alonzo grimaced. Her bag reassembled, Octavia followed him into the other train car.

  Mrs. Stout clutched the babe to her generous bosom. Napkins had been knotted into a makeshift nappy. Her eyes lit up when she saw Octavia. “Oh, child! You work miracles! My Mathilda . . . ?”

  “By the Lady’s mercy, she’ll be sleeping for several more hours as she continues to recover.”

  “I have men on the way with a cart,” said Mr. Cody. He stood beside Mrs. Stout. A group of his men in blue lurked close by. “Such a terrible way for you to enter our fair cities, Mrs. Stout. I don’t foresee legal issues for you. It’ll be fair to say your man acted in self-­defense against the Dallowmen.”

  Mr. Cody’s cool gaze turned to Octavia. “I am glad you were here to help your friend’s family, but in your case that action carries consequences. This doctor is a prominent local physician, one known to donate generously to electoral campaigns.”

  “Here I thought Caskentia had cornered the market on bribes,” snapped Octavia.

  “I didn’t say he donated to my campaigns.” Mr. Cody’s smile was thin. “He is vocal, even in his recent retirement. I had him escorted from the train, but he made it quite clear he was insulted at being replaced by, as he put it, vulgar quackery.”

  Octavia flushed. “He cut—­” She stopped. Mrs. Stout didn’t need to hear the specifics. “He botched the operation. They both would have died. That doctor’s impaired, both physically and by pride. Have him hold a pencil, or work laces. That will give you all the proof you need.”

  “You don’t need to convince me. I know a medician’s worth. I’m simply warning you about what to expect when you leave this train.”

  “About that . . .” began Alonzo.

  “I would have discouraged you from leaving the building in your pilot’s uniform as well, but as far as my goals go, this wasn’t a bad thing. On my way here, ­people professed delight at having sighted the pilot of the mysterious new mecha.”

  “Our goals vary from yours,” growled Alonzo.

  “Yes, but we agree on certain vital points. You want to stay alive. I want you to stay alive. I’ll keep you safe as I can through the bout.”

  Alonzo shot Octavia a grim look. Through the bout. After that, they were on their own again. With Mercia two days away by air, they could expect a full contingent of Daggers all too soon. And Lady knew how many were already in the city.

  Not that they dared to dismiss the threat of Wasters, not with dead bodies so close by. Plus, the Wasters know how I grew that tree with the intervention of the Lady. Caskentia may want me dead, but the Waste wants to use me, use the Lady, to kill others.

  Mr. Cody stepped aside to murmur to his men. Mrs. Stout and Vincan rejoined Mathilda in the next car. Octavia stepped a little closer to Alonzo.

  “Remember what you said about us having allies?” she murmured.

  “Yes?”

  “All considered, you might be safest in the Arena, there with Chi.”

  “I could perhaps extend an invitation to you, though it may be an indecently tight squeeze in the saddle cage.”

  Octavia looked through an open window. The crowds still stewed, even more restless than before. Her stomach soured in dread of facing that mob again. They would notice Alonzo in his pilot’s blue, but there was no denying her presence or occupation. Not now.

  “It can’t be as bad as our brief buzzer ride,” she said, trying to keep her voice light.

  “Miss Leander?” He said her name in a way that made her warm even in the bitterest of cold. “We will make it from here together. Keep faith.”

  She nodded, both arms clutched tight to her torso. The way things were now, it was easier to keep faith in Alonzo than in the Lady.

  CHAPTER 8

  Mr. Cody extended his hospitality to Mrs. Stout, Vincan, the babe, and the unconscious Mathilda. Octavia was grateful, but knew his motivation was not magnanimity. They’re just another part of his investment in that blasted Arena bout. Mrs. Stout was everywhere at once in the flat, conferring with Mr. Cody and directing servants with all the efficiency of an army quartermaster. She may not have ruled Caskentia, but she played despot over a stranger’s household in a matter of minutes.

  Mr. Cody soon retreated to attend to his
duties as august. The servants dispersed. The Caskentians gathered around Mathilda in a guest bedroom. The woman whimpered in her bed, legs twitching as her consciousness began to return. Octavia had a good look at her for the first time. Mathilda had to only be a few years older than her—­perhaps twenty-­five or thirty. Her rounded cheeks reminded Octavia of Mrs. Stout’s face, but her narrow nose and broad lips must have carried down from her late father. Illustrations of young Mrs. Stout—­the missing princess—­always showed her as blond with curls; Mathilda certainly had flaxen-­gold hair from her mother, though not curly in the slightest.

  Mrs. Stout sat on the end of the bed within arm’s reach of the babe. Her grandson was swaddled in a lush piece of blue flannel—­a remnant from the household seamstress, if Octavia dared a guess. His face had lost some of its newborn redness and wrinkles, his expression now one of peace as he dozed on his back.

  “Well!” said Mrs. Stout. “Here I’ve been worried sick about you both, wondering how I might possibly find you in such a metropolis. I never expected you to be our welcome party, though far stranger things have happened!”

  Yes, giant trees and all.

  Vincan paced between the window and door. Clearly the high floor on which the flat was located hadn’t caused him to relax his guard. His body sang of abrasions to his knuckles and bruises to his torso, all minor.

  “I should like to know how you came to be here, Mrs. Stout,” said Alonzo.

  “After we parted at that horrid Waster camp, Vincan flew me into Mercia. My goodness! By buzzer! Never in my life. You should have seen my hair afterward! We went to my daughter’s home. Her husband is a sailor in Frengia for the season, but I convinced her to come south with me.”

  “Did you tell her?” asked Alonzo.

  Mrs. Stout looked down at her lap, her nod tiny. Octavia rested a hand on her shoulder, and the older woman cast her a grateful smile. Until the incidents aboard the Argus, Mrs. Stout had only told three ­people of her true identity as the lost princess—­her childhood headmistress at the academy, also known by the title of Miss Percival; Nelly Winters, who saved Mrs. Stout’s life when she had just escaped from her Waster kidnappers, and who grew to become the next Miss Percival; and Mrs. Stout’s late husband, the publishing magnate Donovan Stout.

  The current Miss Percival had kept the secret for fifty years before selling out her old friend—­and Octavia—­to save the academy from bankruptcy. A financial crisis caused by the fact that Caskentia hadn’t paid the academy, or most anyone else, for their work in the last war.

  “Mathilda took the news well,” said Mrs. Stout with a frail smile. “We packed most of her household. It should be delivered in a few days. Oh! Child, we also went by the Argus. Your suitcase will be forthcoming as well.”

  Octavia had prized that suitcase and her meager belongings, and now they seemed so frivolous. “Thank you, Mrs. Stout. I’m afraid I still need to travel light for the next while. I’ll get it from you eventually.”

  “Vincan, it seems you have switched employers?” asked Alonzo.

  Vincan grunted. “Aye. Cap’n Hue woulda kept me on, but Mrs. Stout ’ere needed someone to watch ’er back, so I said I’d come. Never seen the south.”

  “I’m so very grateful he did come!” Mrs. Stout clasped her hands. “Mathilda’s labor pains started when we crossed the border into Tamarania. The doctor seemed like a good sort. I was so grateful to have him there, and then . . . !”

  Vincan barely checked himself from spitting. “Wasters made to grab Mrs. Stout right after the doc’r started surgery, as the train pulled into the city. Didn’t seem interested in the daughter. S’all about Mrs. Stout.”

  “I will be grabbed by no man! And certainly not in a public venue.” Mrs. Stout sniffed. “Vincan did his duty well. Then I saw how the doctor’s hands trembled, and oh, I knew something was wrong! The train stopped and I dashed out to get help, and then that wretched steward wouldn’t let me back in.” Tears filled Mrs. Stout’s eyes.

  “Did the Wasters ever say anything?” asked Alonzo.

  “Nah. Seemed like common swaddies to me, not like them high-­ups at that camp at the ol’ copper quarry.”

  Alonzo’s face scrunched in a frown. “Sounds like they were sent to Mercia in case the mission aboard the Argus failed. They likely watched your daughter’s household. You must continue to take care, Mrs. Stout.”

  “I will hire more guards! Next time, these Wasters may very well try to grab us all. I will protect mine.” A cold glint existed in Mrs. Stout’s eyes, one that hadn’t been there before. Her recent ordeals had made her all the stronger.

  “Octavia and I have already encountered a Clockwork Dagger here by accident.” Alonzo looked at Octavia and away. “With this incident down below and the fuss it has created, we cannot stay in Tamarania. After we repay our debt to Mr. Cody, we must flee.”

  Octavia leaned over Mathilda. “I should check under the blankets again.”

  “Eh. I’ll step out, then.” Vincan practically dashed for the door. “Won’t be far, missus.”

  “Alonzo.” Octavia stopped him at the doorway. “Stay, please. Just face away.” He closed the door and faced the wall. As a precaution, she still held up a sheet as she checked beneath Mathilda.

  “What is this debt you spoke of?” asked Mrs. Stout.

  “Mr. Cody asked for our assistance in preparing a mechanized gremlin for the Arena on the morrow, and for me to pilot his creation.” Alonzo’s voice echoed against the wall.

  “Oh my! An Arena match! How horrible and dangerous, and with a strange chimera at that! Child, I should hope you gave him the roughage of your tongue for agreeing to such a thing.”

  Octavia was glad to have a sheet to hide behind, as that phrase brought entirely the wrong sorts of things to mind. “I’m not happy with the deal, no, but we’ve been paid by being given access to Mr. Cody’s library. He likely has the largest collection of medician texts we’ll find anywhere.” She paused. “Mrs. Stout, I did find out that your father was a child when the artifacts of the Tree came to Mercia. Even then the power of the objects worried him.”

  “The artifacts had been there that short a time? Truly? Wherever did you find privy details like that?”

  “A chamberlain’s log with a small print run. It covered the period right up to your imminent birth.” Octavia lowered the sheet again and tucked it over Mathilda.

  “Well, I daresay my father was well read on about every subject. He was a brilliant man, the most brilliant I’ve ever known. I wish that had been his greatest legacy.” Mrs. Stout rubbed her daughter’s knuckles and stared at the slumbering babe. “The palace library was one of the largest buildings in the entire city. I was told it was twice as big as any library in Tamarania. Of course, everything burned in the firebombing. Greater Mercia lost most all its libraries, too. In my heart, I am glad that Father never knew of that loss. It would have grieved him beyond anything.”

  It always comes back to fire. “Is it possible that some books on the Tree were kept in the vault?”

  “Some books were in there, yes, but I haven’t a clue about the subjects. I certainly wouldn’t have been allowed to read anything of that sort at my tender age!”

  Octavia looked toward Alonzo. “I . . . I have been wondering if we should try the vault, Alonzo. We haven’t found what we need here. King Kethan knew the artifacts of the Tree were powerful and he might have kept—­”

  “Octavia, are you certain this is not about the loss of the branch?” Alonzo’s tone was gentle.

  “No. Of course it’s not.”

  “The loss of the branch? The Lady’s branch?” echoed Mrs. Stout. “Oh, goodness, how terrible!”

  “Or the other parts of the Tree that reside there?” asked Alonzo.

  “I already have leaves. And the seed . . . the seed scares me.”

  “It could bring bac
k one of your parents.”

  She swallowed drily. “It could. Or your father, or anyone else we’ve lost. But my parents believed in the promise of the beyond. I couldn’t take that from them.”

  If I had been given that option at age twelve, newly orphaned, my answer would have been much different, though to choose between them would have been impossible.

  Alonzo turned to face her, his mouth a grim line. “I do not see this as a valid option, Miss Leander. One, the vault is located deep within the palace grounds. After the surrounding complex was razed by the fire, it was converted to gardens. ’Tis guarded, but I am ignorant of the numbers and their patterns of rotation.” He held up two fingers. “I cannot simply escort you in. If my skin shows at all, my Tamaran legacy is obvious, and to cover myself completely invites suspicion.” Three. “There is a reason ­people jest of things being as secure as the royal vault. It cannot be opened, not by door, roof, or wall. The blood magic is that strong.”

  Mrs. Stout looked at Octavia, her lips compressed. “You didn’t tell him.”

  Octavia shook her head. “Of course not. You told me in confidence. It’s your secret.”

  Mrs. Stout sighed. “Access to the vault is magicked to my father’s bloodline. That’s why no one can get inside.”

  Alonzo stared at her for a long moment before slowly nodding. “Queen Evandia is your mother’s cousin. No wonder she and the current family cannot get in.”

  “Yes, thank God!” Mrs. Stout shuddered at the mention of Evandia. “That weepy, frail thing. She should never have ruled—­she hasn’t ruled, truly. The country’s gone to ruin. I’m appalled to think of what she would have done with the contents of that vault. It’s enough that me and mine can get inside.” She looked to the babe with tears in her eyes.

  “You and yours,” echoed Octavia. “Where is your son?”

  “My son. I haven’t seen him since long before armistice, though we have exchanged letters on a regular basis. But he didn’t respond now, when it was most urgent! I even went to his residence. That boy. He always had the knack to vanish when it suited him. I’m not even sure what he did in the war. He could have been a Dagger, far as I know!”