The Clockwork Crown

by Beth Cato

  A small sign was bolted to the base: PRIME: THE FIRST GREMLIN. Near his feet were bits of silver that had been warped by his touch. She wondered if wealthy ­people had tossed old jewelry his way, like folks throwing dry bread crusts to ducks.

  “Hello, little one,” Octavia said.

  “You medician.” The words were a croak.

  She stepped back, startled, even as she reached out with her senses to analyze the body in more detail. A complete mishmash of parts. Cat, dog, bat, horse—­a human larynx.

  “You’ve been healed by a medician before, recently,” she murmured. She felt the scars where tumors recently resided, as if they were divots beneath her fingertips. The body fights against itself.

  “Yessss.” A pause. “You smell like tree.”

  Octavia looked at her arms, then around. No one stood close. The gremlin must be a permanent installation in Mr. Cody’s suite, and one far less popular than the bar. “Do I?”

  The gremlin leaned closer. The snout was longer than on most gremlins—­more canine. “Like chimera.”

  Herald trumpets rang out from the Arena. Thousands upon thousands of voices flared and then faded. Octavia’s gaze didn’t shift from the old gremlin. “What do you mean?” she whispered.

  “Miss Leander!” Mr. Cody grabbed her by the arm. “Come! Have a drink, watch!”

  Even as he walked her away, she studied the gremlin. Those beady black eyes didn’t blink.

  The heart of the Arena stretched out in a massive rectangle, all sides surrounded by multicolored flecks of humanity. Their balcony granted an advantageous view of the metal pyramid. The man-­made mountain was about a hundred feet in height. Switchbacks and platforms made some routes clear, though steep slopes and cliffs wouldn’t impede some entrants, depending on their abilities.

  She shivered at the sight of so many ­people, suddenly grateful for Mr. Cody’s suite. It provided a buffer of privacy that dropped the combined songs to a low murmur.

  A champagne flute was shoved into her hand. “Are you aware of how the rules differ from a standard playing board?” asked Mr. Cody. She shook her head. He leaned back on the railing, clearly relishing his role. She made sure to stay several feet away from the edge, the risk of defenestration still very much on her mind. “The Warriors’ boards found in your average tavern rely on basic magic, magnets, and luck. The men place their bets and hope their chosen mecha creature makes it to the top first. Here, of course, we have intelligent pilots.”

  “Sometimes,” cut in another well-­dressed man. The others laughed.

  Mr. Cody acknowledged this with a smile. He used his swelled gut to help support his glass. “The bout is thirty minutes. We use five contestants. A mecha must claim the peak for ten minutes to win, or hold it at the end. Some say you can nap for twenty-­nine minutes and wake up for the good part.”

  “The good part. Blasts of fire, concentrated aether, geologica burrowing.” She rubbed both arms against her torso. I cannot understand these Tamarans and their standards. I save a woman and a babe’s life, and as I leave the train, ­people hiss and slash their arms. Here, magic is all good and well if it’s used for violent entertainment and monetary profit.

  Mr. Cody was oblivious to the derision in her tone. “Yes. Today has a fantastic mix. You’ll see our chimera can—­”

  Cheers rose in crescendo. The first mecha entered the arena—­a dragon, bristling with spines. Each waddled step swung a mighty tail. Wings larger than Chi’s extended to their full length. The noise was deafening; clearly, this was a fan favorite. Next came a hedgehog similar to the one in Mr. Cody’s own hangar, then a roc that bounded and flapped across the ground, and a golden wolf with bared teeth. Last came Chi and Alonzo. There was a collective gasp amongst the audience, then shouts of joy and outrage. Mr. Cody laughed. His comrades clapped him on the back and toasted. The man had won and the match hadn’t even begun.

  “Controversy is business,” said Mr. Cody, raising his glass. “Let them say I broke the rules. Let them say all mechas should now be hybrids. Whatever comes . . . !” Crystal tinked as the flutes met. Octavia scooted back enough to slide her full champagne flute onto a table and grabbed a chair. She sat as far from the others as she could and leaned on the rail. Dread writhed in her stomach like a bowl of worms.

  The mechas split up to take their positions at the five points of a star. Alonzo was just below, still likely a quarter mile distant. Octavia closed her eyes, breathing through her terror, breathing herself closer to the Lady.

  The Tree flared in her mind, majestic against an afternoon sky freckled with gray cumulus clouds. Snow dappled the upper branches and parts of the canopy below. She swooped closer, close enough to reach for a single leaf. The Tree had many leaves of many shapes. This one resembled the leaves tucked in her apron pocket, buried beneath an overly large evening dress.

  Lady, this isn’t a portent, is it? That the leaf you show me could revive the dead? Outside of the vision, Octavia’s arms ached. That’s not an answer.

  Octavia never used to speak to the Lady in this way. Before she left the academy, she was the perfect devotee, bowing in her prayers throughout the day, calling on the Lady without any hesitation. Her own blasphemy bothered her. I’ve changed. The way I see the Lady has changed.

  The Lady, killing Wasters. The Lady, allowing Octavia to bring back a dead little boy just long enough for him to relay a message to her. The Lady, channeling so much power to her, power Octavia didn’t want.

  Until now.

  I need to keep Alonzo and Chi safe so we can leave this place together. I can’t keep them in a circle, Lady, but I call on your focus regardless. Grant me insight to Alonzo.

  With her unhurt arm, she pushed the headband to her nape. The crowd’s enthusiasm vibrated through the railing like an airship engine, body songs swelling and crashing like a violent coastal storm. Beyond that, she listened.

  She wanted to hear the marching-­band brasses of Alonzo, the unified chaos from within Chi. The Lady had enabled her to hear microscopic zymes before—­from here, Alonzo seemed that small. She closed her eyes and extended her will, imagining that she was the Lady, stretching her grace across a distance.

  “Octavia—­” Alonzo’s voice broke into her mind, as close as if he stood next to her. Her gasp and the roar of the crowd obscured his next few words. “That fire-­breather is gaming for the first platform. Let him, beastie. We will grant him wide berth. Fire vexes Octavia like nothing else. She thinks she hides it, but I see. I likely would feel the same, had I seen what happened to my father that night. Up! Now . . .”

  Each time he said her name, she felt it like sharpened cat claws digging into her belly. She opened her eyes. Sweat dribbled from her temple. Chi had indeed bounded up the mountain. Her wings carried her beyond the swipe of the mecha-­dragon’s tail.

  Octavia couldn’t hear Alonzo now. Neither his voice nor his song.

  The Lady had granted her another new insight, one that made no sense. She felt the scrutiny of eyes on her. Tatiana stood feet away, lips contorted in disgust.

  “You’re doing magic, aren’t you? This isn’t Caskentia, you know. There are things you can do there but not here.”

  “Does that mean you wouldn’t hate me if we were in Caskentia?”

  Tatiana averted her gaze as a flush stained her cheeks. “I don’t know. I might hate you less, given a good reason.”

  “I only want to keep your brother safe. You know that, right?”

  “From what Alonzo said, from what Mr. Cody said about his security here . . . it seems that when my brother’s with you, he’s in even more danger than he is down there.” She nodded toward the battle below.

  Guilt twisted in Octavia’s gut. Tatiana was right. Alonzo had already had his mechanical leg ripped off, his arm severely burned, been knifed, and died, all because of her.

  Down below, Alonz
o had made it to the third platform, on the far side of the mountain. She could barely see Chi’s wings poking upward. The dragon and the hedgehog battled at ground level. The crowd oohed and aahed in chorus. Octavia couldn’t stand it. She glanced up instead. Catwalks crisscrossed the ceiling and held rows of manned spotlights, like the sort used at airfields.

  Maybe if I was farther away from all of the other ­people, it’d be easier to focus on the Lady. Maybe I could hear Alonzo again.

  “You’re right,” Octavia finally said. “Alonzo has been hurt because of me, but I’ve also kept him alive. I’ll continue to do so, too.”

  “He wouldn’t tell me much, but he said you were the most powerful medician in all of Caskentia, probably the whole continent. Is that true?”

  A few weeks ago, Octavia would have utterly denied the praise. “I might be, yes,” she whispered.

  “You’ve done some good, then.”

  Octavia glanced over in surprise. Tatiana had said it softly, with meaning. “Yes. I certainly hope so.” Maybe some of the ice around her heart is starting to thaw.

  Tatiana shifted as if suddenly shy. “Alonzo told me I should show you around. The view here is good, but I know some other spots, too. Do you want to go on a walk with me?”

  “Do you know how to get up there?” She motioned to the catwalks.

  “Oh. Yes.” Tatiana looked both surprised and pleased.

  “I would appreciate that. Really.” If Alonzo and Chi can survive this and I can befriend Tatiana as well, I’ll consider it a spectacular day.

  Tatiana motioned to her three guards. Octavia let the girl lead through the halls. They walked up several flights of stairs, metal clambering beneath their feet. The roars of the crowd trembled through the metalwork. Something dramatic was happening in the Arena.

  Please, Lady, let Alonzo and Chi be well.

  Tatiana opened a door. Sudden bright light blinded Octavia. The roars of airship engines quivered through the air. “The access to the dome is here on the roof,” Tatiana shouted back at her. Tatiana’s body radiated anxiety. The bout is nearing the end. This is the worrisome part.

  As she had seen from Mr. Cody’s flat, the roof of the arena was lined with mooring towers. Eight in all, placed at the corners and halfway points of the building. Several airships were berthed. Cranes hoisted pallets of freight. Tatiana motioned and Octavia followed, the men close behind.

  “Sometimes I come up here for the view,” Tatiana shouted. Wind whipped at Octavia’s hair, forcing strands free from her coiled braids, but Tatiana’s weave seem plastered into place. Strong hands grasped Octavia from behind, pinning her arms to her sides. She screeched. No new songs had approached. These are her guards. We’ve been betrayed.

  “Let me go! Help! Help!” Octavia struggled and kicked, but she may as well have been pounding against a concrete pillar.

  “No one’s working up here right now. They’d miss the show,” said Tatiana.

  Octavia felt something deep inside her turn cold. Alonzo’s little sister? What . . . ?

  Tatiana motioned to a large shipping box about her height. FRAGILE: THIS END UP had been repeatedly stenciled across the fresh wood.

  “Tatiana, no! I—­”

  The men lifted Octavia. Her flailing boot found the tenderness of a face. Crunch of cartilage, wail of blood, adrenaline spike of annoyance. She dropped inside, landing on all fours. Splintered wood scraped at the softness of her hands. A lamp and a traveler’s canvas pack awaited her. With a heavy thud, an eclipse stole away sunlight. She pivoted on her hip. The lid. She jumped to her feet but couldn’t quite stand. Even as she pressed her bowed shoulders against the wood, she felt the shudders of a hammer on nails. A board or something dense slapped directly overhead.

  Holes at random intervals cast beams of light into the box, like tiny arena spotlights. “Tatiana! Let me out!” Octavia screamed, pressing her face to an air hole in the side.

  “No!” The ferocity of the word ripped at the girl’s throat. “You’re going to get Alonzo killed! You’re shaming him with all this magic! He needs to be here, with me. I’ll keep him safe!”

  “Tatiana, no! You don’t understand!”

  “Go away! Just go away! You’ll be more useful elsewhere.” A sob broke her voice.

  The songs departed, leaving only the roars of airships. Up here, Octavia could not even hear the crowd, or perhaps the raucous noise blended with the engines. The crowd. Alonzo. Oh, Alonzo. She pressed both hands to her face as she collapsed on the bottom of the crate. The lamp, the cheap sort found across Caskentia, cast its sallow enchanted light across her legs.

  If he’s hurt, if he dies, I won’t be there. I won’t be able to save him. She tried to stand again, bracing her shoulders against the lid. It didn’t budge. Panting, she dropped to her knees and reached for the other bag. She held up the contents to the light: a bucket, canteens of water, parcels of dry meat, Tamaran flatbread, nuts. She doesn’t intend for me to die, then. Just to dispose of me.

  “Octavia”—­Alonzo’s voice cut into her mind out of nowhere—­“will be sorely disappointed if you are injured. More, she will turn her vicious tongue upon me, and I would much prefer sweetness from her lips. Three minutes remain . . .” His voice started to fade, then resurged. “Octavia must be sick with dread, but we will hold on for her. I am sure she will bring you more cheese.”

  Octavia sobbed, both arms clutched to her torso. Her parasol slapped against her hip. The roof quaked beneath her—­the crowd, wild with enthusiasm. Then, nothing. She rubbed her arms together. Did Alonzo and Chi win? Did they merely survive? What happened?

  Voices, distant. Octavia pressed her mouth to an air hole again. “Help! Help! I’m in a crate! Help!” She looked out and couldn’t see anyone. Machinery clanged. With a lurch, the shipping crate rose. Beams of light shifted as the box turned.

  “No, Lady, no. Stop this. Let them find me. Let there be a way out, please.” The tiny view outside showed gray skies and towers, then the sunlight blinked out again. A new roar surrounded her, and the sense of being totally enclosed—­the holding bay of an airship.

  “Help! Help me!” She scooted from side to side. Through the holes, she could see more crates. A heavy weight clanged above, the wood of the crate groaning. Something had been set on top.

  “Lady?” she whispered. The buzz of an engine was her only reply.

  CHAPTER 10

  Thud. Thunk. The scrape of metal on wood. The whine of opening doors.

  Octavia was slow to wake. Her arms ached, her shoulders were stiff, her body permanently cold. She curled her hand toward her face so she could read her pocket watch. Morning. The second morning. Two days in a crate. Now what? Something was happening. No point in yelling, not without other voices nearby. She had yelled herself hoarse before the airship left Tamarania, just in case anyone else entered the cargo hold.

  On the Argus, I was glad no one went to the hold. I was able to hide Leaf there. Now I only wish someone else would meddle about below decks.

  “Lady, is this almost over?” she asked, her voice a raw creak. “Where am I?” She stuffed her watch into her satchel and looped the strap over her head and shoulder. The black overdress and green surcoat, as her pillow and blanket, remained balled up on the floor.

  Oh, Alonzo. How was he? She could only imagine his fury at his sister. Tatiana might try to play it off like Octavia had left of her own volition, but Alonzo would know differently. He knows me. He’ll try to find me. Wherever I am.

  More noises, more thudding. Something crunched on either side of the crate. The box lifted up, swinging. Octavia rolled and smacked into the far side. Sparkles circled her head like a babe’s mobile. The babe. Mathilda. They were both well when they awoke, but I should be there to check on them, to make sure.

  Another sway. She rolled again, the back of her head cracking against the wood. Total da
rkness claimed her.

  She stirred at the sound of voices, feminine. The buzzes of their songs. Young, healthy, one’s breasts heavy with milk. Light stabbed daggers into her stunned eyes as the lid cracked open.

  “What is it! Can you see inside?” Someone squealed. Two blurry heads partially blocked out the light. Adrenaline. Pounding hearts. Screams. Fleeing footsteps.

  Octavia knew she needed to get herself in a circle, but when she tried to rise, the vertigo spun her around like a lunatic’s dance partner. She had treated many concussions at the front, but had never had one herself. An illuminating experience.

  More voices. The light was blocked again. Deep baritones, arguing.

  “Let me see.” A feminine voice rang with authority. A figure leaned over the opening. “Do not let the poor girl wallow in there. Get her out, gently. ’Tis a medician.”

  Their grips on her forearms made her cry out, the world going all wobbly again. Strong arms cradled her. Not Alonzo. Not his song. She clenched her body around her satchel, but no one tried to pull it away. A hallway blurred by and then she was in a soft and cushy chair, her sore sit bones finally achieving respite. She sighed in relief. Water flowed past her lips. Oh Lady, water!

  After a few minutes of drinking with assistance, she had the strength to hold the cup on her own, her wits returning. She had done her utmost to ration her water, but it had been exhausted nevertheless. Tatiana was woefully inexperienced when it came to packing ­people in crates—­she had no comprehension how much food and water a person required each day.

  Octavia realized that she was sitting in an elegant room painted in fine cream with wainscoted lower walls. A small crowd stood in wait—­serving girls, their hair capped; men in trim black suits; a woman in powder-­blue velvet with white down the bodice, a hard knot of cancer throbbing within her breast. Octavia could not simply hear it in the wail of the woman’s song; she could almost see it, like the harshness of light through the crate’s air hole.