by Beth Cato
Mrs. Stout looked as if she had swallowed a slug. “Listen to that poppycock,” she muttered, leaning closer to Octavia. “He doesn’t have a callus on his hands, and he thinks he can be a spy? He hasn’t known a day of work in his life. Footle and hogwash!”
Octavia scrutinized the braggart as best she could at their distance. Mrs. Stout was right—the man’s hand on his glass was plush and pink. The woman had an exceptional eye.
“The term ‘Clockwork Dagger’ has never made sense to me,” murmured Octavia. “Daggers are antiquated, not clockwork.”
“It’s a figurative term, really. A ‘dagger’ is an older name for an assassin. Caskentia trains their agents, winds them up like a clockwork toy, and sends them off to do whatever needs doing.”
“Killing people.”
“Not always. Information is the game, these days. Knowing what the Wasters are doing. Knowing what new innovation will emerge from the south. I daresay, they would know the color of the Queen’s corset hour by hour.”
Octavia glanced sidelong at her roommate. “You are a fount of knowledge, Mrs. Stout.”
Mrs. Stout’s lips pressed together primly as she stared at the other passengers. “You learn a lot, when you’ve lived as long as I have.”
Little Daveo returned, passing a flute of aerated water to Octavia. The water fizzled against her lips as the bubbles tickled her nose. She stepped closer to the windows. From this side, the rolling green contours of the valley spread out before her. Reinforced irrigation canals looked so straight and smooth they had to be the work of geologica magi. Probably fifty miles away, the forested foothills stood in bold contrast to the gray Pinnacles capped in white. Such deceptive beauty.
From here, there’s no trace of the young boys who froze solid during midnight watches, the avalanches that swallowed entire brigades. Those mounds of ash, almost indistinguishable from the snow, that consisted of cremated bodies and amputated limbs.
She gulped down more water, as if to wash the memory away.
By the windows, one of the young men barked in a laugh. “Did you see that?” The others murmured and leaned closer. Curious, Octavia leaned against her own window just as a small, moss-green body thudded against the glass.
She screamed, stumbling backward. As she shoved her drink onto the nearest table, her fingers grappled for the capsicum flute.
The body on the window rotated and formed an X shape. Long bat wings flared from its arms, its three-fingered hands twitching. The face resembled a pug dog, the snout compressed and flaring. It was beyond hideous. Dark round eyes studied her through the window, one eye encircled by pale scars and what appeared to be stitch marks.
“Is that—is that a gremlin?” Octavia asked. Her heart fluttered like butterfly wings in a windstorm.
“It most certainly is.” Mrs. Stout had shown no alarm at the curiosity, only frowning. “Harmless little creatures, really. Well, unless you’re wearing silver.”
Self-conscious, Octavia looked at the others. They all laughed together, but not at her. The woman wore wine down the front of her glittery dress. Little Daveo was already there with rags in hand to clean up the floor.
“There’s rarely only one gremlin, though,” said Mrs. Stout. “Most often it means we’re flying through a flock—”
A flutter of green filled the windows. More screams came from the other side of the ship. Octavia turned to see the toddler in a mad dash, his face whitened with terror, his mother in quick pursuit.
One of the young men called to a compatriot, “Go down to the smoking room! Tell the others to come up for some fun.”
Fun? What could possibly be fun about these strange little creatures flying around outside?
“Miss Leander, I do believe we should retire to our room for now,” said Mrs. Stout, clutching her arm.
“Why? I don’t under—”
Green flashed through the air not five feet away. One of the men laughed as he staggered in pursuit, a chair in his hands. Her gaze went to the open windows. Little green bodies flooded the gap. Those dark eyes studied the room, heads cocked in jerky little movements, like a bird or a construct. More wings filled the air. A woman screamed. Glass shattered. Heavy, metallic thuds drew her attention to the young man with the chair. He was bludgeoning the gremlin. Music of blood crackled in Octavia’s ears, the sound inhuman and discordant, and then it quieted. The man dropped the chair and held up the limp body. The thing couldn’t have been more than a foot in diameter. It oozed strangely dark blood, its extremities dangling like a slack marionette.
Around her, blood screamed more loudly than laughter and the crunch of chairs and whatever other weapons the drunken gang had grabbed. Little Daveo, his face flushed, rushed to a bell along the wall.
“Just shut the windows and we’ll take care of them!” he shouted.
“And you’ll end all the fun!” cried a man.
“Damned flying rats,” yelled another man. “Think you can bring Caskentia down more, eh? I’ll show you . . .”
The young woman screamed shrilly and then the sound was choked off. A gremlin, no larger than an ottoman, had gripped her necklaces and hoisted her upward with impossible strength. The woman’s slippered feet dangled above the ground. The man beside her managed to force her head down, allowing the necklaces to fly freely into the gremlin’s grip. Its toothy smile of triumph sent a chill through Octavia.
Everything seemed to take place in a matter of seconds. Mrs. Stout shouted something that was lost in the din. Octavia looked for others in need and only saw gremlins swirling about, clattering on windows. They wanted out. No one else wore silver. A man attacked a gremlin from behind, crushing it with a well-aimed kick.
As horrible and hideous as the creatures might be, they had the clear disadvantage. This was a slaughter.
Octavia dove for a tray left abandoned on a table. Her satchel bounced heavily against her hip. The nearest man was hunched over as he stomped the gremlin to death. She smashed the tray against the side of the man’s head. He crashed to the ground, dazed.
Beady black eyes blinked at her from a puddle of blood and crushed green flesh. Before she could even step forward, its shrill music faded.
“Kethan’s bastards, what was that for?” snarled the man as he bounded to his feet. His body’s song was steady yet sluggish with inebriation.
“You drunken josser! Just let the creature out! That’s all it wants. It didn’t even steal any silver.” She held up the tray again as a threat.
“Bah. It’s just a bit of fun,” he said, rubbing his ear.
“Your concept of fun is like kicking fresh cow patties.” She almost convulsed in rage. He had no sense that these were living beings—even worse, he probably didn’t care. His ilk gallivanted off to war, expecting the joy of a fox hunt.
“The little beasties will come in here and rob the ship blind,” he said. “They’ll jack any piece of silver not bolted down. And they’re chimeras. Bloody constructs. They’re not natural.”
Gremlins were chimeras? “Even as creatures of science, they still live and breathe and bleed.”
“I doubt you’ll make any converts in this lot,” said Mrs. Stout, her breath huffing.
“These bucks don’t need conversion. They need common sense,” she said, moving forward, prepared to deliver more sense in the form of a heavy wooden tray.
Airborne gremlins still darted throughout the room. More people had flooded the promenade, but the creatures proved agile enough to dodge most attacks. A harsh, alien scream sounded, the sudden music piercing. Several men in crimson garb dashed by.
Octavia waded into the scrum. She knocked one man away from a gremlin, and in surprise he shoved her back. “You’re a woman!” he said, his jaw slack.
“And you’re a fool,” she snapped.
Stewards herded people toward the berthing. Mrs. Stout was engaged in an animated conversation with Little Daveo. Glass crunched underfoot, and Octavia studied the wreck of the room. Stains of alcohol
and blood spattered the floor, green lumps of flesh strewn about.
One of the stewards had a writhing burlap bag in hand and a thick club in the other.
She advanced on him. “Can’t you just let them go free?”
He studied her up and down, his expression more weary than anything. “Can’t, m’lady. Have to search them for missing jewelry and items from the ship. Gremlins are sneaky buggers. Worry not, we’ll take care of it quiet like. If you’re missing anything—”
“No, they stole nothing from me.” She turned away to get her bearings as discordant, terrible notes rang in her ears. It didn’t matter that scientists cobbled gremlins together in some laboratory—their death songs sounded the same as any other being under the Lady’s care.
A heavy thud and squawk sounded behind her, the steward’s bat finding another target. Octavia ached to melt into the floor and cover her ears. She couldn’t tolerate this. She still had the tray in hand.
I can attack the steward, get the bag—and then what? These people won’t grant me peace to heal the gremlins, and the steward isn’t the most guilty party in the room.
As she turned away, she noted a small green lump in a library chair. The gremlin was mostly obscured by an open book, one leathery triangle of wing in contrast to the bright red upholstery. Octavia walked in that direction in a slow and controlled fashion. No one seemed to be looking her way. She sat down on the chair, angling her hips to shelter the creature. She heaved her satchel onto her lap and let that block out the world even more.
Even before lifting the book, she knew this one was uninjured, his song soft as a hum and quickened by anxiety. She set aside the children’s book about the missing princess and gasped. This gremlin was half the size of the others. A mere baby. He whimpered and looked up at her. His long, tapered ears quivered. As hideous as he was, her spirit was moved.
“Shush, shush, little one. I won’t let you come to harm.”
He quieted, as if comforted. She looked toward the windows. Several stewards were close by, already cleaning the carpet. They would order her out at any moment. The men would be on her before she could unlatch a window, of that she had no doubt.
“Miss Leander, are you all right?” Mrs. Stout’s face was flushed, her fists trembling at her rounded hips. “I have filed a complaint and will take it to the captain himself. Those ruffians! Making sport like that! Oh. My goodness. That thing is scarcely bigger than a kitten.”
“We can’t let them kill him,” Octavia whispered. An older man in crisp red attire was headed their way.
“Surely you’re not suggesting . . . oh. You are.”
“Please, Mrs. Stout. You said yourself that these creatures are harmless.”
“Surely you sensed—saw—that girl who was almost choked to death.”
Sensed? Only Miss Percival and the other girls knew of Octavia’s heightened abilities. There was no way for Mrs. Stout to be privy to such knowledge. Adrenaline fluttered through Octavia’s veins, but she chose to disregard the slip.
“It wanted her necklace, not to cause harm. The men aboard this ship certainly didn’t display such mercy. Please, Mrs. Stout.”
Mrs. Stout sighed and nodded brusquely. “Very well. Take it to our berths. We can sneak it out tonight,” she whispered. She turned on her heel. “Oh, Captain! I must speak with you about this appalling matter.” She practically pounced on the man, her body as formidable as a wall.
Octavia opened the middle pocket of her satchel, revealing the white of her medician blanket. “Come along now,” she said, scooping up the creature. He weighed as much as two chicken eggs. The gremlin’s eyes were dark and solemn as she snapped the flap shut.
Octavia escaped the room. In the open space above the stairs, she found the dandies in a mob. Considering how she had just bashed many of them with a tray, she wasn’t surprised at their glowers and commentary as she hurried past.
“Upstart—”
“Meddlesome git—”
“Someone ought to teach her—”
Breathless, she fumbled out her key and opened the door, ducking inside. As she turned, a piece of paper on the sink caught her eye. As she drew closer, she noted it was a napkin.
IF YOU CONTINUE TO DELFORD, YOU WILL DIE.
The words were bold and blocky, stealing the breath from her lungs. It wasn’t from the other men, not that fast. Whoever wrote this knew what she was, where she was going. What did this mean? Why would she die?
“I’m just a medician,” she whispered, and knew the words for false as soon as they escaped her lips. She had never been “just a medician.”
Whatever the note meant, it didn’t need to be seen by Mrs. Stout. Her fingers trembling, she set her satchel on the floor and pulled out the gremlin. He quivered in her palm, his squashed nose sniffing the air. Just as Octavia crammed the note into her satchel, Mrs. Stout burst into the room.
“There!” she said with a huff. “How is the creature?”
“Well.” Octavia managed a shaky smile as the gremlin scurried up her arm to the shoulder, wings tickling against her sleeves. She glanced around the room and couldn’t spy any other threats. Die. Why would I die? How do they know where I’m going?
“Good. I gave that captain a piece of my mind, I’ll tell you! His ear will be burning for hours. Give me space to get to the closet, child.”
Stooping down, the older woman pulled out a brown suitcase in full leather. The corners showed softness from wear, but the craftsmanship was obvious. Mrs. Stout came from some money. She opened the case and tugged something from the base. Metal clinked. The gremlin made a sound akin to a purr as his long ears perked up.
Mrs. Stout held a small metal cage, folded down. With a few snaps it assumed its full size of about a foot in diameter. “In Leffen I intended to buy a new mecha bird. The best mechanists in the kingdom are there! I saw no point in buying a new cage when I already had one at home, so I brought this along. Do you think it’s too small?”
“It looks about right to me,” said Octavia, welcoming any distraction from her new anxieties. Even more, the gremlin was eager. He sprang from her shoulder and glided to Mrs. Stout’s lap with the softest flutter of wings. “The cage is silver. They do have a fixation for the metal, don’t they?”
“They hoard silver, but fancy all things metal, really. Finding a gremlins’ nest is like a dragon’s cave of old, mounded high with everything from wedding rings to engine casings from steam cabriolets.”
“A man out there said these were chimeras.” Octavia studied the gremlin, as if she could discern seams or mismatched flesh.
“Yes, creations out of Tamarania. It’s not enough for scientists to twiddle with machines; no, they must alter living beings as well.” Mrs. Stout huffed in disagreement. “Of course, there are some who say their presence in Caskentia is to undermine us.”
“How’s that?”
“Oh, there are books on the subject,” Mrs. Stout said sagely, as if that made it true. Her eyes sparkled as she leaned forward with a storyteller’s eagerness. “In the south, men can speak with gremlins, work with them. Here, they are mischief makers. Thieves. Some suspect that gremlins are here to ensure we cannot develop our technology, that gremlins steal everything and haul it south so those nations remain superior.”
“That’s footle. Anyone with sense knows Caskentia undermines itself sufficiently and doesn’t require any outside interference.”
“True. Nothing’s been the same since the days of King Kethan.” Sadness weighed on Mrs. Stout’s words, but then, she was old enough to actually remember those golden years. “Most gremlin flocks live near cities, just as we found this mob today. Makes scavenging easier for them, I imagine, though you never see them inside a city. Even gremlins have standards!”
A dislike of cities. Something we have in common.
The gremlin took to the air and alighted on Octavia’s lap. With an eye on his catlike mouth, she slowly stroked his head. Soft folds at the base of the ears remi
nded her of worn leather. The gremlin butted his head against her, chittering, and folded his body in a meditative Al Cala posture like a small child. Octavia sucked in a breath, caught by memory.
For years, when loneliness overwhelmed her, Octavia would retreat to the academy’s upstairs office and crawl beneath Miss Percival’s desk. Above her, Miss Percival’s pen scratched on paper. Octavia bowed in Al Cala, forehead to the ground, breathing, taking in the mere closeness of another body.
“Is it the fire tonight?” Miss Percival would ask after a time, knowing of the nightmares that plagued Octavia.
“Yes,” she sometimes said, or “No. The others . . .” Won’t talk to me. Say I’m too good for them. That obviously the Lady is the only friend I need.
If it was the latter, Miss Percival’s hand would work beneath the desk to rest on Octavia’s shoulder. “It was the same for me.”
No, it wasn’t. Miss Percival couldn’t hear a song outside of an enchanted circle; Octavia knew that—she had tested it with small injuries. Miss Percival was none the wiser, gifted as she was.
As Octavia crouched beneath the desk, she knew the anxiety in her mentor’s blood, the drawn-out notes of weariness and the rat-tat-tat of the constant terror that a thousand more things must be done before sleep. Sometimes the song was accompanied by the agonized resonant drum of a migraine, or the quiver of knees and hands cramped after hours of harvesting.
“Let your breath be the wind in the Lady’s branches, Octavia. Give her your sorrow, your guilt.”
They breathed together. In those moments, Miss Percival’s song hummed in solace.
They had outgrown that ritual years ago. Judging by Miss Percival’s strained song in recent months, not even Al Cala granted her respite these days.
But this gremlin—this creature cobbled together of various parts—meditated in a perfect Al Cala pose. Tears filled Octavia’s eyes as she pressed a hand to the gremlin’s back, just as Miss Percival once soothed her.
Do you grieve for those who died? Are you afraid to be caged within these walls, the way I feel amongst city streets?
