The Clockwork Dagger

by Beth Cato

  Whoever did this knew exactly how to kill.

  The discordant music wailed as it began to fade. Mrs. Stout’s soul was slipping away.

  Octavia grabbed Mrs. Stout’s hand. “Pray, by the Lady let me mend thy ills.” For several long seconds, Octavia didn’t breathe, the very air still in anticipation. The access came with a slight pop, the music louder again due to the circle, but still far too faint.

  Octavia brushed her hands over her concealed wand in her parasol. The puppy that morning had required no more than a pinch of pampria; now she scooped up a full palm.

  “Lady, hear me. Mend the body of this kind soul. Lady, be with us . . .” The ground red leaves fluttered through the air and vanished. A strangled gasp escaped Mrs. Stout’s throat. Octavia bent over her and turned Mrs. Stout’s head to the side just in time. The acidic stench of the vomit didn’t distract Octavia from the prayer repeated beneath her tongue.

  Falling back to her haunches, she reached for the jar of heskool root. The boiled roots were soft beneath her fingers, the chunks fibrous like jerky. She flicked three pieces against Mrs. Stout’s skin. The marching-band rhythm of the heart’s drum immediately steadied.

  Lady, thank you, thank you. She added a sprinkle of bellywood bark to counter any infection from lingering zymes, and a glob of Linsom berries to mend the skin. The clamor dulled. Mrs. Stout’s chest rose and dipped. Octavia allowed herself to sag onto her knuckles, loosened strands of hair snagging on her eyelashes. The wax-sealed incision on her forearm tingled, as if to remind her of its presence.

  “That was amazing,” whispered Mr. Garret. “Never have I seen a healing so fast.”

  Octavia recoiled. She had broken Miss Percival’s most vital rule for this journey, and in a spectacular way. Mrs. Stout may have somehow guessed at what she was, but Mr. Garret had absolute proof.

  Her fingers trembled as she packed her jars. The pampria was half full, enough for two or three trauma cases as bad as Mrs. Stout’s—certainly not adequate to start her practice. Without the Lady’s herbs, I’ll be almost useless in Delford. Doctoring can only do so much for poison cases as bad as theirs. It would take months to grow pampria until it’s ripe enough to harvest. There may be an apothecary in Leffen, but it would be far too overpriced, and I barely have the funds for my journey.

  She brushed her fingers against Mrs. Stout’s arm, now warm to the touch. She was grateful to be able to save her friend, but the consequences were dire.

  “You are a medician,” Mr. Garret said in a gentle tone, probing.

  “Yes.” She didn’t look at him. “I was trained at Miss Percival’s academy.”

  “I know of it. One of the most reputed medician schools in the kingdom. Your skill—’tis as though your Lady’s hand rests directly on you. I had the brief acquaintance of a medician. He was not as attuned.”

  “Ah. When you lost your leg.”

  Mr. Garret sucked in a breath. “How . . . ?”

  “I know these things.”

  “As you knew of her injury before opening the door. You are unusually attuned.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Again, and again, and again. She bowed her head. “Thank you, Lady, for extending your branches.” She brushed her fingers against the copper circle. With an electric snap, the invisible seal broke.

  He cleared his throat. “Perhaps it would help you to know I guessed at your occupation, even before this unfortunate event.”

  She spun to look at him. “How? When?”

  “Your attachment to your satchel. Only a medician or a banker would refuse to hand over a bag, and a banker would not travel alone.”

  I can mend a gunshot wound to the gut in two minutes, but my lack of social graces can damn me just as fast.

  “Do not worry. I tend to be more observant than most,” he said. “Besides, your skill in wielding dining trays did wonders for your reputation.”

  She laughed, the sound verging on hysterical. “Well, at least some good came of that.”

  “How long will she lie here like this, Miss Leander? And this blanket—where is the blood?”

  Octavia stroked at the blanket, the fabric soft as silk. “The Lady will keep her unconscious for a few hours, most likely. The crisis is past, but her body is still mending. As for the fluids, the blanket absorbs them. It’s part of the enchantment. My full uniform has similar wards.”

  “Amazing,” he murmured. “I know so little of the Lady and the Tree. You do not hear of it as a modern practice except among medicians. Not that I am slighting it, of course.” She nodded to show no offense was taken. “During my other experience with a medician, I was not quite . . . of mind to pay attention to such details.”

  “Oh, that’s quite common. Amputation is a trauma not just of the body, but of the soul. The spirit is left incomplete.”

  “Indeed.” He studied her. “I know some regard magic as being a particular sort of science, not requiring any sort of presence or God. I am a practical man of battlefield faith, but there is obviously something to the Lady and I am curious about her nature. Pardon, I do not mean to sound judgmental, merely ignorant.”

  “Ignorance is remedied easily enough.” She softened her words with a smile. “The Lady was a woman and mother and of great faith in God. In times of sorrow, like now, her husband and children succumbed to illness. However, she used the wisdom gleaned from their deaths to go forth and help others. She traveled beyond the Waste, healing. Some stories say the Waste was a land of plenty then, or just starting to die. It depends on the telling. She saw more pain and suffering than most people could withstand, yet she endured. At the end of her life, she begged God that she still be able to heal. She was planted in the ground and grew as a tree bound to the very soul of the earth.

  “The Lady is the mother of all children, the shade on a sunny day, the balm for any wound.” Octavia stopped with a bashful shrug. “The Tree is somewhere beyond the Waste and said to be higher than the Pinnacles. Her seeds bring back the decayed dead, her leaves revive the recently departed, and other parts of the tree are also powerful curatives.”

  “Has anyone actually seen the Tree? In recent times, I mean.”

  “With their eyes? No. We all yearn to see the actual Tree, wherever it is.” Grand understatement, that, but one simply didn’t speak of such things, not even to other medicians.

  She rested a hand on Mrs. Stout’s arm. “Berth 3A was mine,” she whispered. “This was meant for me.”

  “Yes.” Mr. Garret’s growl caused her to raise her head.

  “Do you think it’s because of what happened earlier with the gremlins? Or Mr. Drury . . .”

  “Any fool can bludgeon a small, cornered beastie to death. Stabbings that precise speak of more expertise.”

  “Then Mr. Drury—”

  “I do not know about him, but this seems strangely out of proportion. Has he approached you since this morning?”

  “No, but there was a note left in my room earlier, threatening my life if I continue to my destination. Someone had access to my room then, and again later, to attack Mrs. Stout.”

  “Hmm. Perhaps there is wisdom to the suggestion. Have you considered returning to the academy?”

  “No.” I’m not welcome.

  “If someone is trying to kill you—”

  “I cannot go back.”

  He was quiet for a long moment. “Mrs. Stout may have seen her attacker and can tell us more.”

  “Perhaps, though many people don’t remember the moments before near-death. It’s a blessing, really.” She frowned. “I do need to clean up this blood before she awakens. What can be done about the bedding and carpet?”

  “I will tend to it. You see a bit of everything on these ships.” Mr. Garret stood and unsnapped the canvas from the support poles around the bunk.

  “Truly? You see that many attempted murders and medicians failing in their attempts to travel incognito?”

  “I referred more to unusual stains and matters of laundry. As for y
our efforts to travel incognito, I can assure you, your presence has created an unusual fuss on board ship. You are the focus of gossip right now.”

  She harrumphed beneath her breath. “I might find that flattering if my friend hadn’t nearly died.” Tears flooded her eyes. “This is . . . we can’t keep this a secret, not because of me. There’s still a murderer on board.”

  Mr. Garret folded the tenting and set it on the floor. He began to lift the sodden mattress and Octavia shook her head. “Wait a moment,” she said. “This won’t dry it to the center, but it will help.” She unholstered her parasol and held the stick over the blood. Immediately the outer layer began to pale, the desiccated blood falling away in thick flakes like curling candle wax. His eyes widened.

  “I never guessed that your medician wand was hidden there.”

  “Good. I might keep some secrets from you yet.”

  “As to the killer aboard . . .” Mr. Garret sobered. “Captain Hue is a good sort, really, but he has absolute faith in the Caskentian government. He would moor us at the nearest tower and turn the investigation over to local militia.”

  Octavia slumped over, one hand to her forehead. “Oh dear. All our suspects are wealthy. They would buy off the local officials and be on their merry way within minutes.”

  “You are sadly astute in the workings of the modern world.”

  “You haven’t seen how Caskentia has treated the academy. If not for the working farm, all of the girls would starve. The cattle and the spring tulips bring in more than our healing has in years.” She shut her mouth with a click of her teeth. Miss Percival would swat her backside if she heard Octavia babble about privy details like that.

  Mr. Garret nodded as he balled up the mattress and linens. “I will take these downstairs and return.”

  “I’ll clean up Mrs. Stout while you’re away, but . . .” Memory made her bite her lower lip. “Whoever did this had a key. The door was locked when we arrived.”

  He looked at the door, frowning. “Perhaps they stole her key, or a master. I will be very, very fast.”

  “You can’t guard me night and day, Mr. Garret. I can take care of myself.” She motioned to the capsicum flute hidden at her torso, rather proud of how she hid the tremble of her hand.

  “I will do my utmost to keep you alive.” Mr. Garret’s icy blue eyes appraised her for a moment and then he was gone.

  Odd. I’m usually the one who fights to keep people alive.

  Octavia locked the door; at the very least, it would slow down an intruder. She dug into the closet and pulled out Mrs. Stout’s case. The flap was unzipped with clothing dangling out. She froze. Mrs. Stout wasn’t the sort to leave her luggage in that state.

  The underclothes and dresses were a tangle, but she managed to find a spare nightdress and bloomers and set them aside. She reached for her own bag and found it in similar condition. Everything was unfolded and ransacked, though nothing appeared to be missing. Was this a robbery, or made to look like one? Maybe the murderer had been so confident he had the right bunk, he hadn’t bothered to check. A few quick stabs in the dark and the deed was done.

  Mrs. Stout remained asleep within the circle. Octavia tapped the copper threads. The warmth of magic thrummed against her fingers. “Lady, release thy burden on gravity and grant me time to cleanse thy charge,” she whispered, concentrating on Mrs. Stout.

  The older woman’s body rose, her gown haphazard and stiff with blood. At about two feet in height, Mrs. Stout stopped, her body ramrod straight and supine. Octavia cleansed her with a rag enchanted like the medician blanket. She was halfway done dressing Mrs. Stout when a light knock echoed through the door.

  “Miss Leander?” asked Mr. Garret.

  “Give me a moment.” She hurriedly did most of the buttons and looked between Mrs. Stout and the cot. It would take one small nudge to push Mrs. Stout out of the circle and onto the bed. The ability to float a patient was rare; at the academy, only Miss Percival could channel that much power from the Lady. To float a person beyond the circle—to sense anything beyond those limits—was supposedly impossible. It would certainly be convenient to move Mrs. Stout now, but Octavia wasn’t foolish enough to do it and invite that kind of scrutiny.

  Amusing as it would be to see Mr. Garret’s reaction to such a feat of strength.

  She lowered Mrs. Stout to the blanket and tapped the circle to disengage it. The heat of the Lady’s presence withdrew like fireplace warmth sucked away by an open window in winter.

  Upon confirming Mr. Garret’s identity through the peephole, she let him in. “We need to lift her onto the bed,” Octavia said as he set down the new linens. He immediately positioned himself at Mrs. Stout’s shoulders.

  Together, they grunted and lifted Mrs. Stout to the lower cot. Octavia nodded to Mr. Garret. “Thank you. And thank you for respecting my strength.”

  “We already lifted her together once, Miss Leander.”

  “Yes, but . . .” She shook her head, almost dazed. I’m so used to fighting over such issues, I don’t know what to make of it when I’m respected.

  Mrs. Stout’s nightgown still gaped open and showed the planes of her chest, her unsupported breasts spread out and flat. Octavia spied another blemish and did a quick swipe with her rag. The mark didn’t move. She leaned forward to examine it more closely.

  “Is something the matter?” asked Mr. Garret.

  “No. I thought I missed something, but she has a princess scar, that’s all.”

  “A princess scar?”

  “That’s what medicians call it when a person has an injury to the chest, like the missing princess in the stories. In the war, we often saw bayonet wounds or shrapnel.” She held a fist to her own chest, just above the sternum, then looked back at Mrs. Stout. “By the smallness of the scar, this is probably a bullet . . . wound.” Octavia stopped.

  Mrs. Stout’s silvered blond hair, minus the blue streak. Her age. The location and type of the wound. It’s a coincidence. It must be. She glanced back at Mr. Garret. His honeyed skin seemed strangely blanched, the muscles in his face turned to stone.

  Mr. Garret shook his head, his thick queue of hair whipping side to side. “The odds of such a thing . . . ’Tis simply not possible.”

  “Mrs. Stout? The missing princess?” Octavia stared at her slumbering friend.

  CHAPTER 5

  How many women of that age would bear such a particular injury? And Mrs. Stout certainly didn’t have the look of a princess. Well, what Octavia would imagine by reading the stories. Any illustration of young Princess Allendia depicted her as an angelic vision of blond curls and wide blue eyes.

  There was no physical comparison to be made to the current royal family. Not a year after the princess’s kidnapping, the rest of her family was killed in an attack by infernal magi from the Waste. Distant cousins assumed the throne and made Mercia what it was today: a city of curfews and crime, powerful wards surrounding the city and preventing the entrance of any infernals. Queen Evandia and her children stayed sequestered in the palace for their own safety.

  Surely Mrs. Stout—this plump, pleasant woman—wasn’t the reason for fifty years of intermittent conflict?

  Octavia sank into the carpet, her legs suddenly boneless.

  “The princess was said to have a magic-inlaid tattoo between the toes of her right foot,” said Mr. Garret.

  “Oh my. You really . . . you really want me to check?” she asked faintly. “The stories never mentioned that.”

  “ ’Tis not public knowledge, but something known to those who work with the family.”

  “And what will we do if it’s there?”

  He closed his eyes, his expression pained. “No one would want her alive. Queen Evandia would see her as a direct threat. Others would use her as a rallying point for a civil war, elevate her as the true heir, here to re-create the Gilded Age we knew during the reigns of her father and grandfather. And the Wasters . . .”

  There was no need to say what the Wasters
would do. Their motivation to kidnap the princess had been straightforward: marry her to the son of their grand potentate and use the ancient royal lineage of Caskentia to found their own dynasty, their own Gilded Age.

  Kidnapping and rape were well in character for those men beyond the mountains. Subsequent generations of Wasters had continued those dark methods in their fight for independence. Octavia still recalled the cacophony, both in music and digestive agony, of a thousand soldiers at the northern pass as they died in their own cots, victims of toxic zymes planted within the water.

  Feeling half ill and eager to prove Mr. Garret wrong, she shuffled to Mrs. Stout’s feet. There was no aura of magic, no spark, but such tattoos were meant to be subtle. Valuable horses or house pets were marked in such a way in case of theft; she had never heard of the technique being used on a child.

  Opening herself to the Lady, she brushed her pointer finger between each white and wrinkled toe. Beside the pinkie, three pinprick-size moles lay in a line.

  At her touch, the sudden buzz was slight, like the split-second vibration of a bee passing by her ear. Then came the burning. The heat crept up her finger, testing her endurance, testing her skill. Any lesser magus would shriek and pull away; an untalented person would feel nothing at all. Octavia breathed through the pain, remaining stoic, and the heat withdrew like a tide.

  She had passed the test.

  “This is the Princess Allendia, true daughter of King Kethan and Queen Varya.” The voice was raspy, the magic in vapors after so many years. “Guard her well, fair magus, and treat her as your liege.”

  This must be a sham.

  Mrs. Stout could not be the princess. But why construct this enchantment so long ago if she wasn’t really Princess Allendia?

  “Is that it?” asked Mr. Garret. “Did you get any response?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “It’s nothing.” It was bad enough that Mr. Garret knew Octavia’s secrets. At the very least, Mrs. Stout’s identity could remain in doubt.