The Clockwork Dagger

by Beth Cato

  “Oh God! Oh God!” cried Little Daveo.

  Octavia was in no mood for sympathy. “The steward’s injuries indicate he was the pilot in the buzzer that pursued us. He’s our man. Or one of them.”

  Alonzo stared at her, agape. “How . . . ?”

  “I just know.”

  That was enough for him. Alonzo motioned to some stewards who had gathered behind them. They grabbed the two men. Mr. Drury sobbed, tears streaking a path in the red powder on his face.

  “Where are you taking them?” asked Octavia.

  Alonzo spared her a glance, his eyes blinking rapidly. “The promenade is where we assemble in most emergencies.”

  The stewards had already corralled the dining passengers at the far side of the promenade, where they jabbered amongst themselves. The windows showed absolute darkness. The captain had already arrived. Octavia stalked forward with Mrs. Stout in her wake.

  “Captain,” Octavia said.

  He grunted in greeting, his breathing heavy. He must have run from the control room. “It seems you are the focal point of more disturbances aboard my ship.”

  “Much to my regret, yes.”

  “This have anything to do with that buzzer drop earlier?”

  She hesitated. “Perhaps.”

  Alonzo bound Daveo’s wrists together and poured a pitcher of water over the man’s face. Another steward was doing the same with Mr. Drury, though he was not bound. Excess water coursed along their faces and puddled on the dark carpet.

  “Thank you, thank you,” murmured Mr. Drury with a smile for his steward. He stood and staggered away. Octavia opened her mouth, wanting to shout for them to stop him, to do something, but had no reason. As if reading her mind, Mr. Drury looked at her with a patient smile as he walked by, as if saying all was forgiven.

  Octavia forced her attention back to the more immediate matter. “Al—Mr. Garret, I think it’ll ease matters if someone—I’ll put it bluntly—undoes Daveo’s pants to show the extent of his injuries.”

  “Undo his pants? Here?” The captain waved an arm. “Clear the promenade. There are ladies present.”

  “Could take them to the mess, sir,” muttered one of the stewards.

  “I’m not having capsicum in a smaller enclosed space. Get someone cleaning that hallway, too,” he growled.

  Octavia turned to Mrs. Stout. “You don’t have to stay.”

  “I will. I’m not leaving you, child! Besides, I’ve seen wounds before. And if this man . . . if he has done what you think . . .”

  Octavia doubted Mrs. Stout had seen the ugliness of poorly treated diesel burns, but she nodded. She would have felt ill at ease had they separated, anyway.

  “And what, pray tell, is it you think my steward has done?” asked Captain Hue.

  She met Alonzo’s eyes, wondering how much to tell the man.

  “Captain,” said Alonzo. He set the pitcher down. “When we ventured to retrieve my leg in the swamp, we were attacked by an assailant in a modified buzzer. It crashed and the pilot escaped, but not without injury.”

  “What makes you suspect Daveo?” Captain Hue asked, arms crossed over his chest.

  “I . . . I am close to the Lady. I have a way of . . . sensing these things,” said Octavia.

  Daveo blinked rapidly, his eyes still red. His jaw was set in a defiant grimace.

  “Like how you managed to find the source of that poison in the smoke room? Magic!” An expression somewhere between disgust and fear twisted Captain Hue’s lips. He did a quick turn to look around the room, then faced Daveo. “Nothing to say for yourself, eh? Drop his trou.”

  Two of the other stewards tugged down Daveo’s pants. Mrs. Stout made a slight clucking sound and cleared her throat, but Octavia was unmoved. The dark trousers wadded around his ankles. Both legs were swathed in bandages, filthy in rusty red. His skin—what was left of it—warbled in its agony without need of a circle to enhance the sound, and she detected frantic notes indicative of infection.

  “Blimey,” muttered one of the men.

  Captain Hue grunted beneath his breath. “This is a matter of increasing sensitivity. Men, strip him of his coat and sleeves and check for armaments, and secure him to the post. Then go and guard the door.”

  The crewmen did as asked. Little Daveo’s chin continued its defiant tilt as they stripped him to his undershirt. When his pants were lifted up again, they found two knives strapped to his boots. Another small blade was sheathed close to his forearm. Had Mr. Drury been less of a fighter, he likely would have been stabbed. They hauled Daveo back and used decorative cord to fix him to the pillar. Daveo sat on the carpet half undressed, his mauled wounds weeping through the bandages. The men backed away, offering bows to the captain, and headed toward the entry.

  For Daveo to tolerate his injuries in such a way suggested heavy doses of tinctures or training in matters of extreme pain, or both.

  Octavia met Daveo’s gaze evenly. “Why?”

  “As a citizen of Caskentia, you are subject to the rules and laws of Caskentia,” Daveo said, his voice husky with pain. “Therefore, as an agent of the Queen—”

  “You, an agent to the Queen? You are naught but a brigand. You have no power to arrest Octavia,” said Alonzo. “She has committed no crime. And as a Clockwork Dagger and agent of the crown, ’tis I who shall arrest you for repeated attempts at homicide.” He straightened and stood, as if he wore regalia and not a common steward’s garb.

  Daveo laughed. It began with a low wheeze and grew to a wild cackle. “Oh, listen to the general’s son, talking as if he still owns the world. I do indeed have the power to arrest her, general’s son, and to kill her as I will, just as you were supposed to.”

  “What?” squeaked Octavia. Alonzo’s face was of stone. “Kill me?”

  Daveo continued, “I am a true Clockwork Dagger, tasked to eliminate Octavia Leander lest she fall into the hands of the Dallows and turn traitor to Queen Evandia. The key Dallowmen agent here is Mr. Drury, whom you just let walk away.”

  Alonzo, kill me? All along, it could have been him. Was supposed to be him. And I trusted him. I was that stupid.

  The captain sucked in a sharp breath. “Two Daggers aboard my ship, playing rivals?”

  “You, a Dagger . . .” Alonzo’s expression stiffened in disbelief. “All along, it was you?”

  “What does he mean, you were supposed to kill me?” demanded Octavia. The words were raw in her throat.

  Alonzo shook his head. “Octavia, believe me, I never would have. By orders, your death was to be a last resort. That is why I wanted you to return to Miss Percival—to scare you away with that note in your quarters—or for you to be escorted to Mercia, where I could convince—”

  Believe him? Why should I believe anything this man says? From the very moment we met in the streets of Vorana, his close proximity was intended to realize one purpose: my death.

  “And what if you hadn’t been able to convince them?” she asked, a quiver in her voice. To Caskentia, she had been nothing more than another pox-ridden village. It didn’t matter how many lives she had saved, or would save.

  If I cannot be controlled, I will be killed.

  “Oh, he wouldn’t have. But he would have tried, I grant him that. We would have provided a cleaner death within Mercia, in any case.” Daveo paused as he spat out a tooth and then looked to Alonzo. “Do you really think they would send someone as inexperienced as you on a mission this vital? We wanted you out of the way for months, to silence your mother’s trap. We doubted you had the nerve to carry through. You’re too much like your father, a diplomat. Soft.” His face contorted in disgust. “Not even I thought you’d become besotted with the quarry.”

  “ ‘Trust above all’ is the Daggers’ motto. This deceit . . . I do not believe you,” Alonzo said stiffly. But she could see he did believe, and how gravely the words wounded him. The words were intended to wound him.

  Little Daveo sneered. “Come closer, then, if you doubt.”


  “Are any of my damned stewards who they claim to be?” asked the captain. No one paid him heed. Alonzo edged forward.

  “Is it wise to get so close to him?” Octavia asked. What if they had not found all of the man’s weapons? What if this was all some terrible ploy? And should she care what happened to Alonzo? His allegiance to the Daggers would have led to her death, despite his best intentions.

  His best intentions. He was supposed to kill me. He didn’t. That means something—everything.

  “I must,” said Alonzo. He leaned closer to Daveo as the short steward whispered something.

  Alonzo straightened. The lean skin of his face had gone haggard, taking on a yellow tint in the lamp and glowstone light. “He is telling the truth.”

  “That’s it?” Octavia stared.

  “ ’Tis proof enough for me.” Alonzo sounded as though he was the one who had been beaten and peppered in the face. She recalled the code word he had uttered to Mrs. Stout in Leffen. Daveo must have offered something similar.

  “You have a job to do, general’s son,” said Little Daveo. “Can you do it? Can you act in the name of Queen Evandia?”

  The Queen who would burn thousands of her own people to keep her precious palace safe, who did nothing as her people starved and corruption ruled. What was one more body on the pyre?

  “Oh God,” Mrs. Stout murmured behind her.

  Octavia’s blood ran cold. Kill me. Alonzo can kill me and prove himself as a Clockwork Dagger. She clutched a hand to her waist, where her capsicum flute used to be. First Miss Percival, now Alonzo.

  His gaze met hers, eyebrows drawn and expression agonized. Her heartbeat seemed to slow. Alonzo lowered himself as if to speak with Daveo again and then his arm blurred in motion. There was a magnificent crunch and spew of blood as Daveo’s head flew back, chin skyward. The back of his head smacked the pillar. The man’s head lolled on his neck and drooped downward. Octavia flinched at the hue and cry of the gore, but couldn’t help but smile as Alonzo stood and shook out his fist.

  “Kellar was right. I make a lousy Dagger.” Alonzo looked to the captain. “If what Daveo said about Mr. Drury is true, he must be apprehended, and quickly.”

  Captain Hue nodded and turned toward the door. “Rogers! Mayhew!” He looked back to Alonzo, his voice lowering. “I know well what a Clockwork Dagger is, boy, and if you two are at odds and he is the superior, you just created a fine mess of trouble for yourself. You’ll be the quarry next.”

  “Indeed.” Alonzo’s face was grim. “But if Mr. Drury is a Waster, we need to—” He froze in place. “Do you feel that?”

  Captain Hue extended a hand, as if feeling for a breeze. “God.” His leathered face clenched.

  “What? What?” Octavia looked between them.

  “We’re turning.” Cold anger sparked in Captain Hue’s eyes. “Someone is piloting the Argus off course.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Octavia thought Alonzo had an imposing figure, but no one could match Captain Hue in presence. He stalked through corridors, not running and yet urgent in his stride. A gaggle of gossiping passengers had stayed around the top of the staircase on deck A. At Captain Hue’s approach, they parted, wide-eyed and wordless, allowing him clear passage to the stairs.

  Alonzo dropped back to join Octavia. “I want both of you to go to Vincan in the smoking room. Tell him to shut down. He will know what that means.”

  “Is he a Dagger as well?” she said in a whisper, panting as she hopped down the stairs. She could scarcely hear herself against the thudding of so many feet on metal.

  “No, nor does he know I am one, just that I am an agent of some sort.”

  Octavia flinched at the tautness in his voice. He had defied orders to keep her alive, believing he could persuade his superiors of their error. In truth, he had been regarded as a child at a Solstice dinner. Meddlesome, unwanted, and best exiled to a far distant table.

  “I want to stay with you,” she said. “I need to. This is about me—”

  “And why is it about you?” Captain Hue stopped cold, whirling on his heel to confront her. He stood a few steps below but seemed to tower over her.

  “I . . . I am close with the Lady, and the Waste desires my skills,” she stammered, the words sounding lame and boastful.

  Captain Hue snorted. “Religion be damned.” He continued down the steps, his breaths an enraged huff.

  “I need to stay with Octavia,” said Mrs. Stout.

  Alonzo released a heavy exhalation. “You all will be the death of me.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I’m a medician.”

  Captain Hue rounded a corner on deck B, going in the opposite direction from the smoking room and through another door. A few crewmen stood in the hallway. “Both of you, follow me.”

  “Yessir,” they chimed in melody.

  Captain Hue reached into his jacket and pulled out an ivory-handled knife. With the flick of his wrist, he extended the blade. He then shoved his way through the next door and into the control car.

  It was a narrow space some ten feet in length. At the far end, rounded windows stared into the bleak night. Men in trim crimson uniforms stood in various positions throughout the room, utterly silent. Mr. Drury stood at the far end beside the rudder wheel. He faced them, his expression cool, eyes bloodshot from the capsicum. He held a young crewman, one hand gripping his hair and the other holding a knife to his throat.

  “Miss Leander,” he said pleasantly, as if they had just encountered each other on the street.

  “What are you doing to my ship?” snarled Captain Hue.

  “A slight detour, that’s all. I do hope you kept that little steward in custody. I would like to talk with him some more.” Mr. Drury leaned to one side as if to nudge the rudder wheel.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing,” said the captain, his chest puffing like a roused prairie grouse.

  “Actually, I do. I have piloted airships for over twenty years. Don’t worry, I’ll return your ship and your son to you soon enough.” He gave the boy’s blond hair a hard tug, jerking his head back more.

  Octavia had no intention of squandering any more time. “Mr. Drury, are you a Waster?”

  “ ‘Waster’ is such a crude term, my lady. We prefer the term ‘Dallowmen,’ don’t we, boys?”

  At Mr. Drury’s motion, the two crewmen they had met in the hall stepped forward. One pounded Captain Hue in the back of the head while the other kicked the backs of the captain’s knees, sending him crumpling to the floor. The hostage whimpered and struggled against the knife. Octavia heard the cry of the blood before she saw the red drip down the pale line of his neck. Alonzo backstepped, herding Octavia and Mrs. Stout toward the hall.

  “Get to Vincan,” he muttered over his shoulder. “See if he can get you out through the aft keel. I will hold the hallway as long as I can. If they get you off the ship, I will follow.”

  “Alonzo—”

  “Where are you taking my medician?” asked Mr. Drury. The captain groaned on the floor.

  “Don’t you dare get yourself killed,” Octavia whispered.

  “Go!” yelled Alonzo.

  Octavia gripped Mrs. Stout by the arm and half dragged the woman down the hall. She hated fleeing, but she was no use in a fight, not in there. Her satchel bounced between her hip and the wall. Deep yells echoed behind her. The women burst through the door to the public quarters of deck B. A few passengers were on the stairs coming down.

  “Mutiny!” Octavia cried. “Wasters have taken control of the ship!”

  Their expressions shifted from curiosity to outright panic. Yelps from above indicated her voice had carried up the stair tower. Octavia pushed through to the hallway.

  Mrs. Stout panted and whimpered at her arm. “Wasters, Wasters,” she repeated in a dark mantra.

  Past the lavatories, through the double-doored air lock. She entered the smoking room, pausing there for a moment, heaving for breath. The freshness of cloves and tobacco assailed
her nostrils. Vincan stood behind the bar, a glass in hand. He resembled a pale wall against a dark backdrop.

  “Wasters!” Octavia managed. “Have taken over the control car. The captain. Alonzo’s trying to hold them off.”

  “Wasters.” Vincan bristled. The word echoed in the room as a few other men stepped forward.

  “Wasters, here?” growled one, guzzling down the rest of a beer. He wiped his mustache clean with a swipe of his wrist. “Where?” In front of him, two mechanical warriors continued to skirmish for dominion atop the pyramid board. Metal ground on metal, and a mecha snake tumbled to the floor with a pathetic cry.

  “They are piloting the ship. Mr. Drury is a Waster, and at least two of the crewmen are as well.” Octavia dropped her satchel to the ground, even as Mrs. Stout collapsed into the nearest seat.

  The men slammed their glasses on the counter, heading out into the corridor. Octavia looked to Vincan. “Alonzo said to tell you to ‘shut down,’ whatever that means.”

  “Eh. Means all the bloody hell’s ’bout to break loose. B’why?” he asked, his gaze direct.

  “Me. They are after me.” Part of her wanted to sink into the floor and sob. I don’t want anyone to fight, to die. Not over me. “Alonzo said you could get us out the aft keel hatch?”

  “Aye, if we’re fifteen feet off the ground,” growled Vincan. “Hardly gonna toss y’out at five hundred feet, am I?”

  Alonzo’s intention became clear as the ship tilted to one side. Octavia gripped the sill of the door with one hand and her satchel in the other. Mrs. Stout’s thick calves flew up in the air as she grasped the table for dear life. Glass tinkled behind the counter and there were a few resounding crashes from the seating area. Something cold slid against Octavia’s leg—it was the mechanical snake, its fangs still bared.

  “Oh Lady, he’s trying to get control of the ship. That blessed, stupid man.” The ship righted and Octavia bumped back against the doorframe. She kicked the little snake, vaulting it into the far wall with a metallic ping.