by Beth Cato
“Come’n,” Vincan said. He reached beneath the counter and pulled out a knife as thick as his forearm. He wedged past Octavia and into the hallway. Before Octavia even had a glimpse of the corridor, he shoved her back again. “Fighting at the stairwell, and somethin’ going on down by the crew area as well.” A gunshot cracked through the ship and Octavia hit the ground flat.
“Thank God this isn’t a hydrogen vessel,” said Mrs. Stout in a quivering voice.
“Oh, it can still crash and burn, maybe not so pretty like,” Vincan said, quite matter-of-factly.
“That’s enough of that talk.” Octavia scampered to her feet again, picking up her satchel.
“Eh. So who all is playin’ traitor on the crew?”
“Two men that I saw,” said Octavia. “One maybe in his twenties, pock-faced, no mustache. The other is bald with a red face and—”
“I know ’em. They like their whiskey.”
Something clattered against the outer door. It flew open, revealing a man in steward’s garb with a shiny bald pate and ruddy skin.
Vincan’s grin was gap-toothed and wide. “Why ’ello.”
Octavia retreated behind the inner door, but could still hear the faint mew of blood and the thuds and grunts of combat.
“We can’t get out? We’re trapped?” asked Mrs. Stout. Her skin was impossibly pale.
Octavia’s mind raced. She had a strong feeling that Drury had more than two men on his side aboard. He had planned this operation far too well. If that traitor crewman had already gotten past Alonzo, she had to assume that Alonzo had fallen. Lady, let him be alive, please.
“Mrs. Stout, come around here. There’s more shelter behind the bar.” She motioned Mrs. Stout behind her and toward the corner, near what appeared to be Vincan’s pillow and assorted toiletries.
The airship wobbled again as Octavia dropped to both knees and opened up her satchel. Upon her capture, they would undoubtedly take her satchel away. It was the most assured way of keeping her in line. That, and using Mrs. Stout or Alonzo as leverage to keep her cooperative. I’ll need my supplies more than ever. How can I smuggle them on my person?
“Mrs. Stout, are you quick with a needle?” Octavia began unbuttoning the front of her dress.
“I cannot fall into their clutches.” A terrible quiver in Mrs. Stout’s voice caused Octavia to glance up. Mrs. Stout held a knife against her own throat, her hand shaking. Oh, blessed Lady.
“Mrs. Stout, lower the blade, please.”
“You don’t understand, child. I can’t—I can’t be used against Caskentia. I love this land too much! I love it so much, I gave up everything, everything, so that the fighting would stop! So that it wouldn’t be over me. I know things didn’t happen that way because of Evandia and the Waste, but God, I wanted peace.” The loose skin at her neck shivered. “I don’t want to be used against Caskentia. I don’t want to be a figurehead, or a key.” To the vault, and whatever darkness lay within.
Oh Lady. Can I kill Mrs. Stout if necessary, if it will truly avert some sort of cataclysm? Like Caskentia, obliterating hundreds or thousands of people to contain pox?
“Mrs. Stout, I’m begging you, don’t do this. Have some faith. If you die, what of your children?”
That caused the older woman to flinch. “I should have told them, warned them. I can’t . . . oh, child, I don’t know.”
“You need to be the one to tell them, Mrs. Stout. Who else will they believe? I wouldn’t even believe you were Princess Allendia had I not touched your tattoo and seen the scar. Please.”
Mrs. Stout lowered the knife, then dropped it to the floor.
Her eyes on Mrs. Stout, Octavia grabbed the blade and tucked it behind her, on the shelf again.
“You must promise me, Miss Leander. If things seem hopeless, if they seek to somehow get me into Mercia . . .”
“I will do what I can for you, but please, don’t ask me to kill you.”
Mrs. Stout nodded. “I know. I understand. I’m sorry. The burden that would place on you, violating the Lady’s way . . . I’m sorry.”
More yells echoed from the hallway. Octavia put a hand to the buttons at her chest again. “We don’t have time for apologies now. Can you work a needle, Mrs. Stout?”
“Yes. I think so. What of it?” Mrs. Stout tore off her gloves while taking in a deep breath. Terror glistened in her eyes, but her hands seemed steadier.
“I have a plan. This pouch has my doctoring supplies. Pull out the needle kit, and pardon my lack of modesty.” She let her dress open wide to reveal the padded buttresses of her brassiere. The design was simple, like a wide band of ribbon to restrict the breasts and elasticized cloth extending to the navel. With a twist of her wrist, Octavia undid the eye hooks in front. The air chilled her breasts and made her break out in goose bumps. Taking care not to meet Mrs. Stout’s eye, she grabbed a scalpel and tore out sections of thread and tugged out the cotton padding with her fingers.
“You’re going to stuff the brassiere,” said Mrs. Stout, awe in her voice. “We could do the same with mine—”
“If we have the time.” With the fabric hanging loose from her chest, she caused the holes in the seams to gape as she began to pour in her herbs. Honeyflower first, for forming circles. Then pampria, and bellywood bark. Mrs. Stout reached over and began to mend the gaps as Octavia moved across her chest from left to right. Their knuckles bumped and herbs spilled, but they worked in swift concert. Octavia didn’t dare pour in all of her supply; she had to take care that the band of the camisole was not too lumpy, and the Wasters would be suspicious if all her jars but wet Linsom had been emptied.
Mrs. Stout put the needle and thread away as Octavia quickly palpated the cloth to even out the herbs on both sides of the eye-hook closures. As long as she kept on her underclothes, she was not powerless.
And if I’m without my underclothes, I have a whole new set of worries all together.
Male yells reverberated through the thin walls. She heard Vincan’s deep voice and heavy smacks. The wall shuddered. The fight was getting closer. The Wasters must know where they were. Her eyes raced over her satchel. What else could she take? A hand went to her hair, already a wild mess of curls.
“Mrs. Stout, I’m redoing your hair.”
“Think you can fit a bag of honeyflower in there?” Mrs. Stout asked with a nervous giggle.
“No. Sharper objects, as long as you don’t intend anything foolish . . . ?”
“No. No. Do what you will, child.”
Octavia plucked out pins and released Mrs. Stout’s silver mane, silky and slightly oily to the touch. She hid her smallest pair of scissors within and rolled it up again, then secured the bun with two of her scalpels, their blades obscured in the mass of hair. As much as she disliked doctoring, Octavia felt better with some basic implements at hand.
“Turn around, child. I’ll do the same.”
Octavia did, facing the inner shelves of the bar. She could see part of the entry just beyond. Heavy steps thudded down the hallway accompanied by more yells. She finished the buttons on her dress and patted her chest to see if any lumps were visible to the eye. It looked as smooth as before, even as she felt the uneven pressure against her sensitive skin. Lady, grant the fabric some extra strength so the herbs don’t poke through and drive me mad with itching.
Mrs. Stout’s fingers combed through her hair, swift and strong without being painful. “Your hair has such life and body. Unlike my daughter’s. Hers is thick but straight. It can go as limp as corn silk.”
Octavia closed her eyes for a moment, as if she could pretend this was a moment of casual gossip, not that they were hiding behind a bar with Wasters in pursuit.
“What should I put in your hair?” Mrs. Stout asked.
Octavia craned back and fumbled in her foldout kit. “These,” she said, and passed over two bullet probes in dull gray. A heavy clattering near the door reverberated through the floorboards. She barely swallowed a whimper. This is how the grem
lins felt.
“Done,” said Mrs. Stout. Octavia touched the tight bun at the back of her head. Through the thickness of hair, she could barely detect the two small nubs of the probes. She reared up on her knees and reassembled her satchel with trembling fingers. The top flap had just closed when the door to the smoking room burst open.
“There!” Mr. Drury.
Octavia whirled around, elbow angled out. A pock-faced boy dodged with a slight yelp. Blood warbled from their bodies, the notes varied. Some of the blood was their own, but not all.
“What have you done with the others?” Octavia asked. She pushed Mrs. Stout against the wall, shielding her with both arms. She wanted to ask after Alonzo but she dared not draw more attention to him.
“That’s none of your concern.” The door behind Mr. Drury opened again and admitted one of the academic fops, his nose bloodied and a wound in his arm hastily bound and dripping red. Each plunk of blood to the floor welled as if in crescendo. The man carried Octavia’s suitcase with both arms.
“I should have struck you harder with that tray,” she said, tone icy.
The man seemed reluctant to meet her eye as he set down the case.
“Now,” said Mr. Drury. “You must change into your Percival garb, as it will survive travel best. Anything you wish to keep, put in your satchel.”
She glared. “I’m not going anywhere. I bought passage on this ship and—”
“Oh, don’t pretend to be such a silly ninny. I know better. My men are in control of the ship and are now mooring it. We’ll disembark in a matter of minutes. You will be dressed and ready, or I will begin to execute your fellow passengers, one by one. Starting with this one.” He waved his hand at his back.
The man behind him opened the outer door. One of the little girls from the promenade was shoved through the gap. Tears streaked her face and she gripped a filthy doll with one hand. Mr. Drury tugged a .45 Gadsden from his waistband and lowered the muzzle to the child’s head.
“Well?” he asked.
Octavia forced herself to take in a deep breath and fill her lungs, as she did in her Al Cala exercises. She held it for a moment, focusing on the Lady and her Tree, envisioning a branch as thick as a horse crushing this man flat. No guilt twinged in her chest at the blasphemous thought. She stood with effort, as if weighed down. Mrs. Stout scrambled up behind her.
“I’m not changing in here,” Octavia said.
“No. Go in there.” He motioned to the sitting area. “Your friend can block the doorway to grant you privacy. Leave your satchel on the floor.”
She had expected as much. Octavia reached behind her and found Mrs. Stout’s hand. Her flesh was cold, like chicken flesh from an icebox. Octavia gave her fingers a squeeze and pulled Mrs. Stout forward.
Mr. Drury opened the suitcase. Her medician gown lay on top, carefully folded and glimmering. She grabbed the gown, trousers, and apron in one hand and retreated toward the sitting room. Mrs. Stout stayed in the doorway, her back to the little room. She made for a good and broad barrier, her legs braced wide and arms out, even as she violently trembled. If not for the doorframe, she likely would not have been able to stand on her own.
Mr. Drury hasn’t shown interest in Mrs. Stout yet. Maybe he doesn’t know of the extra instructions provided to Mr. Grinn. Or maybe he’s simply biding his time.
Octavia pushed herself into a corner and began to change into her uniform. Each movement was brusque and determined. Now that Mr. Drury had them cornered, a determined peace had settled on her. Alonzo will be okay. Surely he’s holed up somewhere in the ship. I must stay calm. I must keep Mrs. Stout calm. The ship will be safer without me aboard. And once we are in the mountains . . .
Her heart fluttered as if it could fly away. She took in another deep breath as she pulled up her trousers. The vivid scent of honeyflower overwhelmed her for a moment, as if she held the laden brassiere right next to her face. The scent was of coziness and comfort, everything embodied by the Lady. With it came strength and resolution. The Lady is with me.
And then the image of the boy returned to her mind. Bloodied. His fingers curled, his hand limp. The scent of honeyflower faded as terror flared in her chest again. Why me? Why him? What did the Lady mean by such an act?
Octavia pressed her gown to her lips and struggled against the bile in her throat.
THE MOORING TOWER WAS a black obelisk in the darkness of night. Lights circled the top of the structure and created a blinding glare as Octavia disembarked. Her shoulder and hip felt naked without the comforting weight of the satchel, which was now in Mr. Drury’s hands. The metal deck clattered underfoot, the echo more pronounced compared to the more solid construction of the ship.
An enemy mooring tower, concealed here within the very borders of Caskentia. Such a thing wasn’t supposed to exist.
Mrs. Stout was a shadow, emitting occasional whimpers like a hungry pup. Two crewmen followed close behind them. Blood cried from their bodies but neither had serious wounds. There had been blood in the hallways as well, though no corpses. No stink of death. She tried to take that as a positive sign, though the absence of any news made her lungs tight with frustration. Mr. Drury made no mention of any casualties aboard. Despite seeing her with Alonzo on multiple occasions, he dismissed the man as a mere steward.
Octavia prayed with every breath that Mr. Drury’s arrogance had kept Alonzo alive.
The mooring tower had been fitted with stairs, not a lift. As she rounded the docking station, she could see more figures on the ground below, and a large cluster of horses. A dozen perhaps, though it was hard to judge amidst the play of light and shadows. She reached the ground and breathed in the dankness of the wet grass. Mrs. Stout made a strangled sound. Octavia turned. The woman had sunk to her knees, shivering.
“Be strong,” Octavia whispered, eyeing their guards as she dragged Mrs. Stout to her feet. The woman’s eyes were wide with terror.
“Drury!” called one of the men.
“Lanskay! I hoped it would be you.” The two men walked up to each other, greeting with claps on the back and chuckles. Drury wore his trim suit and cap, a stark contrast to his countryman in his workman’s scruff. “Here, my friend. You must meet our talented recruit.”
Recruit. Anger curdled in Octavia’s stomach. The two men approached and a beam of light from the tower illuminated the newcomer. He was tall, like a weed bursting to growth after a rain. His thick blond hair had been pulled back into a tight queue, showing the severe angles in his cheeks and jaw. The warmth of his presence flowed ahead of him like an invisible fog and she felt herself standing straighter as she scrutinized him.
“An infernal?” she asked. Oh Lady. The Wasters have a fire-wielder, here? For what ill purpose?
“She is good!” said Lanskay. His thick accent reminded her of Mr. Grinn. A wad of tobacco bulged against his cheek.
Drury’s wide grin appeared to be genuine for once. “You should see her in action. The Lady has bestowed her with a particular touch. She diagnosed and treated our zyme contamination entirely on her own. There were no extended illnesses or fatalities aboard ship.”
“You . . .” Octavia said, almost speechless with rage.
Mr. Drury bowed with a flourish. “Indeed. All designed as a test of your talents. Zymes are my specialty, in truth. I was most dismayed when you resolved the matter on the front so quickly.” Quickly! Thousands of men died and hundreds more spent weeks in intestinal agony, too many to be treated by medicians who had exhausted their supplies of bellywood bark for Drury’s “test.” “But upon hearing that one young woman was behind the brilliance, my thoughts took a different turn.”
“Aye. He was smitten.” Lanskay elbowed his comrade. “The man delights in being outfoxed. Makes his brain begin to truly work.”
Drury’s smile sickened her. No wonder he didn’t take my hints—or my jab to his stomach—in their proper context.
Loud scrambling on metal caused her to turn. A mustached crewman walked Da
veo down the stairs. The steward had been stripped to the waist, revealing a torso darkened with blood and contusions. His hands were secured behind his back and a gag muzzled him. Even so, his chin was tilted up and defiant. Octavia looked up the tower. A man at the top was disengaging the airship. The Argus was going to leave.
“Who is the little man?” asked Lanskay.
“One of the stewards on the ship. I do believe he is the Dagger sent to kill our medician.” Drury stepped forward to wrest Daveo from the other guard, half dragging him to his companions.
“Kill the medician!” Lanskay drew in his breath with a hiss. “With so few born with the gift . . . !”
Drury loomed over Daveo and then bent to look him in the eye. “Even more, he let our friend Mr. Grinn be blamed for one of his attempts on Miss Leander. Did you not, little man?” He grabbed him by the scruff of his hair and shook him.
“You mean, Mr. Grinn was . . .” Octavia began.
“Likely trying to save you when the others found him there and assumed the worst. Not that I can blame them, as the appearance was quite deceiving. And I bet you were hiding under one of those tables in that dark room, like a little cockroach, now, weren’t you?” He shook Daveo again. “Do you know what we do with cockroaches in the Dallows, steward? We eat them.”
“Sometimes you can feed a whole family on cockroaches alone,” added Lanskay. The other men laughed.
“Where are Mr. Grinn’s books, little man? Did you send them along to your friends in Mercia?” Drury lowered his voice to a deadly hiss. Behind Octavia, Mrs. Stout gasped. Octavia gave her a sharp look to silence her.
“Take off his gag, Drury. I can make him talk. I might even make him sing,” said Lanskay.
Oh Lady, let them keep him gagged so he cannot utter a word about Alonzo. From twenty feet away, Daveo’s eyes met hers, dark and cold. The airship’s motors thrummed above as the craft began to pull away.
“His actions have condemned him more than any words. We can’t waste any more time on this filth.” Drury let Daveo drop to the ground with a solid thud. He made a quick gesture and a group of men advanced. They hauled Daveo away, his heels dragging through the grass. “Secure him. We’ll grant him prairie justice.”
