The Clockwork Dagger

by Beth Cato

  Or he was already dead or dying on the Argus. Oh Lady.

  She wasn’t going to wait for rescue. They needed horses. Octavia needed her satchel. She could set simple snares so they wouldn’t starve once they escaped. But how to prevent pursuit?

  “Tent’s ready,” said one of the men gruffly. He cut through the ropes at Mrs. Stout’s wrists. The woman awoke with a start.

  “What? Where are we? Octavia?”

  “I’m here, Viola.” Using Mrs. Stout’s first name seemed prudent, and showed the closeness of their friendship. “Lean on me and I’ll help you down.” Gravity did the rest. Mrs. Stout landed in a heap and stood again, bowlegged.

  A faint sound came from above, and not the jabber of a gremlin. Octavia tilted her head toward the night sky. Around her, the men stilled as well. The man who held the horses’ reins placed one hand to his gun and looked up.

  “A buzzer?” one man asked, his voice low.

  “Yeah. High up.” Another man spat on the ground. “Could be following the pass.”

  The man with the horses grunted. “Maybe, maybe not.” The buzzing sound was gone.

  Mr. Drury made a crude motion to the men. “If a buzzer comes low, shoot it down. We can’t afford to be seen. You, get these women prepared for their respite.”

  Octavia and Viola were permitted a few minutes of privacy in the bushes and then led inside the tent. The space was small but adequate. Two bag-blankets had been laid out along with a single glowstone to grant them some light.

  “I don’t suppose I should take off my dress,” said Viola, brushing some dirt from her skirt as she sat on a blanket. Her voice trembled, but that defiant gleam had returned to her eyes. She was doing her utmost to be strong.

  “No. Keep on your shoes as well.” Octavia claimed the blankets nearest the door and touched the fabric of the flap, testing it. The weave was coarse, with the outer layer soaked in oil to render it waterproof. The scissors concealed in Viola’s hair would probably pierce it, but go dull all too soon. Perhaps one of the scalpels could slash through.

  “Miss Leander.” Mr. Drury’s silky voice caused her hand to immediately go where the capsicum flute once lay against her ribs.

  “I’m here.”

  “I would speak to you alone.”

  “I’m not leaving Viola. We’re both awake.”

  “Very well.” Mr. Drury entered, doffing his tweed cap as he did. “You ladies are well?”

  “As well as prisoners can be,” she said.

  “It’s my hope you will not see yourself as a prisoner much longer. We are blessed to have you among us.”

  “The feeling is not mutual, Mr. Drury. I want to know your intentions.”

  “The good of the Dallows, most assuredly. But it is not my place to speak more on that matter. We’ll be joined by more comrades in the morning.”

  Her stomach clenched as in a fist. “More comrades?”

  “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

  “I am surprised you haven’t offered some of that Royal-Tea of yours.”

  Mr. Drury laughed, the sound so light and casual it made her wince. “I do have some with me. Its properties are quite useful at times, but you will learn more of that in the morning as well. Do you need food?”

  Octavia didn’t trust these poisoners, but she and Viola needed their strength if they were to escape. “Yes, please. Viola?” The older woman nodded, her lips compressed tight as if she didn’t trust herself to speak.

  Mr. Drury turned and hollered, “Bring the ladies some food.” Octavia heard heavy footsteps outside. Mr. Drury looked toward her again and held out a small parcel. She accepted it and looked inside, angling the bag toward the weak glowstone light. There were several cakes of corn pone, the disks as wide as her hand, and a few broad pieces of dried meat.

  “If you have need of anything, ask one of the guards.” Mr. Drury turned toward the flap again. The compulsion overcame her and she had to ask.

  “Mr. Drury.” Oh, how she hated how his eyes lit up when she spoke. “Tell me, did you kill anyone aboard the Argus?”

  “A few fools put up a fight. One man was shot and a few were stabbed. We didn’t go out of our way to kill anyone, but . . .” He shrugged and his eyes narrowed. “Be sensible, Miss Leander. Don’t expect anyone from the airship to come to your rescue. They will limp toward Mercia to spread their tales of woe, but they’ll all be silenced soon enough.”

  “Silenced? How?”

  “Why, they’ll be dead.” Mr. Drury’s smile was dazzling. “Sleep well, Miss Leander.”

  OCTAVIA DID SLEEP, BUT only due to sheer exhaustion. Her restless slumber was plagued by the sensation that she was still swaying back and forth on a saddle.

  And then there was the matter of Mr. Drury’s threat. How can these Wasters slaughter a city of Mercia’s size and scope? Are they plotting some attack with zymes, infiltrating the water supply? Are they going to access the vault—and can they somehow use the elements of the Tree against Caskentia?

  She wasn’t sure how the Tree could be dangerous, but she couldn’t completely ignore the words of King Kethan. The city itself was strongly warded so that infernals such as Lanskay couldn’t enter. The Wasters would have to choose some other means of attack.

  A streak of daylight and the ruckus of horses finally caused her to fully awaken. She lay there for a moment, breathing through sudden panic at her whereabouts. Mrs. Stout was curled up in her blankets, her face a mask of peace. Octavia pushed herself upright and went to the tent flap.

  The massive peak of the Giant dominated the southern sky. She had never seen the volcanic mountain so close before, its broad cap white with snow all year long. Though it had to be several days distant, it looked close enough to reach out and touch. Closer, there were large black mounds as big as the surrounding hills. The surface looked strangely rough in texture, though not like a hillside charred in a wildfire. It took her a moment to recall a similar sight in the north. The blackened mounds were copper slag; this was, or used to be, a copper-mining facility. This is the Black Heaps mentioned in the correspondence of Adana Dryn.

  Noise drew her attention to the camp itself. A large cluster of men were on horseback, milling at the far side. Was the camp packing up so soon? She eyed her surroundings. No. Many men were still lying on the ground near their fires, though one large tent had been erected in the center of the camp. The rattle and creak of wagon wheels was new as well. That meant a passable road was nearby.

  It also meant reinforcements had arrived.

  “Do you need anything?” asked a gruff voice. The guard stood only a few feet away.

  “I am hungry.”

  “Food will be brought.” With his fingers to his mouth, he blew a piercing whistle. Behind her, Mrs. Stout stirred with a loud gasp. Near one of the fires, a man shuffled forward and ladled something steaming from a pot.

  “What’s going on?” Octavia asked.

  “Taney’s here.” The guard accepted the dish and passed it on. The bowl was cozily warm between her palms, almost too hot to hold. The beans smelled fragrant and wonderful, and her parched mouth watered in response. She had no great fondness for camp beans, but appetite overruled taste.

  Octavia retreated into the tent, the bowl cradled near her chest. Mrs. Stout sat up, her hair a wild bird’s nest. “Did he say Taney?”

  “Yes.” She extended the bowl to Viola, who shook her head with such violence that one of the scalpels fell out.

  “I know I should eat, but I’ve barely kept down that corn pone. Taney is here?” Viola shuddered. “He was one of the men, back when . . .”

  Octavia put a finger to her lips. The tent cloth was too thin for any illusion of privacy. “You know the name from your youth.”

  “He was the one . . . who started the first war.” And they both knew how that war had started. Viola looked deathly pale.

  “Surely this can’t be the same man fifty years later.”

  “Probably not.” Viola’s whisper wa
s hoarse. “He’s the one I escaped from.”

  Taney. The man who had wanted to make Princess Allendia a princess of the Waste, create a new royal lineage, and carry the Gilded Age to the Dallows. The leader of the settlers. This Taney is likely still a leader high up within the Dallows’ military.

  And if someone of that caliber is here, that says even more about their intent with this mission.

  Viola crawled on her hands and knees to the side of the tent and retched. Octavia immediately set down the bowl and went to aid, bracing the older woman’s shoulders as she emptied her gut. Then Octavia kept her steady as Viola’s shoulders heaved in sobs.

  “Keep faith,” Octavia murmured. She said it to herself as much as to Viola.

  Viola leaned forward, weeping. Octavia could do little else, so she unpinned Viola’s hair and combed out the snarls with her fingers. She pulled out the scissors and tucked them into her apron pocket. They were the length of her palm and wouldn’t be visible to the eye, nor was she likely to be searched. She hoped. She coiled Viola’s hair up again and secured it with the pins and scalpels, then returned to her beans. They were cool enough to eat. Octavia restrained herself from eating more than half and set down the bowl near Viola. The older woman had stopped sobbing and sat there, very still, her eyes closed. Her lips moved mutely, and Octavia recognized the mantra from their midnight ride.

  “Miss Leander?” The voice came from the other side of the tent flap.

  Her stomach immediately soured again. “Mr. Drury.”

  “Your presence is required in the main tent. Mrs. Stout’s as well.”

  Viola emitted a long, low moan.

  “Come.” Octavia gripped her by the shoulders and helped her to rise.

  “I can do this.” Viola patted her arm, her walk stiff as they stepped out into the brightness of day.

  “What is that smell?” Mr. Drury asked, wrinkling his nose.

  “Viola was ill.”

  “Hrm. She has a rather delicate constitution, doesn’t she?”

  “Nothing about me is delicate, Mr. Drury,” snapped Viola.

  Anger flared, Octavia’s cheeks heating. “Mr. Drury, you think she should be docile and handle this like an afternoon picnic? Your people grab us by force, ride us through the night, and you expect what, gratitude?”

  Mr. Drury remained cool in the face of her outburst. “A lady of the Dallows would think nothing of it.”

  “A lady of the Dallows can catch and cook a wyrm for breakfast, I’m sure. She’d also likely be dead by thirty after birthing a dozen children.”

  “I thank God each day that I am not a woman of the Dallows.” Viola practically spat the words.

  He shrugged and motioned Octavia to the large tent. “It’s a blessing to be of the Dallows, Mrs. Stout. An honor. Even at your age, there is time to correct your thinking.” Mrs. Stout snorted in reply.

  “You kidnap the lady and insult her age and constitution,” Octavia said. “For shame.”

  Mr. Drury bowed his head to Mrs. Stout, his fingers on the brim of his cap. “My pardon, Mrs. Stout.” He looked to Octavia as if for approval. She shuddered.

  A man held open the tent flap for them. Mrs. Stout’s eyes narrowed and she said nothing to Mr. Drury as she stalked past.

  Upon entry, the first thing Octavia noticed was her satchel sitting atop a small table. The second was that the infernal, Lanskay, spoke with a man whose back faced the entry. Third, there was a girl secured to a stake driven into the dirt floor, almost invisible in the dim light. Her eyes widened above a gag as she stared at Octavia.

  Octavia immediately closed her eyes, focusing on the music drifting from their fellow captive. The song was steady yet strained, not unlike Viola’s, with no indication of injury.

  “This is the medician!” a baritone voice boomed. The strange man approached them with commanding strides. Thick black muttonchops extended from his ears to his clean-shaven chin. Blue eyes sparkled against deeply tanned skin. Most of all, Octavia was stunned by his youth. By the glow of his skin and the slenderness of his build, he couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Certainly a common age for soldiers, but not for a commander, as she presumed this man to be.

  He tilted his head to one side, scrutinizing her as a man would in buying a horse. “She’s young.”

  “Twenty-two this year,” said Mr. Drury.

  “Quite nice.” He circled her. Octavia clutched Viola close against her hip.

  “I’m not a piece of meat one buys at a market,” Octavia said, her tone icy. Out of nowhere, intense pressure increased in her left forearm, as if the flesh were about to balloon. Considering what happened the last time she bloodlet, that might be true. Lady, this is not a good time to bleed. Not at all.

  “No. You would be far too expensive.”

  In the background, Lanskay chortled. Octavia shot him a glare.

  “Who is the girl?” asked Octavia. “Why’s she bound in that manner?”

  “Ah, the true spirit of a medician, thinking of others instead of herself. Or asking who I am.” The man’s pompous smile reminded her of Mr. Drury, but his voice was the most peculiar thing of all. Despite her situation, she was awed by his words. His pronunciation lured her in, pleased her ears. Mr. Drury may have had the slick voice of a salesman, but this stranger utilized sheer charisma. When he spoke, all would listen.

  He continued, “The girl is of no consequence to you. She’s about to leave, actually.” At his motion another man entered the tent. The girl made some mumbled objection, digging her bare feet against the floor. Octavia took a step forward, her fists balling. Her gaze met the terrified eyes of the girl as she was hauled past. Her face and body were smudged with dirt, her hair a yellow whirlwind.

  “Don’t hurt her!” said Octavia, suddenly overwhelmed by helplessness.

  “I assure you, we will not. We need her alive.”

  For what purpose? Octavia was afraid to ask, so she turned to a more immediate question. “Who are you?”

  “I am Reginald Taney, grand potentate of the United Dallows.” Alas, the bold voice did not yet match the body. He braced his shoulders, a gesture that might have been more menacing if he did not have a child’s face framed by a beard.

  The grand potentate, here within the borders of Caskentia. Oh Lady help us.

  Viola emitted a soft whimper. Her body dipped as if she might fall, but Octavia hooked out an arm to keep her upright.

  “Viola,” she hissed.

  “Viola. Such an interesting name.” Taney smirked. “Lanskay, Drury. Secure the room.”

  “Yes sir,” the two men said in unison. They both approached the entrance, indicating something to the guard beyond, and then lowered the heavy flap. The only illumination came from lights draping from ceiling hooks and a single lamp on the table near her satchel.

  “Viola is quite a fine name,” said Octavia, her voice trembling. “Not that uncommon.”

  “No, it’s not. It blends in quite well, doesn’t it?” Taney continued to stare at Viola. “Unfasten her dress, Percival.”

  “Absolutely not!” Octavia said. The loudness of her heartbeat pumped in her ears, her arm throbbing as the need to bloodlet increased. Oh Lady. He knows. “I will not disrobe a lady for your sordid purposes—”

  “Interesting. Perhaps the medician doesn’t know.” Taney squatted down, his scruffy dungarees shedding a cloud of dust at the movement. “Did you tell her, eh? Does anyone else know?”

  Viola rocked slightly, closing her eyes. Her chin lifted in defiance.

  “Know what, sir?” asked Drury. “I thought we took her for ransom.”

  Octavia sucked in a breath. Ransom. That girl. She might have been one of the kidnapped girls from Mercia Octavia had read about in the paper. She felt the urge to run after the girl, to save her, do something, but knew there was nothing she could do in this camp of armed men. Frustration tightened her throat and squelched her ability to speak.

  “That’s how it was meant to appear until
this very moment, and why I only have my two most loyal men present.”

  Octavia couldn’t help but notice how Lanskay preened at the praise.

  Taney reached out and tapped Viola on the chin, forcing her head up. Her red-eyed gaze was sullen and fearful as she shrank back from his touch. Taney burst out laughing. “To think, you could have been my grandmother.”

  “Sir?” asked Mr. Drury, his mustache curling in a frown.

  Taney stood. “I present to you two gentlemen a solution to the greatest failure to plague our efforts for independence. It’s my honor to introduce to you . . . the long-lost Princess Allendia.”

  CHAPTER 20

  “Princess Allendia?” Drury’s jaw gaped.

  Taney looked to Octavia. “Medician, unfasten her dress to the waist or I’ll do it.”

  “You will not.” Viola’s voice was raspy, her eyes narrowing. Taking a deep breath, she nudged Octavia away so she could stand on her own. “I am Princess Allendia of the Fair Valley of Caskentia, crowned true heir to the throne of Mercia, daughter of King Kethan and Queen Varya, granddaughter of the good King Rathe, cousin to the ruling Queen Evandia.”

  In that moment, Viola Stout was in every way a princess. From the tilt of her head to the stance of her wide hips, she was royalty, even with her skirts slit to the thighs and stained with dirt.

  “Well, well.” Taney’s eyes sparkled. “The old gal has some life in her yet.”

  Viola crossed her arms against her broad chest. “Your grandfather was the Grand Taney.”

  “Yes. And I would like to see the scar given to you by your own soldiers, evidence of their poor aim.”

  Without hesitation or shame, Viola unfastened the buttons lining the satin bodice, then pried down the cup of the full corset beneath. The prominent scar shone against the pallor of her skin. Taney leaned forward, nose almost in her bosom, and nodded his satisfaction.

  “Yes. Exactly as described,” he said as he straightened.

  “And who described it to you?” asked Viola coolly.