The Clockwork Dagger

by Beth Cato

  She looked between Vincan, still bleeding out and bound in a circle, to the supine body five feet away. I just shot Lanskay. It’d be more prudent to land another bullet in his skull, Lady forgive me.

  She scooted back to within arm’s length of Vincan and set down the gun. “I don’t have my satchel!” she yelled, delving a hand into her bosom. Her fingers knew the flakes of pampria by touch.

  “We are hardly going to hand over your satchel in the midst of this poorly executed escape attempt, Miss Leander. You are an accomplished doctor when the situation requires.” Drury lowered his voice, and exchanged indistinguishable words with Taney.

  She flung pampria over Vincan. His body sucked in the herbs like oxygen. His eyes shot wide open. She dug into the other brassiere cup, seeking out a chunk of heskool.

  “I do not desire to lose one of my most valuable men either.” Taney’s voice rang out, luscious as cream. “Check on him. Try to save him. We’ll provide you some additional motivation.”

  She found the heskool and dropped it over Vincan’s thigh.

  Alonzo screamed, the sound of a throat ripping itself raw. Octavia lurched away from Vincan, her fingers dragging to break the circle.

  The other young infernal had hold of Alonzo’s arm. Even at this distance, she saw the glow of the man’s fingers, how they traced Alonzo’s forearm to drag out another horrible scream.

  Burning. He’s burning.

  “Stop!” she screamed. She started forward, but a heavy weight on her skirt pulled her back.

  “Miss, they’s Wasters, y’ know it’s a trap.”

  “I can’t leave him with them.” She tugged her skirt free, speaking fast. “If I don’t make it back, Mrs. Stout and a gremlin are up in that tree. Please find a way to get them down. The tree . . . should know who you are, that you mean well.” Or may be too helpful.

  Alonzo was no longer screaming, but she could hear his heavy panting, the ragged sobs. The fire may have stopped, but the burning continued. That’s always the way of it.

  Octavia stood up, revealing herself above the bushes. She straightened the collar of her dress, making sure everything was covered. Her fingers went to the headband and the embroidered emblem of the tree, and her eyes to the true embodiment of the Lady only a few hundred feet away.

  Then she stalked forward to save Lanskay.

  CHAPTER 22

  Lanskay was dead.

  The terribleness of that fact lodged in her gut like a bag of coal. Save him. How am I going to save him without my satchel? What will they do to Alonzo when they know Lanskay is gone?

  The blood of his shoulder wound sang with freshness, though the music dimmed with each passing second. She stooped over Lanskay’s body. A graze to his back was older, quieter. So little blood overall, the exits wounds clear, the locations nonfatal. Both of his hands clutched his throat, his eyes wide.

  She didn’t need a circle.

  Octavia flung herself onto Lanskay, hands pressed together to land on his chest. His body curved at her impact as a wad of tobacco shot from his mouth with an audible smack. He wheezed as his lungs took in air. The Wasters broke out in cheers. Lanskay rolled to one side, gasping.

  “Well done!” cried Mr. Drury. “Lanskay, how do you fair?”

  “Don’t hurt Alonzo any more!” Octavia yelled.

  “We won’t. Not if you cooperate,” said Taney.

  A campfire breathed smoke feet away. A keg of Royal-Tea sat to one side, the top punctured. Nearby, several Wasters lay utterly still and silent.

  “Alonzo?” she called.

  “It’s not . . . that bad,” he managed to croak out. He’d say that if half his other leg were lopped off.

  Lanskay groaned and rolled onto his back, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “My thanks,” he said, guttural accent and spittle thickening his words. As his body returned to normal, that extra heat rolled and radiated from him, flickering with every breath. Her lips contorted in disgust.

  “Take it as a sign that chew is bad for your health,” she said.

  “Another thing bad for your health. Getting too close to infernals.” He grabbed her wrist.

  Octavia felt the fire then. Tiny as it was, it evoked a scream of surprise. Her wrist searing with agony, she jerked back, swinging her arm. Her palm caught the side of his face and sent him into the dirt. The Wasters erupted in hoots and cheers as she scooted away from him.

  “That’s how you people show thanks?” she screamed, half sobbing. She looked to her wrist. The mark was small—the oval of the very tip of his thumb and the indentation of the nail like a crescent.

  Vincan bellowed like a bull about to charge. The bushes shivered. “Miss! He branded you, miss. S’what they do. S’what they did to me. Counting coup.” He took in a terrible, rattling breath. “I shoot him, Alonzo dies, but I wants to shoot.” The quaking of his body carried through every syllable.

  “Don’t,” she said, then lowered her voice. “Not yet.” Iron tainted her tongue; she had bitten her lip.

  “It’s an honor, medician!” called Taney. “To be so close to an infernal and allowed to live. Only the best of soldiers are granted such a brand.”

  Vincan growled.

  Ten feet away, Lanskay grinned as he shakily stood.

  “I don’t understand you people,” she said. “You incinerated one of your own men because he made a single lewd comment, and you hurt me, like that, and everyone cheers.”

  “Pain is different from honor,” said Lanskay, “Though honor can come from pain.” He sobered, regarding her. “I am truly thankful to you. That would have been a sorry way to die, tobacco in my throat.”

  Her wrist pulsed with heat and she pressed it to her chest. He needs to die, but his death needs to be painful. He needs to feel what he has caused to so many others.

  “Miss Leander,” called Mr. Drury. ”I still have a gun to this steward’s head. Do come over here, please. The sooner this is resolved, the sooner we can put salve on your wrist.”

  “Miss . . .” began Vincan.

  “Remember Mrs. Stout,” Octavia said, then pushed herself upright. She counted the men ahead of her. Two infernals and a third man, and then Lanskay, Mr. Drury, and Taney. Three infernals, three men with guns.

  Herself, Vincan, and the Lady.

  She looked to the massive tree. Lady, I know I chose the hard path, but you’re still with me. What do I do? I used the branch. I have some leaves. What else is there?

  Her gaze lowered to the keg of tea. A drink powered by the Lady. She felt the burn on her wrist, the cut on her thumb, and a myriad of other aches and agonies acquired over the past few days.

  My blood fed that tree. That tea is steeped in the Lady’s own bark.

  She kicked the large Royal-Tea tin. It tipped with a slosh. The brown liquid poured out and flowed across the dirt.

  Nothing happened.

  “I would expect you to be more kindly disposed to that tea, medician,” said Taney with a guttural drawl.

  “My preference is for the source, not the product.” The tea soaked into the ground as would any normal liquid. Octavia gnawed on her lip as she walked forward. Nothing is happening. The wind was still, as if nature itself held its breath in anticipation.

  Most of the men had been bloodied in the fracas, but of them, Lanskay’s flesh wounds and Alonzo’s burns screamed the loudest. Alonzo stared straight at her, his expression calm now. Accepting. He expects to die.

  “You are rather fond of this Tamaran, aren’t you?” asked Mr. Drury. “You were frequently in his company in the city.”

  “Mrs. Stout enlisted him so we wouldn’t be women traveling alone, not after that incident with Mr. Grinn.” The lie came easily.

  A wave of grief passed over Mr. Drury’s face. “Mr. Grinn was my dearest childhood friend, Miss Leander. He would have done anything to save you.”

  “Yes, so he could enslave me to your cause.” Her bitten lip continued to ooze. Every word tasted of blood.

&
nbsp; “Our cause is about freedom. Your powers can save many lives.”

  Octavia had almost reached them. So close, she could smell Alonzo’s burned flesh. Like supper meat. That old revulsion roiled in her stomach again, worse than it had in years. Sweat beaded Alonzo’s skin, the swelling around his eye like a ripe plum. She stopped, facing the men, willing something to happen.

  Maybe the tea had no power unless it was ingested. What am I missing? The foul taste of blood covered her tongue.

  Me.

  I am the missing ingredient.

  She spat blood into the spilled tea.

  Hot prickles began in the soles of her feet and whirled upward, causing the hair to rise on the back of her neck. The same sensation as when she activated a circle, only stronger. Power, raw power.

  Vines burst from the ground, a countless number in a flailing sheet of green, and whipped toward the men. Octavia hit the ground as the expected gunshots rang out, her hands shielding her head. None of the vines lashed toward her this time—no, they had a different focus.

  Shrill screams quivered in the air and were cut short. More shots, Taney yelling, more screams, the roar of fire. Heat rippled overhead, a shock against the autumn cool. She raised her eyes. The vines were everywhere, making it nigh impossible to see who was who in the thrashing mess of flora and men. The harsh scent of cut grass assaulted her nose. A new cry arose, different from blood, a terrible and pathetic whine—the same sound she heard when she sliced the vine, only multiplied. These vines lived and bled.

  “Alonzo!” she shouted, sitting up on her knees. A vine as thick as her forearm glided past, dragging a man’s leg in its wake. She forced her gaze away.

  The Lady did that.

  The Lady maims. She kills.

  The Lady manifests through blood. My blood.

  “Alonzo!” she screamed.

  Fire billowed and the vines bowed and crested like an ocean wave. A flash of blond hair above revealed Lanskay. Vines clenched his waist like a fist and hauled him upward. Flames trickled from his hands and singed several vines, causing them to curl back, but others took their place. Her eyes met with Lanskay’s, his face determined yet fearful, and then he plummeted to the ground.

  Taney was there beside Lanskay, a sword in his hand. A sword? Where did an antiquated weapon like that come from? Severed vines draped from Lanskay like a child’s play costume gone wrong and disintegrated as he leaped up. Taney and Lanskay retreated together, Taney driving back vines with the blade.

  “Alonzo!” Octavia half turned. “Vincan! The potentate is getting away!” She stepped forward. She held a breath for a moment, frozen in fear, but the vines shrank back to create a path. A few seconds later and they all began to withdraw into the cracked, dry earth.

  The walls of the tent had collapsed. Several men, or bits of them, adorned the ground like the aftermath of a canon blast. Something squished underfoot. She didn’t look down.

  A lump of man lay on the flattened canvas of the tent. His leather-adorned arms hugged his body limply, his mouth agape. The exit wound of the bullet was a black hole in his temple. It wept blood and matter.

  Octavia stopped. Her breath burned in her throat. “Alonzo?”

  “I wasn’t trying to shoot him.” Mr. Drury sat just behind him, leaning on his knees. “The vines reached for me and I fired and he tried to lurch up, get away.”

  “No,” she breathed.

  “Come with me, Miss Leander.” Mr. Drury stood and brushed off his suit. It still fit him with tailored excellence, even stained by the trail and spatter. “We can meet with Mr. Taney and Mr. Lanskay. I’m sure we can work out a compromise, and that they won’t force you to do anything you do not wish to do.”

  It took effort to breathe, as if her lungs had turned solid. “That will never happen. You’re lying to yourself if you believe that, Mr. Drury.”

  Something in his eyes hardened. “I want you to come with me, Miss Leander.”

  “I will not.”

  His gun remained on the ground beside Alonzo. As Mr. Drury stepped forward, she was keenly aware of his proven strength and agility and how well she would fare against him in a melee. She retreated several steps.

  Lady, help me. The vines were gone, the earth shattered and uneven underfoot. Mr. Drury loomed in her sight a mere step away. He grabbed her upper arm, the clench of his fingers firm. She reached behind her head. Her fingers found the metal shaft of the bullet probe used to secure her bun. She grabbed hold and jerked her arm forward. The world blurred.

  His eye screamed—a juicy squirt—followed by a crunch and that distinctive whistle and whiff of brain matter. Mr. Drury groaned as he toppled backward. The medical instrument protruded from his eye. The music of him bleated and wailed.

  She stared at him for several long heartbeats. A bullet probe. I . . . what did I . . . Mr. Drury. His eye . . . his brain.

  Other music called to her, the brilliant brasses going dull. She turned and staggered forward. Alonzo.

  Octavia fell hard to her knees and bent over him, her hands resting on the smoothness of his cheeks. He was still warm to the touch. Life lingered in him yet. She fumbled her hand inside her dress and to her brassiere, even knowing that her supply had been exhausted by tending Vincan. My satchel. It’s somewhere beneath the tent. Where’s an opening? Can I cut my way inside? Oh Lady. There’s no time.

  His heat was fading, his skin stiffening. The brass band of his soul had quieted to the soft rat-tat-tat of a lone drum. His glazed eyes stared toward the sun, the blue more pale than it had ever been in life.

  “Lady,” she gasped, “Lady. Please.” She curled her back and shut her eyes, willing herself into Al Cala, drawing herself to the image of the true Tree. An icy wind numbed her face. This isn’t my imagination. A child’s laugh caused her to recoil in surprise. Her vision swooped like a bird in flight and found a figure in the thick of the branches. A young boy, on a swing of weathered rope and driftwood.

  “Listen to the branch and look to the leaves.” His words returned to her with the lash of the wind. Look to the leaves.

  She opened her eyes to the desolation of the camp and shoved a hand into her apron pouch. The leaf fit in her hand, her thumb tracing the midrib. Taney said the juice is poison. Chewing it is poison. She tugged Alonzo’s jaw fully open and with her filthy fingers lifted the limp weight of his tongue. The leaf, so tonguelike itself, fit in the depression behind his lower teeth; his tongue lay on top as a lid. She withdrew her fingers and nudged his mouth shut again. Her warm tears plinked like rain as she brushed the softened leather of his shoulder.

  “Lady, please bring him back. Please bring him back.” She opened his jacket, and the crimson steward’s coat still underneath, peeling back the layers of fabric until she found flesh. Her skin, even tanned by labor, was so pale against his nutmeg tone. Her fingers curled against the muscled knoll of his chest.

  “Live,” she whispered, and brought her face over his. Without the probe in place, her hair shifted and unfurled behind her headband. A crazed ringlet drifted to rest on his cheek.

  Alonzo twitched. Beneath her fingers, his heartbeat surged. Music flared in her ears, the triumphant fanfare of trumpets. His lips opened with a gasp. His eyes blinked wildly and then focused on her. The bruised knob on his cheek wavered like the ocean surface and sank in, revealing unblemished skin and the perfect angle of his cheekbone. The thick sludge of blood along his cheek and ear evaporated, the screams quelled. The wounds sealed and the music withdrew as well, resuming its quiet background hum.

  The cooked stench of his burn wound dissipated. She breathed in, fully.

  “Octavia.” He said her name with his first exhalation. He frowned, his tongue finding the leaf obstructing his mouth.

  “Don’t bite it! Here, open up.” He did, his expression puzzled. She pinched the leaf out again, and even as she lifted it away it faded into dust.

  “I saw the Tree,” he whispered, and she knew he wasn’t speaking of the one nearby
. He wiggled his lips for a moment, as if shaking off the rigor of death. “It spoke to me, it told me . . .”

  A harsh chill quaked her body. No. No. This can’t be as it was with the child. Not again. Not to be taunted with life, with him, to lose him anew.

  “ . . . ‘Go.’ ”

  Octavia blinked rapidly. “ ‘Go?’ That’s it?”

  “Isn’t that enough?” A grin creased gentle lines into his face. She felt the warm heaviness of his hand on her shoulder, and she lowered her lips to his. The texture was chapped yet soft, his heat sending a giddy whirl through her stomach. A slight whimper escaped her throat. His hand glided to her neck, his thumb brushing her skin. With his lips moving against hers, his breath surprisingly minty, everything felt right.

  Her eyelids fluttered shut for a few seconds, and then she realized she wanted to see this. See him. His pale blue eyes were open as well, studying her in that intense way he studied everything. A smile turned her lips even as she kissed him again, fiercer. A moan escaped his throat as he pulled her closer.

  His song grew stronger, her awareness more keen than ever before. She felt the very reverberation of his life force against her lips, the way a tree’s leaves take in the heat of the sun.

  As if—as if I can feel his heart, wield power over his life right now, without a circle, without any herbs in hand. It wasn’t like this just a few days ago at the Saint’s Road—but my blood didn’t cause pampria to sprout before the swamp either.

  His body, his song, quivered through her awareness as if she were a composer. She had read the musical notes of bodies for so many years, but now it was as though she could pry apart the wind instruments and drums and brass by her very will. Control them. Rewrite the song.

  She jerked back, frightened.

  The ground shuddered. She glanced up. The giant tree was shrinking. The motion was slow, nowhere near as fast as it had been in growth, as it withdrew toward the ground. Alonzo propped himself up on his elbows, his gaze still on her. One hand went to his chest as if to check his own heartbeat.