The Clockwork Dagger

by Beth Cato

“That . . . that was nice,” she said with a shaky smile. I wanted it to be nicer. Lady, what’s happening to me?

  “Helloooooooo down there!” Mrs. Stout’s voice was high and far away.

  “Octavia . . .”

  “Viola will be down in a few minutes.” The words were raspy.

  “That infernal burned you.”

  She looked at the welts on her wrist. “It was nothing compared to the way they tortured you.”

  His sleeve was still clumsily rolled to the elbow, cloth stained by gore. Faint pink lines showed where they had scorched him. “ ’Tis not fair, really. I am healed, yet you, the healer, are still hurt. When we find your satchel . . .” Alonzo’s body brushed against the canvas tent as he worked to stand. His breath caught sharply. “Drury. Did you do that?”

  “Oh Lady. I did.” She crawled over to Mr. Drury, already bracing herself for the sight of him. Shrapnel to the eye was never pretty. “I can save him.” Her fingers fumbled out another leaf.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Alonzo asked.

  “I’m a medician. I can’t . . . I can’t just let someone die. Not even him.”

  Still, she cringed as she touched his lips. She tucked the leaf beneath his tongue and shut his jaw.

  “Was that truly the potentate here?”

  “Yes.” Keeping her gaze away from Alonzo, she rested a hand against Mr. Drury’s forehead. She spoke of what she had learned of their plot against Mercia, that Miss Percival had indeed sold out both Octavia herself and Viola Stout, that they were using young girls to harvest the gleanings of the Lady’s Tree. The words flowed fast, and as the minutes passed Mr. Drury’s skin only grew colder.

  “Did I do something wrong?” she said aloud. Through her, the Lady had mended thousands of strangers over the years. She knew the Lady was currently present, even without a circle to draw her eye.

  I could press my lips to his, see if I feel any thrum of life as with Alonzo. Personal revulsion was an adequate excuse to avoid that, but even more, she knew there was nothing there to feel.

  Octavia opened Mr. Drury’s mouth and withdrew the leaf. It looked the same as before, only glossy with saliva. It remained whole in her hand.

  “The Lady didn’t want him healed.” She stared at Mr. Drury in awe. “I have never . . . never seen her deny someone so utterly. But after he saved me from that machine at the hotel, I never felt the burden of a blessing on me. She . . . she . . .”

  “Considering his sins, that is her choice to make.”

  Octavia nodded mutely and traced the crusted slash across her thumb.

  The Lady killed. She killed Mr. Drury by denying him life anew, and she killed the other Wasters whose body parts still lie scattered across the ground. Who is the Lady, really?

  Who am I? A medician—and something more?

  She shivered, discomfited by the very blood running through her veins.

  VIOLA RETURNED TO EARTH shaky but well. Leaf had made a comfortable nest for himself on the shelf of her bosom, one wing draped over her shoulder to hook himself in place. He chirped in greeting but seemed content.

  “My goodness,” said Viola, plopping down on an overturned bucket beside a smoldering fire. “My goodness. I saw everything from up there. Every awful thing.”

  “Everything?” Octavia asked sharply, half expecting a lecture on impropriety.

  “Well, I may have averted my eyes a time or two.” Mrs. Stout offered Octavia a not-so-subtle wink.

  Alonzo greeted Mrs. Stout and then stared at the gremlin, shaking his head and grinning. “This day is full of surprises.”

  Octavia dug out her satchel from beneath the tent and almost wept to feel that familiar weight in her hands. She immediately ran the wand over the leaf she had retrieved from Mr. Drury. Four leaves left. As for the mighty tree, it had not shed a single leaf. All that remained was the bare branch upon the ground, alive and humming some wordless song. Octavia looped the artifact into the top straps of her satchel.

  Vincan returned soon after Alonzo and Octavia had gathered most of the dead to burn. His pale skin was ruddy and drenched with sweat.

  “Wasters got away,” he said simply as he heaved himself to the ground. “Some more o’ their horses got free. They snared ’em and rode off. I was on foot, but I tried t’ follow. Got off one shot but had only two bullets left, didn’t want to be without.”

  Exhausted, they all gathered around the fire to eat beans.

  “The big question is what we do now,” said Alonzo. He rubbed his face with both hands.

  “Well! It would be better to say you’re dead,” said Viola.

  Alonzo looked at her in puzzlement. “What?”

  “I was there in the promenade! I heard what that little steward said, that other Clockwork Dagger. You were intended to fail, to appear as a fool.”

  “I was a fool, naive. I thought I would prove myself by keeping Octavia alive, even as I defied my orders. That . . . I worked for a greater good.”

  “You did, and I’m grateful for it,” said Octavia, her voice soft. Gazing at him evoked a cozy warmth in her chest, even as the sensation was tempered by fear of what she had felt in their last kiss. Not just what I felt in him but in myself—my own potential. “But the truth is that you were treated like a child underfoot in the kitchen, and you deserved better.”

  Alonzo stared into the fire as he ate.

  “Caskentia will still want me dead.” Octavia knew that with certainty. “Taney and Lanskay know what I can do with the blessing of the Lady.”

  Viola nodded. “Yes. The people of the Waste are nothing if not stubborn, and you caused a full tree to grow before them, child. Your worth was confirmed.”

  Whatever that means. She gazed into the bowl as if she could scry in legumes. “There is much I don’t understand about the Lady. Alonzo?” He looked up. “We can’t stay in Caskentia, that much is clear. The southern nations are known for their libraries, their academies.”

  He swallowed and set the bowl to one side. “The southern nations.” He nodded slowly. “Yes. There are said to be libraries there so large a person can get lost for days. This enigma of the Lady’s Tree—perhaps we can find some answers there. Maybe we can find a way to her.”

  That rekindled desire brought tears to her eyes. She laid a hand on the branch. It was quiet now, satiated, even as it still hummed with life.

  “The ride south will be hard, Octavia. Wilderness, on the brink of winter.” Alonzo’s expression was equally hard. “Once we cross the ravine to the city-states, there is no guarantee of our safety. Both Daggers and Dallowmen will be in pursuit. The southern nations take no sides.”

  “What other choice do we have?” asked Octavia.

  “Death.”

  She shrugged. “Well, I’ve made clear my thoughts on that.”

  A small smile rounded Alonzo’s cheeks. “Mrs. Stout, Vincan can fly you to Mercia in the buzzer. Vincan, about me . . .”

  The big man nodded. “Eh. You’re dead. The Wasters strung you up like a Solstice ham. Not sure what t’ say about the miss. Are you s’pposed to be alive or dead?” he asked, looking to Octavia.

  “Say you do not know,” said Alonzo. “Soon enough, the Waste’s continued interest in Octavia will alert Caskentia to the fact that she lives. Perhaps some ambiguity will buy us time.”

  “I won’t be safe either, nor will my children be.” Viola straightened, causing the slumbering gremlin to shift and yawn on her shoulder. “We will also head south. Besides, that region boasts more readers than Caskentia. It may be a prudent business move in the end.”

  Dawdling wasn’t wise. With the meal concluded, Vincan and Alonzo clapped hands. Viola embraced Octavia, the slightest hint of rosewater still lingering on her skin.

  Leaf stirred with a wide, fang-tipped yawn. The gremlin flexed one wing and then the other, then hopped toward Octavia. She caught him on her forearm.

  “I didn’t get to thank you properly earlier.” Octavia scratched at the w
rinkled flesh between his ears. She felt the faint line of what could be a seam. “I wish I had some of those little cheeses you loved on the ship. You earned handfuls of them, little one.”

  Leaf trilled. He cocked his head to one side, round black eyes staring as if he could see through her. He leaned forward and she brought her arm closer. His wing brushed her cheek as his stubby fingers pressed against her headband and the embroidered emblem of the Lady’s Tree.

  “That’s the Lady,” she whispered. “Like the tree you were in a short while ago, though more permanent.”

  He chirped. His fingers rubbed as if to take in the texture of the threads.

  “In the south, they say, men can speak with gremlins,” said Viola, her voice far softer than usual. “What would our creature say? I wonder.”

  Leaf’s grip on Octavia’s arm shifted, and with a twist he took off. She touched the emblem on her headband as she watched him fly away. His fork armband glistened in the light as his wings flapped east—toward the mountains, the Waste, the Tree.

  The Lady is somewhere out there. The Wasters found her. Maybe Alonzo is right, and we can find our own path.

  “I’m not sure if Leaf truly needs words or a translator. It’s clear he was sent to aid us.” She lowered her gaze to Alonzo. He was passing several items over to Vincan.

  “Considering the day, I don’t doubt that a bit. I am sure you haven’t seen the last of him, child!” Viola followed Octavia’s line of sight and clucked her tongue. “As for Mr. Garret, that so-called steward of yours! A few days ago, I had far different opinions, but I daresay he has surprised me.”

  “Does that mean I’m spared the lecture on the impropriety of my gallivanting about in the woods with a man?”

  “Well! He’s not just a man, is he? He’s a Clockwork Dagger. He’s the sort a woman wants to gallivant about with.” Mischief sparkled in Viola’s eye. “Oh! And I mustn’t forget.” She reached into her cleavage, and after some fumbling, pulled out a small satin purse. “You’ll need this.” She pressed the purse into Octavia’s hands. It was warm and moist with sweat.

  Octavia opened the bag to find jingling golden coins. She sucked in a breath. “Oh, no, Viola. I’ve never held this much money in my life. These are gilly coins. I can’t—”

  “You can and you will.” Viola’s tone was imperious. “You need the money to travel and survive, and at some point you’ll need new medician attire that is not the pure white of a Percival disciple.” Sorrow sagged her face.

  “About Miss Percival . . .”

  “I will not correspond with her further. I will not let her know I live.” Viola’s jaw hardened as much as it could. “If there’s anything of the old Nelly still there, the guilt is eating her alive. And it should. It should.” She looked past Octavia. “You take good care of this girl, you understand?”

  “If things continue as they have, she will likely be the one taking care of me,” Alonzo said.

  Viola and Octavia hugged a final time. “Octavia,” she whispered, “I know you love your Lady, but don’t do so blindly. Remember my father’s warning. Remember what you saw here today.”

  As if I could forget. “I’ll remember.” Octavia couldn’t help the tears that fell as she watched Viola and Vincan trudge along the trail together. Alonzo stood behind her, giving her time to compose herself before she turned around.

  “Well, that’s that, then. I suppose we should head out?”

  The two of them, alone together in the wilderness. Well, Miss Percival was right in her advice about shunning the presence of men. Nothing proper has happened, that’s a certainty.

  Alonzo had cobbled together supplies to load a horse for each and a gray packhorse besides. Octavia mounted her white mare. Alonzo had claimed a chestnut stallion with a long blaze. Downwind, the pyre of the dead had been lit. It crackled in the distance like a body’s song.

  They took a path going south, silence dwelling between them for a time. Octavia’s mind was a weary jumble. A gentle breeze rattled through the branches above. No bodies cried out in need. No one spoke but birds, and they sang of all the glories of autumn. Squirrels scampered from tree to tree like little gray ghosts. The smell was of mustiness and dirt and everything she loved about life.

  Octavia laughed, the sound causing Alonzo to swivel in his saddle.

  “What . . . ?”

  “Here. Where we are. It’s beautiful. A piece of paradise. Delford isn’t far away, is it? Just to the south of the Giant?”

  “ ’Tis a few days’ ride away.”

  “Today we would have docked in Mercia, been surrounded by metal and people and industry. Everything I hate. Instead, we’re here. Alive. Free.” She tilted her smile toward the patchy sunlight. “Can we go to Delford?”

  Alonzo remained silent for a time. “ ’Tis not far out of our way, but such a destination is not prudent.”

  “Everyone who hunts us knows that Delford was my destination. Therefore, if we were smart, it would be the foremost place to avoid, correct?”

  A hard crease deepened between his eyebrows. “You suggest we play fools and go there anyway?”

  “Yes. It’s what they would least suspect.”

  “True.” Another long pause. “Your blessed supplies are low. You mentioned before that many in Delford are gravely ill.”

  “Hundreds, yes.”

  “You do not readily walk away from those in need. We cannot stay in Delford—you should not heal anyone at all and draw attention to yourself. I should not even be sighted, as my skin is far too memorable.” He frowned, shaking his head. “What do you hope to gain from such a visit, beyond tormenting yourself?”

  “I want . . . I want to know I made it there. Despite the attempts on my life, despite the plotting, the lies.” She stared ahead. The mare’s ears flicked as a red leaf spiraled to the forest floor. “You’re right that it won’t be easy for me. So many have suffered, are still suffering. If I can walk through Delford and offer a prayer and a silent apology, at the very least it means they are not ignored. Not forgotten.”

  “You cannot save everyone, Octavia. Not even the Lady can do such.”

  She nodded with the sway of her horse. “I know, and yet . . .”

  “And yet.” His smile was weary, resigned.

  A few days together, and he knows me so well.

  They rode on, hooves crunching on the duff. Octavia breathed as in her Al Cala and prayed for those left injured or dead during the past few days—the people on the Argus, the pox-stricken in Vorana, the gremlins in a burlap bag, the horses left kicking in the street, that boy and his grieving mother—even the puppy, who had likely succumbed to his fate days before.

  As a nearby jay belted out a chorus in voice and body, she was reminded to add a prayer for the egrets.

  CHAPTER 23

  Delford was everything Octavia had hoped it would be. The hills were rolling and green, the trees lush. The place was fragrant with cow manure, not a pleasant smell, but one that evoked cozy memories and a sense of home.

  Not home. Not for me.

  The thought didn’t grieve her as much as she expected.

  She dismounted, ready to confront the place that had been her dream for so many months. Alonzo pulled a Waster’s overcoat from his saddlebag and passed it down to her. She buttoned it up to cover the warded, pristine fabric of her uniform.

  “From here, I will watch the road and the village,” he said, nodding at the pastoral scene below. Smoke curled from chimneys and blended with a mottled sky. “If you take more than an hour, I will come into town.”

  “I shouldn’t be long.” She handed off her reins to him. Her hands glanced over her satchel, still tied to the saddle.

  I am a visitor, that’s all.

  “Be careful.” His tone of voice gave her pause. Black fuzz thickened the line of his jaw and his lips. Kissing him would feel different now—or would the increase in her magic pull her past the physical sensation completely?

  She looked away
. I’ll find my answers in the southern libraries. I must.

  “I’ll be back soon,” she said.

  “I will be here.”

  She granted him a smile. As much as she dreaded whatever awaited her in the village, Alonzo would be waiting for her. She knew that as an absolute.

  Octavia walked downhill. The road’s ruts were deep enough to swallow her feet. In a nearby lot, a cow lowed. A flock of chickens scurried across a gap between the brown-tile-roofed buildings. A few other people milled about a well in the center of the square. The back of her neck prickled. Not with the sense of being watched, but with a sense of wrongness.

  Everyone looks normal. Healthy. The village has none of the decay and disuse I was told of, with people too bed-bound to labor.

  She followed the redolent scent of bread to a small shop just off the square. Cooling loaves lined a long windowpane.

  “Greetings!” Octavia called.

  In the kitchen, a white-scarved woman turned. Flour dusted her arms and the plump rounds of her cheeks. “Hey-o! Passing by, eh? Day-tripper to the Giant?”

  “I am. The bread smells lovely.”

  “Shovel manure or stack wood for a loaf, or I’ll take a coin, if you ’ave it.”

  Giggling children ran by dangling a fish on a rope, a horde of delighted cats in their wake. Their bodies—all but the fish—rang with sound health.

  “Tell me,” Octavia said, slowly, “do you know of an Egan Covington?”

  The baker’s nose crinkled. “Can’t say I do, ’n I know most everyone.”

  “What about a Des Murray or Wallo Rakely?”

  She shook her head. “Nep.”

  The three men who came to the academy, who hired me for Delford—they don’t exist, not by those names. Maybe they were Wasters, or hired actors.

  Miss Percival concocted the perfect lie to lure me into their grasp.

  “I’ve got a copper,” Octavia said. “I see rolls back there.”

  “Aye. Solid coin’ll get you a full dozen, plus cheese, if you’d like.” She shuffled over and accepted the thin coin from Octavia’s hand.

  “Yes. Cheese would be grand.” If Leaf were here, it’d be all his. She paused, looking around. “This is a fine village. With the mountains so close, have you had issues with the Waste?”