by Beth Cato
“I am a steward, like the little fellow at the base of the tower.”
She studied him out of the corner of her eye. A steward. Many women wouldn’t curtsy to a servant like him, or engage him in a casual conversation as she was doing now.
He’s been nothing but respectable to me—far more than most. His surname may be Garret, but there’s more to him than that.
“That man . . . I don’t want my room anywhere near his.”
“ ’Tis not likely. We try to book solo women and married couples along the same wing, and men on the other. However, this is a small craft with only twelve double-berth cabins, and there are several common areas where you may encounter him again.”
“I’ll defend myself if necessary.”
“I hope it will not come to that, m’lady.”
Oh Lady, so do I.
A doorway ahead was labeled with various signs. On either side were two staircases leading up, shaped in an inverted V. Mr. Garrett pointed to the hallway ahead. “This floor features the lavatories and showers. The smoking room is the most popular social setting aboard. Everyone dines upstairs in the promenade. Your room is also on the deck above.”
Octavia unstrapped her satchel and tossed it across her shoulder like a bandolier, parasol clattering against the wall. He said nothing as she hauled the suitcase up the stairs. Her breath huffed. By the time she reached the top, her arm ached slightly, and it was a relief to set down the case and pull out the handle again.
Signs pointed toward the promenade on one side and the cabins on the other. A cage against the wall held a fluttering mass of mechanical birds. The paint on their wings had chipped and let various shades of metal shine through. En masse, they clicked and whirred and tweeted, the sound echoing slightly.
“Do you recall your berth number?” Mr. Garret asked.
“Three-A.”
“This way, then.” He took her on the left fork. The short hallway consisted of six doors with barely any space between. The two of them standing together with her luggage made the space claustrophobic. Mr. Garret knocked on the door for 3. Octavia heard the clatter of a lock and the door cracked open.
“Pardon me,” said Mr. Garret, bowing. “I have brought your roommate, a Miss Octavia Leander?”
“Oh, certainly! Goodness gracious.” The door widened to reveal a thick figure in a screaming purple dress. Her silvered blond hair featured a broad blue streak that started at her forehead and swirled into a plump bun pinned atop her head. In truth, everything about her could be described as plump. Her cheeks and jowls were heavy and rounded, and even her fingers on the door resembled puffy pastries.
But Octavia had a hard time looking at anything other than the woman’s hair. It was . . . bold, to say the least. Dyeing in streaks like that had been a Mercian fad years before, and was currently about as en vogue as riding a swaybacked horse.
“I’m Viola Stout,” the woman said, bobbing her head. Garish blue eye shadow matched the streak in her hair. “Here. Do come in! I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Absolutely delighted.”
“Oh. Uh, thank you.” Octavia offered a warm smile. Mrs. Stout’s name struck her as allegorical to her very body type, like a character in a religious tract.
Mr. Garret backed away, barely squeezing around the suitcase. “I must return to my duties, Miss Leander. I trust you are well now?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Garret. I’m much obliged for your assistance.”
With a final little bow, he walked away in commanding strides.
“Goodness, I don’t think I’ve seen a Tamaran in years. Such a nice walk he has. Mmm-hmm, yes. Fitted uniform pants are such glorious, underappreciated attire,” said Mrs. Stout, fanning herself for a moment. “Well! Come inside, child. I fear it’s rather cozy.”
Cozy was an understatement. The room seemed to be little more than a six-by-seven-foot rectangle. A padded bench jutted out with a large silver object lying flat against the wall above it. On the far wall, a sink showed a few splashes of water still on the aluminum surface, a small mirror on an arm to one side. Across from the bench, a few curtains denoted what must be a closet. No wonder Mr. Garret had emphasized the promenade and smoke room for socializing.
“Now, now, it won’t be that uncomfortable,” said Mrs. Stout, clucking her tongue.
“Was my expression so obvious?” asked Octavia.
“Well, it is a bit of a shock on your first excursion. This lower bunk is yours. When we’re ready for sleep, we signal a steward and he makes up our beds.” She motioned to a pull cord and then to the large silver rectangle flush with the wall. That had to be the upper bunk. “Is there anything you need to hang in the closet?”
“Oh. No. Not right away, certainly.” Octavia hadn’t given thought to how Miss Percival’s advice on secrecy extended to the packing of her garments. Her warded medician uniform was folded atop her other clothes in her suitcase. “I assume they bring a ladder to access that bunk?”
“Yes, that will all come in the evening, along with the pillows, bedding, and tenting for privacy.” Mrs. Stout edged over to sit on the bed. She held up a small paperbound book—a pulp mystery novel, its cover depicting a terrified woman fleeing from a tall figure in a pointed brown hood. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve been sitting here. I had hoped to meet my roommate in privacy, rather than guessing who you would be amongst the other ladies. You never know the sorts you’ll meet on an airship.” She punctuated the statement with a regal sniff.
“No, no, that’s fine. I’d rather make your acquaintance without others prying.” Others, meaning Mr. Drury. She sat down beside Mrs. Stout. The bed seemed quite firm, not even squeaking beneath their weight. She glanced up. The ladder would have to be a solid five feet in height. Mrs. Stout showed no outward health issues, nor did her body reveal any unusual musical tones. She seemed quite healthy for someone about a half century in age.
“Mrs. Stout, would you prefer the lower bunk? I’m quite fine with climbing to the upper bed.”
A dazzling smile caused Mrs. Stout’s cheeks to round like risen muffins. “Oh. Truly? It would be easier on me. As my dear husband liked to say, I’m in good enough shape to be requisitioned by the government, but I can still be a bit unsteady at times. You’re an absolute sweetheart for thinking of my comforts! If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you, child?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Goodness. My two children are barely older than you. Now, how was your ride into Vorana today? Is the North Road as rough as always?”
Octavia stilled. “How did you know I came in on the North Road?”
Mrs. Stout made a dismissive flick of her wrist. “I saw you riding into town.”
My carriage was enclosed. She regarded her new roommate with leery eyes, suddenly reminded of her troubled encounter with Mr. Drury. “The North Road isn’t a pleasant ride in a wagon, but that sort of motion doesn’t usually disturb me.”
“Ah, that old road never changes. As I always say, ‘Adversity steels the will, and the stomach. Only some stomachs have an easier time of it than others.’ ”
It was a saying Miss Percival had been known to quote as well, and Octavia had never heard it elsewhere. Perhaps it was a generational thing, as the two women were likely close in age. Or perhaps there was something more to this Mrs. Stout.
“Are you from Vorana?” asked Octavia.
“No. Nearer the coast, actually. Haven’t been here in years.” Mrs. Stout’s smile dimmed. “So, child, how—”
A loud bell rang from somewhere in the hallway. A sudden lurch knocked Octavia sideways, half sprawled in Mrs. Stout’s plush, purple lap. Chuckling, the older woman set Octavia upright and patted her hand. “That’s just the takeoff, dear. Normally there’s a bit more of a gap between the warning bell and that first lurch. Quite hasty of them. That does mean, however, if you wish to see the c
ity we must get to the promenade straightaway.”
“Oh, yes! I would love to see the view.” Octavia bounded to her feet, catching herself against the wall for balance. She edged her suitcase into the tight confines of the closet and then hoisted her satchel onto her shoulder again. She didn’t place any faith in a room key.
Mrs. Stout shook her head, grinning. A wisp of silver hair draped along her cheek. “Ah, to be young and on an adventure! Come along. I believe the library side will offer the best view.”
Don’t miss the latest
Octavia Leander adventure in
The Clockwork Crown
Available in paperback and ebook!
Narrowly surviving assassination and capture, Octavia Leander, a powerful magical healer, is on the run with handsome Alonzo Garrett, the Clockwork Dagger who forfeited his career with the Queen’s secret society of spies and killers—and possibly his life—to save her. Now, they are on a dangerous quest to find safety and answers: Why is Octavia so powerful? Why does she seem to be undergoing a transformation unlike any witnessed for hundreds of years?
Read on to find out more!
CHAPTER 1
As she rode through the snowy wilderness of far southern Caskentia, Octavia Leander’s spirits were buoyed by three thoughts: that although she fled from assassination and capture, she was undoubtedly in one of the most beautiful places she had ever seen; that thus far they had survived a full week without any sign of pursuit by horse or buzzer; and that her companion in the hard journey was Alonzo Garret, a man who had forfeited his career as a Clockwork Dagger—and possibly his life—in order to keep her alive.
Considering the dire circumstances, he made for delightful company.
Alonzo rode ahead on a chestnut bay stallion, their gray packhorse following close behind. This far from civilization, the world was utterly quiet but for the jingling of tack, the horses’ breathing and the steady rhythm of their hooves, and the radiant life songs of the horses, Alonzo, and any wildlife within close range. In particular, she took comfort in the ever-present marching-band brasses of Alonzo’s life essence; she would recognize his particular notes in any crowd.
Since childhood, she had known people’s and animals’ health woes by their music, but only in a generic sense. She didn’t hear specifics unless they had an open wound or she placed the patient in a circle to ask for the Lady’s direct intervention.
The Lady’s Tree moored its roots to the very spirit of the earth. Through the Tree, Octavia could heal with prowess beyond any other known medician. Lately, however, the Lady’s magic had changed. Octavia had changed. Her power through the Lady had increased, and she wasn’t sure if it was truly for the better.
As if he sensed her attention, Alonzo glanced back. A Waster’s fur-fringed hood framed his face and contrasted with the warm nutmeg tone of his skin. A coarse black beard lined his jaw. His song was ragged in weariness, his heart steady in its anxiety. His mechanical leg—though masterfully designed—could not help but grind the joint against the flesh below his knee. She had treated him with pampria and heskool root over the past few days to ward against infection. His leg pained him again now, but even so, his smile to her was tender. Heat bloomed in her own chest, along with a sense of terrible sadness.
She had told Alonzo that she wanted to search the famed libraries of the southern nations to find out where the Lady’s Tree might be found. Alonzo knew that Octavia sought a greater understanding of her own magic through the Lady, but he didn’t know of all the ways that her power was changing. Or how it terrified her.
How had Octavia’s blood, combined with a true branch from the Lady’s Tree, caused a massive tree to grow temporarily? That tree had acted in her defense and torn apart the men of the Waste who had tried to hold her captive. The branch that had done that was now tied to her saddlebag. It was green, as if freshly cut, and hummed with life like any person or animal.
Then there had been the moment after she had pulled Alonzo from the edge of death. She had kissed him, and with the touch of her lips she had gone beyond her knowledge of his body’s song. It was as if she had become immersed in his very soul, as if she could pry apart his body’s instruments and manipulate his health without any restrictions from the Lady’s herbs.
That had frightened her even more than the persistent threats of both Caskentia and the Waste.
A flock of birds fluttered overhead, anxiety driving them as if they were pursued. Octavia craned around. The sky was a blanket of gray, the wind sharpened by early winter.
“What is the matter?” called Alonzo.
“Something alarmed the birds.”
“To the trees, quickly.”
Their horses pounded down the hill, the action reverberating through her constantly aching leg muscles. Thin snow sloshed underfoot. The forest welcomed them with a slap of branches and a shower of pine needles and ice. Roads had been scarce, signs of humanity scarcer. A good thing, in truth, though the long days of slow progress had permanently imprinted the saddle’s curve into her backside.
“We should be nearing the Caskentian border. ’Tis a likely place for patrols to be wary for us.” Alonzo reined up.
Octavia listened past the songs of wildlife around her. “I hear a buzzer.” That’s what I get for counting my blessings. I jinxed us.
“Yes. He is likely flying amongst the low clouds. Our tracks are bold on the snow.” Alonzo pressed his horse onward, staying in the trees. She followed, brush scraping her legs. Trees crowded close.
Because of the unusual strength of Octavia’s skills, the settlers of the rogue territory known as the Waste had sought to capture her and use her against Caskentia. The Caskentian royal court caught wind of this plot and, true to form, thought the tidiest solution was Octavia’s death.
She had known all her life that her government was as rotten as unsalted meat left out on a summer afternoon—the sort that looks fine to eat, and makes you pray for a merciful end hours later—but she had never expected them to send Clockwork Daggers to assassinate her. But Alonzo Garret, in the guise of an airship steward, had refused to carry out his assigned task.
“It could be normal Caskentian border patrol, right? Perhaps they don’t know to look for us?”
The buzzer roared overhead. Alonzo looked up with a grimace. “ ’Tis my hope that our feint will last longer, but I dare not be too positive. Our circuitous route has taken us a week. By now they are well aware of what transpired aboard the Argus and have tracked the Wasters’ trail to where we did battle. If they suspect we are alive and free, our choices of destination are few.”
“Well, we certainly couldn’t go to the Waste, though that’s where most criminals would flee. That leaves the southern nations as the obvious choice.”
“An obvious choice, but not the only. There is always Mercia. ’Tis a warren. A person could lose their own shadow in those environs, and within a stone’s throw of the palace.”
And many stones are being thrown that way, I’m sure, knowing how people feel about Queen Evandia.
Mercia was Caskentia’s capital, a sprawling city of half a million, a place of countless factories and miserable refugees. Octavia had never been there—never wished to go there, with its reputation for foul air, sickness, and utter lack of vegetation. Such denseness of humanity was the stuff of her nightmares; considering how she could hear Alonzo’s song now, she dreaded to think of what it would be like to be surrounded by the starving and sick.
No trees lay ahead. Alonzo sucked in a sharp breath and reined up. “Damn.”
She knew it had to be bad if he used that sort of language in front of her. She drew up alongside him. “What is—? Oh.”
They had reached the end of Caskentia.
The ravine had to be some five hundred feet across, the basin of it far beyond sight. Sedimentary-rock layers rippled in various tones of
red and brown. On the far side, and farther south, steam clouds billowed into the chilly afternoon. “Factories,” Alonzo said. “There are said to be many on their side of the border.”
“I don’t see any signs of bridges or roads.”
Alonzo cast a grim glance at the sky. The sound of the buzzer had faded again. “No, and if there are, they will be well guarded. The southern nations have taken in many Caskentian refugees, but with restrictions.”
“If all the unemployed and starving fled Caskentia, there’d be scarcely anyone left.”
“Indeed.”
They urged their horses to trot into the woods parallel to the ravine. The horses knew their anxiety; it showed in their quickened hearts and flickering ears. Octavia stroked her mare again. The white horse appeared delicate with her tapered legs and quick stride, but had revealed incredible endurance and a steady temperament over their long trek. Octavia’s growing fondness for the mare was bothersome.
I must resist naming her. Maybe that will make our eventual parting that much easier—a lesson I should have learned with Leaf.
The thought of the little gremlin caused her to glance up in case she might see him for the first time in a week. Birds cawed, but there were no mews or chitters from man-made biological constructs.
The trees thinned out and showed open ground to the west. With another wary look to the clouds, they rode into the open. Clicking her tongue, Octavia encouraged her horse to gallop. Melted snow created thick mud that spattered her legs and chest; the enchantment on her robes would wick away the filth within minutes. Another stand of trees loomed a quarter mile away.
That high mechanical buzz returned to the clouds.
Octavia lifted herself higher in the stirrups, crouching low over the horse’s neck. Mane lashed her face. She gritted her teeth against the burning tension in her thighs.
Alonzo looked over his shoulder. His hood had blown flat against his back, his bound hair blowing out like a miniature horse’s tail. His mouth was a hard line. She almost expected the buzzer to be mounted with an automatic gun like the one that pursued them in the marsh outside of Leffen, for gunfire to follow them into the woods. They slowed as they entered the tree cover. Alonzo wheeled around. The buzzing grew louder yet.
