The Clockwork Dagger (12 page)

Mr. Garret grinned. “Miss Percival sounds fierce as a threem.”

“Oh, she could be at times, but she always meant well. She just couldn't abide it when people brought injury upon themselves. ‘Sometimes, they deserve a little pain,' she'd say.” Octavia stared into the distance and smiled. It felt good to speak openly of Miss Percival. It felt better to even think of her, knowing Mrs. Stout had been sent along.

“On the contrary, I believe you deserve some pleasantness. If you want to see the road, I could awaken you late tonight. And Mrs. Stout, of course,” he added hastily.

A peculiar heat warmed her belly and, despite her weariness, brought a wide smile to her face.

“Oh, goodness. Yes, I'm interested. I can ask Mrs. Stout if she'd like to come.” She studied his face, trying to gauge the intentions behind his offer. Viewing the Saint's Road was considered . . . well, intimate. It was a holy landmark in existence for fifty years, a cobblestone road whose principal builder was blessed with the peculiar gift to set the stones aglow. Octavia had heard more than one person say they had been there, but beyond that, they'd say very little. It was the sort of memory that made people smile and stare into the distance as though an old friend waved at them from far away.

When will a chance like this come again? It's not like anything will happen. He's a steward. He's being polite.

She cleared her throat. “How has Mrs. Stout been . . . treating you?” She kept her voice low, in case someone stood on the other side of the partition. She couldn't help but wonder how Mr. Garret would regard Mrs. Stout if he knew the full truth—tattoo, vault, and all.

Trusting him with the secret of my occupation was one thing—risking the lives of Mrs. Stout and her family is something else entirely.

“If that woman were an infernal, a solitary glare would down this entire ship. I wish she would permit me some small show of faith—a simple chance—so that it would relieve some tension between us.”

“Why show that faith? What've you done to earn it?”

Mr. Garret leaned closer, his expression sober. “Then why do you seem so trusting of me?”

“I just am,” she said, keenly aware of how lame the words sounded. She looked away, her cheeks warming. “I should check on Mrs. Stout.”

“Oh, of course. I will check on the beastie for you, and after that I will slumber for the next while. Try to stay in the public areas of the ship as much as possible, Miss Leander.” His face softened to a smile. “I will see you tonight, show you the road?”

She hesitated for all of a second before nodding.

“I will knock on your door when 'tis time. The hour will be late, likely after midnight.” With a final nod, he briskly walked away.

Several people sat in the promenade and gazed out the windows. Octavia barely registered their presence as she walked through. Mr. Garret's warm smile dominated her thoughts instead.
I'm daft. I shouldn't encourage the man. When this journey's done, I'll never see him again.

A day away from the academy, and Octavia already displayed the moral flippancy of the heroines of those pulpy copper novels Mrs. Stout read.

Not that Octavia would ever read such a book, of course. And never in
public
.

She pushed through the door to berthing and ran directly into Mr. Drury.

She had a brief glimpse of his eyes going wide and then he spun backward. Literally. His arms whirled in a pinwheel as he pivoted on one foot, bounding back toward the stairwell like a dancer. He caught himself there in a crouch. His arms curved out in boneless grace, reminiscent of a standing Al Cala pose. No ordinary suit allowed such flexibility; it had been tailored for use in fighting. Octavia pinned herself against the doorframe. The presence of warm metal in her hand surprised her—by instinct she had pulled forth her capsicum flute.

“You.” Mr. Drury jerked upright and his trim suit jacket shrugged into place again. His salesman's smile resumed a comfortable position between the soft lines of his face, that sausage of a mustache curving along his upper lip. “You gave me quite a start, Miss Leander.”

Beside her, the caged mechanical birds tweeted, their little metal feet and wings clattering.

“The feeling is mutual.” Her heartbeat fluttered against her breastbone. His fluidity was that of a supreme martial artist, a Clockwork Dagger. The thought of him in such a position of power turned her blood cold. “Were you a soldier, Mr. Drury?”

Wariness crept into his gaze for the first time. It wasn't the haunted look that had drifted over Vincan earlier; no, this was pure shrewdness. “Why do you ask?”

“Some soldiers practice acrobatic arts as a means of fitness and entertainment.”
Or to slit throats.
She nodded toward him. “Moves such as that, for instance.”

“I used to dabble a bit.” He brushed off his suit, though it had no dust now. “Old instincts and all.”

“Quite.”

“The
Argus
was quite fortunate to have you aboard today. Your miraculous work is the talk of the ship.”

“It's unlikely anyone would've died before we moored in Leffen,” she said stiffly.
Barring a crash landing, of course.

“Ah, but they may have wished they had.” That salesman's smile returned to his lips as his eyes twinkled at her in obvious pleasure. Her stomach soured. How long until he circled the conversation around to that blasted tea again? “You are very gifted. Most medicians would still be at work. I heard you are unusually efficient in your herbal applications as well. Mrs. Wexler in particular noted how not a single excess piece of bellywood bark littered her husband's skin, quite the contrary to her previous experience with your kind.”

“And what of you, Mr. Drury? Are you experienced with . . . as you put it, my kind?”

His lips thinned in a smile almost obscured by the furry width of his mustache. “As you noted, I have endured action at the front. It's a rare man who escapes unscathed by bullet, climate, or zyme. It makes the comforts of my current occupation all the more enjoyable, and for such a joyous product as well.”

Ah yes, there was the overdue reference to his precious Royal-Tea. “It's been nice to see you again, Mr. Drury. I really must rest.”

She made to go around him and he neatly sidestepped to block her. Octavia's eyes narrowed and she squeezed the small pipe within the sweaty well of her palm.

“Would you, perhaps, like to join me for dinner later?” he asked. “Lunch is quite soon, of course, but I understand you're tired. Perhaps I could even persuade you to try some Royal-Tea? It revives the spirit like nothing else.”

“No, I would not like to join you for dinner, Mr. Drury. I'll dine with Mrs. Stout, as she's recovering from her bout of illness and may need assistance.” Her eyes scanned side to side. Using her flute in such proximity wouldn't be wise, but she had no desire to retreat or show submission in any way. This called for drastic action and anatomical knowledge.

Mr. Drury opened his lips to speak again. She drew back her fist. The blow landed several inches beneath his sternum. Clearly caught off guard, Mr. Drury dropped like a swatted fly, his eyes appropriately bugging out as the wind was knocked out of him.

Octavia didn't mind that a strike to the celiac plexus was likely to cause a good bit of pain.
Miss Percival is right. Sometimes people deserve a bit of suffering.

“When I say no, Mr. Drury, I mean no.” She circled around his crumpled form, scurrying lest he try to grab her ankles. A mechanical bird hooted as if in approval.

Adrenaline seemed to drain from her as she reached the door to room 3. Her knuckles rapped on the wood. Lady be thanked, Mrs. Stout promptly opened it. Octavia jumped within and slammed the door with her backside. Her fingers fumbled as she did the lock again.

“Well!” Mrs. Stout stood there, arm still raised from where she had held the door. “What was that fuss about?”

“An unwelcome suitor who can't comprehend answers in the negative.” Her fingers trembled too much to put away the flute so she let it stay in her fist.

“Not that steward? You can't trust that sort, Miss Leander! Give them an inch, and they'll want a yard. Need I remind you what's at stake?” Mrs. Stout was looking like herself again, her hair coiffed in its massive bun and shimmery blue eye shadow in place. Her rouge, however, seemed too stark and red against her pallor.

“No, not him. A passenger.” She didn't wish to reveal that Mr. Garret's advances weren't truly unwelcome. Or were they? The man muddled everything.

“I see. Come and sit down. You must be run off your feet, you poor thing. There. I'll get you some water.”

The room had been remade for daytime use, their bedding packed away and the top cot flush against the wall. Octavia collapsed against the bench seat. A different pulp book sat beside her, this one featuring a woman in a trendy, loose-waisted frock fleeing from a sinister flock of mecha ravens. She murmured thanks when Mrs. Stout pushed a cup into her hand.

The woman remained over her, fists planted on her broad hips. “I'm sorry that you're garnering such attention, child. I know you didn't want anyone to know what you are, and I understand perfectly well why. I feel like that's my fault—”

“Oh, Mrs. Stout. You didn't stab yourself, nor did you poison the ice in the larder.”

“You know very well what I mean. Once someone knows a secret, it . . .” Her voice trailed away. Octavia looked away, already detecting where the conversation would lead. “You must be careful about who you trust.”

If Mrs. Stout knew about Mr. Garret's invitation to view the Saint's Road, she'd turn it into some sordid affair, and likely alert the captain and anyone else in range about Mr. Garret's impropriety.

Octavia understood there were fights she could win, like the one against Mr. Drury, and others where she might as well attempt to fill a dirigible by mouth. So she nodded and smiled as if she agreed with everything Mrs. Stout said, even as she mentally ticked down the hours until midnight.

O
CTAVIA WAITED IN THE
top bunk, filled with equal measures of dread and eagerness. Her hand on the smooth panels of the wall felt the faint quiver of the engines, akin to the distant pulse of a heart. A slight tap came from the door.

He's here! I shouldn't move too quickly or he'll think I've been waiting at the door. But I don't want to be too slow either.
She pushed aside her blanket and scooted to the ladder.

The chill of the ladder rungs bit through her thin socks. She paused before stepping onto the floor. Mrs. Stout wheezed in her sleep, grunting on occasion as she tossed to and fro. Octavia eased onto the carpet, as light as a bee upon a flower, and pulled on her boots. Octavia had worn a sailor-collared dress in light blue since the afternoon, and told Mrs. Stout the day's activities had simply left her mind too active for sleep. Not a total lie, at least.

A glance out the peephole confirmed the fact that Mr. Garret stood on the other side. Octavia grabbed her satchel and slipped through the door. Locking it, she murmured over her shoulder, “I do worry about leaving her alone.”

“She will not be joining us?” He sounded politely disappointed.

“No,” said Octavia, and left the matter at that.

“The flight over the road will not take that long,” he said, then frowned. “I should have told you to wear a coat. The best view is with the windows open, and 'tis quite chilly.”

Indeed, he wore a pea coat over his usual crimson jacket. The double rows of buttons and thick cotton weave gave him an even more imposing form. His thick ponytail was tucked within his collar, and she resisted the urge to flip it to lie free on his back.

“Oh, I'm no nesh. At the northern pass, our chamber pots would freeze during a winter's night. I can handle the cold here. Besides, Mrs. Stout is asleep, and digging around in the closet would be sure to wake her.”

“The lady certainly deserves her rest.” He led the way toward the promenade. “I checked on the beastie a short while ago. A few crumbs of food remained in his cage. I assume you fed him?”

“Yes. I visited during supper when everyone was in the promenade. He was well.”

More than well. When Octavia had opened the cage, Leaf had flung himself at her with both wings around her neck. Judging by the tone of his chatter, she was being scolded most brutally. Quite understandable, considering he'd been locked up with a dour portrait of the Queen. A few of his gruffer clicks and clacks would no doubt have translated as profane.

He quickly calmed down when she pulled out a cloth napkin mounded with pecans and little cheeses on toothpicks. She demonstrated how to eat a piece of mozzarella so he wouldn't eat the stick as well, and he mimicked with his delicate three-fingered hand. A single cube of cheese made his cheeks swell like that of a hoarding squirrel. The line between hideous and adorable had blurred substantially.

“I could probably let the beastie out late tonight, after the smoking room calms down.”

“Oh. That's . . . very kind of you, Mr. Garret.”

Leaf should be free. He's not intended to be a pet. But he is so small, likely a baby—were all of his kin slain? Where will he go? Vorana is a day away.

She gnawed on her lip.
Oh Lady. I should never have gotten attached to him in the first place. Just as I shouldn't be with Mr. Garret now.
And yet her legs seemed to move of their own volition to follow the man.

Most of the lights in the promenade had been shut off. A few lamps swayed in the center of the room, casting soft and subtle illumination; dim glowstones embedded in the tiles added to the effect.

“I thought you said it'd be busy in here?” Her heart beat a little faster.