The Clockwork Dagger (15 page)

Lightning bolts of agony raced down both arms. Black spots swarmed her eyes as she heard her own scream, muffled and hot, against the gag. Hands steadied her waist, her forehead bowing forward to meet Mr. Garret's shoulder. He didn't offer any ridiculous words of encouragement, no shushing, no telling her that it would pass. He simply moored her upright as the violent pain began to fade. Her breath caught in an aborted sob.

Her hands were decontaminated. That was the important thing, especially considering the malevolent zymes aboard ship. However, the wand had also dissolved the clots. The wounds bled anew. She sat up and bobbed her head. Catching the hint, he pulled the gag free.

“Thank you, Mr. Garret.” Octavia's voice was raspy.

“Good God. You are welcome, though I pray we do not have to do this again.” He actually appeared shaken, his eyes wide.

“Oh. I thought it was my duty to keep your life aboard ship exciting and unpredictable.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“In that, you have succeeded most brilliantly.” Without waiting to be asked, he moved the two jars to the perimeter of the circle. She nodded her gratitude.

Octavia bowed forward, hands extended with the palms facing up. The softness of the blanket pressed against her nose. Closing her eyes, she could see the copper and honeyflower band that surrounded her, the dormant magic like a smoldering flame. At her intensified focus, heat flashed against her skin and came as a welcome relief.

“Pray, let the Lady mend her healer's ills,” she whispered, her words hot against the silky cloth. She dipped her fingers into the pampria and pressed both palms together. In the openness of her mind, the wind howled through the branches of the mountainous Tree. Cold seeped into her hands as if she had dipped them into a bucket of ice water. The sensation crawled up her fingers and wrists, inching along her arms. It found her brachial artery and flared out in an instant, her breath seizing for several seconds as the sudden chill clenched her heart and lungs. Then she sagged. The pain was gone.
Lady be praised.

She sat upright and applied a gelatinous Linsom berry to each hand. In an instant, they were absorbed.

“Thank you, Lady.” She pressed her hands together again, bringing her thumbs to her lips as she opened her eyes. With a resounding zap, the seal around her dispersed.

More pampria gone. Not that I'll quibble about this use.

Mr. Garret sat just off of the blanket. His arms were wrapped around his good knee, his expression scrutinizing as always.

“Would it help if you took notes?” she asked.

His sternness collapsed in a relieved grin. “Pardon. I cannot help but find it fascinating. I am accustomed to modern machinery, not magical arts, and certainly nothing of your caliber.”

“I do believe you're next in the queue, Mr. Garret.”

He glanced over his shoulder as if to see if anyone was behind him. “I suppose so, but I am not sure 'tis even necessary. My leg is simply . . . gone. As for the fight, truth be told, it was not honest. Mr. Grinn faced the window and I had the jump on him.”

“Is that a confession of sin, Mr. Garret? I'm a medician, not a sister.”

“Well, yes. 'Tis a confession of . . . something, I suppose.”

“Honor has a time and place. Now is neither.”

They exchanged places. Octavia tapped the circle and began the ritual. His body's tune flared even louder than before—a military marching band, the brasses bold and triumphant. It suited him all too well, and proved his health to be sound.

Maybe his strong rhythm blended with the song of the road and Mother's hum simply because it is such a basic rhythm. There may be nothing more to it.

Maybe it provided a good excuse for what I wanted to do, anyway. Oh Lady, that kiss.

She smiled to herself as she bunched the cloth of his trousers above the knee. His thigh felt taut beneath her glancing touch—not that she was taking any liberties, of course. She frowned as she bent to take a closer look at the amputation.

As she suspected, the artificial leg attached just below the kneecap. A conical cap of silver marked the site, dozens of miniature connectors exposed to the air. She touched a few that she knew were most inclined to loosen, but they seemed sound. One small mercy.

She straightened and tapped the circle to break the bond. “This side of the socket seems to be in good care. I suggest placing some padding over the site, just in case you fall or put pressure on it.”

“Miss Leander.” His body's song quickened. Surprised, she glanced up at him. Mr. Garret stared down at the blanket, frowning. “You speak of honor, and I confess, I have not been honorable in how I have presented myself to you.”

“Whatever do you mean, Mr. Garret?”

“You realize that twice now someone has tried to kill you aboard this vessel?”

“Yes, and now Mr. Grinn is dead.”

Mr. Garret looked around, confirming the emptiness of the promenade. “No one . . . here should be trying to kill you, least of all a Dallowman like Mr. Grinn.”

She froze. “Mr. Grinn is a Waster? How do you know—”

“I am on this ship because an agent from the Dallows was sent to kidnap you, Miss Leander. They need a medician for their cause, and your actions on the front caught their eye. But they have no reason to kill you. They want you alive.”

For a moment, she felt as though she were dangling beyond the hull again, her legs kicking in vain against the air. “I don't . . . I don't understand, Mr. Garret. If you're not a steward, then what are you? Who are you?”
Who did I kiss?

He gazed into his palms as if expecting an answer there. “A secret agent of the Caskentian government, m'lady. I am a Clockwork Dagger.”

C
HAPTER 9

“A Clockwork Dagger. You.”
Octavia gawked at him.

He met her eyes, his brows pained. “ 'Tis so hard to believe I could make those elite ranks?”

“That's not what I meant.” Or it was, partially. She always pictured a Dagger as something . . . more. A spry figure in black, slitting throats in the night, like the romantic lead—or villain—in one of Mrs. Stout's pulp novels.

Mrs. Stout. An agent of the Caskentian government knew Mrs. Stout could be the princess?
Oh, thank the Lady I didn't tell him the full truth about that tattoo.

“What of Mrs. Stout?” she asked, voice trembling.

“I have no intention of divulging who she may be. 'Tis not relevant to my mission.”

Yet both times he had stepped away to perform duties, something terrible had happened. Mrs. Stout was stabbed, and Octavia pushed out the window. He could have pushed her. She never saw the person standing behind her. But then why dangle himself from the craft to try to save her? To throw her off his trail, to earn her loyalty? If so, then why tell her any of this?

“I doubt your employers would agree,” she said.

“No, they would not. We tend to disagree on many subjects.” Exhaustion weighed on his features. “But she is obviously no threat to the established order. I have no wish to see or her family assassinated.” As if that was the worst of it. Perhaps he didn't know of the ward or the contents of the vault.

She met his eye. “Why is someone pursuing me?”

“The Dallowmen want you alive. 'Tis all I know. I have been undercover for three months, waiting for you to board. The
Argus
is the cheapest flight south to Mercia.”

“Undercover? You gave me your true name when we met.”

“Now, Miss Leander. How many Tamarans do you see in a year? Could I truly work in full secrecy? No, I was never secret in that regard. I am who I am—the son of a disgraced general, sent to make sure that one of the government's top medicians does not fall into enemy hands.”

Top medician? Me?
She knew it was true, but it was odd to hear it. “They sent you here, specifically, yet they never told you of my parents?”

“Your parents?”

“I lost my family in the crash of the
Alexandria
. We . . . resided in the village.”

Shock dawned on his face, followed by horror. “No wonder you acted ill when I said my name. Your family—I thought no one survived in that village at all.”

“I was the only one.” She lifted her chin, as if to still defy death.

“How did you survive the conflagration?”

At that, her gaze lowered. “I don't speak of that night.”

Me, a rebellious twelve, stubborn and obsessed, slipping out of my bedroom. I read of a flower that only bloomed under the light of a full moon, and though I resided in the wrong region entirely, I was determined to find it. I was crawling on moss when the first explosion shuddered through my bones. A fireball fell to earth. The screams flared; the crackles broke apart so many songs. Mud mired my feet. The taste of ash, blood, death.

Never again would she feel such powerlessness. That was her vow. If she could help someone, she would.

“I am sorry,” he murmured.

“The grief is old.” She shrugged the sorrow away, trying to cover the trembling in her voice. “And now the Wasters are trying to kill me. Is it vengeance for healing so many Caskentians?”

“I do not think they would hold it against a medician. You have healed their prisoners as well, have you not?”

“Oh. A few, yes. Higher-ranking officers. None died under my care.”

“Mr. Grinn's death will not dissuade them. The next leg of our trip is the most dangerous. Leffen is a major port, and from there the southern pass is easily accessible. My orders”—his voice faltered, his gaze slipping to the floor—“are to stop you from falling into the Wasters' hands, at any cost. The best way I can secure your safety is to take you into my charge in Mercia—”

Her spine stiffened. “No one is taking charge of me, Mr. Garret. Delford needs me—”

“And what is to keep the Wasters from kidnapping you within Delford? How many men can you hold off with a single flute of capsicum?”

“I'm not without resources.”

“I have full admiration for your abilities, Miss Leander, but I have no desire to see you as a tool in their hands. Or dead.” He met her eyes then, expression pained.

“But what is the point of taking me into your charge now, so soon after armistice?”

“Must you even ask? Is the peace ever kept for long?”

“No,” she muttered.

Certainly, it was poppycock that the Waste was under a curse—Caskentia had no such powers—but those plains were a place to die miserably, not live. Women were considered old if they lived past thirty. Hardscrabble farms vanished overnight, consumed whole by wyrms that resided within the dirt.
To be a prisoner there . . . oh, sweet Lady, no.

Yet the alternative was Mercia. Smokestacks, industry, streets thickened with refugees.
People everywhere, drenched in soot and poverty. Living, dying, dead. The dead, at least, are silent. I've been told a person can wander the city for a full day and never see a living tree, only steel, bricks, and a sky of fetid gray.

Not that I should fret too much over that. I doubt I'd be free to walk the streets at all.

The only other choice was to spurn all other choices. To land in Leffen, flee from Mr. Garret, and find her own way in the world. Somewhere, somehow. North to Frengia? No, the Frengians had allied with the Waste when it suited them. Tamarania would be an interesting choice with its emphasis on logic and education. Besides, they were also a source of cocoa and chocolate. Octavia could become a plump academic medician and leave Caskentia to rot amidst its political intrigues and chronic debt.

Tiredness soaked her to the bone. She didn't want to think about this—about which death to choose. “It's been a long night, Mr. Garret. We can discuss this tomorrow.”

“Do you still wish for me to take care of the beastie? The hold will be unloaded in port tomorrow. He must be gone.” His mouth was a hard line of concern.

She looked away, unwilling to look at the lips she so foolishly kissed.

I'll repay the Lady's life debt to him and mend his leg. I will do that much. It's only right.

“No. You'll have a hard enough time managing the stairs by yourself, Mr. Garret. I'll take care of it. You can't be expected to carry a cage, even if you expect to put me in one in Mercia.”

With that, she stiffly stood and left.

A
S SHE APPROACHED HER
berthing, she couldn't help but listen closely to ensure that all was well. Blood didn't scream or beckon; that much was a relief. She did, however, note a light shining beneath the door. She softly knocked as a warning and then proceeded inside.

“Well, it's about time! Good gracious me, child.” Mrs. Stout swung her legs over the side of her bed as she tucked a book beneath her sheets. The tenting was up but the overhead lights were still on.

“Were you waiting up for me?”

“Of course!” Mrs. Stout released a heavy huff. Her face looked pale without any cosmetics, her eyelids strangely plain. “You . . . goodness. Praise God you're still with us, child! I couldn't . . . I couldn't stay and watch. My heart couldn't take it. One of the men told me that you'd been retrieved, thanks to that steward.” Her tone turned brittle.

I won't tell her that Mr. Garret is a Clockwork Dagger. I can't. She's too anxious as it is. And odd as it may be, I believe him when he says he'll keep his word about her identity. He didn't have to tell me anything, but he did.

“I must go and free our little gremlin, Mrs. Stout.”

“Oh my.” Mrs. Stout pressed a hand to her cheek. “I am a terrible person to forget our dear little creature. Here I was, sleeping away half the day while he stewed in captivity!”