The Clockwork Crown (13 page)

Mr. Cody was oblivious to the derision in her tone. “Yes. Today has a fantastic mix. You'll see our chimera can—­”

Cheers rose in crescendo. The first mecha entered the arena—­a dragon, bristling with spines. Each waddled step swung a mighty tail. Wings larger than Chi's extended to their full length. The noise was deafening; clearly, this was a fan favorite. Next came a hedgehog similar to the one in Mr. Cody's own hangar, then a roc that bounded and flapped across the ground, and a golden wolf with bared teeth. Last came Chi and Alonzo. There was a collective gasp amongst the audience, then shouts of joy and outrage. Mr. Cody laughed. His comrades clapped him on the back and toasted. The man had won and the match hadn't even begun.

“Controversy is business,” said Mr. Cody, raising his glass. “Let them say I broke the rules. Let them say all mechas should now be hybrids. Whatever comes . . . !” Crystal tinked as the flutes met. Octavia scooted back enough to slide her full champagne flute onto a table and grabbed a chair. She sat as far from the others as she could and leaned on the rail. Dread writhed in her stomach like a bowl of worms.

The mechas split up to take their positions at the five points of a star. Alonzo was just below, still likely a quarter mile distant. Octavia closed her eyes, breathing through her terror, breathing herself closer to the Lady.

The Tree flared in her mind, majestic against an afternoon sky freckled with gray cumulus clouds. Snow dappled the upper branches and parts of the canopy below. She swooped closer, close enough to reach for a single leaf. The Tree had many leaves of many shapes. This one resembled the leaves tucked in her apron pocket, buried beneath an overly large evening dress.

Lady, this isn't a portent, is it? That the leaf you show me could revive the dead?
Outside of the vision, Octavia's arms ached.
That's not an answer.

Octavia never used to speak to the Lady in this way. Before she left the academy, she was the perfect devotee, bowing in her prayers throughout the day, calling on the Lady without any hesitation. Her own blasphemy bothered her.
I've changed. The way I see the Lady has changed.

The Lady, killing Wasters. The Lady, allowing Octavia to bring back a dead little boy just long enough for him to relay a message to her. The Lady, channeling so much power to her, power Octavia didn't want.

Until now.

I need to keep Alonzo and Chi safe so we can leave this place together. I can't keep them in a circle, Lady, but I call on your focus regardless. Grant me insight to Alonzo.

With her unhurt arm, she pushed the headband to her nape. The crowd's enthusiasm vibrated through the railing like an airship engine, body songs swelling and crashing like a violent coastal storm. Beyond that, she listened.

She wanted to hear the marching-­band brasses of Alonzo, the unified chaos from within Chi. The Lady had enabled her to hear microscopic zymes before—­from here, Alonzo seemed that small. She closed her eyes and extended her will, imagining that she was the Lady, stretching her grace across a distance.

“Octavia—­”
Alonzo's voice broke into her mind, as close as if he stood next to her. Her gasp and the roar of the crowd obscured his next few words.
“That fire-­breather is gaming for the first platform. Let him, beastie. We will grant him wide berth. Fire vexes Octavia like nothing else. She thinks she hides it, but I see. I likely would feel the same, had I seen what happened to my father that night. Up! Now . . .”

Each time he said her name, she felt it like sharpened cat claws digging into her belly. She opened her eyes. Sweat dribbled from her temple. Chi had indeed bounded up the mountain. Her wings carried her beyond the swipe of the mecha-­dragon's tail.

Octavia couldn't hear Alonzo now. Neither his voice nor his song.

The Lady had granted her another new insight, one that made no sense. She felt the scrutiny of eyes on her. Tatiana stood feet away, lips contorted in disgust.

“You're doing magic, aren't you? This isn't Caskentia, you know. There are things you can do there but not here.”

“Does that mean you wouldn't hate me if we were in Caskentia?”

Tatiana averted her gaze as a flush stained her cheeks. “I don't know. I might hate you less, given a good reason.”

“I only want to keep your brother safe. You know that, right?”

“From what Alonzo said, from what Mr. Cody said about his security here . . . it seems that when my brother's with you, he's in even more danger than he is down there.” She nodded toward the battle below.

Guilt twisted in Octavia's gut. Tatiana was right. Alonzo had already had his mechanical leg ripped off, his arm severely burned, been knifed, and died, all because of her.

Down below, Alonzo had made it to the third platform, on the far side of the mountain. She could barely see Chi's wings poking upward. The dragon and the hedgehog battled at ground level. The crowd oohed and aahed in chorus. Octavia couldn't stand it. She glanced up instead. Catwalks crisscrossed the ceiling and held rows of manned spotlights, like the sort used at airfields.

Maybe if I was farther away from all of the other ­people, it'd be easier to focus on the Lady. Maybe I could hear Alonzo again.

“You're right,” Octavia finally said. “Alonzo has been hurt because of me, but I've also kept him alive. I'll continue to do so, too.”

“He wouldn't tell me much, but he said you were the most powerful medician in all of Caskentia, probably the whole continent. Is that true?”

A few weeks ago, Octavia would have utterly denied the praise. “I might be, yes,” she whispered.

“You've done some good, then.”

Octavia glanced over in surprise. Tatiana had said it softly, with meaning. “Yes. I certainly hope so.”
Maybe some of the ice around her heart is starting to thaw.

Tatiana shifted as if suddenly shy. “Alonzo told me I should show you around. The view here is good, but I know some other spots, too. Do you want to go on a walk with me?”

“Do you know how to get up there?” She motioned to the catwalks.

“Oh. Yes.” Tatiana looked both surprised and pleased.

“I would appreciate that. Really.”
If Alonzo and Chi can survive this and I can befriend Tatiana as well, I'll consider it a spectacular day.

Tatiana motioned to her three guards. Octavia let the girl lead through the halls. They walked up several flights of stairs, metal clambering beneath their feet. The roars of the crowd trembled through the metalwork. Something dramatic was happening in the Arena.

Please, Lady, let Alonzo and Chi be well.

Tatiana opened a door. Sudden bright light blinded Octavia. The roars of airship engines quivered through the air. “The access to the dome is here on the roof,” Tatiana shouted back at her. Tatiana's body radiated anxiety.
The bout is nearing the end. This is the worrisome part.

As she had seen from Mr. Cody's flat, the roof of the arena was lined with mooring towers. Eight in all, placed at the corners and halfway points of the building. Several airships were berthed. Cranes hoisted pallets of freight. Tatiana motioned and Octavia followed, the men close behind.

“Sometimes I come up here for the view,” Tatiana shouted. Wind whipped at Octavia's hair, forcing strands free from her coiled braids, but Tatiana's weave seem plastered into place. Strong hands grasped Octavia from behind, pinning her arms to her sides. She screeched. No new songs had approached.
These are her guards. We've been betrayed.

“Let me go! Help! Help!” Octavia struggled and kicked, but she may as well have been pounding against a concrete pillar.

“No one's working up here right now. They'd miss the show,” said Tatiana.

Octavia felt something deep inside her turn cold.
Alonzo's little sister? What . . . ?

Tatiana motioned to a large shipping box about her height.
FRAGILE: THIS END UP
had been repeatedly stenciled across the fresh wood.

“Tatiana, no! I—­”

The men lifted Octavia. Her flailing boot found the tenderness of a face.
Crunch of cartilage, wail of blood, adrenaline spike of annoyance.
She dropped inside, landing on all fours. Splintered wood scraped at the softness of her hands. A lamp and a traveler's canvas pack awaited her. With a heavy thud, an eclipse stole away sunlight. She pivoted on her hip.
The lid.
She jumped to her feet but couldn't quite stand. Even as she pressed her bowed shoulders against the wood, she felt the shudders of a hammer on nails. A board or something dense slapped directly overhead.

Holes at random intervals cast beams of light into the box, like tiny arena spotlights. “Tatiana! Let me out!” Octavia screamed, pressing her face to an air hole in the side.

“No!” The ferocity of the word ripped at the girl's throat. “You're going to get Alonzo killed! You're shaming him with all this magic! He needs to be here, with me. I'll keep him safe!”

“Tatiana, no! You don't understand!”

“Go away! Just go away! You'll be more useful elsewhere.” A sob broke her voice.

The songs departed, leaving only the roars of airships. Up here, Octavia could not even hear the crowd, or perhaps the raucous noise blended with the engines.
The crowd. Alonzo. Oh, Alonzo.
She pressed both hands to her face as she collapsed on the bottom of the crate. The lamp, the cheap sort found across Caskentia, cast its sallow enchanted light across her legs.

If he's hurt, if he dies, I won't be there. I won't be able to save him.
She tried to stand again, bracing her shoulders against the lid. It didn't budge. Panting, she dropped to her knees and reached for the other bag. She held up the contents to the light: a bucket, canteens of water, parcels of dry meat, Tamaran flatbread, nuts.
She doesn't intend for me to die, then. Just to dispose of me.

“Octavia”
—­Alonzo's voice cut into her mind out of nowhere—­
“will be sorely disappointed if you are injured. More, she will turn her vicious tongue upon me, and I would much prefer sweetness from her lips. Three minutes remain . . .”
His voice started to fade, then resurged. “
Octavia must be sick with dread, but we will hold on for her. I am sure she will bring you more cheese.”

Octavia sobbed, both arms clutched to her torso. Her parasol slapped against her hip. The roof quaked beneath her—­the crowd, wild with enthusiasm. Then, nothing. She rubbed her arms together. Did Alonzo and Chi win? Did they merely survive? What happened?

Voices, distant. Octavia pressed her mouth to an air hole again. “Help! Help! I'm in a crate! Help!” She looked out and couldn't see anyone. Machinery clanged. With a lurch, the shipping crate rose. Beams of light shifted as the box turned.

“No, Lady, no. Stop this. Let them find me. Let there be a way out, please.” The tiny view outside showed gray skies and towers, then the sunlight blinked out again. A new roar surrounded her, and the sense of being totally enclosed—­the holding bay of an airship.

“Help! Help me!” She scooted from side to side. Through the holes, she could see more crates. A heavy weight clanged above, the wood of the crate groaning. Something had been set on top.

“Lady?” she whispered. The buzz of an engine was her only reply.

 

C
HAPTER
10

Thud. Thunk.
The scrape
of metal on wood. The whine of opening doors.

Octavia was slow to wake. Her arms ached, her shoulders were stiff, her body permanently cold. She curled her hand toward her face so she could read her pocket watch. Morning. The second morning. Two days in a crate. Now what? Something was happening. No point in yelling, not without other voices nearby. She had yelled herself hoarse before the airship left Tamarania, just in case anyone else entered the cargo hold.

On the
Argus,
I was glad no one went to the hold. I was able to hide Leaf there. Now I only wish someone else would meddle about below decks.

“Lady, is this almost over?” she asked, her voice a raw creak. “Where am I?” She stuffed her watch into her satchel and looped the strap over her head and shoulder. The black overdress and green surcoat, as her pillow and blanket, remained balled up on the floor.

Oh, Alonzo. How was he? She could only imagine his fury at his sister. Tatiana might try to play it off like Octavia had left of her own volition, but Alonzo would know differently.
He knows me. He'll try to find me. Wherever I am.

More noises, more thudding. Something crunched on either side of the crate. The box lifted up, swinging. Octavia rolled and smacked into the far side. Sparkles circled her head like a babe's mobile.
The babe. Mathilda. They were both well when they awoke, but I should be there to check on them, to make sure.

Another sway. She rolled again, the back of her head cracking against the wood. Total darkness claimed her.

She stirred at the sound of voices, feminine. The buzzes of their songs.
Young, healthy, one's breasts heavy with milk.
Light stabbed daggers into her stunned eyes as the lid cracked open.

“What is it! Can you see inside?” Someone squealed. Two blurry heads partially blocked out the light.
Adrenaline. Pounding hearts.
Screams. Fleeing footsteps.

Octavia knew she needed to get herself in a circle, but when she tried to rise, the vertigo spun her around like a lunatic's dance partner. She had treated many concussions at the front, but had never had one herself.
An illuminating experience
.

More voices. The light was blocked again. Deep baritones, arguing.

“Let me see.” A feminine voice rang with authority. A figure leaned over the opening. “Do not let the poor girl wallow in there. Get her out, gently. 'Tis a medician.”

Their grips on her forearms made her cry out, the world going all wobbly again. Strong arms cradled her.
Not Alonzo. Not his song.
She clenched her body around her satchel, but no one tried to pull it away. A hallway blurred by and then she was in a soft and cushy chair, her sore sit bones finally achieving respite. She sighed in relief. Water flowed past her lips. Oh Lady, water!

After a few minutes of drinking with assistance, she had the strength to hold the cup on her own, her wits returning. She had done her utmost to ration her water, but it had been exhausted nevertheless. Tatiana was woefully inexperienced when it came to packing ­people in crates—­she had no comprehension how much food and water a person required each day.

Octavia realized that she was sitting in an elegant room painted in fine cream with wainscoted lower walls. A small crowd stood in wait—­serving girls, their hair capped; men in trim black suits; a woman in powder-­blue velvet with white down the bodice, a hard knot of cancer throbbing within her breast. Octavia could not simply hear it in the wail of the woman's song; she could almost see it, like the harshness of light through the crate's air hole.

All of their skins were paler, too, like her own. “Where am I?” she whispered. She managed to lift the satchel strap over her head, the bag wedged to one side of her thighs.

“Mercia,” answered the woman in ill health. “You have had a terrible injustice done to you.” She sat in a chair, hands folded on her lap. She moved with deliberation.
Pain. Fatigue.
Her eyes were glints of blue ice, beautiful and cold at once. “Your name is Octavia Leander?”

Octavia nodded, taking in the formal Mercian accent, the eyes. “You're Alonzo's mother.”

“You must be very familiar with my son to call him by his first name.”

“How do you know my name, Mrs. Garret?”

“My daughter included a letter in the shipping manifest.” Her lips were a thin line.

Oh, Alonzo. Please be alive and well. You and Chi both.
Octavia closed her eyes briefly to compose herself. “Can we speak in private?” At Mrs. Garret's nod, the servants exited, the door closing behind them. “I'm aware of the employment you helped Alonzo acquire.” She worded things delicately, knowing that many ears likely pressed against the door.

Mrs. Garret's eyebrows rose. “Are you, now?” The shrewd expression reminded Octavia greatly of Alonzo.

“His supervisors . . . they did not respect him. Alonzo in turned risked a great deal to go against orders and keep me alive.”

“You're a Percival-­trained medician.”

“Yes. It's all terribly complicated, but needless to say, circumstances required that we go to the southern nations. We took refuge with Tatiana. She did not . . . take kindly to me, the danger I brought upon her brother.”

“In Tatiana's eyes, Alonzo hung the moon and stars in the sky.” Mrs. Garret sighed. The conversation was exhausting her, even as her carriage remained straight and noble.
Alonzo said before that his mother had an intimidating presence. She still does. Most ­people would be bed-­bound and whimpering in her condition. This woman's will is made of iron. “
My daughter is spoiled. Her staff is indulgent. I suppose you think me a terrible mother.”

Octavia bit her lip. She had thought that very thing in Tamarania.

“My health has been worse in recent years. I have tried to hide it from Tatiana, with her in Tamarania as much as possible, but she is a smart girl. I have been on a waiting list to see a medician here in Mercia, but with the war and so many in need and the lack of herbs . . .” She shrugged, palms upturned.

Octavia nodded as everything became clear.
Tatiana wasn't simply getting rid of me.
“She sent me here to heal you. Alonzo doesn't know about your condition, does he?” She took another long guzzle of water.

“I have not seen my son since he was fitted for his new leg. We have only spoken by letter and telegram.” She sighed. “Oh, Miss Leander. I am sorry you came to be here like this. Tatiana is precocious. I have encouraged her to be an adult at too young an age, because in my heart, I was readying her to carry on when I am gone.”

“Have you had any messages from Alonzo in the past two days?”

“No.” Mrs. Garret had a curious spark in her eyes; she obviously wondered at this first-­name relationship Octavia had with her son. “Was a threat that imminent?”

“If anything terrible had happened, I'm sure Tatiana would have sent word.” Lady forgive her for the vagueness, but she didn't want to vex Mrs. Garret with news of the Arena; the woman had quite enough to concern her. The terrible mass had already sprouted polyps in her neck and lungs. “The most potent danger right now is to you, Mrs. Garret. This cancer that started in your breast will kill you within a span of weeks if it's left untreated. If you can grant me a few hours to recover, I'll gladly tend to it for you.”

Mrs. Garret pressed a hand to her chest. Instead of gratitude, her eyes flared with suspicion. “How did you . . . ?”

“I'm an unusual medician.” The words didn't make her flinch anymore.

Mrs. Garret stood, her spine straight and dignified. “You are leaving much unsaid, though likely with good reason. I wish I could ask my son about you.”

“I wish I could talk to him, too,” Octavia said softly.

Mrs. Garret's expression mellowed. “You have suffered and need your rest. I will have dinner brought to you shortly. If you need anything else, simply ask.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Garret,” Octavia murmured.
The woman needs to leave or she'll collapse. She would never show weakness in front of a stranger, not even a medician.

Octavia stared at the closed door for a few minutes, gathering her strength and her bearings. She pushed herself from the chair to stand erect for the first time in two days. Water sloshed in her belly.
I was parched like a tree after a drought.
With baby steps, she walked to the window.

Mercia. Two weeks before, Alonzo had intended to bring her to the capital to keep her safe against the Wasters, unaware that the greatest threat had come from his own Dagger peers. She had resisted coming here. Everything she had ever heard of Mercia spoke of its endless sprawl, of skies choked with constant pollution, of toxic factories, of thousands of wretched refugees.

Everything was true.

She looked upon a steel-­gray sky stabbed by thousands of dark pipes that puffed out even more gray. Soot caked buildings in black. From her second-­story vantage point, she watched four lanes of traffic teem with cabriolets, cycles, and lorries. On the sidewalk, women bowed beneath shawls and pushed prams hooded by oilcloth. Men wore black hats, shoulders bowed by unseen burdens. A peculiarly large number of soldiers passed by in Caskentian regimental green. No trees. No birds. No signs of life beyond pedestrians who shuffled with the vigor of automatons.

Oh Lady.
Octavia clutched the curtain to stay upright. Mercia. She had been terrified to come here with Alonzo, and now she was here alone. Panicked, she touched the top of her head and then recalled that she had stuffed her headband in her satchel.

How was she to brave those streets, even with her headband? Wasters spied here—­they had already followed Mrs. Stout. If Clockwork Daggers knew she was in the city . . .

Children ran along waving white flags fringed with gold—­Evandia's colors. She frowned. Such banners had been popular during the recent wars, but she hadn't seen such a flag waved since armistice was signed several months ago.

A light knock echoed through the door. “Come in,” she called.

One of the servant girls carried in a silver tray. She cast Octavia a shy smile as she set it on a table. “M'lady said medicians need extra meat, so Cook included an extra portion.”

“Thank you kindly, and thank the cook as well. I'm hungry enough to eat the tray itself.” She nodded toward the street. “Why are flags out?”

“Oh, the white flags? That's right, you couldn't have heard, sealed away like that. Armistice broke.”

“We're at war with the Waste again?” Octavia stilled. Everyone knew the armistice was a mere pause in the conflict, but she wondered how Caskentia stood a chance. The army had largely disbanded since soldiers and civilians in its employ had been left unpaid.

The servant rested her hands on her hips. “It's a peculiar thing. Well, maybe not so peculiar to you, since you're a medician. That Lady's Tree from the old stories? It's been sighted, just plain popped into existence overnight. Airship brought word two days ago, and yesterday we went back to war. We certainly can't let anything like
that
be in filthy Waster hands.” She shuddered.

“The Lady's Tree. Visible?”

“Yes. You worship her, don't you? As a medician?”

Octavia nodded numbly. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Maybe once our boys have it, you can do a pilgrimage there.” The girl's smile was bright. “It's supposed to cure most anything, they say. Might make your job easier! Oh, dear. I'd best get back to the kitchen.”

“Yes. Thank you.” The door shut behind her.

Octavia collapsed into the chair, wrapping herself in a hug. Miss Percival's training flared in her mind.
Breathe. Exhale your troubles to the Lady.

“What if the Lady is the source of your troubles? What then?” The whisper made her cringe, blasphemous as it was. She swallowed, mouth parched already, but she didn't move toward the pitcher.

Why had the Tree become fully visible at last? What had changed? Well, now she and Alonzo didn't have to fuss about finding it. They could simply follow the trail of blood and carnage.

She tugged off the fancy gloves she had worn to the arena. Her fingers fumbled at her cuffs, though she could already see a brown crackle pattern stretch all the way to her knuckles.
I'll need to wear gloves constantly.
Like she could hide this for much longer as it continued to spread. She peeled back the cloth. Both forearms had darkened. Her skin ached as if she were recovering from a sunburn.

The old gremlin had said she smelled like a tree, that she was a chimera. Octavia shivered and buttoned her sleeves again.

The Tree was changing. Octavia was changing, too, and quickly. She needed answers before she lost her humanity entirely.

She needed to get inside the royal vault.