The Clockwork Crown (7 page)

“Such books must exist. 'Tis a matter of finding them.” Alonzo stared out the window.

Octavia avoided the view and kept her satchel clutched tight on her lap. Her headband helped her tolerate the number of ­people, but the sheer density of the city bothered her.
I'm a country girl at heart, even if it means a lack of libraries.

“So far, it feels like hunting for a cat's whisker in a haystack. No one here is interested in magic or hokey religions, but someone must be buying the books since nothing has been remaindered in any of their storage rooms.”

“An interesting observation. Perhaps 'tis time for a change of tack at our next library.”

“Our last library, at least on your sister's list.”

Tatiana had sobbed and wailed at Alonzo's departure that morning, pleading for him to return. Alonzo vowed he would send word somehow. After this next stop, their priority was to find a doss house in which to spend the night.

“There are other, smaller libraries on the other isles, but I fear the reception would be much the same.”

A light rain pattered against the metal roof as they traversed catwalks down to the seventh floor of a skyscraper. At such a height, Octavia could see a hundred towers, maybe more, each a dark gray monolith against the mist. Still no sight of the sea, though. There was too much city in the way. A strong wind nipped straight up her skirt and made her convulse with cold.

This library occupied the full floor of a broad building. Few ­people utilized tables at the very front. A father sat with two young children at his feet as he read in a low rumble. A few women walked among the shelves, long skirts swaying. The rows of shelves reminded Octavia of the tidy furrows of a field.

In the fields back at the academy, the other girls will be planting tulip bulbs for spring.
She rubbed the fingertips of her borrowed gloves as if she could feel moisture and grit. She had always loved planting times—­she loved busywork when no one suffered.

“Walk on in,” Alonzo murmured. “I will make my inquiries.”

Octavia studied a display of copper novels that boasted of espionage, intrigue, and murder—­published by Mrs. Stout's book company, no less. Even so, she felt her lip curl in distaste.
I fear my choices in pulp novels will be limited in the future.

“My professor assigned me to write a paper on the obscure religions of Caskentia and how they regard magic,” Alonzo was saying to a librarian. The woman clicked her tongue. “I know, I know. The man must hate me. The search has been futile. I lack the money to buy the books new . . .”

“The lot of students. I know it well.” Her smile was sympathetic.

My Caskentian accent makes me sound like an illiterate toerag, but his Mercian lilt immediately makes him appear like a Caskentian student here for a proper education.

“Do you know where I might buy remaindered library books on the subject? I am desperate.”

“I'm afraid I have bad news for you. When it comes to magic, august Balthazar Cody has likely bought them all. He's known for his eccentricities.”

“Balthazar Cody.” Alonzo tested the thick name on his tongue. “Of Tamarania, correct? Does he own . . . ?”

“The Warriors' Arena, yes. That said, there are a few books on the shelf I can show you.”

An august. That would be like a councilman in Caskentia. With the population here, that's a position of great prestige. It'd certainly make an eccentricity like faith more tolerable.

Feeling awkward, Octavia pretended to study shelves as she worked her way toward Alonzo. The books here followed an inscrutable system involving decimals. She finally sidled up to him. He held a book entitled
Old Faiths
as he stroked his trimmed beard.

“I might make a Dagger of you yet,” he murmured. “You are improving.”

“I still feel like a blotto on a tightrope. I heard what she said. Balthazar Cody?”

“Yes. A dangerous man. My mother still speaks of him. He is a politician, through and through. It would be best to avoid direct dealings with him.”

“I have those gilly coins from Mrs. Stout. Could we bribe his staff?”

Alonzo held back a chuckle. “That is certainly standard procedure in Caskentia. Here, I am more reluctant to trust. It may be wiser to explore the weak links in his household, perhaps infiltrate his staff as employees, but even that may prove difficult for a man of that ilk.”

“Oh. That sounds as if it could take time.” She rubbed her arms against her torso.

“Weeks. Perhaps months. Do recall that snow will soon close the passes. We will need to wait until spring to venture to the Dallows if we still intend to find the Lady.”

“A task to keep us busy through the winter, then.” Octavia stared at the shelves but didn't see titles.

“Not a bad thing, Miss Leander. As my father used to say, ‘Idleness leads to madness.' ” He paused. “I must remind you, however, that our primary goal is to stay hidden and alive. Understanding your power more, perhaps stopping the Wasters' abuse of the Tree, would be wonderful, and yet . . .”

Her throat tightened in frustration. “Finding these answers isn't a hobby for me, Mr. Garret.”

“I know.” His voice softened. “I have seen how your powers have changed, even in the brief time of our acquaintance. I want these answers for you as well, but most of all, you must stay alive. 'Tis enough that we have Caskentia and the Waste in our pursuit. I would rather not involve Tamarania in the donnybrook, and certainly not a man of Mr. Cody's might. I should add, he is not a mere politician. He created gremlins.”

“Did he?” She looked away and frowned.

Onboard the airship, Octavia had saved and nurtured a tiny gremlin that she had dubbed Leaf. She had known it was a foolish thing at the time, forming an attachment to a wild chimera—­a biological construct born of science—­and it had broken her heart to set Leaf free. To her shock, Leaf had returned when she had been imprisoned by the Wasters. Using his affinity for silver, he had broken Octavia and Mrs. Stout free of their chains. Octavia was certain his appearance was no accident; she had prayed to the Lady and then Leaf arrived. He had also had an odd reaction to the branch of the Lady, acting reverential in its presence.

The thought of the lost branch irritated her.
So stupid, to lose part of the Lady like that. Now the only branch I know of in the west is in Caskentia's royal vault.

The royal vault. Caskentia. The royals were always a subject of speculation and gossip. ­People still waxed nostalgic about King Kethan's Golden Age. The other library had a section on nations; perhaps this one had books on more interesting subjects than cocoa tariffs.

“I'm going to check another shelf,” she murmured.

A few minutes of wandering, and she found the section. Caskentia actually had solid representation on the shelf. Bindings displayed a clear theme.
The Caskentia Problem.
The Endless War. An Academic Study of the First Caskentian-­Dallows War, Volume I. Technological Advancements of the Golden Age. Of Mechanical Men and Inherent Poverty: A Study of the Caskentian Proletariat.
She frowned and scanned downward. A small red volume caught her eye.
Lord Chamberlain of the Golden Age.

The volume was one in a run of twenty, a printing of the logs of the palace lord chamberlain of both King Rathe and his son, King Kethan. Judging by the accumulation of dust puffs across the top, the topic was not of interest to Tamarans. She squinted at the narrow type as she skimmed, rubbing at her arm. At last, a hundred pages in, she found something.

Knowing of the studious nature of our young prince, a hunter today delivered a most astonishing gift. He explored our territory of the Dallows and thereupon claims to have found the Lady's Tree of medician lore. To King Rathe he offered a branch of the Tree the size of a man's arm, by all appearances wholly alive; a leaf, that resembles most any normal foliage; and a seed the size of a shelled almond, bright green to the eye.

As to why the man brought such bounty to court, he confessed that he had been cursed since leaving the Tree's canopy. Threems nearly burned him alive, while wyrms thrashed deep furrows across the prairie. His horses, by all appearances healthy, dropped dead. When we informed the man that he had delivered a curse to the King, the hunter protested, saying the men of Caskentia's court were known to be the wisest in the land. And surely, such holy artifacts would not harm someone blessed by God to rule our Fair Valley.

Prince Kethan himself placed the pieces of the Lady's living body within the royal vault. To my surprise, he seemed troubled by the gifts rather than intrigued. “In my reading of his
History of World Trees,
Garcia said that blooded trees only produce one seed in a lifetime. If this new seed should grow in Mercia, our entire city would be overgrown!”

At this, we laughed, even as we were impressed, as always, by the erudition of the young heir and his eidetic knowledge of books. 'Tis my sincere hope that King Rathe be blessed with a long life, though the day when Prince Kethan claims the throne will surely be one of great celebration.

The volume resumed a few days later:

The words of the hunter and Prince Kethan returned to me last night as the earth rumbled. My first thought was of a mighty tree taking root and destroying the city, whereas ­people cried in the street that the Giant had awakened and we would all die of ash and fire. The sun soon rose and showed no ominous clouds from the ­mountain . . .

The Giant, being a massive dormant volcano just to the southeast of Mercia. The Waste's recent designs on Octavia had included using her to keep their infernals alive past the volcano's wards against fire magi. They had intended to undo the dormancy and destroy Mercia.

She flipped ahead but could find no other mentions of the vault or the artifacts. The slender book concluded soon after King Kethan's ascent to the throne, with Queen Varya just announcing her pregnancy.
The child who would be Princess Allendia, who grew up as a civilian named Viola Stout.

This meant that the Tree had been sighted only some sixty or seventy years ago.
According to lore, magic keeps it hidden. Magic still must hide it to some degree. Caskentia's airships have flown over the entire Waste. A Tree taller than any building in Tamarania would have been seen otherwise. And the infernal Lanskay said the trek to the Tree was still perilous. That implies it is accessed by foot.

As for the seed, Miss Percival had taught that it had the power to revive those who had been dead for a long while. Octavia had asked once if that meant there were ­people out there who were immortal as a result of the seed's power. Miss Percival had said there was no way to know, and it was not something that should be known.

“Pardon, pardon,” said a woman as she pressed past. Her health rang as extraordinarily athletic—­unusual for a woman—­and that surprised Octavia enough to lift her head. She caught a glimpse of red hair cut in a short bob, a gorgeous contrast to ebony skin, and then the woman rounded the corner.

Octavia gnawed on her lip.
The vault was the only thing left standing after the firebombing of the palace fifty years ago. Mrs. Stout's bloodline is the key to entry. Maybe King Kethan did more research on these artifacts as he grew. He told Mrs. Stout when she was a child that they were the most powerful treasures in the vault. He knew something.

Maybe there's still information there, along with the artifacts of the Tree. Queen Evandia can't get in because of her blood. It would all be waiting for us, locked away.

How odd that she was actually considering a trip into Mercia—­and infiltrating the palace, no less—­after she'd fought tooth and nail against the idea when it was proposed by Alonzo back on the
Argus.
But this was different. She wasn't going to stay there, or be in government custody. It could be a mere errand trip, that's all.

She snorted. An errand trip into the very palace of Queen Evandia.
I'm a flibbertigibbet. It'd be a suicide mission. And yet, if we made it inside the vault . . .

She rubbed her arm again and frowned, suddenly aware of what she was doing. The area around her bloodletting incision itched. She'd have to check on the discolored skin later.

Something clunked a few aisles away. Metal whined, followed by the sound of books—­hundreds of books—­thudding to the floor. Metal banged and clattered again. Screams pierced the silence. Books thundered against the shelf before her. Metal smacked, hard. Octavia backstepped as the shelf in front of her tipped. Books poured down in a violent hailstorm. Screeching, she covered her head with her arms as she dropped flat.

The world turned black in a crush of books.

 

C
HAPTER
4

Books, marvelous as they
were, made for painful missiles. Hardcovers bombarded Octavia from the ten-­foot-­high shelf as it tipped far enough to smack into the next shelf. Leather-­bound edges pounded and gouged into her back and shoulders. She yelped under the assault as books continued to slide down. Screams and yells echoed throughout the library.

“Alonzo!” Octavia called, wiggling to free herself from the pile. “Help!” She shook off enough books to free her shoulders and push herself to her knees. Electric light penetrated the emptied bookshelves and revealed dunes of books around her. Ripped pages crackled under her knees.

A body approached her from behind. With a start, Octavia realized her headband had been knocked off, as the body's song rang stronger than before.
Woman, healthy, strong.
Her heart rate normal. Too normal.
Octavia had the sense to roll to one side as the woman dove at her. She whirled to face her attacker—­the redheaded woman who had passed by a minute before. The stranger crouched in the crooked archway of the downed bookshelves, her skirt indecently hiked to show her knees. Her face was emotionless.

The brasses of Alonzo's song struck a frenzied melody.
Worry, concern, fear.
“She is a Dagger,” he said from behind the woman. “I met her more than once in Mercia. The only other Dagger to share Tamaran heritage. Greetings to you, Esme.”

The woman spun around to confront him. Books shifted and tore beneath her feet. The fallen shelves created a tilted triangle about four feet high at the peak, the space cramped and narrow. Esme carried a knife. The blade glinted with an unreal sheen, not unlike the enchantment on Octavia's Percival garb. Octavia had a hunch, however, that the knife's magic had nothing to do with cleanliness.

“Alonzo! That blade—­”

“I am aware.”

With Octavia on the far side, Alonzo didn't pull out the Gadsden. Instead, he hefted a knife in one hand and a sizable book in the other. As Esme lunged forward, he wielded the book as a shield as he backed toward the open hallway—­guiding the fight away from Octavia.

A good thing, she realized, as she was still partly buried in books and gawking like a fool.

She extracted herself while keeping an eye on the fight. Esme was more aggressive by far, her movements sinuous as a cat's. Alonzo offered few jabs. Octavia bit back a curse. His injury still pained him and restricted his movements.
If only I'd been able to give him a proper healing!

Octavia rummaged beneath the books and found her headband. The flower had been ripped off. No time to spare, she shoved the cloth into an outer pocket of her satchel. The domino fall of shelves had stopped, and in the distance there were cries and alarmed voices.
Broken leg. Ribs. Arm. Bruises. Concussions.
She shivered, wondering at what distance she was detecting these injuries, and afraid to know the answer.

She grabbed a book—­
A History of Frengian Maple Patisseries—­
and flung it. The book spun through the air and smacked the assassin in the lower back. Octavia grabbed another one—­
The Inherent Violence of the Caskentian Psyche.
That one, quite appropriately, struck corner-first directly into the back of Esme's head. The woman couldn't help but glance back with a scowl, and that's all the advantage Alonzo needed. Esme screeched as he slammed her into the debris-­covered floor. He twisted her wrist, snapping it with a jolt that pierced Octavia's ears and senses.

New bodies flooded the library.
Strong hearts and songs, not unlike Alonzo's. Calm in the face of chaos. These are police, soldiers. How did they respond so quickly?

“What magic's on the blade?” Octavia asked.

“She will not answer. 'Tis a part of the training I have yet to attend.” He wrenched Esme's arm more.

Esme lifted her head a tad. Across the drifts of books, she stared at Octavia. Her jaw shifted as she chomped down. With her shielding headband off, Octavia could almost taste the bitterness, reminiscent of almonds, as it gushed over Esme's molars and numbed her mouth. Her dark skin flushed, her next breath rattling.

“Cyanide!” Octavia cried. The favored poison of Mercia's elite, one she had encountered in the suicides of several officers at the front.

Alonzo wrested Esme around. Books pattered to the side. Esme's song—­oh Lady, her song screeched as if rabid wolves were chasing down a marching band. Her organs shut down in a vicious cascade, each wailing and silencing as if devoured in a single gulp. Octavia wanted to hurry forward, to help. Instead, she curled into a ball, heaving as if her own body were starved for oxygen.

“Octavia!”

“I'm not hurt, it's just . . .” Hot tears poured down her face as she fumbled to pull on the headband again. She didn't care how it looked—­she simply needed her ears covered, and quickly. “I can heal her.” With her intimate awareness somewhat dimmed, Octavia crawled forward, wiping her face with her sleeve as she went.

She was a foot away from Esme when the new songs in the room grew close and bold.

“Do not move.” The order came from the hallway beyond the claustrophobic hug of the shelves. A man in vivid blue stood there, gun drawn. Braids gilded his sleeves, neck, and along a triple row of buttons. More men in similar attire crowded behind him.

Alonzo grimaced, raising his hands above head level as he shuffled around on his knees. Octavia hesitantly raised her arms, her gaze going between the men and the Clockwork Dagger. Esme convulsed. Red froth flowed from her mouth.

“I'm a medician. Let me get her in a circle—­”

Alonzo shot her a glare of warning. She felt pressure anew in her chest.
A life debt to Alonzo, again. The Lady is watching.

The soldier scowled. “A circle? Nep. Doctor, over here! Now!” he bellowed. “You lot, come out of there. Keep your hands up.”

Alonzo and Octavia crawled out on their knees, a tricky thing with hands up and splayed books beneath them. Octavia kept partially falling over her satchel and winced as pages tore beneath her weight. As she reached the end of the shelves, another soldier grabbed her by the arm—­not cruelly—­and pulled her up to her feet. Several other soldiers crawled to Esme. Her body's screams had dwindled to the weak mews of a starved kitten.

Cyanide that potent, that fast, placed her beyond intervention within seconds, even with a circle in place.
That awareness didn't stop the knot of frustration from forming in Octavia's chest. Her fists balled at her hips.

“Check her bag,” the commander said to a soldier, pointing to Octavia.

She hugged her satchel closer, the parasol banging against her arm. Alonzo gave his head a quick shake. Grinding her teeth, she relinquished her death grip. The soldier made no effort to take the satchel strap from her shoulder. Instead, he opened the main pocket and rummaged under the blanket. He held up the newly filled jar of pampria.

The commander nodded. “A medician indeed. Check the other pockets. If nothing stands out, let her keep it.”

Octavia almost sagged in relief. The soldier made a quick check of the other compartments and then her coat. He took her gun without a word and backed away.

Esme's limp body lay sprawled on the carpet. One of the men, eyes averted, tugged her skirt to a proper length past the knee.

A woman in a skirted version of the blue uniform rushed up just as Octavia finished refastening her satchel. She wore a black leather medic bag against her hip.

“What's this about, then?” asked the newcomer.

“Woman took a dose of cyanide, they say.” The commander gestured toward them.

The doctor crouched. Her thick black hair was pinned in a massive roll like a ball of yarn. She muttered beneath her breath as she checked Esme's pulse, opened her mouth, and glanced at her fingernails. “Cyanide, absolutely. The good stuff, from the look of it.” She looked up at Octavia. “You family? Friend? Do you have any claim to her?”

“Claim?” asked Octavia. “No. She tried to kill us by tipping the shelves!”

“Perfect. I claim the body, then. My students need to see the internal results of a cyanide poisoning.” The woman brushed her hands on her skirt as she stood.

“That's it? You're not going to do anything else?” The mews faded to nothing. The drumbeat, gone.

The doctor looked Octavia up and down. “What would you have me do, a song and dance and plead for help from above? Footle. There are other, living ­people who need aid now. This one made her choice when she bit down on a tablet.”

That terrible sense of frustration threatened to overwhelm Octavia again.
I could use a leaf. We could question her, find out how she followed us here, what she has reported to Mercia.

“Miss Leander.” Alonzo's voice was soft. “No. Not on her.”

Of course he knows what I'm thinking. He knows me so well.

“You're both hale, then? No injuries after this attack?” asked the commander. Alonzo and Octavia shook their heads. At that, the doctor turned on her heel and left. The soldier continued, “We're here to fetch you, and with right good timing, it seems. We're private guards for august Balthazar Cody. You're invited to his household.”

“Right now?” Octavia asked.

“Now,” said the soldier. He and the other men bristled with weaponry, their expressions grim.

“Well, as I was raised, invitations were best handled by a calling card and a gift of flowers, but I suppose this will do.” She said this as brightly as she could, trying to ignore the worry that raced through Alonzo's song. “Lead on, please.”

“I
DO NOT LIKE
this,” murmured Alonzo.

They sat across from each other on a small passenger airship decorated in lush brown leather and gold rivets. The engine was so quiet and smooth that Octavia wouldn't have known they were moving but for the shifting cityscape beyond the window.

“It's not as if we had much of a choice.”

“All the more reason to dislike it.” His dark brows drew together. “We are being placed in obligation to Mr. Cody. Several patrons saw the woman push over the shelves, then all were too busy to witness our full conflict. By public appearances, his men saved us from an assassin, or at the very least compelled her to commit suicide.”

“This plays into what you said before, about how Tamarans regard personal accomplishment?” she asked, and Alonzo nodded. “It must be my fault that the Dagger and Mr. Cody tracked us down within a day. My accent, my clumsiness, something. I'm so sorry, Alonzo.”

“Look at it in this positive light—­we can meet Balthazar Cody and directly inquire about his library.” He didn't sound too positive, though. Something about this Mr. Cody obviously unsettled him.

“True. It's just as well we didn't pursue your idea of infiltrating his household. You may be able to playact as a steward, but I'd have been dreadful as house staff. I wouldn't have lasted a day before getting the chuck.”

“Be gentler with yourself, Miss Leander.” Alonzo paused as he glanced outside. “It might have taken two days, at least, until you tried to save some life in peril.”

“More likely a matter of hours.” Octavia fidgeted with her headband again and stared out the window.

Advertisements plastered the long horizontal gaps between the high-­rise windows, an ad for Royal-­Tea included. The calligraphy boasted
E
NERGY AND FORTITUDE
accompanied by a large emblem of the crown as it was shown on Caskentian coins. The Wasters had a sick sense of humor to market their tea using the image of King Kethan's crown, commonly known as the clockwork crown. The crown had been presented to him by a conglomerate of metalworkers at the height of the Golden Age. As a symbol of the industrial boom, the points of the crown had been designed like the teeth of a cogwheel. Kethan increased his popularity with commoners by declaring it his favorite crown and wearing it most often, even though it was basic silver and unadorned by jewels.

King Kethan was said to have worn it as he died in the infernal attack by the Waste.

The ship's engine purred louder as the craft rose. A gauzy layer of clouds drifted below them and hid the advertisements. With a metallic clatter and a jolt, the ship docked. The engine wound down.

The cockpit door opened and the pilot gave them a nod. “If you'll come with me, sir, m'lady.”

Wind whistled through the short mooring tower atop the building. Octavia was grateful for the high railing along the curved staircase. She was curious about the view of the ground below, but dared not lean to look. She all too clearly recalled the time when she had been defenestrated aboard the
Argus.

The pilot led them to what seemed to be a long shanty in the middle of the roof. Octavia entered a downward stairwell and paused to look up. Body songs rang out from the attic—­dozens upon dozens, all in an excited clamor.
Little heartbeats. Odd, disjointed bodies, yet healthy.

“Gremlins,” she whispered to Alonzo with a nudge.

Mrs. Stout said that gremlins hate being in the city, but this doesn't feel like a city, this high up. She also said ­people in the southern nations could talk to gremlins.

If anyone could, surely it would be their creator.

The stairwell led directly into a domicile.

The Garret flat had embodied controlled opulence. Cody's showed no such restraint. If a surface could be adorned with gold leaf, it was; if it needed cloth for texture, vivid blue velvet was the choice. The floor consisted of alabaster marble tiles large enough for an adult to stretch out supine. Mechanical detritus sat on display along the walls: metal men, armaments, artistic odds and ends from engines of all sizes. No silver, though. A wise precaution with gremlins about.