The Clockwork Dagger (22 page)

“Sorry. When I make a circle, it has a certain . . . potency.”

“That's no joke. A circle usually feels like a wall of spiderwebs. This is akin to brick.” Dryn shook his head, clearly awed.

“Kellar.” Alonzo cleared his throat. “I thought it best to ask you first. We have little time remaining in Leffen. Also, your wife can be more intimidating than my mother.”

Dryn snorted. “I'll have to tell Adana that. She'll take it as a compliment.” He reached over and tweaked the row of metal toes, testing the joints.

Octavia recognized her cue and focused. Heat surged beneath Alonzo's skin. She imagined the connections between the leg and brain like the Lady's roots and branches, the unique duties of roots and leaves. She drew her finger down the hard knob of his knee to the smooth metal extension, dragging the heat with her all the way to his big toe.

Alonzo's leg jerked, his toes flinching. She smiled.

“Thank you, Lady,” she whispered. The faint buzz in the back of her mind dissipated, the sudden silence strange and almost disturbing. The burden of her life debt had been removed, but more than that she was grateful for Alonzo's sake. She stooped down to touch the copper bands, and that pressure released as well. “You're able to leave the circle now,” she said to Dryn.

“Thank you, Lady, indeed,” said Alonzo. “And thanks to you, Kellar, Octavia.”

“It's the least I can do.” She inclined her head. “Now I'm curious. What do you expect Mr. Dryn or his wife to know of the Waste?”

Kellar Dryn nodded. “Exactly. I'm just a mild-mannered mechanist.”

“You, mild-mannered?” Alonzo snorted. “You have all the domesticity of a wild boar. This is where I stop pretending that you are ignorant of my mission. Octavia needs to have you available as a resource. You both know things about Caskentia and the Waste, things you are not meant to know.”

“Alonzo, shut up.” Dryn's voice held an edge.

“Damn it, Kellar. The Waste has changed tactics. They are trying to kill Octavia, and have made more than one attempt. I could very well be caught in the cross fire. Octavia must have someone to turn to if I am gone.”

Alonzo's words caused a vicious twist to her gut as she turned to stare at Dryn. “You're spies? Daggers, like Alonzo?”

“Now really, Alonzo. You tell your mark what you are? Softhearted fools like you aren't meant to be Clockwork Daggers.” Dryn's eyes fluttered half shut as he sighed. “But she is favored by the Lady, more than any other medician I've ever encountered. That's both a blessing and a curse. God knows what Adana endured.

“To clarify, we are not Daggers. Caskentia uses my wife as a resource for translation, but only that. We work to preserve knowledge, the sort of knowledge that'd get us arrested and declared collaborators of the Waste.”

“If not shot outright,” Alonzo murmured.

“True. Why waste any expense or effort on imprisonment?” Dryn grimaced.

“I love Caskentia, but I'm not blind to the government's machinations,” said Octavia, frowning. “If Alonzo is a Dagger and allied with you, does that make him a sort of double agent?”

Dryn barked out a laugh. “No. Not in Alonzo's case. Oh, he walks a fine line, that's for sure, and Caskentia wouldn't be pleased, but he's something worse—an idealist.”

“ 'Tis a sad day when optimism is mocked.”

“Every day is a sad day here.” Dryn sobered. “Queen Evandia is at the head of a body beset with gangrene. How long until the heart fails?”

She thought of the soldier rotting in the alley in Vorana, of the clock with its burden of bodies, of Miss Percival and the academy left utterly destitute.

“The heart already fails,” she whispered.

“Maybe that's why the Lady has brought you here,” said Dryn, expression contemplative.

Octavia frowned. As if she could heal a government. She could scarcely heal anyone at all.

Dryn looked to Alonzo. “When does your airship leave?”

“Late morning tomorrow.”

“Adana will be in her office then. Both of you, go to her.”

Alonzo sat upright. “My thanks to you, Kellar.” He tottered and Octavia grabbed his forearm to steady him.

“Take it slowly. Put the pressure on your good leg and then bear down on the mechanical toes first.”

“I have done this before, you know.” He stared at where her fingers clutched his arm. The muscles were tight in her grip, his skin delightfully warm, but she shivered as if she were cold. She relinquished her hold and looked away, making sure her supplies were packed.

“Knowing this fool, he'll be back again,” Dryn muttered.

Alonzo gingerly stepped across the floor, with Octavia lingering behind as a precaution. By the time he reached the hallway, his stride was back to normal. The song of his body rang as strongly as when they'd first met. The blessing had allowed him to mend from yesterday's travails abnormally fast.

Relieved as she was, she felt a tinge of regret, selfish as it was. She'd lost her excuse to touch him.

Kellar Dryn stood by the door to the atelier. “It was an honor to meet you, Miss Leander.” He bowed and extended a hand. Octavia recognized the gesture and reached outward. His kiss to her knuckles was quick and professional.

“Thank you,” she said. “I'm glad to know you're here, in case.”

But Alonzo will not die. I won't let him.

Factory exhaust blotted out the sky. Octavia gagged at a foulness like ammonia. Bells chimed from the nearest building, and not two seconds later, workers exited in a flood. They scarcely talked. They were an exhausted mob, blackened by coke. Even the children looked old beyond their time—backs stooped, faces sagging with exhaustion.

She took it all in as she struggled to breathe against the stench. “Mercia is like this, isn't it?”

“ 'Tis. With a thousand more factories and far more people, besides.”

“The beautiful places you spoke of before. I would never see them, would I? What about blue sky? Here, there's a strong wind, but in Mercia . . .”

“Octavia . . .”

“Yes, yes. I know you mean well. But this . . . everything . . . I want a cottage and a garden. A home, a family.” She flinched, not intending to say the last out loud. It wasn't something she even wanted to think about.

“Trees,” she continued, looking around. “I cannot imagine living without the sight of trees.”

“I am sorry.”

“Will sorry keep me alive? Will sorry grant me freedom and peace? Oh Lady. I'm the one who's sorry, Alonzo. This isn't your fault, not at the heart.”

He stopped. “Do not apologize, Octavia. You asked for none of this. But I want you to look around us, right now.”

She did. They had entered the commercial district, and the crowd had thickened around them like a stew set to simmer for hours. Cabriolet horns blared their crude symphony as a buzzer whined somewhere above.

Alonzo stepped closer, dangerously close, his shoulder at face level. She breathed in, detecting the clarity of his scent even through foul exhaust from the smelters.

“I do not want you to die.” His voice was soft, tender. His eyes searched hers. “Anyone around us could be your assassin. They could trail us, even now. I am one man, Octavia. One inadequate man.” Bitterness seeped into his tone. “I have . . . my orders, but I think that once we are in Mercia, you will be in good care. Medicians are few. This arrangement will be temporary. Caskentia should be blessed to have you.”

“Oh. Keeping me alive is for the benefit of Caskentia. I see.” For some silly reason, she was disappointed.

He brought his hand to her face, and with one callused finger he followed the line of her cheek. The pressure was as glancing as a feather's stroke, and yet it sent shivers through her. “Perhaps I have my own selfish reasons,” he said, then turned toward the hotel again.

“Oh,” Octavia said, and followed.

C
HAPTER 14

“I need to speak
with Mrs. Stout,” Alonzo said. The high brick spire of the Hotel Nennia was visible ahead. He had said nothing for blocks, and now his voice had lost that huskiness that caused Octavia's heart to race a little faster. Instead, he sounded confident, assured.

“Do you, now? If you're truly in need of more prickling wit and lectures on morality, I would be happy to oblige.”

A half smile softened his face. “I will endure her sharp commentary. This is necessary.”

She eyed him with suspicion. “Very well.”

The hotel lobby was bustling with the evening's flow of guests. She recognized several people from the airship and nodded greeting. A mechanical dog scampered underfoot and emitted tinny barks. At the far side of the lobby was the other steward, Little Daveo. He wore similar clothes to Alonzo, a brown suit tailored to his small body.

“Look! There's Little Daveo,” she said, nodding toward him.

“Indeed.” Alonzo and Daveo waved to each other across the room.

The lift doors opened. “Oh! Miss Leander!” Mrs. Wexler stood there, her pale-faced husband at her side.

“Mr. Wexler, Mrs. Wexler,” said Octavia. Beside her, Alonzo bowed low and repeated the names as well.

Mrs. Wexler focused her steely gaze on Octavia. “You did not come to our symposium.”

Octavia didn't reply immediately, taking several long seconds to grind her teeth. “I never said I would, Mrs. Wexler. I had other engagements. Mr. Wexler, how are you recovering?”

“Well.” The Wexlers stepped from the lift, and she followed Alonzo's lead and slipped inside.

“Miss Leander—” Mrs. Wexler began.

Octavia granted her a pleasant smile and pressed the button to close the doors. “Have a good evening.” The wrought-iron doors shut with a whoosh of air, as tight as the royal vault. Octavia sagged against the wall as the lift began to rumble upward. “Goodness. That woman is like a barnacle.”

“That barnacle is on the passenger list for the final leg to Mercia.”

She sighed. “And here I am, unable to afford laudanum.”

“As pesky as Mrs. Wexler may be, 'tis worth keeping an eye on her and her husband, even from afar. As you noted, they have stayed close to you.”

“Oh, no. You . . . you think they could be behind these attacks?” She couldn't repress a chill.

“We must consider everyone.” A bell dinged and the cage doors opened.

Octavia unlocked the room door without a sound. She heard mumbling and the rustling of papers as she entered the parlor of the suite. Mrs. Stout sat hunched over an ornate desk, leaning on one elbow and scribbling with her free hand. A stack of books sat beside her—thin composition books, their bindings worn and in shades of yellow and blue.

“Mrs. Stout?” Octavia said.

Mrs. Stout screeched and leaped up. The chair toppled backward and papers danced through the air. She whirled around, pen in hand like a dagger. “You!” She sagged forward, gasping. “Don't startle me like that, child! Oh goodness, you gave me a start! I thought someone . . .”

The dread expression said it all. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Stout. That wasn't my intent at all. I brought up Mr. Garret as well. He wished to speak with you.”

Alonzo plucked one of the papers from the floor and examined it as he stood. “I do believe that Mrs. Stout may wish to speak with us as well.” His face turned stony as he held the page toward Octavia.

She squinted to read it. “That's sheer footle.” Line after line consisted of absolute gibberish, dashes and lines and shapes that bore no resemblance to letters of the alphabet.

“No, 'tis not.” His grim gaze focused on Mrs. Stout. “This is a cipher. And who are you working for in this regard?”

Octavia looked between them. “Are you suggesting Mrs. Stout is . . . ? That's as likely as Caskentia creating the Waste, Al . . . Mr. Garret.”

Mrs. Stout raised her chin, eyes defiant. “I work for no one but myself, Mr. Garret. I do not have to explain myself to an
airship's steward
.”

“Then explain it to me, please,” said Octavia, matching Mrs. Stout's imperious tone.

Mrs. Stout pursed her lips. “Well, yes. I should explain this matter to you, but must
he
be present?”

“I believe Mr. Garret to be much more knowledgeable than I in the way of ciphers, and I trust him with my life. Whatever you're doing, please, kindly explain it to the both of us.”

“A steward, knowledgeable in ciphers? That does not comfort me any. Quite the contrary.”

“Please, Mrs. Stout,” said Octavia. Mrs. Stout sighed heavily and nodded as she motioned to the vacant chairs of the parlor.

Octavia set down her satchel and claimed one of the plush armchairs. Alonzo's body seemed strung so tight he could have been played like a harp. He sat straight in a chair, one hand near his waist where his gun was holstered.
Surely he wouldn't shoot Mrs. Stout?
Octavia felt the urge to get between them, to soften this terrible tension, but forced herself to sit and wait. To listen. Mrs. Stout gathered that stack of books and carried them to Alonzo. He accepted them, surprise on his face.

“If you must know, I've been deciphering this code for the past day and a half. I have made some progress, I think.” She sat down, primly, ankles crossed. Her white-gloved hands rested on her lap. At that moment, she was the very picture of a dowager queen.

“And where have you seen such codes before?” Alonzo flipped a book open and scanned through its pages, all while keeping a chary eye on Mrs. Stout.

“Well! You know, or suspect. I may as well not pretend otherwise. I encountered it as a girl, of course. Father often used such codes in communicating with his Daggers throughout the realm. I wasn't supposed to pay attention to such things, but being of a stubborn nature and an only child, I did as I would. These books came from the luggage of Mr. Grinn.”