The Clockwork Dagger

  Dedication

  To Jason. Because.

  Contents

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER 1

  Octavia Leander’s journey to her new source of employment was to be guided by three essential rules: that she hide her occupation, lest others take advantage; that she be frugal with her coin and avoid any indulgences that come with newfound independence; and that she shun the presence of men, as nothing useful or proper could possibly happen in their company.

  Not ten feet from being let out of her carriage, Octavia was prepared to shatter Miss Percival’s most strongly advised first rule.

  The dog was but a puppy, round tummy swaying and tail wagging. It had whirled in the middle of the busy roadway and then chased after a chugging steam car. Along the elevated wooden boardwalk on the other side of the road, a little girl cried, tears leaving clean streaks in the gray filth of her face. A broken leash draped from her hand. Even through the port-side din of bells and motors and murmuring humanity, Octavia could hear the joyful barks of the puppy.

  She also heard the sharp crunch and the guttural howl. Seconds later, the klaxons and discordant notes of fresh trauma rang faintly in her ears.

  Urgent healings of dogs and other small creatures, such as children, only invited grief. Miss Percival’s advice echoed in her mind. You are a businesswoman, not a charity worker.

  Those canine notes of pain pierced through any armor offered by rationality.

  “Fiddlesticks,” Octavia muttered beneath her breath.

  She glanced both ways. It was a busy avenue four lanes thick, the traffic a mixture of horses, steam cabriolets, and automated cycles, all of them stirring up a thick cloud of dust. The fumes stung her nose and burned in her eyes. She could no longer see the dog. No matter; the cry of fresh blood would call her forth. Octavia set her satchel atop her rolling case and strapped the two together, then pulled forth her parasol. She flared it open to reveal cloth of a brilliant blue with a white lace trim. Stabbing the parasol forward as a bright shield, she stepped into traffic.

  A chorus of steam horns, like maddened geese, deafened her. A workman leaned out of his lorry and swore. Octavia refused to meet his eye. The wails of the body in need guided her around the backside of a cabriolet. She spied the filthy lump of mutt just ahead, not far from the fidgeting hooves of a drayman’s carriage.

  “By Kethan’s bastards! Are you mad?” snarled the driver from his high seat. His body’s song burbled sour notes of infection.

  Octavia didn’t deem him worthy of reply. In a graceful gesture, she shut the parasol and hooked it on her luggage strap. She snapped off her gloves and tucked them into a satchel pocket, then scooped up the fat pup. It whined and tried to struggle, the cries of its blood louder than the vocalizations. The dog’s side was caved in and bore the distinct narrow track of an automated cycle. Tucking the puppy against her hip, she strode toward the walkway, her suitcase bouncing with each rut. A few more horns blared, and then the rattle of traffic resumed.

  On the boardwalk again, the reality of what she had done caused her knees to quiver. The puppy needed me, but I didn’t need to nearly kill myself in the process. Lady, what was I thinking?

  Now here she was, burdened by luggage with a dying puppy on her hip, soiling her best new dress. Only new dress, actually. It was a good thing the cloth was a deep burgundy.

  However foolish Octavia’s actions, Miss Percival’s first rule of travel still held true. Octavia couldn’t advertise the fact that she was a medician.

  Shops and strolling merchants lined the boardwalk. Pedestrians swerved around Octavia and didn’t otherwise react to her presence, as though well-dressed young ladies often hauled about bleeding animals. So many bodies in proximity left her addled by the mad chorus of their bodies’ songs.

  Her one certainty: the puppy was dying.

  She glanced both ways and spied the dark recesses of an alley. Tugging her bags behind her, she found shelter in the shadows.

  The space was tight, not ten steps across, with buildings towering high above. Rubbish bins and refuse blocked the way almost entirely. By the smell of the place, this was where chamber pots were dumped. Hardly a hygienic environment, but she had little choice. At least it was quiet.

  Almost camouflaged by rotting bundles, a decomposing body sat in a collapsed heap. The faded green clothes were standard Caskentian army attire. The posture reminded her of a child’s doll. The spine and head bowed forward to touch the lap, the legs and arms sprawled as if boneless. There was also a literal lack of bone—the legs were missing from the knees downward, maggot-smothered flesh exposed to the air. This had been a double amputee, a soldier. Whether he died by starvation or more insidious means, someone had stripped him of his mechanical legs and undoubtedly sold them for scrap. His soul had long since departed; there was no music, no hum.

  The puppy squirmed against her. Urgency pushed her forward to the discarded chassis of a wagon.

  She heaved her case up into the flatbed. The wood seemed relatively clean even if damp. Octavia set down the limp pup. She passed her hands over the extended staff of her umbrella. The fresh blood on her hands dried and fell away as dust. The copper of the staff was naturally antimicrobial, and radiant enchantments to kill zymes and eliminate excess body fluids took care of the rest. Her skin sanitized, she unstrapped her satchel.

  Casting a glance to the windows above, she muttered, “Do you know the risk I’m taking, little pup? People are desperate, and angry, and I have so few herbs. I shouldn’t do this.”

  Her fingers didn’t hesitate as she opened her bag to reveal clear jars with contents ranging from vivid purple to sandy brown to powder white. She knew each jar by location, smell, and sound, by how the contents spoke to her. A formal diagnosis wasn’t necessary; she knew she needed Bartholomew’s tincture and pampria to mend bone, flesh, and organ.

  There were many herbs with natural healing properties that could be used in common doctoring, the stuff any illiterate goodwife could do, but only certain herbs could be utilized by the Lady with a medician as conduit.

  With a flick of her wrist, Octavia opened the necessary jars. She undid the drawstring of the honeyflower pouch and scooped enough to spread it in a circle around the still puppy. Magical heat crackled beneath her fingertips as she touched the circle. The Lady was listening.

  This was where it could be tricky. Would the dog understand what she asked of it and grant her permission to heal?

  “Pray, by the Lady let me mend thy ills,” murmured Octavia, bringing her gold-tinted fingers to rest on the puppy’s head. The animal whined. She sensed the way easing, the conduit opening. Discordant music flared in her ears even louder than before. She hadn’t healed a trauma this severe since armistice.

  Armistice—whatever that meant. As if the fighting between Caskentia and the Waste ever truly stopped. I can’t stop the conflict, but I can mend this dog. That is something. To that sobbing little girl, it may be everything.

 
; First, to knit the bones that crushed against the poor beast’s lungs. She pinched out the soft white powder of Bartholomew’s tincture and tossed it over the bloody mess of the dog’s ribs. The enchanted herb was absorbed in an instant. The puppy grunted, releasing a sharp breath. The off-key tubas within the music went mute.

  Next for the organs and flesh. She pinched pampria from its jar and extended her hand over the puppy. The image of the creature filled her mind, of how it had looked pleasant, plump, and intact only minutes before. The presence of the Lady flowed over Octavia, warm and heavy, as the coarse red herb drifted to the dog below. Soft light traced the puppy’s body then faded to nothing.

  The music altered to follow the rhythm of a heartbeat, the body of instruments almost synchronized. Octavia unstoppered a final jar. Using a small spoon, she dipped out a few globules of soaked Linsom berries. They were absorbed in an instant as new lines of red, healed skin emerged beneath the crust of blood. No fur, but that would grow back in time.

  “Thank you, Lady, for extending your branches.” Octavia bowed her head as a sense of sadness weighed on her again. Profoundly blessed by the Lady; profoundly isolated by most everyone else. Five minutes spared for this healing. Other girls might have prayed for an hour for the same results, and none could hear the song of a body outside of an active circle.

  She brushed her hands against the soft grains of honeyflower. The music vanished, the circle broken. The healed puppy emitted only the faintest of tones, all in tune and easy to ignore. She pushed the evidence of the honeyflower into the slats of the wagon bed.

  The puppy craned its head as if to examine itself, tail already thudding a steady beat. Octavia smiled. Under normal circumstances, she would remove the blood and leave her patient looking as good as new. Here, it was best for the dog to appear unhealed and graced with a light wound.

  Out of curiosity, Octavia peeked beneath the tail. A young boy-pup. Perhaps that explained his lack of judgment. She snorted and shook her head. As if I was any smarter as I bounded into the street.

  She packed up to leave. A sudden ache in her left forearm caused her to pause. “Lady, already? It’s only been a few days,” she murmured.

  With another glance up and down the alley, she unbuttoned her sleeve at the wrist and pulled it halfway to her elbow. She unwound the inch-wide bandage to reveal the plug of cantham wax over her wound. The wax sealed the incision, but also prevented it from healing.

  Octavia peeled back the wax. Blood immediately welled along the fingernail-size cut, and she angled her arm so it dripped between the wagon slats to the dirt below. The pressure in her arm eased, blood slowing, as a single blade of grass thrust up through the gap in the wood. Her offering was accepted. Quickly, she reapplied the wax and wrapped the bandage, then grabbed the puppy before he made a mad dash for freedom.

  “Let’s go find your owner,” she said, standing with the wiggling puppy cradled against her hip again.

  The decomposing body still slouched amidst the trash. She paused to stare. The bustling street was no more than a dozen feet away.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, pressing a fist to her chest. Sorry he had died like this; sorry that the alley vermin would steal away his flesh until there was no more. “Lady, I pray you granted him mercy in those final moments.”

  She walked on. If anything, her experience in the war had taught her to acknowledge the dead and not linger, or the countless corpses would consume her days.

  Octavia crossed the street at the corner. The merchants along that side of the road looked to be shut down, and the shade of the walkway had become a lane of shanties. Most of the occupants seemed to be women and children, some of them gathered around a horse trough to scrub their threadbare clothes against slatted washing boards.

  Ten years ago, I was like them. Orphaned. Hungry. The days a blur of sadness, cold, and the overwhelming discordance of humanity in ill health—until Miss Percival saved me.

  A disruptive hum rang in Octavia’s ears, though not as loud as the fresh blood of trauma. The notes came as no surprise. Sniffing, she detected the heady sweetness that was the signature of pox, as bodies exuded fluid from countless pores.

  I don’t have enough herbs to save them all. If I stop, if I try, they will riot. They will tear me apart with their need. Lady, help me.

  Tears beaded her lashes. Stiff-legged, she wound through refugees tainted with imminent death, and finally spied the girl who had held the dog’s leash.

  The child’s face was still streaked clean with tears. Her jaw dropped at the sight of the puppy. “You found him!”

  The puppy wiggled as Octavia handed him over. Warm coziness filled her chest. She had done the right thing, even with the risk considered.

  A rail-thin woman stood behind the girl. “You thank the lady,” she said, her face hawkish and severe. “You thank her for saving you from that beating your pa woulda given once he got back.”

  The girl lowered in a clumsy curtsy. “Oh, thank you, ma’am,” she said. “Now we won’t go hungry tonight and Pa won’t beat me or nothing.” Her eyes shone, bright and happy.

  Octavia’s smile froze on her face. She thought to reply, and instead bobbed her head and backed away. I’m a fool. A puppy that plump couldn’t be a pet. The dog probably weighed almost as much as the child. It had undoubtedly been stolen to serve as their dinner.

  The wheels of her case thudded on the uneven boards. She then realized the intensity of the gazes on her, her new dress, the bags hauled behind her.

  It’s not as if Octavia had much in the way of material goods either; she barely had enough coins for her trip. It would be a blessing to arrive in Leffen in several days, where money promised by Miss Percival waited for her in an account. Even so, Octavia had far more to her name than this sorry lot.

  She crossed the street again, her pace brisk. The attention of the refugees weighed on her.

  At the next street corner, she reached for the watch at her waist and fumbled open the case. It was ten till ten. Her eyes widened. Her airship left at the half hour.

  She glanced back a final time. The two sides of the street seemed to exist across a great divide, but she heard the people’s songs. Everyone suffered. Too many stomachs groaned, too many agonies went untreated.

  Lady, help them. I can’t. She steeled herself and turned away.

  Octavia entered the flow of hurried pedestrians, her eyes on the bulge of airship balloons visible between the high-peaked roofs.

  THE HEAVY, CLOYING ODOR of enchanted aether hovered over the docks as heavily as the dust. Men were everywhere, yelling, walking, driving lorries. A few scattered women seemed out of place, too colorful against the drabness of sooty work clothes and suited businessmen.

  Octavia paused along the walkway, gasping for breath as she stared up at the boarding masts. There had to be at least thirty of them, each resembling a lighthouse made of battered chrome. Few towers hosted airships. No surprise there. The Caskentian government had seized or declared privateer the best airships for use during the war. However, that still left a solid half mile of airships and masts.

  The first mast had been altered to resemble a giant clock. She gave it a double take, just to ascertain the time again, and noted thick black bundles attached at each quarter hour. A sign in the center of the clock’s face read WASTE NOT in elegant calligraphy. She took in the size of the bundles, and the rough shape. The lowest one, suspended beneath the 6, had been shredded at the bottom, revealing skeletal feet.

  The bundles were bodies, convicted collaborators of the Waste. No one else gave the clock a second glance. A few children played in its shadow.

  “Oh Lady,” she murmured. Displays of the executed were common at the front. The bodies of deserters would be strung on poles along an avenue. It was for morale, or so commanders said. Morale. It was for fear, fear to force their unwilling conscripts to stay. The same reason these bodies existed, suspended on time itself.

  How many of these dead were
truly Wasters? Few or none, likely. True Wasters were survivalists, hunters. They wouldn’t be caught so easily, nor would they give up on their war, no matter what the armistice declared.

  Wasters wanted independence, and claimed it was Caskentia’s fault their land was blighted nothingness. As if Caskentia were to blame for the high peaks of the Pinnacles and the rain shadow on the other side! The Wasters’ demands were endless: for their blighted land to officially be known as the Dallows, rights to irrigate from the mountains, etc.—and most ludicrous of all, a cure to the magicked curse on their prairie.

  Caskentia couldn’t even cure itself. Its currency was worthless, its populace starving. The Queen, her council, and Daggers stayed locked away in the palace, safe and secure, as hunger and disease continued to slaughter the people.

  Octavia bent to her satchel and tugged out her boarding pass. Her eyes scanned both sides. A most unfeminine growl escaped her throat and she was half inclined to ball up the pamphlet in frustration. It didn’t list a mast number.

  Cities. Stinky, confusing, crowded, dead bodies all about. Lady, help me escape this accursed place.

  “Oy, you need a porter?” piped up a voice. She smelled the boy before she saw him—he was dust personified, a golem of old in the form of a prepubescent child. She couldn’t even discern his hair color under the muck.

  “Oh, thank you. I’m looking for the Argus. Can you perhaps show the way?”

  He thrust out a grubby palm. She stared into it, blinking. Was he supposed to take her by the hand? It seemed strangely intimate.

  His hand jerked back. “Hey, what’s yer game?” he snarled.

  “My game?”

  “What, you think I be doin’ this for free?” His expression turned outright feral, dark eyes glittering against his browned face.

  “Oh,” Octavia said quietly as the boy shoved his way back into the crowds. She had so little money that even if she had known his desire, she might have resisted. Her light breakfast soured in her stomach. So far, her first morning of independence had been one disaster after another.

  She continued onward, her case rolling with rhythmic ka-thunks along the wooden boardwalk. Her head craned and eyes narrowed, she could make out some of the craft names high upon their hulls. Some were wooden constructs, like a seafaring vessel, with the balloon suspended above; others had the craft built into the balloon itself. Was “balloon” even the proper term? Octavia didn’t know. She knew very little, apparently. Miss Percival had bought the ticket and hadn’t told her exactly what sort of ship she would spend the week on.