The Clockwork Dagger Page 11

  No, not a wonder. Strong as I am, I couldn’t have held on to that cord for more than a few seconds on my own. It’s as though the Lady endowed me with extra strength for a time.

  “I need to place myself in a circle right away, before infection sets in.” She sucked in a sharp breath. “My satchel?”

  “Still by the window,” said Mr. Garret. He carefully sat down a few feet away, tucking his shredded and vacant pant leg against his thigh.

  Octavia bit her lip. “Oh, dear. Your leg—”

  He waved a hand in dismissal. “It contains a tracking device. I will seek it out.”

  “We’re over the marshes, aren’t we? Oh Lady. All that water . . .”

  “In any case, it can be recovered and save a mechanist the trouble of measuring me again.” Mr. Garret was far too flippant. The way that the leg had been wrenched away, it could have created major damage to the connectors. Then the water, and the fall . . . Even a quality prosthetic such as his had limits.

  “I’ll make a peg leg, Alonzo,” said Vincan.

  “I appreciate the offer, my friend, but I cannot fasten a peg on. It would grind the connectors into my skin. A crutch will have to suffice.” Alonzo heaved himself onto his single foot. The crowd around them had begun to disperse. “Where has Mrs. Stout gone?”

  “Mrs. Stout was here?” Octavia asked. At least Mrs. Stout is safe now. Mr. Grinn must have stabbed her before, in my stead.

  “She was the one who rang me,” he said.

  “Oh.” Mrs. Stout must have been brimming with suspicions—some of them valid.

  Mr. Garret continued, “We were entering the promenade together when we noted your absence and saw Mr. Grinn at the window. Thank you.” Little Daveo offered his stubby body for Mr. Garret to use for balance. “Mrs. Stout ran to the stewards’ panel to summon more aid.”

  “I suppose all my screaming didn’t do much good, did it?” Octavia asked.

  “Over the wind? No, m’lady.” A hard glint flashed through Mr. Garret’s eyes. “I am grateful I was gone but for a minute, but if I had not left . . .”

  “Don’t torment yourself in such a way, Mr. Garret. Please.” Octavia stood. The coat slid from her shoulders to create a puddle of black at her feet. The extra warmth slipped from her skin, yet she noted the absence of the cinnamon scent most of all. “Captain Hue. Pardon.” The captain turned from the crewman he was speaking with. “I would appreciate some privacy to conduct mediations for Mr. Garret and myself.”

  “Certainly. You can heal in here. No point in making the man hobble all about. Garret, you’re off duty until your leg is fixed.”

  “Understood, sir. I will remedy that as soon as possible.”

  The pressure on Octavia’s chest intensified, as though squeezed in a giant’s fist. She looked at the crewman alongside Captain Hue. He was younger than she was and wore his gawkiness like a garish coat. A knob protruded his throat, like a turkey’s gullet. His body exuded heat along with a song, his mild magic a palpable presence.

  “You’re the aether magus who saved me.”

  The youth blushed. “I’m not a magus, m’lady. Not yet. I have a few years in training to go, and work as an elevator man aboard airships between sessions. I just lifted you, that’s all.”

  “It was no mere thing to me. Fully trained or not, thank you, and may the Lady bless you.” She reached out, a napkin clutched in her fist, and tapped the side of his jaw with her knuckle. His stubble prickled her skin. He jerked back, eyes going wider.

  Blessings required no circle: simply gratitude from the heart for the preservation of life, channeled from the Lady. The boy would find that he slept soundly and healed quickly for the next while. The pressure against her heart eased, but it still took effort to breathe.

  She owed that same debt to Mr. Garret, but had a sense that he’d know to dodge her if she reached for him like that. However, dodging would do him little good in his current condition. She eyed Mr. Garret, suppressing a smile.

  “Out, out!” barked the captain, shooing people away. He looked at Octavia. “If you need anything else, m’lady, ring for assistance.” He motioned to the far wall with its pull cords.

  “Thank you,” she said. The other people cleared out.

  “I suppose I should sit down again,” said Mr. Garret. He grimaced as he leaned against the wall to lower himself.

  “Well, there was no call for you to rise in the first place.”

  “You stood as well.”

  “I’m not the one missing half my leg!”

  “True.” He sat with a grunt and propped himself up on his good knee. “So what now? Shall I pass your satchel?”

  “No. You’ll remain still while I bless you.”

  Mr. Garret’s eyes went wide as she dove at him. He yelped and tried to scoot to one side, but Octavia was more agile yet. She stepped over his good leg and pinned it between her calves. His head was indecently placed, trapped between her skirt and the wall. She tapped her knuckle against his cheek. His skin was soft but for the pinprick beginnings of a beard. And goodness, he was warm against the lingering iciness of her skin.

  “For saving my life and risking yourself for me, the Lady blesses you,” she murmured. He shivered. From the coldness of my touch? The blessing? Or something more?

  “You did not need to do that,” he mumbled.

  “Actually, I did.” Octavia took in a full breath, expecting the onerous pressure to be gone. It wasn’t. She almost cursed aloud. His leg is still missing. That must be why. Surely the Lady knows I will help Mr. Garret of my own free will? This doesn’t make any sense.

  Confused, she backed away, reaching for her satchel. She worked it open with slow, fumbling moves.

  “I can help,” he said quietly.

  “No. I can do this.” She pulled out the blanket by pinning it between her thumb and knuckles. Agony from her sliced hand muscles sent a jolt straight to her skull. She half closed her eyes, breathing through the pain to stay conscious.

  “Miss Leander, please.”

  Unable to speak, she nodded. Mr. Garret moved quickly to fluff out the medician blanket. It filled the floor space between the wall and several tables. She crawled on her knees and centered herself in the oval.

  “The jars. In red and blue.” Her voice was hoarse from pain, but the agony was more bearable with her hands still.

  I’m letting a man handle my jars. This is far more intimate than that kiss, yet I’m not that perturbed about it. Pain puts things in perspective.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  She jerked her head in the negative. “Are you in much discomfort right now, Mr. Garret?”

  “If you are trying to place me first in the queue, it will not work. I will not acquiesce.”

  Curse the man. He knew she couldn’t heal him against his will. “Then answer me truly, knowing you must wait your turn.”

  “I am not in any pain. My leg feels . . . strange. Ghostly, if that makes sense. I feel as though ’tis there right now.”

  “Hmm. How quickly was the leg attached after initial amputation?”

  “Six weeks.”

  “A brief wait, compared to most.”

  “I am friends with Kellar Dryn, of Leffen.”

  Octavia perked up. “Oh! That explains the high quality of your leg! Dryn’s creations are sheer artwork. No wonder it has a built-in transmitter. His works are known to be stolen for their parts.”

  “Indeed. Though I fear Kellar has not tested his products for durability if dropped from six hundred feet into a marsh.”

  “Not forgetting, of course, that it was wrenched free by three hundred pounds of weight.”

  His smile twitched in amusement. “No, I would never forget that.”

  She looked toward her parasol. He followed her line of sight and set it in front of her. “Thank you. Can you grab one of the clean napkins, Mr. Garret?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Okay. Wait for a moment.” Tears filled her eyes as she
tugged the napkins from her crusting wounds. The world wobbled before her eyes. Her throat clenched tight and breaths ragged, she continued, “Now, stuff the cloth in my mouth.”

  His eyes widened but he forced the cloth between her lips. The dryness of cotton invaded her tongue. Before she lost all nerve, she passed her hands over the wand.

  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.”

  CHAPTER 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 g
overnment’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—”