The Clockwork Dagger (23 page)

“Mr. Grinn!” Octavia gasped.

Mrs. Stout granted her a small nod and smug smile. “When we walked into the promenade and I saw him at the window, I knew he was suspect. I knew it! While Mr. Garret ran to the window, I struck the service bells. With everyone clustered at the windows, I dashed to Mr. Grinn's berth. I picked the lock—yes, gape as you will, but I do have some tricks up my sleeve! My immediate assumption was that Mr. Grinn was behind my . . . incident and the poisoning as well. I wanted proof. I found it.”

“This is a highly sophisticated code from the Dallows,” Alonzo said, frowning as he skimmed. “These are your pencil notations?”

“Yes. You do know your ciphers. By my count, there are over four hundred different symbols used in those pages. It's a work in progress, of course. I first tried applying mathematical formulas or letter codes, but with that number it was clear that the method was more complex. I believe that each symbol represents a syllable of speech.”

Alonzo rubbed at his bristled chin. “I do believe in one day you have progressed further than some of the best minds in Mercia have in months.”

“And where have
you
seen such codes before, Mr. Garret?” Mrs. Stout's tone was ice.

“You did not tell her?” Alonzo said, looking at Octavia.

“Of course I didn't! What do you take me for? It was enough that we both knew who she . . . might be. I had no desire to compound things unnecessarily.”
Mr. Grinn, Mrs. Stout, Alonzo, the Dryns—is anyone who they appear to be?

Alonzo leaned back. “Majolico.”

“What?” Octavia stared at him. The word was nonsense, same as that code on the page.

“Oh my.” Mrs. Stout raised a hand to her lips. “You're a Dagger.”

“ 'Tis an old code word,” he said to Octavia. “Still used with the royal family. Pretend you didn't hear it.”

She nodded as she committed it to memory, picturing the spelling in her mind.

“You're a Clockwork Dagger. And you know who I am. Oh God.” Mrs. Stout leaned forward, both hands against her face. “You've sworn an oath to Evandia, haven't you? Then you must . . . I . . .”

“I have sworn no oath to your cousin the Queen, not yet.” His tone was gentle. “I am, in truth, little more than an apprentice. My taking the oath has been delayed by my superiors. I am not breaking my word to Queen Evandia by keeping your secret. It will not be forced from me.”

Mrs. Stout nodded. She worked her jaw as if she would speak, jowls jiggling, and was quiet several long moments. “The word of a Dagger is everything, or so my father said. Trust above all.”

“Trust above all,” Alonzo repeated.

“But I have no reason to trust you. Clockwork Daggers—Caskentia itself—are not what they used to be. Evandia, she . . . sits in her palace as everything rots around her. Even if you say you're not part of that lot, the corrosion is on you. If you keep my promise, it means you violate your oath as a Dagger once you have taken it. What will your word mean then, steward?”

Mrs. Stout and Alonzo stared at each other from across the room. The tension between them was thick, suffocating.

“I trust him.” Octavia broke the silence.

Weary gratitude softened Alonzo's face. “That means much to me, Octavia. As for what my word becomes, Mrs. Stout, I see what Mercia is. I do not plan to stand by idly and accept corruption as the status quo. Things have changed for the worse. They can change for the better.”

“He's an idealist,” Octavia said, echoing Dryn.

Mrs. Stout arched an eyebrow, revealing the broad purple of her eye shadow. “You intend to take a stand against Evandia? Truly?” A smile quirked the corners of her lips. “Well, you're a fool then, albeit a noble one.” Like one of Mrs. Stout's book heroes, no doubt. She scrutinized Alonzo, nodding as if he suddenly met some standard of approval.

“Yet I am left wondering how you were able to break such an advanced code on your own, Mrs. Stout,” said Alonzo. “Surely as a child this was not your hobby?”

“It was all a game to me, back then. But I have developed the skill in recent years. My husband was Donovan Stout, you see, of Cloak and Cowl Publishing.”

Octavia burst out laughing. “You mean, all of those copper novels you read . . . ?”

Mrs. Stout beamed. “Are from my husband's company, yes. Well, my company now. I have penned some fifty novels myself. Dreadful, delightful little things, under a dozen different names. I often incorporate ciphers based on the ones I recall as a child. Simplified, of course, but it adds to the aura of mystery. We've even published a few books composed entirely of codes and they sold quite well. Most of the books are murder mysteries, of course.”

“Speaking of murder mysteries.” Alonzo met Octavia's eyes, and she had a sudden sense of dread. “The reason why I wished to palaver with you, Mrs. Stout, is to help me to convince Miss Leander here that voluntarily coming with me to Mercia is in her best interest. You see, in the past day there has been another attempt on her life—”

At that, Mrs. Stout exploded in indignation. “What?” She stood, face flushed, bosom heaving. “Are you all right, child?”

“I'm quite all right,” Octavia said, giving Alonzo a pointed glare.

“As you see, she is intact and well.” He said this the way a person soothes a spooked horse. Immediately, Mrs. Stout's agitations decreased. “The latest attempt—”

“The second,” interjected Octavia. “Saying ‘latest' makes it sound as if there've been a dozen.”

Annoyance drove his brows together. “Second, yes. It took place in the swamp yesterday. A buzzer with an automated gun attacked us. It crashed, and the assailant then stole our wagon.”

“A thief and a would-be murderer,” muttered Mrs. Stout. Her flush darkened and she sat down again as if deflated. “My goodness.”

“I have the jurisdiction, of course, to take Miss Leander into my custody and force her into a ward in Mercia.” Or do the same to Mrs. Stout. The intensity of his gaze made Octavia turn away and study the paisley pattern on the parlor walls. “She is opposed to this for various reasons. But damn it all, whoever is behind these attempts will not give up.”

“Oh dear. This is quite serious,” Mrs. Stout said in a most droll tone. “Child, you have driven this man—a Clockwork Dagger—to swear in the presence of ladies.”

“I haven't driven him to do anything!”

Alonzo cleared his throat. “You know what I am up against, Mrs. Stout.”

“Yes, quite. A stubborn girl is a particular sort of creature. I know from experience.” She gave Octavia a gimlet eye. “I've had to be in such a position before, of course, leaving behind my expectations and loved ones.” Mrs. Stout took in a deep, quivering breath. “To survive, I sacrificed part of myself. My name, my heritage, the very essence of who I was. You may very well need to do the same.”

Octavia stood, fists balled. “I know that guarded custody in Mercia will likely preserve my life, but . . .”

Gray skies. Gray buildings. People gray with soot and sickness. No Delford or garden or greenery or birds.

But if that's what it takes to stay alive . . .

“How long would I need to stay in Mercia?” Octavia asked, forcing the words through her clenched throat. She knew he didn't know the answer, but she had to ask nevertheless.

Deep inside, it was as though part of her started to atrophy and turn gray as well.

Alonzo remained quiet for several long seconds. “I must speak with my superiors, make them understand . . . the situation has changed.”

“Wasters.” Mrs. Stout's voice was sharp. “I still cannot see why they would want Octavia dead. Her worth is greater than gold. Even during combat, Wasters have never targeted medicians.”

“ 'Tis why the situation is so perplexing. No one should desire her death.” Alonzo sank into his chair, haggard and weary.

“I'll go with you to Mercia, Mr. Garret,” said Octavia, the words a hoarse whisper. “With the hope that it's temporary, that you and your Daggers can figure out why this is happening and that I can carry on soon.”

The people of Delford will continue to die. I may not have been able to do much for them now, with my supplies as they are, but I could have doctored them. Done something.

“Oh, child, I know this is hard for you.” Mrs. Stout walked over and embraced her, the scent of rose water like a cloud around her. Octavia allowed herself to be squeezed. “But it will keep you alive. Focus on that!”

Octavia could only nod.

Mr. Garret stood as well, hat in his hands. “I must get to work now that my leg is fully functioning again. Oct—Miss Leander, I will see you at nine in the morning for our appointment? And these books . . . I know this is your dedicated project, Mrs. Stout, but tomorrow we meet with an authority of the Waste and its literature. She would find this work most intriguing.”

“A woman, is it? A Caskentian agent?” asked Mrs. Stout. Her eyes narrowed.

“Not directly. An academic with a full department at her disposal. She is a resource for the government, but is her own person, without question.”

“Mercia is less than two days away with a good wind. There's no way I can translate it all on my own.” Mrs. Stout released a huff of breath. “The words in those books may save Miss Leander's life. That's the only reason I will hand them over, you understand?” She aimed a pudgy finger at Alonzo's face. “It's not because I trust you, or that woman academic. It's not even because I like you. I don't. But if you can help keep this girl alive, then so be it. Give me tonight to draft my own copies of my work. I can hand you the books tomorrow.”

“Understood. Miss Leander, I wish you a good night.” Mr. Garret bowed, his gaze on her heavy.

“Mr. Garret.” She bobbed her head stiffly.

He left with a quiet click of the door. Mrs. Stout immediately turned to her. “Oh, child. I know this is so difficult for you—” She stepped forward as if to hug her again and Octavia retreated, a hand raised.

“Please, Mrs. Stout. I know you mean well. I just . . . I need to be alone for now.”

“I see. Of course. Whatever you need. Let me know when you are ready for dinner. Oh goodness, I have a lot to do. I'd best get started again . . .”

Octavia retreated to her room.
Mercia. I'm going to Mercia. Just for a while. Just to survive.
The pressure of withheld sobs tightened her chest. She looked out the window. The winds had shifted, bringing billows of filthy gray to suffocate downtown and blot out the blue heavens. Below, people walked with veils and scarves draped across their faces, most all of them accustomed to the foulness.

Could I adapt like that? Will I?

She curled up on the carpet, her face pressed to her knees. The vision of the Lady's Tree came to mind, as brilliant and green as ever beneath a gray sky—a cozy one, the scent of rain thick on the air.

To think, I'll be locked in that landscape of steel and brick, so very close to true artifacts of the Lady, and I will never know them myself.

Tears flowed, and in her mind, even the Tree was deluged by the torrents.

C
HAPTER 15

Mr. Garret awaited her
outside the lobby the next morning. “Miss Leander, I hope sleep was kind to you.” He accepted the extra parcel from her arm. Mrs. Stout had gathered the stolen materials and packaged them in burlap and twine.

“It wasn't, but I appreciate the thought.” The brisk morning air did little to improve her mood.

His expression was guarded as he nodded, taking her arm snugly against his, as if he could keep her safe by sheer force of will.

She studied their fellow pedestrians with suspicion. Everyone looked absolutely normal. Many men openly carried a sidearm. Any cabriolet or wagon could become a weapon. She glanced up, as if expecting a buzzer to come barreling from the heavens. Death could come in so many forms. She might not even see its approach.

She smelled trees before she saw them, and deeply inhaled, a smile already easing the hard lines of her face. They rounded a corner to find a sentinel row of oaks, their trunks scarred by scrapes with cabriolets and buggies. Even so, the trees stood resolute and strong, leading them toward the university just down the drive.

Leaves crunched underfoot. A bluebird chirped on a branch and hopped to the sidewalk, beak jabbing at detritus, then fluttered away as it realized their proximity. More bicycles than cabriolets rolled by, most everyone quiet. Reverential.

A piece of paradise tucked away here, just when I needed it most.

“ ‘Sing, sweet bird, of crowns and kings, of armies and castles and various things,' ” said Alonzo, his deep voice finding the singsong rhythm. “ ‘But the bird said nay, of these I sing not: of men who died, and battles fought. I sing of flowers and bees and trees and sun; I sing of spring to everyone. I sing of cool dew and the crunch of seeds, I sing of what the heart truly needs. Lo, I sing of spring.' ”

Octavia looked at him in surprise, not sure whether to be delighted or annoyed.

Alonzo shrugged, suddenly bashful. “I contrived the verse as a mere boy and the words stuck in my memory, wretched as 'tis.”

“Oh, it's not that bad. Really. You would have liked my father. He adored verse. He was a teacher, as was my mother before she married and began to doctor instead. But Father loved his poems. He would work on the farm in the wee hours of the morning, and I always knew where he was because he composed poetry out loud. He then would come inside and scribble like a madman before walking down to the schoolhouse.”

“I have been known to have my own madman moments.” He continued his surveillance as they walked. “Less frequently in recent years, I fear. But the thoughts are always there, even if I lack a pen in my hand.”