The Clockwork Crown (10 page)

“A pilot! Godspeed!”

“Cody's man! Look at him!”

“The pilot looks like that? I'll place a wager on him.”

Alonzo's stride stiffened, shoulders bracing. His song ticked higher in response—­anxious, self-­conscious, embarrassed.

I didn't even think of his uniform and what would happen if we left the building. Now we'll absolutely need to keep our time in the southern nations brief. ­People will see him, know him, ask his name.

No turning back now. Octavia grimaced and hurried in his wake.

The terminal bustled and echoed just as it had before, voices, footsteps and songs stirring a maddening stew. It took all of Octavia's concentration to shadow Alonzo. He stopped the first employee they encountered. “The
Beautiful Varya.
Where is it?”

“Terminal A, on down. You'll see signs. You're Cody's man? How about that—­”

They rushed onward until the ­people compressed like a Caskentian army division at a beer delivery. Octavia grabbed hold of the tail of Alonzo's jacket as he barreled his way through.

“Let us through! Pardon, pardon! My apologies!” Alonzo almost crushed a man against a pillar as he shoved past.

Octavia caught snippets of conversation as they ru­shed by.

“They said Dallowmen attacked a family!”

“Come on. It can't take that long to mop up some blood. If it doesn't leave soon, I'll—­”

“Is that a pilot? Here?”

“I got that dame's wallet! Let's—­”

“—­typical Caskentian violence. Such a barbarous lot of—­”

Beyond the bobbing waves of hats and hair bows, the sleek silver of the train resembled an elongated bullet. This was undoubtedly a higher-­class transport. At last they reached a door to a train car. Alonzo hopped up two steps only to be stopped by a steward in deep green attire.

“I'm sorry, sir, but we have a situation on board, we cannot—­”

“I work for august Balthazar Cody. Which way to the woman in labor?”

The steward, though Caskentian by his accent, took in Alonzo's apparel and pointed to the right as he stepped back.

“Your uniform may have garnered us a lot of attention, but it also got us through the crowds ten times faster than otherwise,” Octavia murmured as they entered a narrow passage of glossy wood and flocked wallpaper.

Alonzo grunted, clearly not pleased. “I should have given more thought to my attire. And yours.”

That's right. She still wore her uniform. She hadn't spared the time to grab so much as a coat or hat.

“Speed saves lives in my job. Think on that.”

“I will think more positively on it when we are far from Tamarania without assassins lurking two steps behind, all because I made a damned juvenile mistake.” Anger shook his voice.

“Oh, Alonzo,” she said softly. “You know, you really
are
a good Clockwork Dagger, despite how Caskentia treated you. I can prove it.”

“And how is that?” His posture was so rigid it was painful.

“Esme was a full Dagger. Who won that fight?”

He conceded the point with a soft grunt.

Through the open doors, a cluster of ­people could be seen at the far end of the next car. “You can't keep 'er from 'er girl. Don't make me make you move, 'cause I can.” The voice boomed. The man was built like a Frengian draft horse, his shoulders far wider than the doorways of the train.
Vincan!
His skin lacked almost all pigment, making him far paler than most Caskentians. He had the flattened, scarred face of a man who had naturally healed after being used as a battering ram.

“I don't respond to threats. You must let the doctor work in peace.” A steward had his arms extended to block the doorway behind him.

“The man is incompetent!” An imperious tone rang out. “He may wear the title of doctor, but—­”

“Mrs. Stout!” Alonzo called.

Mrs. Viola Stout, the long-­lost princess of Caskentia, looked around the hulking form of Vincan and gasped in obvious relief. Her rounded face was flushed, her silver hair accented by a mustard-­yellow swirl. Fresh blood smeared the bodice of her flower-­patterned dress.

“Miss Leander! Thank God! Thank that Lady of yours! Hurry, hurry! To the next car up, child! The doctor in there is killing my Mathilda!”

 

C
HAPTER
7

A man's body huddled
on the floor behind them. He wore a suit jacket over faded black trousers. Blood was almost invisible on the dark fabric, a mere wet splotch, the klaxons already silenced. His soul was gone.

“How many assailants?” asked Alonzo.

“Two Wasters. Both deader'n Kethan's ashes. Them been with us the 'ole ride, bidin' their time. Didn't make to kill Mrs. Stout, just grab'er and run.” Vincan was a former Caskentian soldier and the bartender aboard the
Argus.
He had been Mrs. Stout's escort back to Mercia, but evidently their partnership hadn't ended there.

“Your daughter was injured in the attack?” asked Octavia.

“No! Her labor started first. Those ruffians sought to take advantage and abscond with me. The greater issue now is this doctor! He watched Mathilda these past few hours, and all seemed fine until he cut her open—­”

Octavia didn't need to hear any more. She stalked toward the steward. “I'm getting through that door.”

The man's nervous eyes looked past her to Vincan and Alonzo and he stepped aside. “You don't understand, this physician has an excellent reputation, he—­”

Through the doorway, Octavia heard nothing but blood, the noise as piercing as steam whistles. The doctor knelt beside a woman. Crimson dyed his sleeves to the elbows. Mrs. Stout's daughter was utterly still. An incision split open her lower abdomen. Blood obscured the rest. Octavia dropped her satchel to the floor.

The doctor looked up, blinking as if he had just awakened. “A medician! Good God, that woman is desperate. I . . . everything here will be fine. It was a hard birth. That happens.” His voice shook, as did his hands. Through the hue of blood, she heard the tremor as it echoed through his body.
This isn't a mere reaction to the Waster attack; this is a nervous-­system deficiency. He can't even hold a pencil, and yet he wielded a knife.

She listened beyond him, beyond Mathilda. “Where's the baby?” Even as she asked, her eyes found a bloodied lump on the carpet. A napkin draped over the babe. There was no song, but heat lingered. A live birth, botched.

“Sometimes these tragedies happen,” said the doctor. He said the words, but by the terror in his eyes, he knew what had happened. He knew he had caused this.

Heavy footsteps shuddered through the floor. Octavia glanced over her shoulder. “I need this man out.”

“You 'eard the lady,” growled Vincan.

“Can't leave a patient open. I can't. It's not . . . it's not professional.”

“To 'ell with this.” A few long strides, and Vincan had hold of the man by the collar. The doctor sobbed quietly as Vincan dragged him past. Octavia had her medician blanket fluffed out before the door shut behind them. She set out her jars along the mended edge.

“What happened to your blanket?” asked Alonzo. He holstered the Gadsden as he crouched down; she hadn't even known that Mr. Cody had returned the weapon. Alonzo lifted the shroud from the babe, just enough to look, and turned away with a grimace.

“The train ride to Tamarania happened. Help me move the daughter.”

Alonzo took Mathilda's shoulders while Octavia grabbed the feet. Together they shuffled her to the oval. The woman was limp, her song dim.
Like Mrs. Stout was when I found her on the
Argus,
when she almost died in my stead.
Such a dreadful similarity.

Octavia's fingers pressed against the honeyflower and copper weave of the circle. Heat crackled as the magic awoke. “Pray, by the Lady let me mend thy ills.” She felt no resistance, no barrier. This woman wanted to live.

Through the cloth over Octavia's ears, the music became clearer, faint as it was.
Thank you, Lady, for the discovery of that pampria bush in the swamp, and for the time to finally grind those leaves.
She scooped out a handful of the cinnamon-­scented herb. The pampria drifted to Mathilda's skin and was absorbed in an instant.

Octavia had a keener awareness than ever before of the layers within a woman's body and of the damage done to a patient. She knew to add a pinch of heskool, a chunk of bellywood, and three globs of Linsom berries. Upon contact with Mathilda, each herb was absorbed without a trace. Skin drew together; the window closed. The woman's music wailed and softened. Rhythm returned.

That left one more vital task.

“Alonzo. Pass me the babe.”

Octavia lifted the napkin from the light bundle on her lap and sucked in a sharp breath.
That doctor . . . ! Oh, this poor child.
She passed her hands over the stick of her parasol; blood fell away as dust. Looking up at Alonzo, she reached into her apron pocket. He nodded understanding, his lips a hard line.

The leaf of the Lady's tree was as long as her palm, its green vivid and texture pliable, as if just plucked from the twig. Octavia rolled it as if making a cigarette. The little jaw opened easily. She tucked the rolled leaf beneath the babe's stubby tongue and gently closed the toothless mouth.

As if tickled by a feather, the child shivered. Pudgy fingers convulsed and straightened, arms relaxing as they folded over his belly again. Skin melded with a tiny slurp. A red flush crept across his pale skin. Dark eyes squinted as they viewed the world for the first time.

“Oh God.” Mrs. Stout's weak voice came from behind them.

“Vincan—­” said Alonzo.

“You try to keep 'er out! Like tryin' to keep a bull still by the tongue, it is.”

Octavia didn't look around. “Viola, they are both alive. Please step out so I can clean up. You don't need to see this.” She reached inside the babe's mouth and pulled out the leaf. Just as when she revived Alonzo, the leaf crumbled to dust in her hand.

Mrs. Stout didn't move. “I . . . I . . . Mathilda, she's alive, too? She's not moving.”

“Mrs. Stout.” Alonzo padded past Octavia. “Just a few minutes more. Octavia knows best.” The door shut with a gentle click.

Octavia allowed herself a few long Al Cala breaths. The crisis was past. “Thank you, Lady, for extending your branches.” She touched the circle. With an audible pop, the Lady's scrutiny diminished, heat fading.

Alonzo's hand rested on her shoulder and she leaned into him. He lowered beside her, his song strong and comforting.
Like my mother's humming.
A memory of sound that made her want to nestle deeper into a warm and cozy bed in defiance of the chilly morning that lurked beyond.

His lips pressed against her temple. She probably hadn't been kissed like that since she was a child. Octavia looked up at him.

“I fear we've set a terrible precedent,” she said. The babe wiggled on her lap.

“Oh?”

“The last time I—­we—­kissed was right after I used a leaf on you. I only have three left.”

His lips quirked in a smile. “I will do my utmost to defy our established pattern. Such intimacy deserves a change in scenery as well.”

“Yes. We're too often surrounded by blood.” The air stank with iron. She used the concealed medician wand to clean the baby's body. “Well! Do you mind passing him to Mrs. Stout? I think there was a dining cart with napkins and tablecloths in that last car.”

“I do not mind at all.” He made kissing noises as he stood with the babe. She shook her head, smiling. The man must be a natural with children—­quite unlike her
.
Octavia had rarely been around healthy babies. If she was present, the situation all too often involved crying, screaming, blood, and grief.

Not that today has changed that.

She cleaned Mrs. Stout's daughter and covered her sliced dress with a tablecloth. Another man's body lay on the floor a few feet away—­blood cooled, body silent, neck broken. Ligature marks formed a purple torque around his neck.

Alonzo returned. “Mr. Cody is here.”

“It's probably just as well. We'll need help to get Mrs. Stout's daughter out of here.”

“He is already arranging that, and much more.” Alonzo grimaced. Her bag reassembled, Octavia followed him into the other train car.

Mrs. Stout clutched the babe to her generous bosom. Napkins had been knotted into a makeshift nappy. Her eyes lit up when she saw Octavia. “Oh, child! You work miracles! My Mathilda . . . ?”

“By the Lady's mercy, she'll be sleeping for several more hours as she continues to recover.”

“I have men on the way with a cart,” said Mr. Cody. He stood beside Mrs. Stout. A group of his men in blue lurked close by. “Such a terrible way for you to enter our fair cities, Mrs. Stout. I don't foresee legal issues for you. It'll be fair to say your man acted in self-­defense against the Dallowmen.”

Mr. Cody's cool gaze turned to Octavia. “I
am
glad you were here to help your friend's family, but in your case that action carries consequences. This doctor is a prominent local physician, one known to donate generously to electoral campaigns.”

“Here I thought Caskentia had cornered the market on bribes,” snapped Octavia.

“I didn't say he donated to my campaigns.” Mr. Cody's smile was thin. “He is vocal, even in his recent retirement. I had him escorted from the train, but he made it quite clear he was insulted at being replaced by, as he put it, vulgar quackery.”

Octavia flushed. “He cut—­” She stopped. Mrs. Stout didn't need to hear the specifics. “He botched the operation. They both would have died. That doctor's impaired, both physically and by pride. Have him hold a pencil, or work laces. That will give you all the proof you need.”

“You don't need to convince me.
I
know a medician's worth. I'm simply warning you about what to expect when you leave this train.”

“About that . . .” began Alonzo.

“I would have discouraged you from leaving the building in your pilot's uniform as well, but as far as my goals go, this wasn't a bad thing. On my way here, ­people professed delight at having sighted the pilot of the mysterious new mecha.”

“Our goals vary from yours,” growled Alonzo.

“Yes, but we agree on certain vital points. You want to stay alive. I want you to stay alive. I'll keep you safe as I can through the bout.”

Alonzo shot Octavia a grim look.
Through the bout.
After that, they were on their own again. With Mercia two days away by air, they could expect a full contingent of Daggers all too soon. And Lady knew how many were already in the city.

Not that they dared to dismiss the threat of Wasters, not with dead bodies so close by.
Plus, the Wasters know how I grew that tree with the intervention of the Lady. Caskentia may want me dead, but the Waste wants to use me, use the Lady, to kill others.

Mr. Cody stepped aside to murmur to his men. Mrs. Stout and Vincan rejoined Mathilda in the next car. Octavia stepped a little closer to Alonzo.

“Remember what you said about us having allies?” she murmured.

“Yes?”

“All considered, you might be safest in the Arena, there with Chi.”

“I could perhaps extend an invitation to you, though it may be an indecently tight squeeze in the saddle cage.”

Octavia looked through an open window. The crowds still stewed, even more restless than before. Her stomach soured in dread of facing that mob again. They would notice Alonzo in his pilot's blue, but there was no denying her presence or occupation. Not now.

“It can't be as bad as our brief buzzer ride,” she said, trying to keep her voice light.

“Miss Leander?” He said her name in a way that made her warm even in the bitterest of cold. “We will make it from here together. Keep faith.”

She nodded, both arms clutched tight to her torso. The way things were now, it was easier to keep faith in Alonzo than in the Lady.