The Clockwork Crown (11 page)

 

C
HAPTER
8

Mr. Cody extended his
hospitality to Mrs. Stout, Vincan, the babe, and the unconscious Mathilda. Octavia was grateful, but knew his motivation was not magnanimity.
They're just another part of his investment in that blasted Arena bout.
Mrs. Stout was everywhere at once in the flat, conferring with Mr. Cody and directing servants with all the efficiency of an army quartermaster. She may not have ruled Caskentia, but she played despot over a stranger's household in a matter of minutes.

Mr. Cody soon retreated to attend to his duties as august. The servants dispersed. The Caskentians gathered around Mathilda in a guest bedroom. The woman whimpered in her bed, legs twitching as her consciousness began to return. Octavia had a good look at her for the first time. Mathilda had to only be a few years older than her—­perhaps twenty-­five or thirty. Her rounded cheeks reminded Octavia of Mrs. Stout's face, but her narrow nose and broad lips must have carried down from her late father. Illustrations of young Mrs. Stout—­the missing princess—­always showed her as blond with curls; Mathilda certainly had flaxen-­gold hair from her mother, though not curly in the slightest.

Mrs. Stout sat on the end of the bed within arm's reach of the babe. Her grandson was swaddled in a lush piece of blue flannel—­a remnant from the household seamstress, if Octavia dared a guess. His face had lost some of its newborn redness and wrinkles, his expression now one of peace as he dozed on his back.

“Well!” said Mrs. Stout. “Here I've been worried sick about you both, wondering how I might possibly find you in such a metropolis. I never expected you to be our welcome party, though far stranger things have happened!”

Yes, giant trees and all.

Vincan paced between the window and door. Clearly the high floor on which the flat was located hadn't caused him to relax his guard. His body sang of abrasions to his knuckles and bruises to his torso, all minor.

“I should like to know how you came to be here, Mrs. Stout,” said Alonzo.

“After we parted at that horrid Waster camp, Vincan flew me into Mercia. My goodness! By buzzer! Never in my life. You should have seen my hair afterward! We went to my daughter's home. Her husband is a sailor in Frengia for the season, but I convinced her to come south with me.”

“Did you tell her?” asked Alonzo.

Mrs. Stout looked down at her lap, her nod tiny. Octavia rested a hand on her shoulder, and the older woman cast her a grateful smile. Until the incidents aboard the
Argus,
Mrs. Stout had only told three ­people of her true identity as the lost princess—­her childhood headmistress at the academy, also known by the title of Miss Percival; Nelly Winters, who saved Mrs. Stout's life when she had just escaped from her Waster kidnappers, and who grew to become the next Miss Percival; and Mrs. Stout's late husband, the publishing magnate Donovan Stout.

The current Miss Percival had kept the secret for fifty years before selling out her old friend—­and Octavia—­to save the academy from bankruptcy. A financial crisis caused by the fact that Caskentia hadn't paid the academy, or most anyone else, for their work in the last war.

“Mathilda took the news well,” said Mrs. Stout with a frail smile. “We packed most of her household. It should be delivered in a few days. Oh! Child, we also went by the
Argus
. Your suitcase will be forthcoming as well.”

Octavia had prized that suitcase and her meager belongings, and now they seemed so frivolous. “Thank you, Mrs. Stout. I'm afraid I still need to travel light for the next while. I'll get it from you eventually.”

“Vincan, it seems you have switched employers?” asked Alonzo.

Vincan grunted. “Aye. Cap'n Hue woulda kept me on, but Mrs. Stout 'ere needed someone to watch 'er back, so I said I'd come. Never seen the south.”

“I'm so very grateful he did come!” Mrs. Stout clasped her hands. “Mathilda's labor pains started when we crossed the border into Tamarania. The doctor seemed like a good sort. I was so grateful to have him there, and then . . . !”

Vincan barely checked himself from spitting. “Wasters made to grab Mrs. Stout right after the doc'r started surgery, as the train pulled into the city. Didn't seem interested in the daughter. S'all about Mrs. Stout.”

“I will be grabbed by no man! And certainly not in a public venue.” Mrs. Stout sniffed. “Vincan did his duty well. Then I saw how the doctor's hands trembled, and oh, I knew something was wrong! The train stopped and I dashed out to get help, and then that wretched steward wouldn't let me back in.” Tears filled Mrs. Stout's eyes.

“Did the Wasters ever say anything?” asked Alonzo.

“Nah. Seemed like common swaddies to me, not like them high-­ups at that camp at the ol' copper quarry.”

Alonzo's face scrunched in a frown. “Sounds like they were sent to Mercia in case the mission aboard the
Argus
failed. They likely watched your daughter's household. You must continue to take care, Mrs. Stout.”

“I will hire more guards! Next time, these Wasters may very well try to grab us all. I will protect mine.” A cold glint existed in Mrs. Stout's eyes, one that hadn't been there before. Her recent ordeals had made her all the stronger.

“Octavia and I have already encountered a Clockwork Dagger here by accident.” Alonzo looked at Octavia and away. “With this incident down below and the fuss it has created, we cannot stay in Tamarania. After we repay our debt to Mr. Cody, we must flee.”

Octavia leaned over Mathilda. “I should check under the blankets again.”

“Eh. I'll step out, then.” Vincan practically dashed for the door. “Won't be far, missus.”

“Alonzo.” Octavia stopped him at the doorway. “Stay, please. Just face away.” He closed the door and faced the wall. As a precaution, she still held up a sheet as she checked beneath Mathilda.

“What is this debt you spoke of?” asked Mrs. Stout.

“Mr. Cody asked for our assistance in preparing a mechanized gremlin for the Arena on the morrow, and for me to pilot his creation.” Alonzo's voice echoed against the wall.

“Oh my! An Arena match! How horrible and dangerous, and with a strange chimera at that! Child, I should hope you gave him the roughage of your tongue for agreeing to such a thing.”

Octavia was glad to have a sheet to hide behind, as that phrase brought entirely the wrong sorts of things to mind. “I'm not happy with the deal, no, but we've been paid by being given access to Mr. Cody's library. He likely has the largest collection of medician texts we'll find anywhere.” She paused. “Mrs. Stout, I did find out that your father was a child when the artifacts of the Tree came to Mercia. Even then the power of the objects worried him.”

“The artifacts had been there that short a time? Truly? Wherever did you find privy details like that?”

“A chamberlain's log with a small print run. It covered the period right up to your imminent birth.” Octavia lowered the sheet again and tucked it over Mathilda.

“Well, I daresay my father was well read on about every subject. He was a brilliant man, the most brilliant I've ever known. I wish that had been his greatest legacy.” Mrs. Stout rubbed her daughter's knuckles and stared at the slumbering babe. “The palace library was one of the largest buildings in the entire city. I was told it was twice as big as any library in Tamarania. Of course, everything burned in the firebombing. Greater Mercia lost most all its libraries, too. In my heart, I am glad that Father never knew of that loss. It would have grieved him beyond anything.”

It always comes back to fire.
“Is it possible that some books on the Tree were kept in the vault?”

“Some books were in there, yes, but I haven't a clue about the subjects. I certainly wouldn't have been allowed to read anything of that sort at my tender age!”

Octavia looked toward Alonzo. “I . . . I have been wondering if we should try the vault, Alonzo. We haven't found what we need here. King Kethan knew the artifacts of the Tree were powerful and he might have kept—­”

“Octavia, are you certain this is not about the loss of the branch?” Alonzo's tone was gentle.

“No. Of course it's not.”

“The loss of the branch? The Lady's branch?” echoed Mrs. Stout. “Oh, goodness, how terrible!”

“Or the other parts of the Tree that reside there?” asked Alonzo.

“I already have leaves. And the seed . . . the seed scares me.”

“It could bring back one of your parents.”

She swallowed drily. “It could. Or your father, or anyone else we've lost. But my parents believed in the promise of the beyond. I couldn't take that from them.”

If I had been given that option at age twelve, newly orphaned, my answer would have been much different, though to choose between them would have been impossible.

Alonzo turned to face her, his mouth a grim line. “I do not see this as a valid option, Miss Leander. One, the vault is located deep within the palace grounds. After the surrounding complex was razed by the fire, it was converted to gardens. 'Tis guarded, but I am ignorant of the numbers and their patterns of rotation.” He held up two fingers. “I cannot simply escort you in. If my skin shows at all, my Tamaran legacy is obvious, and to cover myself completely invites suspicion.” Three. “There is a reason ­people jest of things being as secure as the royal vault. It cannot be opened, not by door, roof, or wall. The blood magic is that strong.”

Mrs. Stout looked at Octavia, her lips compressed. “You didn't tell him.”

Octavia shook her head. “Of course not. You told me in confidence. It's your secret.”

Mrs. Stout sighed. “Access to the vault is magicked to my father's bloodline. That's why no one can get inside.”

Alonzo stared at her for a long moment before slowly nodding. “Queen Evandia is your mother's cousin. No wonder she and the current family cannot get in.”

“Yes, thank God!” Mrs. Stout shuddered at the mention of Evandia. “That weepy, frail thing. She should never have ruled—­she hasn't ruled, truly. The country's gone to ruin. I'm appalled to think of what she would have done with the contents of that vault. It's enough that me and mine can get inside.” She looked to the babe with tears in her eyes.

“You and yours,” echoed Octavia. “Where is your son?”

“My son. I haven't seen him since long before armistice, though we have exchanged letters on a regular basis. But he didn't respond now, when it was most urgent! I even went to his residence. That boy. He always had the knack to vanish when it suited him. I'm not even sure what he did in the war. He could have been a Dagger, far as I know!”

“Would he help us get to the vault?” Octavia tried to ignore Alonzo's disapproving frown.
The more I think on the vault, the more right it seems. The idea itches at my brain, almost like a life debt, even with the danger involved.

“If he knew the truth? Most assuredly! My Devin's a good lad, and the determined sort. He gets what he wants. He's fearless! Bright!”

“ 'Tis a lot to ask of him, to risk the palace. We are strangers to him.”

Alonzo is coming up with every possible excuse, and each makes perfect sense. And yet . . .

“I can resolve that readily enough.” Mrs. Stout pulled out the notepad and pencil she always kept handy. “I had hoped to tell him in person, but, well! We have a family cipher. I'll write another letter, one that explains the matter of my history and says that he should trust and help you. He will. I know my boy!”

If we can find him. If he'll respond to us. So many ifs.

A heavy knock shuddered through the door. Alonzo rose to answer, hand near his gun.

“Eh.” Vincan leaned inside. “Girl says dinner's soon and we're asked to go, if'n Mrs. Stout's daughter can be left.”

“She will wake up soon,” Octavia said. “So will the babe, and it'll be feeding time.”

“I'm not leaving my Mathilda.” Mrs. Stout tore pages from her notebook. “Here. I made two copies, one for each of you, as a precaution.” She passed them along. Octavia looked down at the small page. It consisted of hieroglyphics and didn't make a dollop of sense. “Devin lives and works at a bakery called Bready or Not that's just off the palace quarter. It's where my letters have been dropped, though I have yet to catch him there myself. If you find him, do let me know? I've been so worried, and after I almost lost Mathilda and our little one today . . .” She struggled to stay composed.

“We will do our utmost to relay that to him, if nothing else,” said Alonzo as he tucked the paper away.

Octavia and Alonzo walked down the hallway together. “This idea of the vault bothers me more and more,” he murmured. “Any passing magi would sense your power and wonder who you were. This also puts Mrs. Stout's family at even more risk. Evandia could be made aware of their existence.”

A servant passed by with fresh linens while another walked along with a cart. Octavia frowned. “We need privacy to discuss this. Here, Alonzo. Step into my room.”

“Are you certain?”

She rolled her eyes. ­“People are going to talk. Let them. I'm already regarded as a guttersnipe because I'm a medician. If they want to gossip that I'm your ladybird, well, I don't regard that as an insult.” With that, she stalked inside and gestured him to follow. She shut the door behind them and locked it for good measure.

“There. You were saying?” She faced him. The drums in his song beat a furious pace.

“Are ­people truly gibbering that you are my ladybird?” He said it as if he were both appalled and amused.

“Probably. I have higher priorities than gossip, and so do you. Your ultimate duty beyond that mecha-­jockey gear is to be
my
Clockwork Dagger. You're guarding me even now.”
Much to Tatiana's chagrin.