The Clockwork Crown (23 page)

But Alonzo . . .

She fumbled to find his hand and twined her fingers through his. He stepped back, the heat of his body a blessing against the deep, cold darkness.

“Alonzo.” She pressed her lips close to his ear. “I love you.”

I love you, I love you, I love you.

“And I love you, my dear Miss Leander.” He brought her knuckles to his lips. Her stomach twisted in a cozy knot. He loved her. It didn't come as a surprise, but hearing the words, feeling him so close to her, made the statement all the more agonizing and poignant. “Please do not do anything hasty or foolish.”

“Me?” she whispered with a small gasp. “That goes for you, too. Don't lose a leg again.”

“I will do my utmost to stay intact.”

No time remained for sweet words. The full heat of Lanskay's power prickled her skin. Through the blackness, she heard the infernal's sharp hiss of breath. “The medician?” he asked.

That says a great deal about his power, for him to discern my identity in the darkness, at this distance.
The scar he had left on her seemed to tingle through the layer of bark. “Didn't you know me by my aim?” she called. “I never seem to get a proper shot at you.”

“Is the Tamaran with you as well?”

“I would hate to disappoint you,” said Alonzo.

“We told you the way to the Tree was a difficult journey, but I suppose the Tree has made it easier for you, yes?” Lanskay chuckled. An odd tension rang in his voice. “I shouldn't be surprised to find you here, truly. You two could be of the Dallows, as tenacious as you are.”

Alonzo gave Octavia's hand a final squeeze then let go. “We seek passage to the Tree.”

“It isn't so simple as that. The name is Garret, if I recall? You cannot buy a ticket from me as if I am gatekeeper at an airship. We are at war again.”

“We never stopped,” said Octavia, sadness in her voice.

“Who is the Dallowman with you? Since Mr. Drury's medician is there, I trust this man's in good care?”

Mr. Drury's medician?
A growl escaped her throat.

“I am unhurt,” called King Kethan. “They have treated me well, other than forcing me through this darkness. My name is Mr. Everett.”

The Wasters conferred in low murmurs. The ­people of the Dallows had peculiar notions of honor, and she hoped that her ploy with the King hadn't backfired. At this range, it would be very easy for Lanskay to cast fire in their direction, and if they had no care for the safety of Mr. Everett . . .

“We will escort you to our camp, where we will confer with Taney,” said Lanskay.
The grand potentate is there. Of course.
“We ask, upon your honor, for your weapons. In turn, we will commit no abuses to you.”

“Until we arrive in your camp,” muttered Octavia.

He continued. “Miss Leander is to be treated as a highest daughter.” The way he said her name made her skin prickle.

“Godspeed to us all.” King Kethan's voice was a soft growl. “Granddaughter, we will find a way to continue together. Mr. Alonzo Garret, you are a Dagger in the truest sense and a credit to Caskentia. Majolico.”

“Majolico,” Alonzo whispered in turn.

That's the same word he used with Mrs. Stout to prove he was a Dagger, or at least one in training. It seems to bear more meaning than a mere code word.

There was no chance to inquire now. Wasters surrounded them. One of the men hauled the lantern closer. Alonzo handed over his Gadsden, two knives, and his pack. Lanskay offered him a curt nod of respect—­the Wasters did not search for more weapons. The infernal's face split in a grin as he faced Octavia. He pressed a fist to his chest and bowed, his pale blond ponytail draped over his shoulder.

“Last I heard, you had vanished into the wilderness of the southern Pinnacles. Even I wouldn't wander in such a place at the edge of winter. It is good to see you survived.” Sincerity warmed his voice.

“I won't lie and say I'm glad to see you. I suppose you want to take my satchel again.” She rubbed the strap between her fingers. Frustration clogged her throat.

“Actually, no. Let's be honest. Holding your bag hostage did little to control you before. I doubt it would do so this time.” He motioned to another man. “Run ahead. This old man Everett is barefoot and it's a long walk through this tunnel.”

“I am not feeble,” said King Kethan.

“I mean no disrespect.” Lanskay bowed to him. “Even with my heat, I know this place is bitterly cold. It doesn't take long for a man to lose fingers and toes. Allow us to help. We've worn through shoes on our patrols, many times.”

One of the men used a torn blanket and rope to wrap Kethan's feet. They resumed their walk. With a glare of challenge to the nearest men, Octavia worked to stand beside Alonzo. No one tried to touch her; in fact, they looked afraid.

It's not just that they are supposed to regard me as a high daughter. They've heard stories about what happened before. They know I grew another tree, that most of the guards were killed, that only their potentate and Lanskay survived. Lanskay even looks at me in a different way.

By now, she should have been accustomed to being feared, but that sad knot still twisted in her chest.

Lanskay walked with King Kethan. Octavia was a little worried that Kethan might misspeak, as ignorant as he was of recent history between Caskentia and the Waste, but soon enough his easy manner had Lanskay nodding and chuckling.

More sounds echoed up the tunnel. It took several more miles of walking to discover the source of the noise—­a makeshift cabriolet mounted on chain-­wrapped wheels.

Lady, keep Alonzo safe. Don't let anything happen to him, please. Losing him will not make me cooperative.

Lanskay bent close to the driver, a man in a full leather cap and goggles, and they conferred for a moment. Lan­skay looked to his compatriots. “No attack has taken place yet, but more of our men have arrived.” That earned a few grunts of approval from the Wasters. He gave Octavia an odd look. “I'll be escorting you back to camp.”

The driver sat in a separate compartment, leaving the four of them to squeeze into the cab. Rust bled along the metal seams in the door; she hoped the trip was not too long, or the King would rot the cabriolet out from beneath them. The windows were boarded up like a Caskentian tram, which only added to the feeling of claustrophobia. Several glowstone lights had been mounted in the ceiling. Their legs tangled together in the narrow floor space just as their songs collided in Octavia's mind, as disparate as they were: Alonzo, his brass marching band exhausted but as resilient as ever; King Kethan, his chaotic rhythm consistent; Lanskay, his music heated like his skin and his touch, a rhythm suited for an inappropriate, intimate dance. The wound to his hand pained him, but he remained stoic and didn't request a healing.

The vehicle made a tight turn, tilting her into the window, then rolled onward. The engine noise was soothing, though the roughness of the tunnel floor translated into constant, vicious jolts and bumps. Alonzo and Lanskay cursed in synchrony as their heads smacked into the metal ceiling. They continued in silence for a long time.

“It won't take long now,” Lanskay yelled to be heard.

Octavia could have laughed at how relieved that made her feel—­relieved to soon be in a Waster camp. Anything would be better than this tunnel.

“What is the word on Caskentia's movements?” asked Alonzo.

Lanskay raised a pale brow. “It would seem more appropriate to question you on that issue, but then, the Queen's agents sought to kill the medician, so I suppose you're not friends of the green soldiers now.” He shrugged. “We have shot down four airships thus far, but expect a full force by air within the next two days, before winter sets in.”

“ 'Tis a gamble to fly over the pass any season of the year,” murmured Alonzo.

“Ah, but they cannot abide the thought of an icon like the Tree in our possession. They'll throw everything they can at us, even if it's dung. The army will have special sustenance, though. A few weeks ago, Mr. Drury signed a sizable contract with the Caskentian army. We're to supply them with Royal-­Tea. Isn't that amusing?”

“I find nothing amusing about using the Lady's bark in that way. She's not a business venture or a joke.”
If he had the audacity to use me, my bark, in that way . . . oh Lady. No. I won't think of myself like that.

“I still wonder about what you did before, summoning that tree, using Royal-­Tea to create vines. It was most remarkable.” Awe softened Lanskay's voice as he saluted her with his wrapped fist.

She had no response.

“The driver had other news as well,” he continued. “Word that a friend of yours is in camp. I will speak with Taney to arrange a meeting.”

Panicked, she looked at Alonzo. His face was unreadable. “A friend? You can't have captured Mrs. Stout.”
Please, no. Let Mrs. Stout be safe with her daughter in Tamarania, let her be there to show Rivka all the love she deserves.

King Kethan's song shifted, anxious.

“Ah, Mrs. Stout. No. This is not Mrs. Stout, though we hope to see her again.”

Who else could it be?

“Mr. Lanskay,” said Alonzo, ice in his voice. “I do believe you said you would not commit any abuses during our transit. Baiting Miss Leander could be considered such.”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose so. I'm sorry, Miss Leander. I meant no offense.” To her surprise, his apology sounded genuine, even emotional. Lanskay looked at Alonzo. “You're forthright and honorable, unusual for a Caskentian. You earned your burns before, even if she likely healed them once you made your escape.”

They still don't know Alonzo is—­was—­a Clockwork Dagger. Nor did they see that Mr. Drury shot him in the head and killed him.

“Answer me this, though,” continued Lanskay. “I know my friend Mr. Drury must be dead. Which one of you committed the deed?”

Octavia and Alonzo looked at each other. Alonzo opened his lips, but she spoke first. “I did, in my own defense.” She met Lanskay's gaze and waited in dread for his reaction. Alonzo's song ticked faster as he readied himself to react.

No anger drummed in Lanskay's already rapid heartbeat. “I'm not surprised. He respected you a great deal, Miss Leander. If he was going to die, he would have preferred it to be at your hand.”

She was wordless with revulsion. Octavia stared to one side as if she could see out the window. Lanskay's tone was strangely reverential. He hadn't treated her like this before; with a twisted sort of respect, yes, but not this . . . worship.

Even though the vines I created almost killed him, it's as if the whole incident has caused him to favor the Lady.

The cabriolet's wheels struggled as they began a slow, steady incline with switchbacks that sent her sliding between the door and Alonzo.

Suddenly light seeped around the outline of the door. Light. She touched a sunbeam, amazed at the sight after so long underground.
We walked the full night through.

The terrain evened beneath their wheels. Just as Octavia was certain she could have closed her eyes and slept, the songs of bodies flared beyond the walls of the car. Hundreds, thousands. A town's worth. Out of habit, she reached to check her headband, belatedly remembering that it was lost somewhere in the pass. Whimpering, she covered her ears with her hands, but that did nothing. The cacophony blared, louder than it had ever been before, even in Tamarania and Mercia. Men. Soldiers, their bodies bearing the evidence of battles between Caskentia and the Dallows.
Amputations, deafness, burns, syphilis, headaches, a thousand other ailments, dozens together in some bodies.

“Is she sick?” asked Lanskay, leaning toward her. The magic of him boiled on her skin, his song like a trumpet played inches from her ear.

“The Tree. I must be so close that . . .” Her voice trailed off into a whimper.

“Miss Leander.” Alonzo leaned closer. His music soothed her, as always, even as it threatened to drown her.

“I need to get indoors. Away from ­people. In my circle.” Each utterance of her name was a jab.

“This, we can do.” Lanskay opened the door.

Noise poured in like a tidal wave, her name floating throughout like flotsam. “Miss Leander. “The medician.” “The one who made the tree . . .” “Her, the one who . . .” “She's a trained Percival?” Octavia's vision dwindled to fuzzy colors.

It's not simply their bodies. It's their attention. Is this what it's like when the Lady is deluged with prayers?
She suddenly understood what it truly meant to use holy names in vain.

“No. Let me. Separate us after, if you must, but permit me this.” Alonzo's voice sounded as if it echoed down a tunnel.
A tunnel . . . I thought we escaped it.

Alonzo's presence wrapped around her. His song, his very heartbeat, pressed against her ear. She wanted to argue at the indignity of being carried like a babe but could not. It was all she could do to stay conscious beneath the barrage.

“I have you,” Alonzo murmured.

“This way!” Lanskay called across a great distance, his tone almost panicked.

There was more brightness than in the tunnel, but she still had a sense of being beneath deep cloud cover and shade. Bodies blurred around her, as did walls made of logs weathered to a cozy brown. The noise dimmed but lingered close, her name, her identity, flicked across a hundred tongues. Something soft against her back—­was she in Mrs. Garret's house again, in Mercia? Just pulled from that crate? No—­that place was painted in crisp white, not made of logs.

“I am taking your satchel off your shoulder,” Alonzo said, bending her enough to lift the strap over her head.