The Clockwork Crown (9 page)

This deal with Balthazar Cody needed to be over and done with for all of their sakes. “Promise me that if Mr. Garret or the chimera is injured, you'll fetch me immediately.”

“I can do that, absolutely. I also keep doctors on staff down here at all times.”

“Very well,” she said, though it was anything but. “Please show me to your library.”

 

C
HAPTER
6

Octavia had never thought
it was possible to grow weary of a library, but after a full day skimming through Mr. Cody's volumes, she had reached the threshold of being so. The man possessed at least fifty books solely about the Lady and the Tree, and hundreds more on the full spectrum of magic and magi.

“Fiddlesticks,” she muttered, rubbing one forearm and then the other.

The same facts about the Lady repeated time and again, circling like a flying-­horse carousel. The Lady was rooted somewhere in the Dallows. She was once a grieving mother. Stories first referenced her about seven hundred years ago, but there were very few books older than that on any subject matter. Each of Cody's books on magi observed that the Tree had potent healing properties. A few stated the existence of several such Trees around the world, though the number ranged from three to seven. How that number came about at all was a puzzle, as it was universally accepted that the Trees used magic to veil themselves.

Most of the books were over a century in age and published within Mercia or the southern nations. She was surprised by statistics that made medicians sound much more common then—­numbering in thousands, not a scant few hundred. Why had the number of healing magi dropped so? In the southern nations, she could see young medicians being repressed so that they never trained to fulfill their potential. In Caskentia, perhaps, many were dying of wounds, malnutrition, or other effects of the war. Five girls had died during her ten years at the academy, after all.

Octavia scribbled notes and questions as she read. Why would a Tree suddenly become visible, as the Lady had during King Kethan's youth? Why could the Wasters find it by foot now? How were they getting past the wyrms and threems that were said to defend the Tree? If these Trees produced one seed in their lifetimes, this suggested that their lives were limited to a finite number of years, but Miss Percival had always said that the Lady's Tree was immortal. Not that those teachings could be trusted anymore. Octavia had learned the hard way that the Lady defied expectations.

The data on medicians was just as redundant and useless. After seeing the same pencil notations across several books, she could only surmise they were in Mr. Cody's hand. He had circled passages that described how to build effective circles into floors or portable surfaces, the peculiar need to bloodlet, even the odds on medician skills being passed down from one generation to the next—­a subject that led to very diverse conclusions.

Considering how he's made gremlins, it's vexing to think of the man searching for a hereditary trait for medicians. My own experience would discourage him, at least. My mother doctored, but I don't know of anyone else in my family with the knack. Miss Percival once said that it just seemed to happen to some girls and boys, as though we sniffed the right flower.

Reading about bloodletting made her more conscious of the continued problem she was having with her arms. The blemish around her incision had grown a deeper brown, the texture scaly. It was unlike anything she had ever seen before, and she had seen a great deal. It didn't hurt, really—­it itched as though the skin stretched. Her other forearm now featured a growing patch of brown of its own.

When she had set herself in a circle and asked the Lady to intercede, nothing had happened.

The Lady's apparent denial of her request perturbed her.
I know she disapproves of what the Wasters are doing, marketing her bark as a tea. So why won't she show us a direct route to the Tree so that we may stop them? And this condition on my skin is definitely not normal, yet pampria didn't even absorb into my body, as if everything were perfectly well. Nothing makes sense.

I need answers, and instead, the questions are piling up like autumn leaves.

Something clattered against the window. Octavia jumped in her seat and gasped, her hand instinctively reaching to where she had once kept the capsicum flute. Her fingers found only the cloth of her apron and the nubs of the buttons beneath. She pivoted in her seat.

Outside, a gremlin pressed against the glass, wings spread wide. She laughed. The chair squealed on tile as she pushed it back.

“Hello there, little one!”

The gremlin trilled. It was far larger than Leaf—­perhaps the size of a bulldog—­with a slight yellow cast to its skin.

“I hear you and your kin like to gossip. Have you heard about the gremlin I named Leaf? He has a bent fork on his arm.” She pointed near her armpit and formed a circle with her fingers. “I hope that he's well.”

With a squawk, the gremlin pushed off the glass. The small body spiraled downward. No clouds blocked the view today. She could see straight down to the plaza and the broad stained-­glass dome of the arena. Airships docked at spires set at points along the roof. Tall cranes loomed, lifting pallets of goods to the dirigibles. Far across the way, the terminal building was a mutant octopus along whose tentacles trains moved. The space in between writhed with activity. Lorries and cabriolets kept to their neat paths like black ants.

The gremlin flew toward the terminal, turned to glance at her, and then arced down. He did another loop and looked back to see if she was watching, then again flew at the terminal. This time he kept going.

As if he wants me to follow.
Octavia frowned.

“Miss Leander.” Alonzo's song rang as the healthiest it had been since they first journeyed on the
Argus.
Several days of good food and restful sleep had worked wonders.

“Al—­Mr. Garret.” Despite her frustration regarding the Arena, she couldn't help but smile at the sight of him. His fitted jacket was in the bright blue of Mr. Cody's household, the flap in an unusual diagonal cut. Black jodhpurs tucked into knee-­high black boots. From paintings and artwork around the library, she knew it to be the distinctive attire of Mr. Cody's Arena pilots. Alonzo looked smashing in it, as he did in most every uniform—­but then, he had even managed to add artistic merits to common dungarees.

“We have a few minutes together. Mr. Cody will follow shortly,” he said. Octavia fidgeted with the urge to stroke his newly shaven jaw, know the smoothness beneath her fingertips. “Have you had any luck?”

She shook her head as she motioned to her notes. “It's amazing how many different books can exist that say almost exactly the same thing. Some of the inaccuracies are downright ridiculous. One book painted medicians as divine beings that require no food, water, or sleep, because they can survive solely on ­people's appreciation.” She rolled her eyes. “Clearly, this author never emptied bedpans in the middle of the night.”

“You mean my appreciation alone cannot be your sustenance?” He pressed a hand to his heart.

A flush crept up her neck. “Your gratitude can sustain me in many ways, Mr. Garret, but it cannot replace almond chicken accompanied by a good, hard cheese.”

“I suppose I must live with that.”

Oh, how she loved those warm crinkles that lined his eyes when he smiled. She could imagine how they would deepen as he aged.

“Does that mean you plan to stay in my company for some time?”

“Yes.” The word was soft, husky. “So long as we are not assassinated in the near future. Or until you do prefer a good, hard cheese to my appreciation and companionship.”

“It would need to be an especially good cheese.”

His lips quirked. “I will be wary of such worthy rivals.”

Oh Lady. The intensity of his gaze rooted her in place. Giddy warmth bloomed deep in her belly as she drily swallowed. A servant whistled as he passed by the open doorway. The tension between them snapped.

Alonzo looked to the stacks of books across the table and cleared his throat. “I will be glad to join you here for a time. The beastie is as bright as we hoped. She learns words after only a few examples and understands well that her goal is the top of the pyramid. She has quickly gained the knack of how to handle foes.”

Octavia's joy dimmed significantly. “The knack to kill.”

“No. Killing is not the goal.”

“That's right, death is a mere side effect of a pitched battle against five other twenty-­ton mechas who happen to breathe fire, fly, or wield claws like scythes.” She pressed a hand to her face. “I'm sorry. You know how I feel about this.”

“I do. And you above all should know that I have no death wish, but this . . .” He hesitated. “I will not lie to you. 'Tis a glorious thing to sit atop that chimera as she climbs a metal mountain. It reminds me of the first time my father set me in his lap while he steered an airship. Not simply power, but perspective, looking down on the world from a fresh vantage.”

Lady help her, but she wanted to kiss that man. Throttle him, and kiss him. “I don't care if it's frowned upon in Tamarania. If you or Chi is hurt, I'm going to rush down there to help.”

“I pity the fools who would attempt to stop you.” He motioned to the books. “These, you have read?”

“Yes. This smaller stack needs to be skimmed. There are more books on the shelf that cover religion and mythology in general.”

His lips compressed. “This worries me.”

“More than the Arena?”

“More that the Arena will be in vain if we have no useful information to show for our effort.”

If this is a dead end, there's always the royal vault in Mercia.
She was reluctant to say the words. She had a strong hunch he'd be opposed, with valid reasons. Her arms irritated her and she checked the urge to rub them.

She needed answers about the Lady, or from the Lady. Soon.

Mr. Cody's ailment announced his arrival as his footsteps still tapped down the hall. So aware of his health, she self-­consciously averted her gaze as he entered. Miss Percival used to say that some ­people deserved to suffer. Mr. Cody, for all he'd done to gremlins, was one of those ­people.

“Greetings to you, Miss Leander! Pleasant reading? Any intriguing new insights?”

She pasted on a smile as she tucked her notes into her satchel. “You have an amazing collection here, Mr. Cody.”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” He looked between her and Alonzo. “I'm happy to say that the buzz is growing about the match tomorrow. Someone happened to start some rumors, you see. Tickets have already sold out. Ah, and before I forget again, Mr. Garret, I heard back from your sister. She agreed.”

Octavia's head jerked up. “Pardon? What have I missed?”

Alonzo leaned against the table. “I asked Mr. Cody to invite Tatiana to the bout tomorrow, to join you in his suite. 'Tis private there and easily secured.”

Yes, I'm sure we'll have a pleasant conversation about how much she hates me and how repulsive the Lady is. “
Something else to be excited about, then.”

A woman in household livery darted into the room and bowed to Mr. Cody. “Pardon the interruption, sir, but there's a major disturbance down in the terminal.”

“What kind of disturbance?” asked Mr. Cody, his brow furrowed.

“An attack occurred on the
Beautiful Varya
from Caskentia and now a woman is in labor. There's already a doctor attending. The incident has stalled all progress on the line. The backup of ­people is starting to impact other corridors.”

“An attack by whom?” snapped Mr. Cody.

“Dallowmen, if the Caskentians onboard are to be believed, though they blame every cloudy day on that lot.” The woman seemed to suddenly recall that she was in the presence of two Caskentians, and flushed as she offered an apologetic bow.

Leaf had followed Octavia from Leffen to the Waster encampment. It wasn't farfetched to think that a gremlin might follow Mrs. Stout on her train journey south. That strange gremlin at the window had definitely pointed Octavia toward the terminal.

Octavia grabbed her satchel and stood. “I need to get down there. Mrs. Stout was going to persuade her daughter to flee south, and the daughter is pregnant and due soon.”

The Wasters knew the truth of Mrs. Stout's identity, thanks to Miss Percival. They would still want to grab Mrs. Stout and steal her away to the Waste—­to the Dallows.

Mr. Cody looked vexed. “I don't care who this Mrs. Stout is. Miss Leander, I must protest. You already had terrible timing in encountering that Dagger at the library. To go into the terminal is to be seen by many, especially Caskentians—­”

“If my friend is in danger and her daughter in labor, you can protest all you want. I'm going.” The messenger stared agape as she passed. Octavia guessed ­people didn't normally speak to Mr. Cody as she just had. She pounded the button to summon a lift. Alonzo's marching-­band brasses grew louder as he approached and stood behind her.

“What makes you certain 'tis her?” Alonzo asked in a low rumble. She whispered about the gremlin at the window. He took in this latest revelation with a nod. She could see the gears turning beyond his eyes. “ 'Tis good to know we have allies.”

“Yes. Caskentia has its army and Daggers. Mr. Cody has his network here. Lady knows the Waste has spies everywhere as they sell that blasted tea. But here we are, allied with small flying creatures who resemble naked cats.”

“You are not being entirely facetious.”

“No. I know better. My friends tend to surprise me.” The door dinged as the lift opened.

“If this is truly Mrs. Stout and her daughter, the labor may be a feint, a distraction,” murmured Alonzo. “Or a trap.”

“Do you think that will stop me?”

“ 'Tis best to be prepared for any possibilities.”

At that, she clutched her satchel even tighter against her hip.
Unfortunately, my possibilities always seem to involve blood.

They rushed through the lobby and into the plaza. Octavia made sure to tuck her headband more firmly into place. Even so, the sheer numbers of humanity disoriented her. She took in several breaths as she did in her Al Cala. Either she'd become spoiled by the isolation of Mr. Cody's lush flat, or her skills had become even stronger in the past day. She stared at Alonzo's bright coat as a point of focus. Foggy as her brain was, she noted that she wasn't the only one eyeing his clothes and urgent stride. ­People sidestepped to let them through, whispering excitedly to each other. Several lanes of steam cars stopped to grant them passage. Drivers leaned on their horns and waved at him.