Books, marvelous as they were, made for painful missiles. Hardcovers bombarded Octavia from the ten-foot-high shelf as it tipped far enough to smack into the next shelf. Leather-bound edges pounded and gouged into her back and shoulders. She yelped under the assault as books continued to slide down. Screams and yells echoed throughout the library.
“Alonzo!” Octavia called, wiggling to free herself from the pile. “Help!” She shook off enough books to free her shoulders and push herself to her knees. Electric light penetrated the emptied bookshelves and revealed dunes of books around her. Ripped pages crackled under her knees.
A body approached her from behind. With a start, Octavia realized her headband had been knocked off, as the body’s song rang stronger than before. Woman, healthy, strong. Her heart rate normal. Too normal. Octavia had the sense to roll to one side as the woman dove at her. She whirled to face her attacker—the redheaded woman who had passed by a minute before. The stranger crouched in the crooked archway of the downed bookshelves, her skirt indecently hiked to show her knees. Her face was emotionless.
The brasses of Alonzo’s song struck a frenzied melody. Worry, concern, fear. “She is a Dagger,” he said from behind the woman. “I met her more than once in Mercia. The only other Dagger to share Tamaran heritage. Greetings to you, Esme.”
The woman spun around to confront him. Books shifted and tore beneath her feet. The fallen shelves created a tilted triangle about four feet high at the peak, the space cramped and narrow. Esme carried a knife. The blade glinted with an unreal sheen, not unlike the enchantment on Octavia’s Percival garb. Octavia had a hunch, however, that the knife’s magic had nothing to do with cleanliness.
“Alonzo! That blade—”
“I am aware.”
With Octavia on the far side, Alonzo didn’t pull out the Gadsden. Instead, he hefted a knife in one hand and a sizable book in the other. As Esme lunged forward, he wielded the book as a shield as he backed toward the open hallway—guiding the fight away from Octavia.
A good thing, she realized, as she was still partly buried in books and gawking like a fool.
She extracted herself while keeping an eye on the fight. Esme was more aggressive by far, her movements sinuous as a cat’s. Alonzo offered few jabs. Octavia bit back a curse. His injury still pained him and restricted his movements. If only I’d been able to give him a proper healing!
Octavia rummaged beneath the books and found her headband. The flower had been ripped off. No time to spare, she shoved the cloth into an outer pocket of her satchel. The domino fall of shelves had stopped, and in the distance there were cries and alarmed voices. Broken leg. Ribs. Arm. Bruises. Concussions. She shivered, wondering at what distance she was detecting these injuries, and afraid to know the answer.
She grabbed a book—A History of Frengian Maple Patisseries—and flung it. The book spun through the air and smacked the assassin in the lower back. Octavia grabbed another one—The Inherent Violence of the Caskentian Psyche. That one, quite appropriately, struck corner-first directly into the back of Esme’s head. The woman couldn’t help but glance back with a scowl, and that’s all the advantage Alonzo needed. Esme screeched as he slammed her into the debris-covered floor. He twisted her wrist, snapping it with a jolt that pierced Octavia’s ears and senses.
New bodies flooded the library. Strong hearts and songs, not unlike Alonzo’s. Calm in the face of chaos. These are police, soldiers. How did they respond so quickly?
“What magic’s on the blade?” Octavia asked.
“She will not answer. ’Tis a part of the training I have yet to attend.” He wrenched Esme’s arm more.
Esme lifted her head a tad. Across the drifts of books, she stared at Octavia. Her jaw shifted as she chomped down. With her shielding headband off, Octavia could almost taste the bitterness, reminiscent of almonds, as it gushed over Esme’s molars and numbed her mouth. Her dark skin flushed, her next breath rattling.
“Cyanide!” Octavia cried. The favored poison of Mercia’s elite, one she had encountered in the suicides of several officers at the front.
Alonzo wrested Esme around. Books pattered to the side. Esme’s song—oh Lady, her song screeched as if rabid wolves were chasing down a marching band. Her organs shut down in a vicious cascade, each wailing and silencing as if devoured in a single gulp. Octavia wanted to hurry forward, to help. Instead, she curled into a ball, heaving as if her own body were starved for oxygen.
“Octavia!”
“I’m not hurt, it’s just . . .” Hot tears poured down her face as she fumbled to pull on the headband again. She didn’t care how it looked—she simply needed her ears covered, and quickly. “I can heal her.” With her intimate awareness somewhat dimmed, Octavia crawled forward, wiping her face with her sleeve as she went.
She was a foot away from Esme when the new songs in the room grew close and bold.
“Do not move.” The order came from the hallway beyond the claustrophobic hug of the shelves. A man in vivid blue stood there, gun drawn. Braids gilded his sleeves, neck, and along a triple row of buttons. More men in similar attire crowded behind him.
Alonzo grimaced, raising his hands above head level as he shuffled around on his knees. Octavia hesitantly raised her arms, her gaze going between the men and the Clockwork Dagger. Esme convulsed. Red froth flowed from her mouth.
“I’m a medician. Let me get her in a circle—”
Alonzo shot her a glare of warning. She felt pressure anew in her chest. A life debt to Alonzo, again. The Lady is watching.
The soldier scowled. “A circle? Nep. Doctor, over here! Now!” he bellowed. “You lot, come out of there. Keep your hands up.”
Alonzo and Octavia crawled out on their knees, a tricky thing with hands up and splayed books beneath them. Octavia kept partially falling over her satchel and winced as pages tore beneath her weight. As she reached the end of the shelves, another soldier grabbed her by the arm—not cruelly—and pulled her up to her feet. Several other soldiers crawled to Esme. Her body’s screams had dwindled to the weak mews of a starved kitten.
Cyanide that potent, that fast, placed her beyond intervention within seconds, even with a circle in place. That awareness didn’t stop the knot of frustration from forming in Octavia’s chest. Her fists balled at her hips.
“Check her bag,” the commander said to a soldier, pointing to Octavia.
She hugged her satchel closer, the parasol banging against her arm. Alonzo gave his head a quick shake. Grinding her teeth, she relinquished her death grip. The soldier made no effort to take the satchel strap from her shoulder. Instead, he opened the main pocket and rummaged under the blanket. He held up the newly filled jar of pampria.
The commander nodded. “A medician indeed. Check the other pockets. If nothing stands out, let her keep it.”
Octavia almost sagged in relief. The soldier made a quick check of the other compartments and then her coat. He took her gun without a word and backed away.
Esme’s limp body lay sprawled on the carpet. One of the men, eyes averted, tugged her skirt to a proper length past the knee.
A woman in a skirted version of the blue uniform rushed up just as Octavia finished refastening her satchel. She wore a black leather medic bag against her hip.
“What’s this about, then?” asked the newcomer.
“Woman took a dose of cyanide, they say.” The commander gestured toward them.
The doctor crouched. Her thick black hair was pinned in a massive roll like a ball of yarn. She muttered beneath her breath as she checked Esme’s pulse, opened her mouth, and glanced at her fingernails. “Cyanide, absolutely. The good stuff, from the look of it.” She looked up at Octavia. “You family? Friend? Do you have any claim to her?”
“Claim?” asked Octavia. “No. She tried to kill us by tipping the shelves!”
“Perfect. I claim the body, then. My students need to see the internal results of a cyanide poisoning.” The woman brushed her hands on her skirt as she stood.
“That’s it? You’re not going to do anything else?” The mews faded to nothing. The drumbeat, gone.
The doctor looked Octavia up and down. “What would you have me do, a song and dance and plead for help from above? Footle. There are other, living people who need aid now. This one made her choice when she bit down on a tablet.”
That terrible sense of frustration threatened to overwhelm Octavia again. I could use a leaf. We could question her, find out how she followed us here, what she has reported to Mercia.
“Miss Leander.” Alonzo’s voice was soft. “No. Not on her.”
Of course he knows what I’m thinking. He knows me so well.
“You’re both hale, then? No injuries after this attack?” asked the commander. Alonzo and Octavia shook their heads. At that, the doctor turned on her heel and left. The soldier continued, “We’re here to fetch you, and with right good timing, it seems. We’re private guards for august Balthazar Cody. You’re invited to his household.”
“Right now?” Octavia asked.
“Now,” said the soldier. He and the other men bristled with weaponry, their expressions grim.
“Well, as I was raised, invitations were best handled by a calling card and a gift of flowers, but I suppose this will do.” She said this as brightly as she could, trying to ignore the worry that raced through Alonzo’s song. “Lead on, please.”
“I DO NOT LIKE this,” murmured Alonzo.
They sat across from each other on a small passenger airship decorated in lush brown leather and gold rivets. The engine was so quiet and smooth that Octavia wouldn’t have known they were moving but for the shifting cityscape beyond the window.
“It’s not as if we had much of a choice.”
“All the more reason to dislike it.” His dark brows drew together. “We are being placed in obligation to Mr. Cody. Several patrons saw the woman push over the shelves, then all were too busy to witness our full conflict. By public appearances, his men saved us from an assassin, or at the very least compelled her to commit suicide.”
“This plays into what you said before, about how Tamarans regard personal accomplishment?” she asked, and Alonzo nodded. “It must be my fault that the Dagger and Mr. Cody tracked us down within a day. My accent, my clumsiness, something. I’m so sorry, Alonzo.”
“Look at it in this positive light—we can meet Balthazar Cody and directly inquire about his library.” He didn’t sound too positive, though. Something about this Mr. Cody obviously unsettled him.
“True. It’s just as well we didn’t pursue your idea of infiltrating his household. You may be able to playact as a steward, but I’d have been dreadful as house staff. I wouldn’t have lasted a day before getting the chuck.”
“Be gentler with yourself, Miss Leander.” Alonzo paused as he glanced outside. “It might have taken two days, at least, until you tried to save some life in peril.”
“More likely a matter of hours.” Octavia fidgeted with her headband again and stared out the window.
Advertisements plastered the long horizontal gaps between the high-rise windows, an ad for Royal-Tea included. The calligraphy boasted ENERGY AND FORTITUDE accompanied by a large emblem of the crown as it was shown on Caskentian coins. The Wasters had a sick sense of humor to market their tea using the image of King Kethan’s crown, commonly known as the clockwork crown. The crown had been presented to him by a conglomerate of metalworkers at the height of the Golden Age. As a symbol of the industrial boom, the points of the crown had been designed like the teeth of a cogwheel. Kethan increased his popularity with commoners by declaring it his favorite crown and wearing it most often, even though it was basic silver and unadorned by jewels.
King Kethan was said to have worn it as he died in the infernal attack by the Waste.
The ship’s engine purred louder as the craft rose. A gauzy layer of clouds drifted below them and hid the advertisements. With a metallic clatter and a jolt, the ship docked. The engine wound down.
The cockpit door opened and the pilot gave them a nod. “If you’ll come with me, sir, m’lady.”
Wind whistled through the short mooring tower atop the building. Octavia was grateful for the high railing along the curved staircase. She was curious about the view of the ground below, but dared not lean to look. She all too clearly recalled the time when she had been defenestrated aboard the Argus.
The pilot led them to what seemed to be a long shanty in the middle of the roof. Octavia entered a downward stairwell and paused to look up. Body songs rang out from the attic—dozens upon dozens, all in an excited clamor. Little heartbeats. Odd, disjointed bodies, yet healthy.
“Gremlins,” she whispered to Alonzo with a nudge.
Mrs. Stout said that gremlins hate being in the city, but this doesn’t feel like a city, this high up. She also said people in the southern nations could talk to gremlins.
If anyone could, surely it would be their creator.
The stairwell led directly into a domicile.
The Garret flat had embodied controlled opulence. Cody’s showed no such restraint. If a surface could be adorned with gold leaf, it was; if it needed cloth for texture, vivid blue velvet was the choice. The floor consisted of alabaster marble tiles large enough for an adult to stretch out supine. Mechanical detritus sat on display along the walls: metal men, armaments, artistic odds and ends from engines of all sizes. No silver, though. A wise precaution with gremlins about.
They entered a masculine den seemingly carved out of dark wood, as if they had entered a cave within a giant tree. Octavia stepped onto the carpet and stared down. The lush blue pile was as high as real grass and hid the toes of her shoes. Two bookshelves flanked a desk in mahogany with carved dragon-claw legs. A man stood behind the desk. Prolonged bladder infection. His unbuttoned coat revealed a curved gut girthed by a burgundy vest. His skin tone was a few shades darker than Alonzo’s. Frizzy black hair, white-striped, had been cut to about three inches in length.
“You are the very image of your father,” said the stranger as he rounded the desk. “Except the eyes. That blue is purely your mother.” His posture, clothing, everything about him announced that he was either a horse trader, politician, or some other swindler of grand tradition.
“You are Balthazar Cody. I know of you from my mother.” The men clasped hands. “ ’Tis good to meet you, sir.” A lie, though courteously said.
Mr. Cody turned to Octavia, bowing as he took her hand. His lips hovered at her gloved knuckles about two seconds longer than was proper. “Ah, the famed Octavia Leander. My little birds tell me extraordinary tales about you, my dear.”
“Perhaps your little birds shouldn’t spread gossip, Mr. Cody.” Alonzo was right to describe this man as dangerous.
Mr. Cody burst out laughing. “That would make for a dull world.” He waved the pilot away.
“Your birds must work well for you to know so many things,” said Alonzo. His song raced with unease. His Gadsden and knives had been confiscated, yet he was ready to uncoil in an instant.
“Oh, they only tell me so much. The rest comes from good old-fashioned spies. This is my city, you understand. It’s my place to know what goes on here. Nothing brings people together like a similar taste in books, correct?”
Octavia glanced at Alonzo. His mouth was set in a grim line.
“Unfortunately,” Mr. Cody continued, “you had rather poor timing in your choice of libraries. That Caskentian Clockwork Dagger, Esme Spencer, visits—visited—that library at this time each day as part of her guise as a student. When you waltzed in, she must have been as happy as a pilot atop the Warriors’ mountain. A shame she had to die like that. Now we get to start from scratch with someone new.”
At least the Dagger didn’t follow us there. Maybe she didn’t get to report our whereabouts either.
Alonzo, however, didn’t look relieved. “Are you aware of why she attacked us?”
“Direct, are you? Very well. The game will be more fun if I continue to show my hand. Yes, I’ve intercepted recent bulletins sent down from Caskentia. You, Alonzo Garret, have been declared a collaborator of the Dallows. You, Miss Leander, have been kidnapped. By him.”
Her jaw dropped. “What?”
“I am not surprised,” said Alonzo. “Miss Leander, you know well how Caskentia is.”
Such orders explained why the woman had not killed Octavia when it would have been easy to do so, but Octavia’s death would have still been the end result. The Lady knew as much or she wouldn’t have bestowed another life debt on Alonzo.
Mr. Cody sat on the corner of his desk and leaned on his higher knee. “The subject of religion has made our libraries very attractive to you. I’m going to surmise that you’re most likely looking for books on medician magi. A search that frustrated you, I imagine, because I possess all the available literature on the subject. Miss Leander here has something of a reputation since that zyme contamination. Maybe you have questions on the subject, questions Caskentia can’t answer. Questions Caskentia might not want answered. Yes?”
Octavia tried to keep her face impassive, even as her gut soured with dread. “You think differently from your countrymen.” A shame that his genuine enthusiasm for her kind didn’t make her like the man.
“Others here in the south have a narrow view of what powers are worthwhile. Power is power. It should be respected. I respect the two of you immensely, and I hope the three of us might strike a bargain.”
Octavia shot Alonzo a worried look. He appeared stoic, arms crossed over his broad chest. Daggers must stare into a mirror to practice that blank countenance.
Mr. Cody waddled around them. “Walk with me, please.” His shoes clattered on the fine floor of the hall. Octavia hugged her satchel a little tighter. A lift awaited them, the ornate doors in gold.
“We’re going all the way to the shop,” Mr. Cody said to the operator as the man bowed low.
The lift’s motor was nearly silent as they descended. Mr. Cody clutched both sides of his unbuttoned coat. “Mr. Garret, your father had a knack for operating most all machines. I remember the first time I saw a buzzer in the skies here—quite a legacy he left with such an invention. According to your army file, you are an adept buzzer pilot yourself.”
Alonzo stared at the door. Through the mesh of the lift gates, building floors zoomed by in light and dark blurs. “I can pilot,” he said at last.
“What do you have in mind, Mr. Cody?” asked Octavia.
“Well, you have been in the city for only a day, so I know you haven’t seen a bout, but how much do you know of my Arena?”
“ ’Tis a life-size version of the game of Warriors, set before a large audience. Piloted mechas battle their way to the top of a metal pyramid.”
Octavia’s fists clenched. “You’re not suggesting Mr. Garret pilot one of those things, are you?” Oh Lady. People die in those matches. The audience cheers.
“I have a new mecha. It combines my interests for the first time. The problem is, no one can pilot it. There’s a bout the day after tomorrow, and my other mechas are sidelined by repairs. Here you are, like an answer to prayer.”
“No one else has piloted it, Mr. Cody, or no one has survived piloting it?” asked Octavia.
“Now, now. Not all of them have died.”
“Is that what you’re asking of me? To treat the injured?”
“No. Doctors have handled them. My request of you is special.” The lift dinged and the operator opened the portal. The dial showed them at a basement.
The high ceiling reminded Octavia of an airship repair hangar she had seen at the front. Partitions divided the floor like a giant stable. Bright electric bulbs dangled from pendulums, but the overwhelming gray of the floor and walls cast a dour mood over the massive space. The air stank of heated metal and mustiness.
“A tunnel over there leads directly to the Arena.” Mr. Cody pointed.
“We’re right on the plaza, then?” Octavia asked.
“Quite. I believe in being in the center of any action.”
Mr. Cody led them onward. Crews worked on massive war machines twenty, thirty feet in height. The constructs were not in stark metal shades like common working vehicles; no, these were characters. One was a porcupine, its back a mass of deadly spikes. A standing cockpit occupied the space from chest to where the creature’s head would be. Another was a threem from mythology. The scaled horse stood on four cloven hooves, the pilot’s seat a shielded cage set into the back. The lower part of the horse’s face had been removed, and several men currently shoved a long piece of pipe into the gullet.
They have it rigged to breathe fire like in the stories. Mr. Cody wants Alonzo in a machine like that.
She brought her hands together and found the small scar on her wrist, the gift given to her by the infernal Lanskay. Among Waster fire magi, it was considered impressive if an enemy soldier made it within range of touch—and therefore, they were allowed to live with a scar as something of a trophy. Counting coup, the airship bartender Vincan had called it. Octavia’s mark was tiny—the imprint of the tip of Lanskay’s finger and nail—and enduring it had been agony. It was nothing compared to what Alonzo had survived during the same incident. His entire arm had been burned to make her compliant. Now he could burn again.
It always comes back to fire. My parents’ deaths. The village. Alonzo, tortured, only for the Lady’s leaf to heal him completely as he returned from the dead.
“Alonzo, I don’t like this.” She spoke loud enough for Mr. Cody to hear.
“Nor do I.” Heart rate elevated. Breaths rapid. Fear. Alonzo had survived the front. He had lost half a leg. He had no interest in the wanton waste of life.
“Miss Leander,” said Mr. Cody. He paused long enough for them to walk closer together. “It’s my understanding that you have something of an affinity for gremlins.”
An icy sensation trickled through Octavia’s veins. How does he know that, of all things? Only Mrs. Stout and Alonzo know how I hid Leaf on the airship. She forced herself to remain calm, as if she could mimic Alonzo’s Dagger stoicism. “Why would you say such a thing?”
The headband filtered out many of the extraneous songs of workmen, but up ahead, a body rang as particularly bold. No men worked in this station. It was a body by itself, and yet . . . She frowned, trying to make sense of it. It felt like there were layers involved, and dead zones, hollow spaces like amputations.
Mr. Cody guided them around a brass partition. “As I told you already, my little birds whisper all sorts of things.”
Three hearts, beating in rhythm. Atrophied muscles. A song dragging in despair. The trill of gremlins.
Not gremlins. A singular gremlin, thirty feet tall. Green skin soldered to brass extensions. Batlike wings folded close, the webbing in brilliant metal. Separate arms attached just below in full copper, the hands endowed with three fingers each, like Leaf’s hands. The eyes—black, round, and filled with sorrow.
“Oh Lady,” Octavia whispered. “No. No.”