Wings of Sorrow and Bone (11 page)

Octavia paused along the walkway, gasping for breath as she stared up at the boarding masts. There had to be at least thirty of them, each resembling a lighthouse made of battered chrome. Few towers hosted airships. No surprise there. The Caskentian government had seized or declared privateer the best airships for use during the war. However, that still left a solid half mile of airships and masts.

The first mast had been altered to resemble a giant clock. She gave it a double take, just to ascertain the time again, and noted thick black bundles attached at each quarter hour. A sign in the center of the clock's face read
WASTE NOT
in elegant calligraphy. She took in the size of the bundles, and the rough shape. The lowest one, suspended beneath the 6, had been shredded at the bottom, revealing skeletal feet.

The bundles were bodies, convicted collaborators of the Waste. No one else gave the clock a second glance. A few children played in its shadow.

“Oh Lady,” she murmured. Displays of the executed were common at the front. The bodies of deserters would be strung on poles along an avenue. It was for morale, or so commanders said. Morale. It was for fear, fear to force their unwilling conscripts to stay. The same reason these bodies existed, suspended on time itself.

How many of these dead were truly Wasters? Few or none, likely. True Wasters were survivalists, hunters. They wouldn't be caught so easily, nor would they give up on their war, no matter what the armistice declared.

Wasters wanted independence, and claimed it was Caskentia's fault their land was blighted nothingness. As if Caskentia were to blame for the high peaks of the Pinnacles and the rain shadow on the other side! The Wasters' demands were endless: for their blighted land to officially be known as the Dallows, rights to irrigate from the mountains, etc.—­and most ludicrous of all, a cure to the magicked curse on their prairie.

Caskentia couldn't even cure itself. Its currency was worthless, its populace starving. The Queen, her council, and Daggers stayed locked away in the palace, safe and secure, as hunger and disease continued to slaughter the ­people.

Octavia bent to her satchel and tugged out her boarding pass. Her eyes scanned both sides. A most unfeminine growl escaped her throat and she was half inclined to ball up the pamphlet in frustration. It didn't list a mast number.

Cities. Stinky, confusing, crowded, dead bodies all about. Lady, help me escape this accursed place.

“Oy, you need a porter?” piped up a voice. She smelled the boy before she saw him—­he was dust personified, a golem of old in the form of a prepubescent child. She couldn't even discern his hair color under the muck.

“Oh, thank you. I'm looking for the
Argus
. Can you perhaps show the way?”

He thrust out a grubby palm. She stared into it, blinking. Was he supposed to take her by the hand? It seemed strangely intimate.

His hand jerked back. “Hey, what's yer game?” he snarled.

“My game?”

“What, you think I be doin' this for free?” His expression turned outright feral, dark eyes glittering against his browned face.

“Oh,” Octavia said quietly as the boy shoved his way back into the crowds. She had so little money that even if she had known his desire, she might have resisted. Her light breakfast soured in her stomach. So far, her first morning of independence had been one disaster after another.

She continued onward, her case rolling with rhythmic ka-­thunks along the wooden boardwalk. Her head craned and eyes narrowed, she could make out some of the craft names high upon their hulls. Some were wooden constructs, like a seafaring vessel, with the balloon suspended above; others had the craft built into the balloon itself. Was “balloon” even the proper term? Octavia didn't know. She knew very little, apparently. Miss Percival had bought the ticket and hadn't told her exactly what sort of ship she would spend the week on.

“I should have asked,” she muttered. She should've asked many things, but Miss Percival likely wouldn't have answered, anyway.

Sadness stabbed at her chest again.

If she missed her flight, what would happen? Could she get a refund? She didn't have enough money for another airship booking. Perhaps barely enough for a hotel.

After a few more days, I won't need to fuss about cities or worry about finances, not for a long time. Delford will be a quiet village, peaceful. They need me. After I aid their recovery from the Waster poisoning, it'll be a place where birdsong is louder than the klaxons of bodies in agony.

“Pardon me, m'lady, but you seem lost.” A musical, deep baritone caused her to turn. A man stood inches away in steward's garb. His crimson jacket was right at her eye level, with double rows of gold buttons fitted across a rather broad chest. It looked reminiscent of an old military uniform, complete with glimmering epaulets. However, the attire had been in use for some years. White threadbare streaks radiated from the buttons, and the epaulets had only haphazard gold fringe. All that, she absorbed in an instant.

Then she looked up at his face.

His skin was the color of nutmeg, unblemished and tight. The skin color denoted him as Tamaran, from that nation of science and logic far to the south. But most of all, his hair drew her eye. Drawn into a leather queue, his thick mane had the texture of a black silk kerchief balled in a fist and set to dry. It lay against his shoulder like a cat's poufy tail. She could imagine the texture of the rippling kinky strands beneath her fingers.

“Oh.” With a start, she realized she was gawking as if she hadn't seen a man before. She had seen plenty, and naked at that. Albeit the copious amounts of blood and gore were a sufficient turnoff. “Oh, um, I'm looking for the
Argus
. If you can help, I do have a copper.”

Oh, you ninny.
She would have withheld her coin from a beggar child yet volunteered it to the first man who smiled her way.

Such a pleasant smile it was, too—­brilliant white against his darker skin. He even had all his front teeth. “Do not trouble yourself. I am going that way as well.” He jutted out an elbow.

Now this was a proper gentleman, complete with a lilting Mercian accent. Octavia hooked her arm around his.

“Shall I take your bags?” he asked.

Her smile froze on her face. “Oh, no. I'm quite fine, thank you.”
Too many lives depend on that satchel. Touch it, and you'll get a faceful of capsicum.

He bowed his head in acknowledgment as they began to walk. She had the urge to close her eyes and listen to the soft music of the man beside her. He was healthy, his body fairly quiet. And yet . . . something was missing.

All medicians—­even Miss Percival—­required a circle to hear the music of a body in need. At the academy, it hadn't taken Octavia long to realize how profoundly different she was, and how others responded to those differences.

This man was different from most of the others around, too. Half of his right leg was gone.

His knee was intact, but below that, his body was silent. There were physical signs as well—­the mechanical extension was heavier than flesh, and he compensated with the slightest tilt of his torso and drag of his leg. The fact that he didn't limp was noteworthy. Whoever designed the leg had the light hand of a master.

“Have you been in the city long?” asked her cicerone.

“No. Only a half hour or so, and I'm quite ready to leave. I much prefer the country.”

He glanced both ways and led her into the avenue. “This is nothing compared to Mercia. Have you been there, m'lady?”

“No, sir. I'll visit there by airship this week.”
A night in Mercia will be enough. I can say I've been there and never return.

He grunted. “ 'Tis a beautiful place in many ways, especially along the bay and the palace quarter, but the quagmire of exhaust and humanity corrodes the spirit with utter swiftness.”

She cast curious eyes on him. “That's quite poetic.”
And exactly how I feel.

“Is that such a surprise, for a man in my position to manage a few pretty words?” A gap in his coat revealed itself along a shoulder seam, showing a flash of a lighter red satin lining. He regarded her solemnly, head tilted to one side. “Forgive my forwardness, but 'tis dangerous for a lady to travel alone, especially to Mercia. You truly intend to travel by airship, by yourself?”

Oh, no. He did not go there.

Octavia stopped in her tracks, finger pointed toward his chest. “Please, don't tell me you are one of those men who believes women should be treated like porcelain roses, brought down for an occasional dusting and public display.” She'd had enough of that pompous attitude from men at the front. If she could patch a ruptured bowel, she could walk across a street by herself, thank you very much. “I may need help navigating this strange city, but I am quite capable of making this journey on my own.”

He raised both hands in supplication. “If you are a rose, m'lady, 'tis to your advantage to have thorns.” She had expected more bluster, or chagrin. Instead, his words were sober and his gaze even. “Some lives attract more danger than others. This North Country around Vorana—­I ­confess, I have visited here only for port calls, but it strikes me as a pleasant place, one worth staying in.”

Oh Lady, if only I could
. “If you're not willing to help me, sir, then I'll continue on my own.”

“No. Forgive me for speaking out of turn. I will escort you, and gladly. I am simply—­I am simply weary of ­people being hurt by Mercia and its ways.”

She inclined her head to indicate agreement, but didn't hold his arm quite so close.

They approached a mooring tower, its sides bearing a painted ad for Royal-­Tea with its mimicry of the crown logo as depicted on coins. Swirling calligraphy boasted
FOR V
ITALITY! FOR HEALTH! FOR CROWN!
along with the smiling face of a towheaded girl, a can of the tea held at her cheek.

“This is the
Argus
.” He motioned toward the airship attached to the tower of tea advertisements.

Octavia had seen a good many dirigibles at camp, but never up close. The balloon extended for some seventy-­five feet, the cloth dulled silver. Only the pilot's nest peeped from the front; the rest of the cabin was within the hull. The lower part of the balloon was lined with windows and fluttering crimson swags cut in long triangles. The scent of dust was pushed aside by the increasingly heavy odor of aether-­enchanted helium. By the intensity, she surmised some aether magi were at work nearby.

“The ship is rather . . . ” She searched for a polite word.

“Dingy?” There was that grin again. Pale, icy blue eyes seemed to twinkle. That eye color was most definitely not a stock hereditary feature of Tamarania. Nor was the twink­ling.

“I hoped for a more courteous adjective,” Octavia said.

“Most anything docked here could be described in a less courteous way. All of these airships are over forty years old. I believe the
Argus
was acquired by the military for use as a transport in the last war.”

“It's a wonder the vessel was returned, considering . . . ”
How the military treats the expendable.
Not a thought to finish out loud.

Miss Percival's face flashed in her mind, so recently aged and wrinkled, her head bowed over financial figures at lamplight. Caskentia hadn't paid the academy for its ser­vices at the front. Miss Percival would do most anything to keep the school open and the girls in good care.

Octavia looked past her guide to the base of the tower. “I see the ticket agent there. My gratitude to you, sir . . . ? I don't believe I ever heard your name.”

“I had not given it, m'lady. The name is Alonzo Garret.” He bowed again, that magnificent hair draping forward.

Icy horror clenched her in place. A Tamaran, and so few of them lived this far north. The last name of Garret.

“Of relation to the General Solomon Garret?” she said, doing her utmost to keep her tone mild.

He stood tall again. Something had stiffened in his face, his eyes now unwilling to meet hers. “Very few ­people make note of that name these days, m'lady, after the heroism of the recent war. Solomon Garret was my father.”

“Thank you again,” she murmured. She yanked her suitcase along the cobbles of the port, walking toward the ticket line with all the world blurred around her.

His father. Of course. No wonder he had been knowledgeable of airships.

She had just spoken with the son of the man who killed her parents.

 

CHAPTER 2

O
ctavia's gloved hands fidgeted on the handle of her suitcase as she waited in line.
General Garret. Fire. The frenzied song of raw bodies and blood. The suck of mud against my bare feet.

Her stomach roiled. She stared up at the battered and abused cylinder of the mooring tower. Leaving behind her old life and enduring the turmoil of the city had already made her anxious as a suckling foal separated from its mother, and now this revelation.

Inhale. Exhale, breathe out the nightmares, just as Miss Percival always taught me. I can do this. I must do this.

Several men waited in line ahead of her, their suits wearing a thin layer of brown grime. The man in front had a small mechanical lizard perched on the brim of his hat. By its lack of movement, she assumed it was nonfunctioning until a tiny copper-­pink tongue tested the air. The lizard's beady eyes roved about and seemed to focus their dead gaze on her.

During the second war, when Octavia was but a girl, the Wasters had infiltrated the coast with refitted airships of unparalleled swiftness. They bombed cities—­Mercia in particular—­and exercised finesse in doing so at night and zipping away without interception.

General Garret, he was a hero then. He created a small two-­person craft he dubbed the “buzzer” with which he could overtake an airship and penetrate its hide with a harpoon. It all worked quite well until that night over Octavia's own village. The Wasters' airship had been a hydrogen mix and caught aflame as it crashed, taking down Garret's buzzer and killing hundreds of ­people.

The truth was, if Garret hadn't caused the crash of the
Alexandria,
the Wasters could very well have killed Octavia and her family that same night. She really shouldn't hold it against the general's son, and yet that name and her grief were seared together in her memory.

The airship's conflagration roared, but the brief, intense cries of blood from my home, from my neighbors, were louder yet. All I could do was stand there ankle-­deep in the muck of the field, eyes aching from heat and tears and the brilliant crimson of the flames.

She let her eyes half close as she inhaled and exhaled, breathing out the terror.

I am past all that. Today I'm traveling to my new life. I will visit Vorana, Leffen, Mercia, and then Delford. The ­people there need me. I'm a tool of the Lady. I can cure their rashes and virulent tumors. I can make a home and establish roots as deep as the Lady's Tree.

I'll belong somewhere again.
She managed a tepid, hopeful smile as the panic faded.

“Next!” called the ticket agent.

Octavia blinked. No one stood ahead of her.

“Name?” The man's upper lip was sparsely adorned with whiskers, his cheeks marred by pale divots from pox. He was lucky. He'd be immune as the disease spread anew.

Like other Percival girls, Octavia had worked with dairy cattle at the academy and developed an immunity through early exposure to cowpox. Science and doctoring had its uses, but she felt far more comfortable when relying on the Lady.

“I'm Miss Octavia Leander,” she said, setting her boarding pass on the ledge. His eyes slid over her for a split second as he grabbed the papers. His attention on her boarding pass was just as fleeting.

“Everything's in order.” He stamped three sheets in sequence and passed one back to her. She tucked it into her satchel pocket again. He handed over a key; it was an antique-­looking thing, all knobs and ornate curves and patina. He motioned to her right. “Leave your bags with the steward and take the lift up. Follow the signs. You have bunk 3A on deck A. Have a pleasant flight to Mercia aboard . . .” He glanced to one side. “The
Argus
.”

“Thank you.” She tucked the room key into her satchel.

Rounding the tower, she found a man in attire similar to Alonzo Garret's. However, this man was so short that the top of his head just reached the level of her bosom. If not for his perfectly coiffed beard, she would have thought him an adolescent.

“I can take your bags, m'lady,” he said, his voice soft enough to be mistaken for a girl's. His gaze stayed on her face, much to her relief.

“No, thank you,” she said, teeth grinding.
I'm a woman, not an invalid.

“It's his job to carry your bags,” said a masculine voice. It was the man who had stood in front of her in line. A tailored suit fit his narrow form and flared at the hips, the cloth pin-­striped gray on satiny black. His bowler hat rested at a jaunty angle. Clean prints from his fingers were visible on the filthy brim.

“I'm quite capable, thank you,” she said.

“I don't believe I have introduced myself,” said the man. His black mustache was as thick as a sausage and wiggled as he spoke. “I am Mr. Drury.” He bowed with an elegant flare, hat doffed. “I trust you'll be on this airship for the entire journey to Mercia?”

“Yes,” she said. Her fingers found the knob of her umbrella and fidgeted with the smoothed wood. The little steward hauled luggage around the curve of the tower.

Mr. Drury's face brightened. “How wonderful! Have you traveled by airship before?”

“No.” She stared at the lift doors, willing the blasted thing to come along and save her from this small talk.

“Oh, you will find it is a most glorious way to travel. You see, I'm a salesman for Royal-­Tea, and frequent airships and rails.” He flicked a wrist toward the signs on the tower above and then brought his hand down on her upper arm, squeezing as if to test her muscles. Octavia's jaw dropped in shock as she jerked back. Mr. Drury offered a playful wink in response. “Have you, by any chance, tried Royal-­Tea?”

“No!”

“Oh, I can remedy that. I brought along several cases and have offered them to the commissary staff aboard this vessel. It's my sincere hope that you'll open a can and see why Royal-­Tea has become the most popular ready-­made virgin drink in all of Caskentia.”

“I would rather not.”

“Perhaps I can find a way to change your mind?” His voice was mild, but she couldn't suppress a strange chill.

“I don't drink or eat from cans, if given any choice. I've seen the dangers of ptomaine poisoning.” The lift approached with a mighty rumble.

“Ah, poison.” He looked almost amused. “An understandable concern. However, I must boast that Royal-­Tea has had no incidents of ptomaine. We heat our cans, utilizing the latest scientific advancements from the south. Royal-­Tea is designed to benefit health—­in fact, we guarantee it!”

The lift doors parted. No one else stood inside. Octavia rolled her case in and turned to face the opening. Mr. Drury sidled in beside her just as the doors closed as tightly as the royal vault. She squelched her sudden alarm. It was a short ride. Surely he wasn't foolish enough to try anything.

“My dear lady, I don't believe I caught your name?” The floor lurched as the lift began its ascent with the slow grind of gears.
Too slow.

“Miss Leander.”

“A beautiful woman should not be alone in a city such as this.”

“I can manage on my own, Mr. Drury.”

“Modesty suits you.” The metal floor rumbled.

“You're being terribly forward, sir.” She sidestepped away, trying to make the movement nonchalant. Her right-­hand fingers slipped from her suitcase handle to the concealed pocket at her waist and its tiny flute of capsicum. A single puff of ground peppers would leave him blind and in agony for the better part of an hour—­and perhaps have the same effect on her as well, considering their close, confined quarters.

“Most women here,” he said, disdain in his tone, “would have gladly surrendered their bags to the porter. You didn't. That says much of your strength.”

Was that why he took liberties with her person, groping her arm? “I'm a farm girl. This is naught to me.”

There was something calculating in his eyes. Octavia was reminded of older men as they played a match of Warriors, studying the triangular game board for long minutes as they positioned their mechanical battle beasts. Mr. Drury looked at her as if she were a rival mecha on the precipice's brink.

She clutched the capsicum flute in her fist, her sweaty skin slick against the metal.

The doors popped open. A gush of aether stung her nose, but she didn't take her gaze from Mr. Drury. She didn't dare.

“Oh, there you are, m'lady. I have been looking all over for you.” She recognized the voice, that accented baritone.

Him again?
She shuddered.

Mr. Garret entered, his heavy boots echoing in the metal chamber. His broad shoulders provided a barrier between her and Mr. Drury. “Come along,” he said, taking her elbow as he had before. His intense gaze met hers, his head barely nodding as if to signal her.

Mr. Garret knew exactly what he was doing. Because of Mr. Garret's father, her parents were dead. Indignation flared—­who was this man, to presume to rescue her? But his expression was of kindness, the very opposite of Mr. Drury's cool calculation. She felt her hackles lower.

“Oh, thank you, sir,” she said, forcing her voice calm. She wheeled her case in front of them, the metal and wood wheels roaring on the coarse deck. Wind blasted her face, and her hand instantly reached to check her headband.

“M'lady, I hope to speak to you again on board. Don't forget my offer of tea!” Mr. Drury flashed another salesman's smile as he edged past them and up the ramp into the airship.

Mr. Garret leaned closer. “Did he accost you?”

“I'm unharmed, but he was . . . strange. Far too forward.” She released a shuddering breath. Mr. Garret had been forward as well, but in a very different way. That had to count for something.

Mr. Garret pulled back and glowered up at the airship. “I am glad you are well, and I assure you, I will keep my eye on him aboard. You may put away the pepper pipe now, unless you wish to practice it on me.”

Octavia stared at the three-­inch flute in her hand, remembering it was there, then tucked it back into the pleats of her dress. “The
Argus
is your ship, sir? Mr. Garret?”

“ 'Tis my employer. Since we will be traveling together, may I inquire about your name?”

A strong gust of wind almost bowled her backward. They were quite high—­perhaps higher than she had ever been on an open railing. The metal deck encircled the top of the mooring tower and revealed a panorama of Vorana with its high-­peaked roofs and toothpick-­thin streets. A sliver of blue glimmered beyond the buildings: the estuary that led to the sea. If she turned and looked to the north, she could probably see the woods and the meadows that trailed toward home.

No, not home, but I'll have Delford soon enough.

She focused her gaze on Mr. Garret. He remained quiet, no doubt awaiting her reply. “Octavia Leander.”

He angled out his elbow toward her. Behind them, the elevator clicked and rumbled as it descended. “Well, Miss Leander, allow me the pleasure of escorting you inside without further unpleasantness.”

Unable to speak, she curtsied her approval. Walking by her side, he led her up the ramp and within the shadowed underbelly of the airship.

T
he passage narrowed and forced them to walk hip to hip. Embedded glowstones edged the metal floor on each side and illuminated red mahogany walls similar in color to her hair. The odor of aether faded, replaced by slight staleness and strong garlic.

Mr. Garret sniffed. “The kitchens are just ahead. Lunch will be served soon after we alight.”

The ramp ahead sloped upward. Overhead, she heard footsteps and deep, muffled voices. “Tell me, Mr. Garret, what's your occupation on board?”

“I am a steward, like the little fellow at the base of the tower.”

She studied him out of the corner of her eye. A steward. Many women wouldn't curtsy to a servant like him, or engage him in a casual conversation as she was doing now.

He's been nothing but respectable to me—­far more than most. His surname may be Garret, but there's more to him than that.

“That man . . . I don't want my room anywhere near his.”

“ 'Tis not likely. We try to book solo women and married ­couples along the same wing, and men on the other. However, this is a small craft with only twelve double-­berth cabins, and there are several common areas where you may encounter him again.”

“I'll defend myself if necessary.”

“I hope it will not come to that, m'lady.”

Oh Lady, so do I.

A doorway ahead was labeled with various signs. On either side were two staircases leading up, shaped in an inverted
V
. Mr. Garrett pointed to the hallway ahead. “This floor features the lavatories and showers. The smoking room is the most popular social setting aboard. Everyone dines upstairs in the promenade. Your room is also on the deck above.”

Octavia unstrapped her satchel and tossed it across her shoulder like a bandolier, parasol clattering against the wall. He said nothing as she hauled the suitcase up the stairs. Her breath huffed. By the time she reached the top, her arm ached slightly, and it was a relief to set down the case and pull out the handle again.

Signs pointed toward the promenade on one side and the cabins on the other. A cage against the wall held a fluttering mass of mechanical birds. The paint on their wings had chipped and let various shades of metal shine through. En masse, they clicked and whirred and tweeted, the sound echoing slightly.

“Do you recall your berth number?” Mr. Garret asked.

“Three-­A.”

“This way, then.” He took her on the left fork. The short hallway consisted of six doors with barely any space between. The two of them standing together with her luggage made the space claustrophobic. Mr. Garret knocked on the door for 3. Octavia heard the clatter of a lock and the door cracked open.