The Clockwork Dagger by Beth Cato

last night.”
    Octavia’s head jerked up. “Is that so?”
    â€œMiss Leander.” He lowered his voice. “The sick crewman is Captain Hue. If the copilot comes down ill as well, we may be forced to make an emergency landing.”
    An emergency landing. No mooring tower.
    The conflagration of the village. The Alexandria, a deflating oval as it scraped the night sky with flames. Screams—Mother—Father. The crackle of flames in their bodies’ songs—
    A strong hand clutched her arm, anchoring her to reality. “Miss Leander? Are you well?”
    No. I’ll never be well in that regard. She caught a whiff of his scent, reminiscent of cinnamon, and breathed in deeper. “Was anyone ill when they came aboard?”
    â€œNo. Anyone with obvious signs of illness is denied entry. We dare not risk a contagion like pox.”
    She gnawed on her lower lip. “Some zymes can remain dormant for days or weeks without causing outward symptoms, but for so many to get sick at once, it sounds like some kind of contamination. It could be an accident, or . . .”
    It’s like the poisoning at the northern pass. But why would Wasters—so soon after armistice—bother with a small, ramshackle airship like this? They favor showy productions. Mass casualties. Widespread terror. This is too meager in scope.
    â€œWhat should we do, m’lady?” Mr. Garret looked on her with absolute trust.
    Fiddlesticks . “Do you have a list of the ill passengers?”
    â€œYes. What do—”
    â€œAs you noted last night, my presence creates an unusual fuss on board. I’m about to create a further fuss within the smoke room. Are you available to join me?”
    A smile, albeit weary, warmed Mr. Garret’s face. “If you are about to be meddlesome, Miss Leander, then it will be my pleasure to join you.”
    T O ENTER THE SMOKING room, they passed through a small air lock. The door sucked shut behind them, a vent clacking in the ceiling above. “ ’Tis a characteristic of hydrogen-aether airships,” Mr. Garret said, proceeding through the next door. “Of course, this is a helium model, so it does not have those same flammability issues.”
    Flammability issues. Hydrogen vessels. No, she would not think on such things, not now. Not with the captain and others ill. Her legs quivered, and she steadied herself on the wall.
    The smoking room was dark, darker than even the paneled corridors and rooms of the outer ship. The cold gray steel of the walls was exposed, spaced metal sconces breaking the stark monotony. The bar sat immediately to her right, its backdrop of glistening green and amber bottles. A magicked lighter on the counter practically buzzed with the potency of its enchantment. She pursed her lips, pausing. It was old infernal magi work, and the enchantment wasn’t confined to spark-lighting cigarettes and cigars; no, it encouraged people to utilize it. Good for business, bad for lungs.
    On the other side of the room was a Warriors table. The metal pyramid was scraped and dented with several bolts missing. The warriors themselves—fighting mechanicals the size of mice—rested in an obscene tangle at the base of the board.
    Mr. Garret rapped his knuckles on the hard wood of the bar. “Vincan, you around?”
    A long, hoarse groan emanated from the other side of the stanchion. It was the sound one expected from a bear awakening from hibernation, a warning to skedaddle quickly lest one become a spring breakfast. A hulk of a man rose, his jaw stretched in a yawn so wide it revealed a flash of uvula.
    Octavia was considered to be of pale skin, but not compared to this man. His skin seemed drained of pigment, so clear that the veins in his neck were visible to the eye. His hair was almost equal in tone, a stark, silvery white, but not because of age. Acne flecked the broadness of his cheeks and his flattened, crooked