The Clockwork Dagger by Beth Cato Page A

nose—not a feature he was born with, she was quite sure of that. His smile revealed dark gaps in his teeth.
    â€œEh, Alonzo,” said the bearish man, yawning again. His chest seemed to swell as he craned back, biceps tight through the poor fit of his crimson uniform jacket. A jacket that was completely unbuttoned in the front. The union suit beneath was as brown-stained as a nappy passed down to the third consecutive babe in a family.
    Mr. Garret cleared his throat and tilted his head toward Octavia. The man eyed her up and down, his jaw still agape, then grabbed at his chest. His eyes widened and both hands reached beneath his waist and below the bar. He turned and showed the expanse of his back, his fingernails clumsily scratching at buttons. She pressed a fist against her mouth to keep from laughing.
    â€œWell then, er.” The man turned, still working the buttons on his coat. Crookedly, she noted, but at least he tried. “Sorry then, er, miss, but see, I don’t fit in any of the bunks aboard ship, so I sleep back ’ere during the day. Not supposed to get patrons in the morning, not normally.”
    Mr. Garret was a man of strong build with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, but this man seemed twice as big at the same height. He doesn’t need a bed. He needs a stall suited for draft horses.
    â€œâ€…’Tis not a normal morning, Vincan,” said Mr. Garret. “We have sickness aboard and everyone is a smoker.”
    â€œNow, Mr. Vincan—” she began.
    To her surprise, he burst out laughing. “By Allendia’s ghost! Listen to that, eh? Mr. Vincan. I sound all fancy ’n something when put like that. The surname’s Page, but not a soul ever calls me that. We’re not so formal down here, miss.”
    â€œI see. Mr.—er, Vincan, did anyone act sickly or strange last night?”
    He grinned again. “My goodness now. She makes it sound like she’s a proper medician or somethin’.” He chuckled at his joke.
    Mr. Garret’s expression pleaded for tolerance. She shook her head, smiling. “Mr. Garret, you said you had a list of the ill?”
    â€œCertainly, m’lady.” He passed her a pad of paper. She skimmed the names. Only Captain Hue’s was familiar.
    â€œWell, Mr.—um, Vincan, I need to know where these men were sitting or if they shared the same drink or snack. Do you know where a Mr. . . . Wexler sat?”
    Vincan stared at her, blinking.
    Mr. Garret clucked his tongue. “He will not know them by their surnames. Mr. Wexler. A tall, reedy fellow with a mustache about the width of a toothpick—”
    â€œOh, ’im.” Vincan nodded. “Yes, I know ’im. ’E sat there.” He pointed a beefy arm toward the far corner of the room, in direct view of the bar. “Drank whiskey. When his drunk was up, he had a wheezy laugh, like some sneezing dog.”
    â€œI believe the next on the list was Mr. Grinn,” said Mr. Garret. Octavia passed the list back to him. “Mr. Grinn is a big fellow. He has a gut like a bag of grain.” He mimed the curve of a pregnant belly. “The fellow speaks only a few words in Caskentian.”
    â€œYes, ’im. Fluent in grunt. Favored malt beers. Hiddly Hops, mostly, though he may have had a shot ’r two of harder stuff. He was just on t’other side.” Vincan leaned to tap on the wall between the bar and the sitting area.
    â€œHmm. They had different drinks, then.” Octavia drummed her fingers on the counter. A bowl of flatbread crisps sat about a foot away. Her stomach groaned. “Did they eat any of this?”
    â€œWell, yes, miss, jus’ ’bout everyone does.”
    â€œDid you?” she asked.
    â€œNo, not me. If I did, that bowl’d be empty, wouldn’t it?”
    For now, at least, she could eliminate alcohol as being suspect. That was a relief, as there had to be a hundred bottles