Âpeople. I must be able to walk the city. Please, rest your touch on my headband so that I may cover my ears and dim the songs around me.â She lifted up the band. It grew hot in her grip. She remained that way for several long minutes, breathing through her Al Cala, and didnât let her hands drop until the cloth began to cool.
She disengaged the circle with murmured gratitude. She secured the headband to cover her ears, the embroidered side upside down and hidden at the nape of her neck. Immediately the background burble of songs vanished. She could have wept with relief as she murmured more thanks, but she didnât dare linger.
The longer I am hidden away , the harder it will be to find Alonzo.
She wended her way through more passages in an attempt to avoid the public terminal. Rounding a corner, she stopped. A body was sprawled on the floor. Even as Octavia approached, she knew this person was dead. There was no song. Maybe the southern nations are not so different from Caskentia after all.
She stepped closer. The bodyâs music returned, so thready that it barely penetrated her new headband.
Octavia gasped and dropped to her knees, hands delving into her satchel. What just happened?
âOctavia.â The womanâs head lolled as the name gargled past her lips.
Shock froze her in place. âIâÂdo I know you?â
The cut and shabbiness of the womanâs clothes denoted Caskentian origins, her skin honey in hue. Blank eyes met Octaviaâs gaze. âNorth.â Her jaw bobbed as if she struggled for more words. Frustration flashed across her haggard face.
With that, the music puffed out. She was dead. Again.
âLady?â Octavia whispered, though she already surmised what had just happened. The Lady had spoken before through Âpeople on the brink of life and deathâÂthrough a boy in Leffen, and through Alonzo when Octavia had saved him with a leaf. She had a sense that a leaf wouldnât work on this woman nowâÂafter all, she was too far gone for even the Lady to utilize as a messenger.
North. Caskentia. What had the Lady tried to say? Octavia stood, shaken.
The entrance of the terminal roared with humanity, but this time she could discern true sounds as well: overlapping voices, footsteps, the clatter of wheels, the rumbles of trains. The songs were like breeze-Âblown tree branches outside a window, much easier to ignore than the banshee screams theyâd been before.
She studied the crowd. It was peculiar to see so many darker skin tones, ranging from deep tan to coal. Tamarans were rare in Caskentia, which was one reason why Alonzo had stood out so much to her. And why he was doomed as a Clockwork DaggerâÂtoo unusual, too memorable. Now he would blend in too much for her to find him.
She followed the flow outside to the plaza and froze as elbows and bodies jostled against her.
Night draped over a metropolis set aglow. Before her was an illuminated hexagon easily a half mile in diameter. In the middle was a massive roundabout packed with more cabriolets, automated cycles, and bicycles than she had ever seen in her life. Each side of the hexagon featured a massive building that was blocks long and dozens of floors tall. Tramway tracks stacked around them. Every ten or so floors, another track made a circuit. Bridges spanned the high gaps, the trestles like fine spiderwebs. Beyond the plaza, tower upon tower stretched into the sky.
On the far side of the hexagon sat the ornate palace known as the Warriorsâ Arena. It was shorter than all of the surrounding buildings at a mere dozen floors, but no less magnificent. A bright stained-Âglass dome crowned the gray edifice. Mooring towers lined the long roof; airships bobbed from several. Long, rippling banners advertised the next Arena bout several days away.
Peculiar, how the city-Âstates prided themselves on centuries without war even as they relished the blood sport of
She disengaged the circle with murmured gratitude. She secured the headband to cover her ears, the embroidered side upside down and hidden at the nape of her neck. Immediately the background burble of songs vanished. She could have wept with relief as she murmured more thanks, but she didnât dare linger.
The longer I am hidden away , the harder it will be to find Alonzo.
She wended her way through more passages in an attempt to avoid the public terminal. Rounding a corner, she stopped. A body was sprawled on the floor. Even as Octavia approached, she knew this person was dead. There was no song. Maybe the southern nations are not so different from Caskentia after all.
She stepped closer. The bodyâs music returned, so thready that it barely penetrated her new headband.
Octavia gasped and dropped to her knees, hands delving into her satchel. What just happened?
âOctavia.â The womanâs head lolled as the name gargled past her lips.
Shock froze her in place. âIâÂdo I know you?â
The cut and shabbiness of the womanâs clothes denoted Caskentian origins, her skin honey in hue. Blank eyes met Octaviaâs gaze. âNorth.â Her jaw bobbed as if she struggled for more words. Frustration flashed across her haggard face.
With that, the music puffed out. She was dead. Again.
âLady?â Octavia whispered, though she already surmised what had just happened. The Lady had spoken before through Âpeople on the brink of life and deathâÂthrough a boy in Leffen, and through Alonzo when Octavia had saved him with a leaf. She had a sense that a leaf wouldnât work on this woman nowâÂafter all, she was too far gone for even the Lady to utilize as a messenger.
North. Caskentia. What had the Lady tried to say? Octavia stood, shaken.
The entrance of the terminal roared with humanity, but this time she could discern true sounds as well: overlapping voices, footsteps, the clatter of wheels, the rumbles of trains. The songs were like breeze-Âblown tree branches outside a window, much easier to ignore than the banshee screams theyâd been before.
She studied the crowd. It was peculiar to see so many darker skin tones, ranging from deep tan to coal. Tamarans were rare in Caskentia, which was one reason why Alonzo had stood out so much to her. And why he was doomed as a Clockwork DaggerâÂtoo unusual, too memorable. Now he would blend in too much for her to find him.
She followed the flow outside to the plaza and froze as elbows and bodies jostled against her.
Night draped over a metropolis set aglow. Before her was an illuminated hexagon easily a half mile in diameter. In the middle was a massive roundabout packed with more cabriolets, automated cycles, and bicycles than she had ever seen in her life. Each side of the hexagon featured a massive building that was blocks long and dozens of floors tall. Tramway tracks stacked around them. Every ten or so floors, another track made a circuit. Bridges spanned the high gaps, the trestles like fine spiderwebs. Beyond the plaza, tower upon tower stretched into the sky.
On the far side of the hexagon sat the ornate palace known as the Warriorsâ Arena. It was shorter than all of the surrounding buildings at a mere dozen floors, but no less magnificent. A bright stained-Âglass dome crowned the gray edifice. Mooring towers lined the long roof; airships bobbed from several. Long, rippling banners advertised the next Arena bout several days away.
Peculiar, how the city-Âstates prided themselves on centuries without war even as they relished the blood sport of
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