Final Flight by Beth Cato Page B

uniform over his lanky form. A scab still stood bold across his neck. I refused to let my mind linger on the memory of a Waster holding a blade to my boy’s throat.
    I acknowledged Mrs. Starling with a curt nod, which she returned. She had to be near my own age, her hair threaded in silver.
    â€œHe’s a bright boy and an asset to my crew,” I said. I stood the same distance from her as I would from a snake. “Corrado wondered about your whereabouts, Mrs. Starling.”
    Her tight smile acknowledged my lack of subtlety in getting rid of her. “I suppose he needs my help, as usual. I should get down to the control cabin. Captain.” She swept by me. I waited until the doors swung shut before I turned to Sheridan. He straightened his books then hurriedly stooped to reassemble the bellows mechanism for the trumpet automaton.
    â€œHow long had she been here?”
    â€œA few minutes, sir. She surprised me.” He didn’t look impressed by that; he looked unnerved. Good. He needed that fear.
    â€œI don’t know who that woman is. I don’t know what she is, but she’s with Corrado. You know what happened the last time we had Clockwork Daggers aboard.”
    Sheridan nodded. The Queen’s spies were either covert heroes of the realm or chief arbiters of Caskentian corruption, depending on who was doing the talking. My opinion was not favorable in light of recent events. The Wasters’ takeover of the Argus had been complicated by an on-­board rivalry between Clockwork Daggers as they argued over the fate of a meddlesome medician, one Octavia Leander.
    All of which resulted in that damned Waster holding a blade to Sheridan’s throat as they commandeered my ship.
    â€œDid Mrs. Starling hint at our destination?”
    â€œNo, sir. By the way, they had us load two large wardrobe boxes when they came aboard, but their personal bags were quite light. A soldier stays near their berths, too.”
    Good lad. I offered an approving nod. Queen Evandia had her Daggers as spies; I had my Sheridan. “You had best get that automaton together. You’re on shift soon, Mr. Hue .”
    â€œAye, Captain Hue .” He had never called me “father” or any such synonym. He’d been a chubby toddler screaming, “Captain! Captain!” after me when I would leave him and his mother at the dock.
    My gaze traced that nick on his throat as I turned away.
    I stopped in the hallway at the juncture of the downward stairs and the corridors to berthing. A large cage against the wall abounded with the twitters and metallic clicks of dozens of mechanical birds; they were another of Sheridan’s projects, and a source of great joy for our commercial passengers.
    Away from prying eyes, I allowed my body to sag as I leaned on the wall.
    â€œWe’ll be back on our boring route soon, old gal,” I murmured to the Argus , giving the panels a pat.
    Up until the Waster attack, I thought the Argus was the safest place for Sheridan. Now? I didn’t know. The fight between Caskentia and the Waste had continued in fits and starts for decades—­recent events on the Argus were proof of that—­and certainly the full war would resume by spring.
    Another year, and Sheridan would be of age for army conscription; I’d already saved up funds for the hefty bribes to keep him off the rosters.
    And now Mrs. Starling inquired after him. I dared not assume she made pleasant maternal chitchat to pass the time. No.
    Gravity helped my stiff legs down the stairs and toward the control cabin. I didn’t know how to do it, but I needed Corrado, Starling, and their ilk off of my Argus as soon as possible.
    No good could come of having a Clockwork Dagger aboard my ship.
    T he night passed, then another day. We continued along the same heading north through Caskentia. Marshes and farmland patched the valley below, the ocean out of sight to the west. At starboard, the high