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drinking men.
    â€œWith my aptitude on the marksmanship test, the old man said I could very well qualify for the rank of Clockwork Dagger soon out of the academy.” The young man spoke loudly, his accent Mercian.
    â€œA Clockwork Dagger!” The woman practically cooed. “Do you think you’ll have to kill people?”
    Octavia resisted the urge to recoil in disgust.
    â€œIf I must, in defense of the Queen,” he said with melodramatic gravitas.
    â€œHow long do qualifications take?” asked another man. “I thought they preferred veterans from the war, officers.”
    â€œThey do. But exceptions are made for those with certain skills. Quick language acquisition, marksmanship, a knack for poison”—the woman gasped—“anything that will provide an edge over the Waste. Only the best qualify for such an elite guard.” His smug smile included himself as such, of course.
    Mrs. Stout looked as if she had swallowed a slug. “Listen to that poppycock,” she muttered, leaning closer to Octavia. “He doesn’t have a callus on his hands, and he thinks he can be a spy? He hasn’t known a day of work in his life. Footle and hogwash!”
    Octavia scrutinized the braggart as best she could at their distance. Mrs. Stout was right—the man’s hand on his glass was plush and pink. The woman had an exceptional eye.
    â€œThe term ‘Clockwork Dagger’ has never made sense to me,” murmured Octavia. “Daggers are antiquated, not clockwork.”
    â€œIt’s a figurative term, really. A ‘dagger’ is an older name for an assassin. Caskentia trains their agents, winds them up like a clockwork toy, and sends them off to do whatever needs doing.”
    â€œKilling people.”
    â€œNot always. Information is the game, these days. Knowing what the Wasters are doing. Knowing what new innovation will emerge from the south. I daresay, they would know the color of the Queen’s corset hour by hour.”
    Octavia glanced sidelong at her roommate. “You are a fount of knowledge, Mrs. Stout.”
    Mrs. Stout’s lips pressed together primly as she stared at the other passengers. “You learn a lot, when you’ve lived as long as I have.”
    Little Daveo returned, passing a flute of aerated water to Octavia. The water fizzled against her lips as the bubbles tickled her nose. She stepped closer to the windows. From this side, the rolling green contours of the valley spread out before her. Reinforced irrigation canals looked so straight and smooth they had to be the work of geologica magi. Probably fifty miles away, the forested foothills stood in bold contrast to the gray Pinnacles capped in white. Such deceptive beauty.
    From here, there’s no trace of the young boys who froze solid during midnight watches, the avalanches that swallowed entire brigades. Those mounds of ash, almost indistinguishable from the snow, that consisted of cremated bodies and amputated limbs.
    She gulped down more water, as if to wash the memory away.
    By the windows, one of the young men barked in a laugh. “Did you see that?” The others murmured and leaned closer. Curious, Octavia leaned against her own window just as a small, moss-green body thudded against the glass.
    She screamed, stumbling backward. As she shoved her drink onto the nearest table, her fingers grappled for the capsicum flute.
    The body on the window rotated and formed an X shape. Long bat wings flared from its arms, its three-fingered hands twitching. The face resembled a pug dog, the snout compressed and flaring. It was beyond hideous. Dark round eyes studied her through the window, one eye encircled by pale scars and what appeared to be stitch marks.
    â€œIs that—is that a gremlin?” Octavia asked. Her heart fluttered like butterfly wings in a windstorm.
    â€œIt most certainly is.” Mrs. Stout had shown no alarm at the curiosity, only frowning.