by Fran Wilde
I smiled at him with genuine respect. He’d helped me much on the council, and I still hoped he would teach me more. I hoped Kirit’s impression was wrong. “I would be honored if you could show me what I don’t yet understand.”
He stilled. Raised his eyebrows at my contrition. At my reminder of our relationship on the council. Junior councilor to mentor. Then he tilted his head, agreeing. He handed Minlin and Nadoni a fistful of Grigrit marks and pushed them towards the stalls. “They should find apprenticeships. Small fingers do fine work,” he muttered.
Then he turned back to us. “I’ll show you what we do with Spire marks these days.”
Those two novices had probably never bartered alone in their lives, I realized. We stood to lose all the dearly bought markers. Kirit noticed the same thing. “Moc,” she said and pushed his shoulder, “go with them.”
This time Moc didn’t argue. The trio moved through the market as I turned Doran’s words over in my mind. We’d bought ourselves a little time and kept up the ruse that we were provisioning the fledges before we left for the council platform. We had to fly soon.
Doran waved us towards where the market’s host families’ belongings had been piled. In the shadow of a bone spur, several men and women hunched over a square of silk decorated with a small city map.
The players had piled up tower marks on spaces in each quadrant. They rolled bone dice across the map’s surface. When one cackled and knocked over a tower in a different quadrant, two other men swept up the marks. I could see that most of the towers were made of Spire marks, with tower sigils set atop: Mondarath, Naza, Laria, Harut.
“What is it?” Kirit was familiar with bird fighting and other forms of tower gambling that the Singers had disdained, but this game was complicated and new.
I’d played it on Mondarath, but never Densira. “I’ve heard it called Balance in the northwest. And Gravity in the east.”
Doran’s face grew fierce. “We call it Justice.”
Another player spoke up, looking at Kirit. “See that center tower? That’s where they’re all trying to go. First one there wins.”
The center tower was topped with a Spire mark.
“You’ll excuse me,” Doran said, clapping both Kirit and me hard on the shoulders. “I have a tower to run, and council vote to prepare for. I can’t while time away over games.” He put the Spire marks on the table, and he was gone.
Laughter erupted as another tower fell. The winner, a woman with her back turned to me, wearing dark, silk robes, crossed strands of glass beads, and tower marks in her hair, grabbed up the markers and shook them in her cupped hands. Her opponents groaned as she pocketed the markers. We could see, as we circled, how much strategy the Grigrit players had built into the game.
Without seeming to stare, each of the other players eyed Kirit’s gray wings, her tattoos and scars. Her hair still spiky as it grew back.
“Singer,” one player, a young guard with wingfighting scars on his cheek, greeted her. His fingers toyed with a bone-handled knife on the table. Another raised his chin to me: “Risen.” The third spat against the tower’s central core wall.
The fourth player, the woman, turned her head to the side long enough to look me up and down. “Councilor Densira, Doran says many good things about you. Hello, Kirit.”
With a shiver, I recognized Dix, the former Magister from Viit. She’d dressed me down after my group flight, when I’d nearly fallen into the clouds on my wingtest. She’d been Kirit’s mother’s oldest rival, and had left the northwest after Spirefall. What was she doing here?
Dix wore different tower marks in her hair now. Southern ones. A mix of Grigrit marks and a silkspinner tower’s chips. She smiled and held my eyes for a heartbeat. Then turned back to the game.
Kirit’s hands clenched tight knots around her satchel straps.
We left as quickly as we could to search the market for the fledges.
* * *
“Kirit!” Moc chased after us across the market tier. The two novices trailed behind him. “Did you see the wings?”
Kirit slowed and turned to where he pointed. I walked a few paces more, eager to be clear of this place, but returned when Kirit didn’t move. A stand crammed at market’s edge near the balcony held a neat row of furled wings in bright colors. Armatures and finger controls were set out for viewing. Liras Viit’s familiar laughter rang out as he talked with a customer behind his worktable.
“Those are stunning, Moc,” Kirit said.
They were beautiful. One design was a match for the wings I wore. Another, quite like what Doran’s guards wore.
Moc couldn’t tear his eyes away. As we watched, Liras pulled aside a cover and gave the customer two wingsets, both black. Not the deep gray of a Singer’s night wings, but colored as if they’d been dyed by Lith—the broken tower that poked barely above the clouds.
The customer took the wings and walked away without handing over any marks. When her back was turned, Liras sank to his stool, his smile sliding towards frustration.
Kirit moved towards the stall, and I followed. What was she up to?
We passed a group of young mothers who pulled their children back from us, whispering, “Spirebreaker.” I heard another mother murmur, “Cloudfood.”
A cluster of young fliers bumped Moc in passing. Kirit reached out quickly to grab his shoulder. Bore down hard. The boy squirmed, but did not protest.
Where we stood in the market stalls seemed to become more crowded. Denser. Men and women our age pressed close. Someone jostled and called, “Skyshouter!”
Would there be a riot here after all?
Silently, five blackwings pushed through the crowd. Three men, two women, all with faces as expressive as bone spurs. They did nothing but reroute the crowd around themselves, but that was enough. The space between stalls in the marketplace became less crowded very quickly. The young mothers had disappeared with their children.
Kirit’s life on Grigrit had been thus for many moons, since she moved downtower. This was what I couldn’t see while I was judging her from my council seat.
“Skyshouter,” a tall male blackwing said as we passed.
“Thank you, Hart Grigrit, mercy on your wings.” Kirit bowed her head in greeting.
The guard cleared his throat. “Any more of these disturbances, you and your fledges will be confined to quarters. Towerman’s orders, for the good of Grigrit.”
She nodded again, gripping Moc’s shoulder even tighter. “I understand.”
I, however, didn’t comprehend. “They didn’t do anything!” I protested.
The blackwing shrugged and walked away with his cohort. Not his problem. Stunned, I rolled the incident over in my mind.
How much worse it would be for Kirit if she didn’t renounce the Singers in council? She surely heard the whispers. Still Kirit moved through the market crowd, unafraid.
“Liras!” she called.
The wingmaker, famed throughout the northwest quadrant for his skill, had set up a booth at Grigrit market. When he saw Kirit, his face lit up and he stepped around his wares to give her a hug. “You are a sight for cloudy eyes.”
He bowed to me. “Nat, Councilor, how do you find your wings?”
“They are excellent,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“I go where the sales are. Doran has been kind enough to make me a place here.” The stress returned to Liras’s eyes. “How are your mothers?”
Suspecting Liras knew Ezarit had landed well after Spirefall—everyone did—I guessed he meant Elna.
But Kirit didn’t realize that. “She’s moved to Varu, to be close to the city center.”
“Elna is as well as can be expected,” I added. “Thank you.” Liras tutted over us. I looked at his work. “These are fine wings. You are adding new techniques.”
Liras smiled. “We’ve learned much from Singers’ wings. And Doran found some old designs and combined them with inventions from his own artifexes. His guards and associ
ates benefited, as you well know. He’s quite an innovator.”
Kirit made a face, as if to say, Doran? He’s many things. Her grip remained tight on Moc’s shoulder.
But I could see that if the city needed innovation, Doran would find a way. More than that, he could inspire others to find new ideas, new ways to look towards the future. That’s what the city needed. And new gadgets and tools had been entering the southern markets lately. If Liras said Doran was a source, I wasn’t surprised. “What other innovations?”
Waving his hand in a circle, Liras said, “Oh, so many things. Wind catchers, better condensers. There’s talk of much more.” Liras encompassed the whole city in a gesture.
I added items to the list of things I wanted to ask Doran after council. I wanted to get involved, and now that we’d retrieved the codex, perhaps I could. Once he calmed down.
Liras was alone in the stall. I’d almost left my respect and manners back on the council platform. “How is your family?” His daughter had been a Magister and a wingmaker. She’d flown with Kirit’s group for our wingtest.
He bowed his head. “A skymouth, during Spirefall. I know you both did your best.”
“Calli?” The horror in Kirit’s voice shook me. She truly didn’t know the city now, didn’t know she shouldn’t shout about its losses. I pictured the crimson banners, the faded flags on towertops: so many.
But Liras Viit—Liras Grigrit—bowed his head. “Calli’s partner, Vida, and their little girl lived, but Calli is gone. I care for them now, my sons too. The boys are guards here.” His expression blended sadness and pride.
Calli had been Liras’s most talented apprentice, and a good friend to many on Densira. My heart splintered, stabbing at me from the inside. “I am so sorry for your loss.”
“Your sons will do well on Grigrit,” Kirit said kindly. “Doran runs a steady tower.”
He nodded and ran his fingers over a pair of furled wings. “I do not know how I’ll work, once the new fledges’ orders come in. I’ve taken a large commission. I wish she were here.” He looked at the novices trailing us. “Are either of your fledges good with wings?”
Minlin’s eyes brightened with hope, as did Nadoni’s. Yes, both of them were good. Singer-trained even. Moc poked at my side. “Me!” he whispered. His Lawsmarkers clicked together on his wrist.
My pulse raced, and I struggled to calm it. We had our solution, I hoped. Liras could take the fledges, and we could be on our way. On to greater problems.
Kirit pulled Minlin and Nadoni forward. “They’re young, but talented. If you seek an apprentice.”
Liras’s slow smile came as another sharp tear to my heart. “I’ll try out both, with a small wage, and food.”
The luck didn’t offset Calli’s loss, but it was a start for all involved.
“Thank you,” Kirit said. She nudged each fledge to respond as well. Then curiosity overwhelmed Minlin as he assessed the stall with a worker’s eyes. “Why so many black wings?”
Liras’s face closed like a trap. “Apprentices don’t ask too many questions; they follow my lead. Understand?” Both fledges bobbed their heads, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Two fledges accounted for, though Minlin’s question nagged.
Meanwhile, Moc fumed behind us.
“You didn’t even try, Kirit!” he said.
“You’ve not been interested in wings, ever, except for flying, Moc.” Kirit kept her tone light. “Besides, I need you to come with us.”
Moc wasn’t interested in playing along. “I need something to do!” In his desperation, he gripped Kirit’s robe. People around us began to stare again. I heard the sense of betrayal in his voice. Left to his own devices, Moc would churn his frustration into trouble. I understood the cruelty of the elder Singer’s laughter. The Laws already accumulating on his wrist.
Liras Grigrit watched us carefully, then led the two fledges into his stall. “Fly safe, Skyshouter. I’ll watch these two until your return.”
We bowed low to him in thanks, and he struggled to bow even lower in response. Then Kirit and I, with Moc wedged between us, walked to the tier’s far edge. This side of Grigrit had a clear view of the cracked Spire and the northern towers beyond.
We were nearly away.
I was glad of it, though I didn’t know why we had to take Moc with us. Doran’s desire to hang on to the codex the night before had sparked my unease. Watching the tower citizens play Justice had fanned it. From the near-riot to small things like Liras’s excitement over new inventions this morning, life in the southwest had grown more complex and dangerous than Doran had been willing to share. The wind had certainly turned against the Singers, but there was more to it, like a bad smell on a gust that hit for a moment, then disappeared.
Kirit was right: the contents of her satchel wouldn’t be safe on Grigrit, or anywhere in the southwest. All of it needed to be in the council’s hands, even the broken pieces.
But Moc? He was in a foul mood, and he’d be slow in the air.
Moc struggled to adjust his fledge wings. They were underpowered compared to what he’d been accustomed to in the Spire, but he’d had time to get used to them. If he’d applied himself. I felt selfish hoping he wouldn’t slow us down too much. We couldn’t afford to stop and rest on too many towers along the way.
Bone eaters, a dead tower. The riots. Postponing the vote. We had to hurry now.
“We’ll fly towards Bissel and use the crosswind to take us to Varu,” I said. Varu was where Ezarit was, and the other city council leaders besides Doran. “Perhaps, if Ciel has discharged her duties, we’ll find her along the way.”
The relief that colored Moc’s face was painful to see. There’d been many changes for everyone because of Spirefall. I’d heard the songs—the ones about Kirit and the ones laced with worries about the city’s progress. What I hadn’t heard last night were many complaints from most of the Singer fledges. They’d lost their home and been thrown from their routines. They’d gotten in trouble, surely. They’d survived. But they’d kept trying to fit in; Minlin and Nadoni were good examples. I felt a rush of pride for them, mixed with hope that if they could make it, the city could too. And perhaps Moc could find his way.
As for Kirit? I didn’t know. I didn’t want her to fall.
Moc, Kirit, and I judged the winds from the market-tier balcony. The midmorning sky was a rich blue. A few bits of cloud had risen high enough to bring dampness to the higher tiers. The tower glittered with condensers, both the polished bone kind and several with thin metal linings. The metal reflected the sun in sharp sparks. Innovations. Grigrit was very wealthy in those, indeed. In the north, collectors were lowered to condense water inside the clouds and then retrieved. It was hard work.
I could hear the thin gurgle of water in the bone spouts nearby. Moc swallowed thirstily.
We readied for the long glide around Grigrit, then past Bissel to Naza. Did Kirit know that Bissel was where the council kept Wik? The Singer who’d fought beside us at Spirefall had been her teacher, once. She hadn’t asked after him, except to use his name in argument yesterday. We were in a hurry, but Bissel was right on the way. If Wik had been among my friends or family, I would have wanted to see him one last time.
“Do you want to stop at Bissel? To see Wik?” I asked.
She swallowed and I could see her eyes fill. Yes, she wanted to stop. “He came to visit me while I was sick. He stayed by my side. I knew he was quartered close by, but Doran said if I went to see him, the towers would think we were plotting. Yes. I would like to see him.”
Despite Doran’s warning, it wasn’t too difficult to stop for a moment. Making the offer had eased the gnawing sensation in my stomach; she should be able to see him before the vote. “We’ll go.”
I scratched a bone-chip message to Densira—to Councilor Vant, to Elna, Ceetcee, and Beliak—letting them know I would fly first to Bissel, then to the council plinth. Kirit added a chip marked for Ezarit on Varu. With both chips tied to his left claw, Maa
lik launched and flew to the northwest.
I leapt first, heading northeast, letting the guards see Moc was escorted, as was appropriate for his age, if not his skills. Couldn’t have him earning more Lawsmarkers.
He followed, wobbling and cursing like an adult. He dipped before circling back up to my level, breathing hard. I grimaced in the shadow of my wing. He would slow us down.
Kirit leapt last, joining us in the air as we completed a waiting circle in Grigrit’s updraft. Then we flew wide around the Spire, headed for Bissel.
Once he got his wings under control, Moc chattered between us. I flattened my own wings, spilling wind so that he could keep up.
“Can we watch the wingfights at Mondarath after we go to council? I heard they’re letting Singers play. Macal, for one.” He’d asked Kirit, but I answered.
Macal was Wik’s brother and Moc’s cousin. “Macal’s a tower Magister, and a councilman. He’s flown numerous wingfights.” And he’d renounced his Singer connections.
“Sure, and if they let one Spire-born play, maybe more can fly.”
To fly, to fight. I understood that impulse.
I saw Moc’s desire clearly now. But Macal had chosen tower over Spire long ago. Most of the city hadn’t realized he’d been Spire-born, until Spirefall. Still some spoke of him as if he’d stayed Singer. Mondarath had discussed removing him from the wingfights. How deep did the city’s anger go?
My thumb brushed the old message chip’s carved surface. That connection to the past helped my thinking. Would Moc and Kirit be any safer in the north than they were at Grigrit?
Kirit read the silence as skillfully as she read the wind. “Maybe later, Moc?” She whistled to me as a caution. But Moc continued, his voice ringing high above the wind, “Macal can use his Singer skills in wingfights now that people know. That’s what I want to see. An actual wingfight outside the Gyre.”
