A cold breeze made the hair on his bare arms stand up. Winter was setting in, which didn’t mean much in a sweltering shithole like Dalthea—but it did mean Wintercast—and folk were generous at Wintercast.
And as territorial as mountain lions.
Buzz remembered getting the shiniest aeron he’d ever seen one Wintercast Eve—the old biddy who gave it to him didn’t kick him across the cobbles or ask him for a ‘special handshake’ in a dark alley for it—she just handed it over out the goodness of her heart.
But not five minutes later, the very same woman snatched the last box of figs from another lass’s hands, claiming she’d taken it from the stall first.
And Buzz realised she’d been a thief, and a liar.
He’d stood there, watching them fight over the figs, the aeron weighing heavier in his hand. The two women had clawed at each other’s faces and pulled their hair. The stall keeper hadn’t known where to look! Eventually, the old thief had forced the victim away and hobbled off, cackling like a demented witch from an Aurien tal Varaldo story. The young lass had just stood there, broken, tears streaming—defeated.
But then she’d howled and given chase, pounding towards the old biddy like a fierce lioness, ready to pounce and recover her stolen goods—her pride. She’d even gained on the fleeing thief.
That was the moment that had inspired Buzz—it had made him realise that he’d have to step up and lend a hand. So, after taking a deep breath, he’d sprang up—and stuck his leg out and tripped the young girl before she got her hands on the old thief.
A favour received and returned in the span of minutes—what was more Wintercast than that?
But now he was sober. Farro Zoven’s death had seen to that, and what few dealers remained slung their existing stock at exorbitant prices.
Buzz palmed an overripe plum from a stall, scoffed it before its owner noticed, and shook his head. Thieving bastards.
He broke away from the main knot of people, passing beneath multi-coloured awnings and decorative canopies. Barra’s Bazaar always teemed with life and colour. A blind priest in a tattered blue robe stood atop a crate, chanting some nonsense. As Buzz passed, the preacher pointed straight at him. ‘And Aerulus the One Father sees us as a blight—the wrath of storms will rain upon us unless we change our ways and beg his forgiveness!’
Buzz rounded a corner with the blind priest’s words ringing in his head. Pile o’ dung. Food? Aye. Water? Aye. But forgiveness? Even Buzz Fitangus wouldn’t beg for that. He had some standards. At the end of the day, you only had yourself to blame, yourself to reward, and yourself to forgive—and if you could forgive yourself, well, you were golden.
He ambled down an alley and through an arched tunnel, spying the lantern symbol marked in red chalk. Buzz licked his thumb and wiped the chalk—it didn’t wash off.
There we go, then.
The Lightbearers met in a different location every time. Buzz had missed the last one or, oh, six meetings, but he was a committed member—a Lightbearer through and through. He’d spent too long scuttling around in dark shadows, but the Lightbearers would change all that—Adaryn Kayn would change all that. He’d shine a light into the shadows, purge the darkness, expose the kingdom’s corruption.
Weak light from an ignium lamp flickered over rough brick walls. The deeper Buzz descended, the more the rabble from the market faded behind him, until the tunnel turned as silent as a tomb.
Flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the chamber walls. Buzz slipped past the swelling crowd of Lightbearers, feet squelching on the floor. He recognised the chamber to be the basement of Amadeo’s pawn shop, from back when Dalthea had plenty of shops. It smelled of dampness and old clothes.
Buzz shouldered past someone. ‘Mornin’!’ The first time he’d come to one of these meetings, maybe two dozen others had appeared, street rats like him. Right now? Over a hundred, easy. So many, in fact, that Buzz couldn’t find the baskets of bread and fruit. He fancied himself a blushing red apple.
Folk exchanged glances with each other, and whispers floated like bashful butterflies. They were all like Buzz down here, all his people. The homeless, the scuzzers—those whom society trampled underfoot without a second thought. He rubbed his spindly fingers together. The upper classes don’t have a clue what’s comin’ to ’em. Neither did Buzz, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be enthusiastic about it.
He bobbed up and down, scanning the dark corners of the chamber. Young Gilbert caught his eyes. Buzz shoved his way towards him. ‘Gilbert! Gil! Mate!’
Gilbert was around forty but looked twice that. Buzz had taken him to a Lightbearer meeting a couple of weeks back, though only to keep Gil busy so Buzz could slip back out and steal his secret stash of water tokens.
‘Where you been hidin’, eh?’ Buzz grabbed Gilbert in a headlock and rubbed his knuckles over his flaky scalp. He pushed Buzz away, eyes pinned forward to the heavy oak door at the end of the chamber.
‘Nowhere,’ Gilbert lilted. ‘Been here, with the Lightbearers.’
‘That’s splendid, that is. We all need something to keep us goin’ eh? Especially when there ain’t no scuzz. You know what I mean.’ Buzz had introduced Gilbert to scuzz as well. He did a lot of favours for him, now that he thought about it.
Sitting by the oak door were rows of some kind of new-fangled ignium lantern. They were smaller than normal, and instead of the glowing, bright amber found in normal lamps, they swirled with a deep, thick red. Buzz reckoned there must be over a hundred of the things—one for each person in the chamber.
‘They ain’t gonna ask us to sell these things for ’em, are they?’
Gilbert remained silent, his body swaying from side to side like a paper boat on a sea of piss.
Buzz craned his neck, his hands rubbed together of their own accord. ‘Oi, where’s our scran, eh? Me belly’s rumbling like a watchman being chased outta Scab End.’
‘No food today,’ said Gilbert. ‘Today we take action. Today we meet the Judge.’ Gil’s voice broke away like crumbling shortbread. Damn, Buzz was hungry.
Buzz glanced around to the crowd, aiming to catch someone who might have food. Like Gilbert, they all stood enthralled, their faces illuminated by the candlelight. He felt like a stranger among them. Before the war with the Idari—before the Hunters’ Guild came along and ruined everything—Buzz could’ve figured out who was who by what they wore—a top hat and waistcoat, then you were one of the Flip Street Hustlers; a tattoo of a doll on your fist, then you belonged to Henrietta’s Hatchets; a brown uniform and a leather duster coat, then you were the Watch—worst of the lot.
But here, everyone all looked like part of one gang. It made Buzz uneasy; you got a sense for these things when you lived on the street. It made his throat tighten and his bladder loosen.
‘Mate, I know I’ve missed a couple o’ meetings, but what the bloody—’
With a creak like the snap of a hanging tree’s branch, the doors swung open. Cool air swirled from the door, snuffing out half the candles and plunging the room deeper into darkness.
The corners of Gilbert’s mouth curved, and his eyes widened. ‘He’s here.’
Buzz didn’t like the tone of Gil’s voice, didn’t like it at all. He shrank backwards, dissolving into the gloom and hoping to lose himself in the crowd.
But then Adaryn Kayn spoke.
‘Brothers and sisters.’ His deep voice was as smooth as apricot wine. He was no older than thirty and carried himself like a member of the royal family, wearing tan horse riding boots and a long, crimson coat embroidered with golden lace. He wore his oil-black hair in a greased ducktail, and the creases around his mouth deepened when he spoke.
He looked taller than in his photographs.
Kayn clasped the bony hand of an old woman in the front row. ‘Jessamyn—have I given you the coin to rebuild the home you share with your sisters?’
‘Yes,’ the woman replied.
Kayn patted the shoulder of a young, on
e-armed man next to her. ‘Liam, did I provide food and water for your family after you were injured at the Remembrance bombings?’
‘You did,’ croaked Liam.
‘The Watch released Liam from their service without a pension!’ Kayn yelled. ‘The dissolution of the Courtesans’ Guild meant Jessamyn’s contract under Farro Zoven was not honoured! The Council and the dictator General Fallon wish to turn a blind eye on those who have suffered most—and the Lightbearers will not allow it!’
Kayn swept his arms out wide, proclaiming to end the many injustices of the world. His honeyed words were sweet and easy to digest. Without realising it, Buzz flitted back to Gilbert, mesmerised.
‘Have I given you the means to feed yourself?’ Kayn asked.
‘Yes!’
‘Have I given you water to quench your thirst—to quench your children’s thirst?’
‘Yes!’
‘Today we reclaim what was lost!’
At that, another Lightbearer strode into the chamber with slow, heavy steps. A hooded robe the colour of congealed blood draped over him. Buzz couldn’t see his eyes, but he got the feeling the hooded man stared straight at him.
He nudged Gil. ‘Who’s he?’
‘The Judge,’ Gilbert snapped. ‘Kayn’s right hand.’
‘Brothers and sisters.’ Buzz heard the smile in the Judge’s voice. ‘You are the bearers of Adaryn’s light—his chosen. You are the hand with which he shall drive a flaming sword into the black heart of corruption.’ With black gloved hands, the Judge motioned for the disciples to lift the lamps from the ground.
Kayn hoisted his own lamp up. ‘Rejoice! For the corrupt are legion, and we will bring to them salvation.’
‘This report’s as useful as a perforated ballsack, Arch Vigil.’ General Fallon’s voice rasped across the sparse walls of his office. He crumpled the paper and tossed it into a wastebasket. Arthritic pain lanced through his fingers and cracks creased his dark skin, but age had yet to slow him down.
Muted light revealed very little of the room, which was exactly Fallon’s intention. He sat behind a large scratched and dented desk, on a high-backed chair that prodded at his back muscles. He’d arranged several seats in a semicircle, awaiting his guests—just the right angle and distance for the pair of concealed shotguns hanging beneath the desk.
A coat of arms hung above his chair, adorned with a crown for the royal family, a lightning bolt for Aerulus the God-King, and a hammer for the ignicite miners who brought Dalthea its fortune. Two swords crossed its centre—Fallon felt the points of their blades pointing down at him.
Arch Vigil Waltham cleared his throat. ‘A bloodlung outbreak is unprecedented—my men have cordoned the abattoir off and removed the bodies. Rest assured, it’s under control.’
Fallon stared at the Watch commander. Harold Waltham, a watchman through and through. Came to his position in… An unconventional manner. Corruption risk: Low—but he has a temper. ‘What of the other bloodlung cases you reported?’
Waltham avoided Fallon’s glare. Dirt and sewage stained his cream-white uniform, and the coppery tinge of his moustache carried more grey in it than when Fallon had seen him last.
‘Isolated incidents, General.’
‘Three isolated incidents. Where were they found?’
Waltham’s fingers laced together, and his nervous eyes kept flicking to Fallon’s eye patch. ‘Dustwynd, sir.’
‘Exactly. I’ve already given the order to seal the gates.’
‘Seal Dustwynd? Surely you can’t mean permanently?’
‘We need to contain the spread—it can take weeks for symptoms to show. Sweet Eiro, it could’ve spread already without us knowin’ it.’
‘General, sealing off an entire district—’
‘The Royal Sky Fleet will drop food and medical supplies. When the Lightbearer threat is contained, I’ll send in troops. We’ll purge the sickness—but right now, containment is paramount. Decision’s made, Waltham. Next item, before I need to lick the Council’s collective ass: The Lightbearers.’
‘They keep moving, sir. Thought we tracked Adaryn Kayn in Arrowhead three nights past, then again in Musa’s Harp. Nothing. The man’s a ghost.’
‘Ghosts don’t plaster pictures of ’emselves all over the city. How can this man be so damn popular without people knowing anything about him?’
‘Some say he’s a foreigner. Others say he was born in Dustwynd, a Dalthea boy through and through.’
‘And some people say he pisses golden fire—I want truth, Waltham, not rumour.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Fallon’s chair creaked as he leaned back. ‘They got a hold of dead bloodlungers and they knew we were hitting the abattoir. What the hell did we interrupt?’
‘I don’t know.’ Waltham placed his hands behind his back. ‘But they knew we were coming.’
Fallon grunted. The news of leaked intel didn’t surprise him—Watch recruitment numbers were low, the Hunters’ Guild wasn’t in operation, and half the damn kingdom had been ball-deep with Farro Zoven. Fallon trusted himself and himself alone.
He rubbed his good eye. Gods, but when was the last time he had a decent night’s sleep?
A knock came at the office door, and it squealed inward.
‘Sir.’ Lance Corporal Nyrita Valentine stepped inside, saluting and standing to attention. The weak light did nothing to dim the fiery rose red of her chopped and spiky hair, nor the fierce scar running down her left cheek. Even in the face of the shit detail Fallon had given her since she leaked sensitive files to the Viator, she undertook her duties without complaint. Or apology. A pity. Fallon reckoned no finer soldier had donned the cobalt-blue threads of the Dalthean uniform.
Constable Tristan trailed in after her, a lad not far out of his teens who looked about as much use as having a kitten for a guard dog.
Leonard Tristan—young, signed up to the Hunters’ Guild just before they disbanded. Better with a sword than most his age—too keen to blood his steel? Corruption risk: Moderate.
‘The Council members are on their way up.’ Valentine stared past Fallon when she spoke.
‘See ’em in. And bring tea.’
Valentine’s fists clenched at that last part, but still she refused to look him in the eye. ‘As you wish. Sir.’
Anton Tugarin was first through the door, Guildmaster of the Raincatchers. He wore grubby boots, a long overcoat and had to stoop to fit through the door. Full lips grinned amidst his thick, black beard, and his bald head glistened with sweat.
‘Just off a water run,’ he announced in his rolling, Tarevian accent. ‘Excuse the grubbiness.’
Fallon suspected Tugarin made a special effort to look grubby whenever he attended a Council meeting. ‘Thank you, Guildmaster.’ Fallon motioned for the big man to take a seat. ‘Nice to see you making an effort to attend.’
Tugarin took the seat closest to the general. ‘When the masters fight, it’s the servants’ sickles that gleam—Anton Tugarin likes forewarning.’
The six remaining members of the Council marched in like a troupe of pallbearers. They wore black suits and black ties, and none among them could smile if their lives depended on it.
‘Is it really necessary to keep us waiting every time we meet, General?’ As usual, the first councillor to speak was Talis tal Nazari, the only female member.
Idealistic but possesses a ruthless streak. Corruption risk: Moderate.
Fallon gestured for them to sit. They did, more than one of them casting a wary glare at Tugarin.
‘I don’t know you.’ Fallon pointed to a new person, a man at the back of the procession. Pencil-thin with short, grey hair and pale skin, he looked stern but anxious, like a greedy tax man being forced to pay a rebate. His grey eyes glistened behind circular spectacles.
‘My name is Mylton tal Jagoda.’ His high-pitched, throaty voice sounded like a rusted tin sword being yanked from a scabbard. ‘I am a representative of the banking house of Campbell, Coutts &
Crawford.’
‘This is a Council meeting,’ Fallon pointed out.
‘We appointed him to the Council,’ said Talis. ‘We need a Councillor of Economics—we did request your attendance at the vote, General, but I can only assume our letter was misplaced.’
‘No, I just ignored it.’
Tugarin cackled at that.
‘Not just that,’ Jagoda chimed. ‘You have ignored every request from the banking house thus far—and we have concerns, General, grave concerns. The kingdom is in debt. The damage in Irros’ Beckon worsens—the radiation from the so-called ignogen bomb shows no sign of abating and overcrowding in all districts is stretching your resources. The funds diverted from the military’s budget can only pay for half of the new water pipelines being constructed through the Steelpeak Mountains. The city’s existing water stations are in dire need of repair, disease is rife, and crime is rampant. Farro Zoven may have been a blight on all our lives, but—’
Fallon hammered a fist onto the desk. ‘That runt peddled scuzz and profited from blackmail and misery—and, if memory serves, one of the names on your business card was ball-deep with him.’
Deflated, Jagoda cleared his throat and straightened his tie. ‘The fact remains, we need order, and order can only come if you have the funds to pay for it—which, General, you do not.’
‘We’re ass-deep in a post-war recession, Jagoda—my priority is securing food and water for my people. The southern water pipeline is almost ready—fewer people are dyin’ from thirst. As for overcrowding, why don’t your bosses open the doors to their building in Petrel’s Tail?’
Jagoda cleared his throat again. ‘We are not a charity.’
‘If we could stop the pissing contest, gentlemen,’ urged Talis. ‘We have important matters to discuss.’
‘Such as our infrastructure,’ another councilman yelled. ‘The skyport is choked to the brim—forcing all air traffic through Wrenwing Gap is untenable, yet you refuse to release the schematics of the Schiehallion; that warship could sail over the Steelpeaks, General—technology we sorely need if our economy is to flourish.’
Wrath of Storms Page 4
