Fallon leaned forward. ‘As soon as I release the warship’s schematics, every nation in the world will tool up. Then we’re left fightin’ the Idari with sticks and stones ’cause we’re too poor to make weapons or feed our soldiers.’
‘Healthcare, that’s where the money should go,’ another councillor piped up. ‘Alspeth tal Simara recognised the importance of free healthcare—as a gesture to her memory, surely any funds should be appropriated to public health and services…’
And so it went on. Fallon listened as deals were made and threats were exchanged.
‘It seems Pyron Thackeray made several financial promises he was unable to keep,’ Jagoda announced after an hour. ‘Loans were paid. Assurances were made. And my associates wish to collect.’
Fallon glowered at Talis. ‘You let someone from an organisation we’re indebted to into the Council?’
Tugarin stretched and yawned. ‘This is exactly how the motherland fell.’
Another councillor spoke up, some nameless cretin Fallon didn’t have the time nor desire to remember. ‘The kingdom is in dire financial straits. With Mister tal Jagoda’s expertise, we can make inroads to improvement. You won’t like it, General, but I suggest we request a loan from Ryndara. They have a delegation arriving in a matter of days—an ideal time to broach—’
‘Stop talking.’
The councillor did so.
Jagoda strode forward. ‘General, I’m afraid I must insist—’
‘Son, I don’t give a godsdamn flying shit what you insist. Tell your bosses if they wanna speak to me, they can do it face to face, instead of sending a goddamn lackey.’ Fallon rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘The Watch needs new blood. The city’s tearing itself apart. We need money and manpower but we gotta save funds—how do we do that without bending over to this asshole’s bosses?’
A blond-haired kid barely out of his teens stood and cleared his throat. ‘Might I suggest we reinstate the Hunters’ Guild? They require payment, yes, but we didn’t provide a pension nor insurance before, as we would for new Watch recruits, so the money saved—’
‘Mercenaries and thieves,’ Councillor Garlan announced. His sallow, papery skin threatened to tear at any second, and the threads of grey hair sprouting around his bald pate resembled newspaper shreddings. ‘This kingdom needs fine, upstanding citizens—not cut-throats loyal only to money.’
‘Sure,’ agreed Fallon. ‘Except we don’t have any fine, upstanding citizens.’
Talis shuffled a sheaf of papers. ‘Other matters before the official handover ceremony—’
Fallon held up a hand. ‘Gonna stop you right there, Councillor—until the Lightbearer threat is eliminated, I’m postponing the handover.’
Talis scowled. ‘Your appointment was a temporary one, General. Pyron Thackeray is in prison, where he belongs—you are to cede control of the kingdom to the Council in one week.’
‘I was put in charge while the Council organised itself—I can’t see a damn thing that tells me you’re halfway close to that.’
‘Come now,’ laughed Garlan. ‘The Lightbearers are no threat. Adaryn Kayn is a boy playing at revolution.’
Fallon rose to his feet. ‘The Lightbearers are turning the people against the government. You wanna know why Watch recruitment is so low? They’re signing up with Kayn—an’ they’re always one step ahead of us. Until I find out where they’re getting their intel, the Council stays on the sidelines.’
Tugarin clapped his paws. ‘Masters and sickles, General.’
Taking her time, Talis rose, too. When she spoke, it was with barely restrained fury. ‘What good is appointing a council if you’re going to stand there and dictate us? The purpose of these meetings is to ensure continuity of government—not for you to exercise a dictatorship. The democratic procedures demand—’
The door flew open again, and Valentine ran in, her face pale and stricken.
‘Speak.’ Fallon didn’t take his eye away from Talis.
‘It’s Kayn, sir—he’s marching.’
‘Where?’
‘Everywhere.’
Gilbert marched behind Kayn, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. ‘Bear the light!’ he chanted with the rest. ‘Stand and fight!’
The chanting intoxicated Buzz. The purpose, the righteous fury… His gut churned with excitement.
The noon sun flared high above; Buzz wondered why the Lightbearers brought the new lamps on a daytime march, but he didn’t question it. Their deep glow pulsed like the ebb and flow of a great red river.
Adaryn Kayn led the procession, his lamp held aloft, voice strident. Charisma oozed from the man; if Dalthea was to have a new king, Buzz couldn’t think of anyone better suited.
The Judge marched alongside them. He was a foot taller than Kayn, but he kept his hooded head bowed low.
‘We march on Arrowhead!’ Kayn announced. Bolstered, the chanting rose at the sound of his voice. ‘On Petrel’s Tail! On Kingsway!’
‘Bear the light! Stand and fight!’
‘Bear the light! Stand and fight!’
The throng pushed through the winding road of Widow’s Trail, past old Miners’ Guild houses, towards Old Town Square. Kayn marched faster, undeterred by the presence of the Watch. People parted before them—merchants and workers alike, rich and poor. Most were puzzled, some were scared. Dalthea itself quaked before the reckoning about to hit it.
A copper guarding the gatehouse exchanged a nervous glance with his partner. He held up a hand—but the Lightbearers kept pushing.
‘Close the gate!’ the copper screamed. ‘Close the gate!’
But the second watchman refused. He removed his helm and his duster cloak and let it flutter to the ground, before joining the Lightbearers.
Like a tide, the procession swept through Old Town Square.
‘Bear the light! Stand and fight!’
How many men and women of the Watch had beaten Buzz senseless? How many had spat at him or hurled him out of alleyways just for sleeping?
‘Bear the light!’ he roared.
‘Bear the light! Stand and fight! Bear the light! Stand and fight!’
‘Brothers and sisters,’ called Kayn. He marched to the statue of Sir Raleigh Trevelyan looming outside of Dalthea’s courthouse. Men and women of the Watch spilled from the courthouse’s doors, barking commands.
‘Silence,’ the Judge boomed.
The Lightbearers fell silent, and Buzz noticed fear twist Kayn’s features.
‘The time is upon us.’ The Judge’s voice rolled like crushing thunder. ‘The time to bear the light… Is now.’
At once, every Lightbearer aside from Adaryn Kayn raised their lamps and doused themselves with the liquid inside.
Buzz’s blood froze. The lamp slipped from his hand, smashing on the cobbles. Its liquid swirled and pooled at his feet.
That ain’t ignium—it’s flammable igneus.
Buzz stepped back, staying well clear of the liquid. ‘Gil. Gil!’
‘No… Stop,’ Kayn commanded. ‘What are you doing? Stop! Stop!’
The crimson fluid soaked through Gilbert’s clothes, and its strong, metallic stench filled Buzz’s nose and throat.
‘Listen to him!’ Buzz pleaded.
The judge hurled his own lamp at Kayn’s skull. It smashed into a thousand shards, slicing his face. Kayn staggered back, howling as he hit the ground, igneus soaking his clothes and hair. He writhed on the ground, gasping for breath, eyes wide. ‘Please…’
The Judge flicked a lighter and pitched it at Kayn.
In an instant, the fire engulfed him. A terrible, feral scream rent the air; Kayn flailed across the cobbles as the fire boiled his eyes and melted his skin.
Buzz staggered back, eyes stuck on the dying man.
‘This is the first strike of many,’ proclaimed the Judge. ‘As the winds of Wintercast come, so will the flaying blade and the purifying light!’
Gil’s crooked mouth crinkled. He flicked a lighter open and pressed t
he naked flame to his igneus-soaked robes.
CHAPTER THREE
The Queen of the North floated through the sky with a grace that belied its size; even the Royal Sky Fleet’s Schiehallion couldn’t match it.
Thick, dark clouds obscured the sky and rain lashed the cabin’s skyglass. The vessel could have been gliding across a gentle sea. As much as Serena loved the Liberty Wind, it didn’t fly as smoothly as this.
One of the Queen’s outfliers shot past the window, a small fighter craft with a single thruster. A trail of orange followed the craft before it disappeared back inside the blackness.
‘Could be worse, Flicker.’ Her bird, a yellow-headed flickertail, bounced from corner to corner. He didn’t like being cooped up any more than Serena did, and she knew he was pissed at her for leaving him on the Wind when she and Gallows hit the Diamond District.
Serena had been here a day now. Give her half an hour, and Serena would’ve explored every inch of the Liberty Wind and known all her secrets. But the Queen? She’d yet to scratch the surface. Each time she stepped out of her luxury cabin, she uncovered something new: A storeroom filled with gowns and props; a passage connecting to the private upper levels; a conduit that would’ve taken her into the engine room had Myriel not caught her…
Between all that—and visiting Scruff in the airliner’s kennel every few hours—Serena predicted she wouldn’t get bored for at least another day.
And all this space. Her cabin here was the same size as the room she’d had in the orphanage, except she didn’t have to share it with three other people. A huge chest of drawers squatted by the wall, crowned with jars and snuff boxes. Serena figured it was stage makeup. Was this Genevieve Couressa’s room? Serena even had a bathroom to herself, a luxury she didn’t know she needed. Its brass taps gleamed brighter than polished gold.
Flicker sang something non-committal, and perched himself on top of Serena’s battered copy of Captain Crimsonwing and the Sky Pirate’s Daughter. Everything else she owned was still languishing in Dulwin aboard the Liberty Wind, but at least she had that.
‘What do you think, Flicker? Reckon it’s worth making friends while we’re aboard the Queen?’
Flicker blinked at her.
‘Yeah. Me neither.’
Genevieve had left fresh clothes in the cabin for Serena; dresses and skirts and fancy blouses. No doubt they were all the rage among the girls of Ryndara, but they didn’t suit Serena; for one thing, the skirts didn’t have pockets—which Serena reckoned was a cardinal sin—and for another, she’d have to act like a lady of society if she wore them.
Then again, the clothes she wore in Dulwin were still somewhere in the laundry rooms, and her spare Raincatcher gear had inherited a few new holes since leaving Dalthea.
Serena fished a key from her pocket. At least I still have this. It was the key to the Liberty Wind’s ignition—she’d liberated it from the Queen’s storage an hour after stepping aboard. A ship this big, Captain Vabrizio won’t miss it.
The clock told Serena it was after six; she’d be meeting Vabrizio soon, before Genevieve’s evening performance.
Guess there’s no point fighting it. Serena picked up the plainest of the blouses Genevieve had left, a brilliant white chiffon effort with sleeves that went on much longer than they needed to.
The least fancy skirt was a ruffled, wine-red display of flamboyant nonsense that she would never be seen dead in.
Explore more of the ship, dressed like a cut-rate princess—or stay here with a petulant bird and an old book?
She made her decision.
Gilded, floral wallpaper lined the passageway walls, aglow with the soft haze of ignium lamps. She followed the signs down towards the leisure levels, gliding upon a luxurious, royal-purple carpet. Without a place to put her hands, Serena fidgeted.
She avoided eye contact with the other passengers when she could, but the deeper she got, the more she encountered—older couples strolled past, arm in arm, smiling and nodding. One gentleman even doffed his hat—Serena attempted a curtsey in response; it was a mess, but the gentleman didn’t seem to mind.
In fact, no-one gave her a second glance—they simply nodded and smiled. In Dalthea, everyone eyed Serena and her emerald hair with suspicion—but not here.
She came to a balcony overlooking the Queen’s grand entrance hall; she didn’t think it would ever stop taking her breath away.
Arching staircases rose and fell like the crests and troughs of waves, leading to mezzanines, gaming rooms and cocktail bars. Golden cables connected hanging balconies to the ceiling, criss-crossing like a spider’s web. The lobby was like one of Aurien tal Varaldo’s surrealist paintings; looking down on it gave Serena vertigo.
She peered over the glass-fronted banister—all the way at the bottom, a lone pianist plied his trade. Next to him, sparkling from the light of a hundred chandeliers, was a glassy ice statue of Musa, the God of Music. She clasped a harp and stood with angelic wings. The sculpture had more than a passing resemblance to Genevieve Couressa.
Serena tore herself away, beamed at a pair of old ladies gossiping about Captain Vabrizio, and traipsed into the Primrose Lounge.
The bar sang with the clatter of roulette wheels, croupiers reeling off complex rules, and guests bantering with one another. The ceiling was made almost entirely of skyglass; on a clear night, guests could gaze up and count the stars and trace the constellations.
Serena snatched a glass of champagne from a passing waiter; she took a sip and almost spat it back out. Give me Raincatcher grog any day.
The Primrose Lounge—like the rest of the ship—seemed out of place for someone like Genevieve Couressa. Sure, she was rich—but this place didn’t cater to the rich; it catered to people who wanted to feel rich—to give them a taste of wealth.
Serena wondered if Genevieve ever got bored. Performing in auditoriums and opera houses was one thing—they were big events, something worth clearing the calendar for, a rarity. But performing every single night to much of the same crowd on the same stage, where the audience could walk in and out at their leisure… Didn’t that make it less unique?
‘Oh, my goodness, did I win again?’
Serena’s heart warmed at the sound of Myriel’s voice. She marched over to the card table, where she and Gallows played with two other gentlemen.
The Queen’s magic clearly extended to Myriel as well; she looked much younger than her seventy years, and her eyes sparkled like blue ice. She wore a night-blue gown, and Gallows was decked out in a simple grey suit and shirt.
Myriel grinned as she collected a pile of wooden chips.
Gallows leaned back and scratched the back of his head. ‘I’ll enjoy getting them back.’
It was good to see them smiling—Serena couldn’t remember the last time any of them had fun. ‘Can I join in?’ she asked.
‘Too young,’ Gallows said without looking up.
Serena took a chair anyway. ‘Like I’ve never gambled before.’
‘My dear,’ Myriel began, ‘while you may be well versed in the ways of street gambling and guild house contests, these are the upper classes we’re dealing with—much fewer scruples. It’s not like the Raincatchers, settling grudges with arm wrestling and brawls; rich people take revenge by buying your land and marrying your daughter.’
‘Wow,’ said Serena. ‘So that’s how Ryndara conquered half of Imanis? I imagined more swords.’
‘You’re right about that,’ Gallows said. ‘Rhis used to be a country called Vermeaux, until Arik Blood-Axe—’
‘Blood-Tooth,’ Myriel corrected, her cards dancing in her palm. ‘The man’s canine protruded from his jaw.’
‘Sure, yeah. Anyway, Blood-Tooth came with his berserkers and took Vermeaux for himself. Reckoned he was Belios incarnate—rode the War God’s dragon into battle. Hundreds of thousands of people died, and old Arik watered the soil with their blood and built a city on their bones.’
A long sigh escaped Myriel’s throat. ‘
Many men have believed themselves to be Belios incarnate. I don’t see the appeal, myself.’
Serena relaxed in her chair. If the teachers had taught more bloody and brutal history, she’d have listened closer.
She sipped more of her champagne. Its sweetness and fizz went to her head more than the alcohol. ‘Ugh, why do people drink this stuff?’ She placed the glass on the table, where it sat for all of two seconds before a waiter snatched it away. ‘Hey, anyone seen Genevieve yet?’
Gallows concentrated very hard on his cards.
‘Not yet,’ Myriel answered. ‘Patience, Serena. We’re finally out of harm’s way. Enjoy it! Have fun! Be a teenager! Just don’t drink or gamble.’
‘That doesn’t sound like being a teenager.’
‘You could take up knitting,’ said Gallows. He placed the seven of wings down and—with a smirk—collected a pile of aerons.
‘You take up knitting.’
‘Another hand?’ Myriel suggested. The other two players shook their heads, smiled and said their goodbyes.
Myriel was right—if this was the Raincatchers’ Guildhouse, those polite smiles would be accompanied by cursing, accusations of cheating, and an overturned table.
Myriel shuffled the cards and dealt them out.
‘Anyone join this game?’ A brawny man with grey-black hair and moustache stomped over to the table. He wore a flight harness and a blue and yellow pilots’ jumpsuit with the word ‘Stormrider’ emblazoned on the front. He took a seat before anyone answered, cocking his head at the other tables, as if he might get up and join another game. He smelled of machine oil and tobacco.
‘Good evening.’ Myriel looked up from the cards in her hand and introduced herself. ‘And you are?’
‘Brunswick—Morton Brunswick.’ He spoke with a deep brogue and subtle authority, like a headmaster. ‘Commander of the Stormriders—greatest private air force in the world. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.’
‘How do you do?’
‘What’s the game?’ the pilot asked, knuckles rapping on the felt green of the table. Lines scored his fingers and forearms, and his nails were clean but uneven. His eyes scanned Gallows and Myriel like he was sizing up targets.
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