Horizon

by Fran Wilde

  But the wind bore a scent of rot with it, from below. And smoke, though I could not tell from where. We climbed slowly until the air cleared, the sky seemed brighter, and the shadows almost disappeared.

  Above us, the shifting light of sunrise crested above the cloud.

  I stared at it. “It’s so beautiful.”

  “I’ve seen those who’d fled their towers stare at a wingset or food like you’re staring at the sun, Nat. Is it that bad down below?” Macal asked, concern in his voice.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I replied. “There’s no other way. And there’s no time to debate.”

  Macal circled me. “True. And I worry spreading the news one tower at a time will be too slow. Especially after one blackwings faction has worked so hard to divide the towers, to remove the markets, to keep them from sharing news.”

  “We need to gather people instead,” I suggested. I angled my left wing and circled too, until we were a slow whirlwind. The cloud below us began to sift and follow in our wake.

  We tossed ideas through the air.

  “We could call a Conclave, close to the Spire. Or set up a plinth. Or we could use the song, and spread it, use the blackwings too.”

  I didn’t like the idea of a Conclave. It was dangerously close to what Aliati said Rya was already fighting. And a plinth was too risky. Too easy to attack.

  Macal quieted for a moment. The edges of our wings fluttered noisily in the wind as we turned. “We could have a market. An illegal one.”

  I chuckled. “We’d get blackwings and nonblackwings attending. Maybe Rya would like to host a market?”

  “From my only meeting with Rya, I think it’s possible.” Macal broke off circling and caught another vent up towards the towers. “If we can find her, or other likeminded blackwings.”

  I curved my right wing and followed Macal.

  When the net fell over me, sticky and smelling of old muzz, I was just coming out of my turn.

  “Finding blackwings will be easy, Lawsbreakers,” a singsong voice said. A child’s voice. Macal was caught in the same net. He struggled and cursed by my side.

  And then we were dragged kicking and shouting in the nets up through the last shreds of cloud, into the blinding light of day.

  * * *

  They dumped us on a towertop. Dropped the net around Macal and then me.

  I tensed, ready for a fight. “You’re not taking our wings. You won’t throw us from the tower.”

  The blackwings made no move to do so. They didn’t reach for us, didn’t demand our grips, our weapons.

  The net spread on the bone towertop, a knotwork of fiber open like an unset trap.

  But up close, our captors’ clothing revealed colorful mending and patches. Their wings were colored with burnt bone and blacking. They weren’t blackwings at all. These weren’t the guardians of the southwest; these were scavengers, masquerading.

  As it dawned on me that we weren’t about to be thrown down in order to appease the city, our companions pulled their hoods back. One coughed into a hand to cover a grin.

  Scavengers for sure.

  “Aliati asked us to look out for you. To help you,” one said.

  I’d never been so glad for Aliati’s help. “She didn’t mention you to us.”

  The lead scavenger chuckled. “We hadn’t decided yet. But Aliati spoke for you. And this one”—the scavenger gestured to Macal—“helped rescue one of our fledges.” The scavenger gestured at a young woman who held a small girl tightly. “Now we’ve decided.”

  Macal looked at me and then at their still-hooded leader like they were crazy. “What was your purpose in netting us? We were coming to find you.”

  “It was faster,” said the leader. “Plus it’s easier to get through the blackwings’ lines if we look like them.” Brushing back the hood, she revealed herself.

  “Raq,” Macal said, surprised.

  Now the other “blackwings” began folding up the net. Some near Raq chuckled knowingly. “Helps for all sorts of things.” Their bags were heavy and full.

  The towertop where we stood was half cracked. I imagined I felt a slight shift when someone stepped wrong. “Is this tower unstable lower down?”

  I wasn’t surprised to see her shake her head and smile.

  “The tower’s blackwings asked for someone to come and check the tower for stability,” one of the scavengers said. “We—well, our artifex”—and there she pointed at another scavenger, who waved—“helped check it and found it very unstable.”

  I had to laugh. “I bet you did.” The tower was safe after all. For now.

  The scavengers secured a ladder to the uncracked side of the towertop and began to descend to a safer tier. Relief washed over me. I hadn’t known I was holding myself so tensely.

  Raq put her hand on my arm, and I jumped a little. “Why isn’t Aliati with you?” She squinted into the clouds. “Did she take a different route?”

  Macal answered first. “She stayed in the midcloud to prepare for the refugees.”

  “She’s helping with the evacuation, building kites,” I hastened to add.

  Raq narrowed her eyes, trying to understand. “Like bridges,” Macal said. “But bigger, and they float.”

  Raq’s eyes lost their sharp focus for a moment. “All right.” She was small and dark haired, with skin like burnt bone. Her long lashes and quick smile made her seem young, but she had windburn lines around her eyes that came with age. That or many more days and nights spent out in the wind than most tower citizens.

  More scavengers appeared, climbing down from above, swooping in and landing with great daring and little care for safety. They were young, mostly, but all were scarred and weatherworn, their clothes and markers a jumble of all towers and no tower at all.

  The lower tiers were filled with bags of abandoned items, tools, and silks. Things no one wanted to carry, the scavengers gathered up.

  Raq caught Macal and me staring at the goods. “Whatever you need, we’re selling. Not much food, though,” she said quietly. “Or at least, not enough.”

  That was likely true all over. “We’ll figure it out once we’re below.”

  Raq looked at us, eyes narrowed. “We’re coming with you?”

  “You are,” Macal said. “We need your supplies. People will be glad to see you.” Raq didn’t seem surprised that we had plans for these goods.

  Her expression didn’t change. She didn’t like what we had to say, but if they wanted food, there wasn’t any doubt they’d need to trade just the same. Raq looked from the supplies to the sky beyond the tier. Finally she gave a sigh and a short nod. “Fair.”

  “You can sell supplies, not give them away. I’ll help set a price,” Macal pressed.

  Raq grinned and her scavengers let out a hoot. “Even more fair.”

  I let my breath out, relieved again. Macal was good at this. As more scavengers came in over the balcony, he won them over too.

  So many of them gathered together on a single tower, instead of blending in to the community or hiding below, made a raucous bunch. Their glee at occupying a whole tower—or stealing one—was tempered, it seemed, by a bit of discomfort at close quarters with so many other scavengers. Often they took off just to be alone in the sky.

  The very things we loved in our towers—community and support—were not what the scavengers valued. But they seemed to love this tower.

  Of course, the tower had been abandoned because it might fall, and of course it was in the southwest, smack in the middle of enemy territory.

  “What can we get for you now?” Raq laughed. Her cohort slowed to listen.

  “We need the blackwings,” I said. We’d been ready to confront them right at their heart, on Grigrit, before we were taken.

  Raq looked at us as if we were ancient and cloudtouched. “You want the Aivans. Rya has disavowed Conclaves and is pressing for bigger changes. The blackwings aren’t as organized.”

  “What’s changed?”

  “T
he two factions? They needed strong leaders. Rya’s one, but the others are still looking for someone they believe in. It’s risky to trust anyone right now, but I can take you to Rya.”

  What game was Raq playing? “What’s the trade?”

  “You get us down safely. We’ll help you.” Raq didn’t blink. “We want to go with the first groups, not the last.”

  The first group had already departed, but they could go with the next group. I made a quick count. Ten scavengers, plus families. That might be possible. “Definitely,” I said. “As long as two of your group work the pulleys with our people. They can go down on the next kite.” We’d work out the rest of the details later.

  Macal looked at them and at me. “You sure?” His eyes said way more: Don’t make promises you can’t keep.

  But I’d already lied to get us moving faster. No turning back. “I’m sure.” I met his eyes, then Raq’s.

  Raq’s dark robe fluttered in the breeze, billowing around her wingstraps. “Rya’s got their attention. She’s dynamic, radical, and strong willed, like her father. She’s got a tough group of former blackwings to keep in check, but she’s a good leader. You want her.”

  In what way was Rya radical? I remembered her from a long-ago wingfight, before Kirit was taken to the Spire. Macal said she’d argued against the Conclave. Raq said she’d called her guard Aivans. Names revealed a lot about a person, or a group: Nightwing, blackwing, Skyshouter, Spirebreaker, Brokenwings, Magister, Singer.

  “She believes that the community’s changing into something more independent, like birds,” Raq said. “She’s one for drama, for sure. Wears a kavik skull and feathers.”

  Macal nodded. “Birds won’t like the idea of going below the clouds.”

  Birds would hate not being able to fly even more. “They might not like it, but they need to do it anyway. How do we convince them to help, knowing this?” I asked.

  “We don’t. We say, ‘We have to leave.’ Everyone who doesn’t, dies. End of discussion,” Raq said. “Especially if they think they don’t need us. There are too many good people headed below to sacrifice for people who don’t want to leave the sky.”

  If it weren’t for my family, I would understand the temptation to stay. All around the tier we stood on, the blue, birdless sky and straight sweep of clouds below it was home. I’d missed it. But now I knew I’d be home when I was with my family.

  Macal reached out to Raq. “Before the other blackwing factions attack the northwest, can one of your scavengers get a message to them?”

  She laughed and nodded. “We’ll send some back here for your market too, if they’ll come.”

  “What are you doing?” I asked Macal.

  “Making sure we talk to everyone.” He looked at me. “You were right, you know. Sometimes you do need to bend the truth.”

  I frowned, my brows knitting together. “You want me tell everyone the truth about the ground, while you’re bending facts?” My eyes narrowed farther. He was Spire-born, raised a Singer, trained in manipulating everything. “How can I trust you now?”

  I heard Ciel’s song in my head.

  All that shook, all that fell was sky and bone …

  The words echoed as the tower seemed to sway.

  “You either trust me or don’t. I will do the same,” Macal said. Scavengers were looking at us.

  He had a point, but I had more concerns. “If the blackwings and Aivans won’t come, won’t listen? What then?”

  “They’ll follow us below once they know what’s at stake.” Macal seemed so sure. “The market should be all we need, plus we’ll start salting the wind with rumors of what you have to trade. With trade goods from all over, some lighter-than-air.”

  Raq’s second in command actually glared at him. “Magister, you’re putting people in danger. Citizens. There hasn’t been a market in the southwest since the blackwings began deciding who got what, and at what cost, and keeping the best for themselves. They’ll fight to maintain that.” She spat onto the bone towertop.

  “I’ll bet you benefited from that economy!” Macal said.

  I wanted to swat him. But the scavenger laughed. “Immensely.”

  “They might come for a fight,” I said, “but they’ll leave with an evacuation plan.”

  “And you will too,” Macal said.

  Raq crossed her arms over her wingstraps. “We’ll see.” She began organizing the scavengers. “There’s one cache of honey and stone fruits left. Get it from the silkspider towers.”

  “Those towers need messages taken to them anyway; and a new song.” I gave Raq the chips with verses from Ciel’s song. The one that said escape now, go down, and we are ready for you on the back.

  “Absolutely.” Raq checked her wings and tightened her straps.

  Macal and I watched her go. It would have to be enough. We might not be able to convince everyone, but the city’s population would not be trapped here unaware. A market would let us spread the word. We’d taken a risk, bargaining with scavengers, but risk was all we had left.

  I pushed the scavengers’ net aside and began to prepare.

  23

  MACAL, ABOVE

  A market, a coup, a quake; the clouds grew far too near

  That afternoon, tower citizens came in formations of three and more, flying in chevrons and darts. Their patterns were poorly organized. They flew our way on thin scraps of rumor, hoping to be first at the market.

  We scanned the sky for blackwings—and Aivans—and saw none yet.

  Nat raised an eyebrow and looked at Raq.

  “Families need supplies for themselves before the blackwings take the rest,” she said, staring at the cloudtop. “We might have misled the blackwing factions as to which tower. They’ll find it. Rumor has it the market’s selling hidden goods as well. Lighter-than-air. Stolen alembics. And that there was a Lawsbreaker here.” Nat. That wasn’t a rumor.

  The risks we were taking flew in the face of caution. We couldn’t take a safe breeze now, though.

  The first formations landed on the balcony. Citizens furled their wings and began looking through the assembled gear and scavenged items. “Do you have apples?” one young man asked. His eyes were deep set in the shadow of his brow.

  “Not yet,” said a nearby scavenger.

  As citizens milled, I heard Raq begin to sing. Typical market fare, “Corwin and the Nest of Thieves,” “The Bone Forest.” But then she shifted it ever so subtly, to another song, a new one. A piece of Ciel’s new song. I looked for Nat. “She learns fast.”

  As I took a small sack of stone fruit from one of the scavengers, he smiled. “She does.”

  How fast could a song spread? If people were hungry for it, maybe fast enough.

  “What’s that?” one visitor whispered to me as she held a scrap of silk. “I’ve never heard it before.”

  “Song called ‘Horizon,’” I heard her neighbor say. “It’s new.”

  The visitor clenched the silk tighter. “We need food, not songs.”

  “Stone fruit?” I asked like a vendor from Mondarath. Soon I was bartering as well as Sidra, and coincidentally talking about the towers, the city, the need to head lower for safety. A crowd grew around me, and I lost sight of Nat. I was good at this. I learned fast too.

  People began elbowing, protesting the tight spaces of the tier in the confines of market. I recognized tower marks woven into braids, strung across necks: Laria, Varu, Bissel, Grigrit, Haim, Naza. Much of the surviving southwest. A few northeastern towers too.

  “Good outreach,” I whispered to Raq. “Enough to get word of the evacuation spread.”

  “Not yet,” she whispered back, her hand on my elbow. She was right. We had to wait for the last groups, the ones marking the horizon now with dark wings. Blackwings.

  “Here they come,” Raq said.

  The blackwings flew in tight fighting formations: hawk and bee. Some landed, but others circled, wings locked, bows drawn. Ready to take what they wanted and go.
>
  The Aivans emerged from the crowd—which explained the suddenly congested spaces—pulling back their green and blue cloaks to reveal black feathers in their hair and on their shoulders. They formed a knot in the market.

  As the first faction of blackwings landed, Rya stepped from the knot. “This market is ours. These cloudbound too.”

  The sunlight struck her silk wings and seemed to dance there. She’d oiled the feathers attached to her clothing, and the result cast a kind of glow around her shoulders.

  The blackwings milled, waiting. Tense.

  “Who speaks for you?” Rya asked.

  “You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?” a Laria blackwing snapped back. “Maybe no one does. Maybe we speak for ourselves.”

  Rya didn’t bristle. Her expression remained controlled. “I think you can’t agree on a leader, so you all came.”

  She turned her back on them, while her captains flanked the group. In the air beyond the tower, more of Rya’s Aivans circled the blackwings. The market hushed, watching the coup.

  Rya seemed to ignore it, turning to Raq, her gaze passing over Nat appraisingly, like a cool wind. Over me as well. “The lighter-than-air?” she demanded.

  “It’s safe,” Raq said. “We want to barter with you, not have it stolen from us.”

  “As you stole it from us?” the Laria blackwing said. “And then lost our quadrant leader on your northern tower raid?”

  Rya did not look at me. “He was taken in battle, honorably.”

  The Laria blackwings began opening bags and lifting baskets.

  “Enough.” Not waiting for them to listen, I gently pulled a basket from black-robed arms. Rya held out a hand to stay a blackwing’s knife. Under her watch, I continued my business, returning things to the market. Inside the basket, metal knives and rare glass teeth glinted; nearby, wingsets from the north leaned against baskets filled—at least at the very top—with Naza silk. I could sense the knife that was hidden in each palm. I could feel the pull of want here. The menace of it.

  “The people will need these things, and very soon,” Nat pitched his voice so that the entire market tier could hear him. “The city is in grave danger. We must prepare. Tower by tower.”