Skyborn

by Sinéad O'Hart

  Their feet tripped on the steps as the roustie pulled them on, up and up, around the twisting staircase inside the great glass trunk. Finally they reached a small, dome-ceilinged room containing several round tables, each surrounded by chairs.

  Beneath the glass ceiling’s highest point stood the only table in the room that was lit by a glowing lantern. It was also the only table that was occupied.

  “Well, then. What do we have here?” said Cyrus Quinn, his face half in shadow.

  Bastjan and Alice edged their way between the tables, towards the ringmaster. This room, at the top of the glass trunk, had windows above and to either side, and the floor too was made of thick, reinforced glass. The view was spectacular – if completely dizzying. Far below lay the glimmer of distant cities, their streets laced with dots of light, and waterways glittered as they threaded their way between the expanses of land. Along the horizon, the reddish-gold sunset was just beginning to bleed into the darkening sky.

  “Take a seat,” the ringmaster said as the children drew near, gesturing to the empty chairs all around him. “We have much to discuss.”

  Bastjan fumbled his way into a chair. Beneath the table he felt Alice’s warm hand squeezing his own.

  Quinn watched them as he reached into an inner pocket of his coat. He drew out the box, which he placed in the middle of the table. Its enamelled lid shone with a bright beauty, like the feathers of an exotic bird. Bastjan burned to grab it but Quinn’s fingers never left the box for a moment.

  The ringmaster chuckled. “Don’t worry. I’ve kept it safe.”

  “Safe,” Bastjan spat. He shook with rage as he forced himself to look at the ringmaster’s mocking face. “I’ll ’ave it back.”

  “Yes, soon enough,” the ringmaster said. “This old thing is making good time. We’ve been airborne for perhaps eight hours and already we’ve crossed most of the Continent. We’ll arrive on Melita before midnight, with any luck.”

  “An’ then what?” Bastjan said. “We go an’ steal an innocent creature to perform in yer circus?”

  “Steal,” the ringmaster repeated. “I hardly think so. Entice, perhaps. I have something the Slipskin wants, and the Slipskin has something I want, and I’m sure we can make a deal.”

  “Ain’t no deal worth makin’ if it means someone ends up a prisoner.”

  Quinn gave a tight-lipped smile. “I can’t say I agree.”

  “Aren’t you going to get in trouble when your benefactor finds out what you’re doing?” Alice said. “I thought you were supposed to hand the box over once you’d found it.”

  The ringmaster turned his gaze to her. “Lady Patten. What a pleasure.” His smile faded. “I’ve been doing a bit of research into Dr Bauer, actually, and I’ve discovered a few unpleasant things. If he had his way, the Slipskin would end up pinned to a display board in a scientific institute somewhere, pored over and prodded at. Or perhaps kept barely alive, to be used for goodness knows what. Bauer’s line of work has made him a very wealthy and extremely well-respected man, but he doesn’t care what he destroys in his search for knowledge. As bad as I am, you can’t accuse me of that.”

  Bastjan shook his head in disbelief. “You’re no better’n he is!”

  Quinn sighed. “Everything I’ve done – including sending you to the farm, believe it or not – was for the good of this circus. That’s the truth. I will do anything to keep this show going, and if I can’t have the best aerialist of all time beneath my roof, and if her son is worse than useless –” Quinn’s gaze grew piercing – “then I’ll take the next most incredible act I can find. I’ll put anything in the ring, so long as people will pay to see it.”

  He looked away from Bastjan. “In my haste, I admit I have made one or two mistakes. Once you were dispensed with, for instance, I remembered something I’d read. The Slipskins’ remarkable sense of smell, which is acute enough to detect the blood of a Melitan, even from quite a distance. They developed this skill, apparently, as a means of trying to avoid being hunted to extinction – or near extinction, as the case may be. Now, I thought to myself, where shall I find a Melitan, a person whose blood will rouse the Slipskin and draw it out? And then, of course, I recalled I had one in my family.” Quinn began to drum his fingers on the tabletop. “My final piece of luck was our Iberian friends’ attempt to sabotage my ship, which I guessed was designed to slow me down. I hoped it meant you were on my trail. So, once it became clear you were, we waited for you to catch up.”

  “I ain’t your family,” Bastjan growled.

  Alice blinked at the ringmaster. “You knew we were coming?”

  Quinn met her confused gaze. “I am not an idiot, girl,” he said.

  Right at that moment, a voice was heard from somewhere beneath them – a loud voice, one the children both knew, interspersed with sharp barks.

  “Crake,” said Bastjan, at the same time as Alice whispered, “Wares!”

  Crake came barrelling up the steps with Wares clutched in one arm, barging past the roustie. His eyes were bulging with rage and his gaze was fixed on the ringmaster. He dropped the dog gently to the floor and then strode towards Cyrus Quinn.

  “Cornelius,” Quinn said, amused. “I was wondering when you’d turn up.”

  The ringmaster whistled, the noise a sharp trill – a roustie signal. The next thing Bastjan knew, four men entered the glass room, obeying the command. Crake stopped in his tracks.

  “Get behind me, the pair o’ youse,” he muttered to the children – but as Bastjan moved, he spotted a baton in the hands of one of the rousties.

  “Crake!” Bastjan shouted – but it was too late. The roustie hit Crake sharply over the back of the head and the strongman slumped face-forward on to the table, which crashed to one side as Crake landed at the ringmaster’s feet.

  Amid the shards of the table and the upturned lantern, Bastjan saw his mother’s box lying on the floor. Just as he was about to spring forwards and grab it, he felt strong fingers taking a handful of his collar.

  “Not so fast,” said a voice near his ear. A roustie had him in a vice-grip.

  Alice stood amid the confusion, Wares yapping in her arms.

  “Take them,” said the ringmaster, still calmly seated on his chair. “The firemarked girl, the dog and that lump of useless meat on the floor. Lock them in a pod. Leave me with my stepson.”

  Another roustie grabbed Alice by the arm. “Bastjan!” she shouted, but the boy couldn’t reply. His throat was swelling shut and his lungs were beginning to tighten. Stars wriggled across his vision.

  Three more men bent to the task of hauling Crake up off the floor. Blood trickled down around his left ear and the back of his collar was stained red. Bastjan watched, his chest on fire, as his friends were taken away.

  “Where – whoop! – where’re you – whoop! – takin’ ’em?”

  “To a pod,” Quinn said, bending forwards to pick up the box. He slipped it back into his coat. “A lifeboat. Small, self-contained, easily detached from the main ship.” He paused, getting to his feet. “Handy, in an emergency. But it’s even more convenient for ridding yourself of people you don’t want on board.”

  “No,” Bastjan said. “You can’t – whoop – do this!”

  “I can,” Quinn said. “And I will. But you can stop it.”

  Bastjan’s eyes blurred with tears.

  “Come down to the Silent City with me. Help me find the Slipskin and bring it on board, and once it’s safely stowed you can have your friends, and your mother’s box, back.” Quinn bored through Bastjan with a look. “But if you put one foot out of line, those three will go to a watery end in the Midsea. They’ll sink so far that nothing, not even fish that scrape their food off the ocean bed, will ever find them.”

  Bastjan blinked, the tears rolling down his cheeks. His chest finally closed over completely, and he barely felt the roustie pulling him up, throwing him over his shoulder, and carrying him away.

  “Five degrees to starboard. Hold that el
evation!”

  The words sounded fuzzy in Bastjan’s ears, as though the person were speaking through a fistful of cloth. The voice sounded somehow familiar, but Bastjan couldn’t quite place where he’d heard it before.

  And then recognition washed over him: Atwood. Atwood, the circus fire juggler. What was he doing here?

  “Three degrees port,” Atwood continued. “Got to correct for these crosswinds. Quick, now!”

  Bastjan forced his eyes open. Bright lights speared through his head, making him squint. He was lying on the floor of a control room, with gigantic windows to the front and sides. The walls were covered with dials and switches and gauges with hopping needles and pipes which hissed and clanked and rattled. There were several speaking horns – though Bastjan had no idea where they were connected to, or who would answer if you picked one up and spoke into it.

  He started to sit up and the room swam into clearer focus. Atwood was standing before the room’s largest window, keeping tight hold on the handles of a wheel, while in front of a long lever set into the floor was his son, Clement.

  A third figure stood staring out the window with his hands behind his back, his strong legs spread wide for balance. He wore a brown jacket made of leather, and shining black boots. In his hand he clutched a pair of goggles.

  “You’re awake, then,” Quinn said, turning to look at him.

  “Where—” Bastjan began, stopping to draw in a deep breath. “Where are we?”

  “Come and see for yourself,” Quinn said, stepping to one side.

  Bastjan got to his feet. The floor hummed unpleasantly, making his teeth buzz. Outside the window the sky was dark. With every step that Bastjan took, he grew surer and surer of what he was about to see, but despite that, nothing could prepare him for the sight when it eventually came.

  Beneath the airship, visible even by moonlight, was a huge hole in the earth, surrounded by a high wall. He closed his eyes and all he could see was his mother’s sketch. He knew exactly where he was. The Silent City.

  And somewhere inside the city was the creature that owned the bracelet his mother had stolen. The bracelet he had to return, before it was too late.

  The airship sank slowly into the Silent City, its wall rising around them like a fist closing over. When they were low enough, Clement pulled his lever. As soon as it clunked into position, lights began to pop on all around the outside of the airship, flooding the city with artificial brightness. At the same time, Atwood reached overhead to release a switch. The ship rocked very slightly as several loud but muffled bangs were heard, coming from all around the perimeter of the room.

  Bastjan saw sharp metal hooks attached to strong ropes come shooting out of the ship. The hooks buried themselves in the crumbling walls, firmly anchoring the airship over the city, each collision of metal and stone throwing up a cloud of dust. The vibration in the floor of the airship eased until, finally, the huge propellers came to rest. The ship was silent, floating above the city. The barest sway gave away the power of the wind, blowing it from side to side.

  Bastjan stared at Atwood as the man tied off the wheel. “Why’re you doin’ this?” he asked. “You got to know why we’re here.”

  “What my ringmaster tells me to do, I do. He says it’s for the best.” Atwood shrugged and looked away, though guilt tinged his eyes. “I believe that.”

  “Wind’s pickin’ up, Dad,” Clement said, tapping at a gauge on the wall.

  Atwood turned to the ringmaster. “It’s balloon only now,” he said. “I’m keepin’ the engines stoked for lights an’ liftaway. But we must be quick. Fuel’s tight, an’ we want to avoid attention if we can.” He nodded at the gauge. “Plus, you saw that cloud bank over the Midsea. There’s bad weather comin’, an’ I want to get ahead of it.”

  The ringmaster nodded. Then he turned back to Bastjan. “Right. Well, let’s get moving. We’d best start now and camp in the city if needs be.”

  “I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Bastjan told him.

  “Either you come with me and lure this thing in peacefully,” Quinn said, “or I go down there and bring it in screaming. It’s your choice.”

  Bastjan stared at his stepfather. “I ain’t lettin’ you hurt anyone. Or anythin’. Never again.”

  Quinn’s face lit up in a smirk. “Well, then. You know what to do. I don’t need to remind you what’s at stake – not just the creature in the city, but your friends too.” He turned away, making for the door.

  Bastjan glanced between Atwood and Clement, too angry to speak, and finally followed the ringmaster out of the room. Their footsteps clanged on the metal floor as they walked down a dimly lit corridor, until they passed through a round doorway into a small room, no bigger than a circus wagon. It was full of rousties, all of whom seemed to be pulling on boots or wrestling into unfamiliar-looking clothing. One of them was Hubert.

  “Ahyuk,” said Hubert, nodding at Bastjan. “Evenin’, young fella.”

  Bastjan didn’t reply. Behind him, the ringmaster slammed a thick iron door closed, making him jump. Then someone shoved something heavy into his hands. It was a jacket, and as he began to struggle his way into it, he barely saved a pair of goggles, which had been wrapped up inside, from crashing to the floor. He looked around – everyone else was putting them on, so he tried to do the same. The leather straps were worn and Bastjan struggled to adjust them. The lenses kept slipping away from his eyes.

  “Let me,” said Hubert, taking the goggles from him. His strong hands quickly fixed the straps.

  “Where’s Crake?” Bastjan asked. “An’ Alice, an’ Wares?”

  “Ahyuk,” Hubert began. “If you mean the girl and that little terrier, they’re locked up with Cornelius in one of the pods.” He tapped the goggles’ lenses. “How’s that feel?”

  “Fine,” Bastjan replied, distracted. “They all right?”

  “Far as I know. Ahyuk.”

  “Gentlemen!” came Quinn’s voice. Bastjan, Hubert and the other rousties turned to face him. He’d pulled on his own goggles and fastened his jacket up to the neck. “I’m about to open the hatch. Quick as you can, now.”

  The men braced themselves and Bastjan followed suit. Then the ringmaster turned to a door in the wall, one with a large metal handle. He held up a gloved hand with three fingers raised.

  Three, two, one, Bastjan counted as the ringmaster lowered his fingers.

  Quinn pulled down on the handle and the door popped open, folding inwards and tucking neatly against the wall. Wind rushed through the tiny room, catching Bastjan’s breath.

  The ringmaster kicked through a rolled-up rope ladder, which quickly began to unfurl. “Now!” he shouted. “Go!”

  The rousties went first. Hubert held out a hand to Bastjan as he made for the opening. “Come on, lad! Ahyuk!”

  Bastjan was stuck to the wall. His knees buckled.

  Quinn grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him towards the ladder. Bastjan tried to swallow back his bile as he got a firm grip on the ladder’s wooden rungs.

  And then, before he knew it, he’d begun his descent.

  It was the noise that alerted her first, the loud thrum that sounded like nothing in the Silent City. It was a sound from outside – a human sound. She woke, her large black eyes adjusting instantly to the darkness, and straightaway she sat up, her senses on fire.

  She had no idea of time. She slept when she was tired, ate when she was hungry. She knew nothing of clocks or calendars, so she did not know how long it had been since her power had been ripped from her. Since that day, she had not grown; her body had remained the same. She was still the child she had been the day she ceased to be a Slipskin and became something else, something without a name.

  She did not know where her power, her Relic, had gone. She had been charged to keep it safe and she had failed. She missed it like a knocked-out tooth, the gap where it should be a burning ache inside her. She also knew that it had been taken from her when someone from outside had disturbed her. Not
hing good had ever come from outside.

  The last human hadn’t come with noise, she remembered, just as the gigantic flying creature overhead lit itself up brighter than day, making her hiss and scuttle for shelter.

  She peered up and out again, watching the thing hanging in the sky, her sky. Its light was too bright, its noise too great. And then it shot out claws, bursting holes through the walls of her city. The girl opened her mouth in a silent scream, huddling in a tight ball, afraid that the ancient walls were finally going to break all around her, just as her mother always told her they would, if ever she tried to go beyond them…

  After a moment or two the girl uncovered her face and peered up at the walls again. The claws were still. The walls stood. Nothing had crumbled. She remained.

  She, Dawara. The last inhabitant of the Silent City.

  Then the floating beast showed it had one more surprise for her. Dawara watched, her eyes narrowed, as a mouth appeared in the belly of the creature – or not a mouth, but a door. Something fell through it, something which unrolled itself as it fell, and then the humans began to come.

  She could smell them on the wind. They stank of smoke, of dirt, of things Dawara couldn’t name. They reeked of death, and Dawara’s eyes closed as her mind filled up with the memory of her mother’s face, the urgent look in her eyes as she’d pulled the Relic from her arm and pushed it into Dawara’s hand. Dawara hadn’t wanted to take it – she wasn’t ready to own it yet. Her mother still had years of life; it wasn’t time to pass it down.

  And then her mother had run, foolishly, into the path of the hunters. They’d taken her. But it was not foolishness, Dawara told herself, squeezing her eyes tight. My mother was not a fool. She did it for me.

  Dawara set her teeth, opening her eyes again. The humans were back, looking for her, looking for the Relic – but it was not here. She’d already lost the power she’d been entrusted with. Grief and fear overwhelmed her, and she hid herself deeper in the rubble, keeping careful watch.