“Getting cold in here, boy.”
Kite got up from the mat and pushed another faggot into the stove fire. The tinder dry wood popped and sizzled, scenting the air with sweet sap and chasing away the cold cooking smells. Ersa nodded her approval and sipped her from her cap of Morning Glory. The liquor soon bringing a silvery shine to her eyes.
Dropping to the mat Kite continued to sort the day's haul. At times like this the bothy seemed less a hiding place and more like a home. At least locked safely inside the container he didn't have to worry about anyone seeing his silver hair and eyes.
In the puddle of amber-coloured light from the tar-lamp the scavenge glowed like mounds of dirty gold. Copper wire and feathers from the nailbird nests. Jigsaw bits of circuit board, good for solder but not much else. Fistfuls of rivets, pins, screws and lags. Plastic squares with finger-worn letters on them. A few bottle-tops and badges, buckles and caps. One or two rings and fasteners. Terracotta beads and clay cameos. A fat spring, rusted solid.
Kite puffed out his cheeks. “Twenty there,” he said. “If we're lucky.”
Even if it was twenty it hardly seemed worth the bone-deep ache in his spine and the welts rubbing under his collar. He glanced at the bag tucked away at his side and imagined the Weatheren's things inside and his mind drifted to thoughts of profit...
“Maybe I’ll keep these for myself,” Ersa said, holding out the necklace she'd made from the buttons she taken from the bodies.
Kite suppressed a shudder. “Those men weren't even cold,” he said.
“Men?” Ersa said and chuckled. “Weatherens aren't men, boy. Save your pity for someone who deserves it.”
“They bled like men,” Kite said. “The Weatheren was just like everyone else. He had a daughter.”
Ersa leaned forward, the wicker chair creaking under her weight. The ruby-red spiral on her forehead glowed like fresh drawn blood. Her silver eyes were on him, hard as glass.
“You think he would have shown you mercy if he'd seen the colour of your hair, your eyes?” Ersa said, pointing at his shaved scalp. “No, boy. Weatherens are all the same. They'd have shocked you dead. As they've done to every Askian they've ever caught. Mark my words, I know what they're like.”
Ersa had told him the stories of what Weatherens had done to the Askians. Hunted them. Tortured them. Turned them into ash and let the wind scatter their remains. The Undercloud was grey because of the ashes of Askian families. Or so the Waste Witch would have him believe.
“You always say that,” Kite mumbled. “You're always telling me the Weatherens hate us but you've never tell me why. What did we do to them?”
Ersa went back to stringing her buttons. “It's not your duty to remember,” she said. “It’s your duty to stay hidden, told you that.”
“I don’t get why Askian knowledge such a big secret,” Kite grumbled.
Ersa huffed. “It’s not about secrets boy, it’s about memories. You can’t remember what you don’t know and the less you know the less they can take away from you,” she said, without looking up. “It's for...”
...your own good.
Kite stared into the stove fire, grinding his teeth. Always the same excuse. He was cursed with their silver eyes and salt-pale hair but he'd learned more about the Weatherens than the Askians.
Before Ersa found him all he had was a fragmented memory. The Sand Eater's dune clipper, sailing on an ocean of rust-coloured sand. Small and helpless, his cries going unnoticed by the tattooed nomads around him. The rest he had learned from Ersa. The Sand Eaters had come to Broken Beach, an lawless settlement on the edge of the Old Coast, hoping to trade metal for the Askian baby they’d found alone the dunes. Ersa used all her cunning and tricks to save him from the slavers. For that at least, he was grateful.
The questions soon came when Kite was old enough to think for himself. What happened to his family? Where were the other children like them? Where did the Askians hide, if not in the Old Coast? Then as now, questions left unanswered. Whether the answers were known to her or not Ersa refused to say either way.
Kite had long accepted his own family had abandoned him to the Thirsty Sea but surely he deserved to know about his people? The Waste Witch had no right to keep all that from him. One day, he promised himself, he'd find out the truth.
In a rueful silence Kite finished bagging the day's scavenge. When he was done he retreated to his corner. He didn't have much to call his own. A square of canvas bedding to sleep on. A wooden crate for his gear. His only possession of value was a geolume, a miraculous pebble that pulse with a tiny blue light, and it was the one thing he treasured the most.
Kite dragged across the canvas curtain and quietly opened his bag. Ersa may not have trusted him with Askian knowledge but at least she respected his privacy. He tipped the geolume out from the matchbox that he kept it in. The blue pebble glowed reassuringly, bathing him in its natural light, just bright enough to see the details of the leather case in his nervous hands. The case was made of the finest leather. The kind of leather sail makers would kill for. The flap had a symbol raised on its surface, flecked with glittering gold paint. A wheel spiked with rays of light, an unblinking eye in the middle. The symbol of the First Light Foundation. He'd known that hunting eye all his life.
The wicker chair creaked.
Kite hastily hid the things under the blanket and waited, listening to Ersa refilling her cap. Soon she’d settled again. When it was safe Kite brought out the next item. The mechanikin was ugly as a bucket. And surprisingly heavy, made of dense cerametal. With one eye missing the thing was next to worthless in that condition. Kite wondered why the dying Weatheren had chosen to save this junk of all things? A bizarre mascot? A toy for his daughter? Unease washed over him and Kite quickly stuffed the mechanikin back in his bag. He didn’t want to think about that right now.
Lastly Kite took out the roll of clear film. A fastener held it in place. He unclipped it and the clever film unfolded itself, as if remembering its original form. The film came alive in the geolume's light. Squiggles and lines and little scarlet dots and lots of labels in such tiny print that it hurt his eyes. Much of it was Fairspeak, Fairweather's complicated jumble of symbols and old fancy words. But some of the words he could read. His hands began to shake.
Port Howling. Hurts Deep. Broken Beach.
All of it was here. Even the great Saltlick brine pools and the Gasser vents, all marked out with hazard signs and elevations. And wrecks too. Dozens of them. Names to wind-up any imagination. HMS Aeolian Sky, SS Cortesia, MV Empress of the Seas. Even the wreck they'd been to that day had a name - Europa.
Kite sat back, a big stupid grin on his face. Even the veteran salvors in Ruster's Roost didn't know these wrecks. A map such as that had to be worth hundreds. No, a thousand royals. More money than Kite could dream of. Enough money to buy his way out of Dusthaven.
“Fire’s getting low boy.”
Ersa’s voice shook Kite back to reality. “J-just a minute, Ersa,” he called.
Fingers fumbling with excitement Kite hid the Weatheren’s things under his bedding. He couldn’t let Ersa find them. She’d burn them in a second. Even if they were worth a lifetime’s worth of scavenge. Finally he had some secrets of his own.
5
Dusthaven
“Twelve?” Kite said.
“Twelve,” said Ebb Hoary.
Kite nodded at yesterday's scavenge piled high on the waste trader’s scales. “But there's at least twenty there,” he said. “Good stuff too. Copper, look.”
Ebb Hoary shrugged his hairy shoulders. He was a short, barrel-shaped man but he stood on a crate and loomed over the counter like an overweight jack-in-the-box.
“Got rent to pay too, Nayward,” he said, removing the iron counter-weights one at a time. “Twelve royals the lot. Or try somewhere else.”
Kite shook his head. Twelve measly royals. He'd bring in more working as a rivetboy. “I already did,” he said, sourly. “Fine. Twelve.”
Ebb Hoary’s Waste Shop was little more than an open container, stacked high with scavenge and scrap. All bartered, begged or acquired from other dubious sources. Ebb Hoary had his hands in all kinds of business.
“Tell you what, Ebb,” Kite said, leaning on the counter. “You give me twenty and I'll buy some of your sillyweed.”
The waste trader slapped down the royal, a nickel brass coin stamped with a misshapen crown. “Funny aren't you?” he said, waving him away.
Kite took Ebb Hoary’s royal and squeezed his way into the market, glancing hungrily at the gear he wished he could buy. Goggles without sand-scratched lenses. Sturdy deck boots with buckles and metal soles. A high-collared leather windjacket to protect him from the storms. The kind Captain's wore.
In a sheltered corner beneath the containers Ersa sat at her box. Her heavy hood covered all but her gums. She was good at this. Playing the mad old Waste Witch, content to flog her trinkets to the chattering salvor's daughters. Some Haveners even thought her a real witch. Kite knew better.
“How much do you get for the scrap?” Ersa asked him when they were alone.
Kite pressed the royal into Ersa's palm.
“Where's the rest?” Ersa said, sniffing it.
“Twelve's all Ebb gave us,” Kite said. “Ask him if you don't believe me.”
Ersa scowled back and pocketed the money. “Better have been.”
A burst of dirty laughter made Kite turned his head. A knot of rivetboys kicked about near the stalls, trying to impress the salvor's daughters. Some were Savages; sons and nephews and all sorts. When they caught him looking Kite didn’t turn away. He wasn't afraid of their swagger and adolescent bile.
Ersa cautioned him. “Stay out of trouble, boy,” she said.
Kite turned away. He knew Ersa would never let him forget that time in Cloven Crag when he’d stood his ground against the scavvies there and lost his hood in the fight. But Kite was older now. He’d learned his lesson.
“I'm going to Ruster's Roost,” Kite said and moved away quietly.
Her name long forgotten, all that remained of the ship that had scuttled on the rocks beneath the cliffs was the great bulbous bow. A small mountain of gutted rust decorated with a gigantic, leering Tom Skull - the headquarters of the Savage Salvage Company. The bow cast its shadow over Ruster’s Roost, a row of filthy dry-docks where the salvors berthed their rigs and traded their hauls. Under the canvas awnings the atmosphere was feverish. Kite soon discovered why. Salvors and scrappers, ironmongers and metalworkers, merchants, traders and dealers of all kinds swarmed near the Highwrecker's gangplank. Gutter had claimed the Monitor for the Savage Salvage Company. Slabs of blackened skymetal had been piled on the airmachine's deck. Every last rivet belonged to Gutter now and no-one in Dusthaven would dare say otherwise.
Kite swore behind his scarf. If Gutter’s bailiffs found the map or the case he'd be dead as the whales. The sooner he got rid of the Weatheren's things the better.
Bids flew like punches. Five hundred royals. Six hundred. Big money, even for fire-blackened skymetal. But Gutter was holding out. Kite knew why. Skymetal was harder than steel and three times lighter. Only gold was rarer. But gold was useless to salvors. Gold couldn't be smelted to make new machine parts. Gold couldn't mend turbine blades and repair crank shafts.
With all that profit at stake scuffles soon broke out. The bailiffs waded in. Gutter's nephew Cob Savage, skull-faced and dressed in an coal-black leather coat, swiftly quelled the ruction with truncheons and fists. Kite quickly burrowed into the crowd. The last thing he wanted was Cob picking him out.
Away from Ruster's Roost, in the moorings under the chalk cliffs, Kite watched trading craft come and go. Some of them were nothing more than flying scrap, held aloft by fat envelopes and clattering propellers. At times he'd listen in on the banter between the tired, wind-worn pilots. Overheard tales of far flung trading ports fired his imagination - Iron Hill, Papertown and the Thundergrounds. From the grease-slicked mechanics he'd pick up the names of the machine parts - the turbines and propellers, the corpusant cells that powered the engines and the Helicoil drive. How they all fitted together to power the airmachines that gave these men a chance of profit and an ounce of freedom.
There was time, not so long ago, when Kite had dreamed of putting that knowledge to good use. He'd imagined himself flying anywhere the winds took him. But those dreams soon floundered. Scavvies didn’t fly. They grubbed in the Thirsty Sea for fish-hooks and bottle-tops. Even if he was given a chance he'd have to join a crew. Trust people he didn't know. And Kite knew he couldn't trust anyone. Not when the First Light Foundation posted rewards for information about Greys.
That was how low the Weatherens thought of them; something so foul that that even their real name was considered a curse word. Greys. That made the Askians sound like they had a disease.
“Arshush?”
Kite spun about, scanning the crowd. That voice again. Small, weak, barely heard. The same voice he'd heard last night. But no-one was there.
The chop of propellers distracted him. Sinking into a spare mooring, the LV Tailwind kicked up a whirl of chalk dust. Kite'd seen the Nimbus Air Ferry come and go, many times before. With two lozenge-shaped turbines powered by a Helicoil engine the Tailwind battled the coastal winds, carrying passengers and hauling cargo. From Broken Beach to Port Howling, regular as thunder.
Once the air ferry had berthed and gangplank had been set down Kite moved closer, keen to observe the new arrivals. Weighed down with their life's belongings most were desperate-looking vagrants and scavengers, hoping the Thirsty Sea would bring them luck.
But Kite wasn't interested in them.
Under the wind-troubled awnings he quickly picked out the lone traders and waistcoated merchants. These were the kind of out-of-towners he'd been hoping to find. Before long they'd set up their stalls, shilling everything from tobacco to lignite. But none of them looked like they had a dozen royals to rub together, let alone a thousand.
Then he heard a cocksure voice.
“Dice Clay, dealer in antiquities, very pleased to meet you all,” the man was saying. “Arrived this moment from Port Howling. Pottery, ceramics and antiquities of the rarest kind are my speciality. Allow me to show you my current stock.”
Kite joined the clutch of curious Haveners that had glued themselves together at the dealer's open case.
“Tempestine figurines made of purist nacre, all the way from the Amber Sands,” Clay said, showing each item in turn. “Thunderstones from the fireplains of the Kindlemoor, each one forged from a single lightning strike. And the finest Ergish coralknives, crafted by the master bladesmiths to ages old tradition.”
The sceptical crowd snorted their doubts. Undeterred Clay slipped one of the translucent coralknives from the bead-encrusted sheath. The edge was tempered enough to slice steel. Clay pulled out a spongy beetroot bulb and paired it on his palm, nicking his thumb as he did.
Kite stifled a laugh.
“Owth, yesh, as you can see the blade never needs sharpening,” Clay said, sucking on his thumb. “A snip at eighty-five royals.”
The crowd soon dissolved.
“Eighty?” Clay called after them. “Seventy-five, madam? A bargain. A steal. Madam?”
Soon only Kite remained. “You should try Gullspit instead,” he said, trying to sound helpful. “They go for this sort of stuff.”
Clay glanced at him doubtfully. “I take it that is not a free tip?” he said, replacing the coralknife in its sheath.
“Nothing's free in the Old Coast, Mr.Clay,” Kite said and dug into his bag.
“No thank you!” Clay said, waving him away. “Strictly sales, c
ash only.”
Clay had one of those fashionable moustaches with ends twiddled into greasy curls and a stale tobacco stink haunted his breath. His high-hat wilted. His clothes may have been smart once. Now they bulged with the tucks of poorly stitched repairs.
“You're an expert in antiques aren't you?” Kite said, trying to appeal to the man's pride.
Clay straightened his back. “I am indeed an member of the Port Howling Guild of Antiquarian and Fine Art Specialists, yes,” he said.
“So what's your expert opinion of this?” Kite said and showed him the mechanikin.
“Does it move?” Clay said. He turned the mechanikin over in his hands and poked it rudely. “Does it count? Sing? Twinkle Twinkle and Incy Wincy, that sort of thing?”
“Don't think so,” Kite said, shrugging.
“Pity. Folks are fond of things that talk and move. Automechanicals and so forth. A working Clockwork Jinny might be worth a few royals,” Clay said, handing the mechanikin back. “Perhaps if it was cleaned up a bit. Lick of paint, bit of oil.”
Kite swiftly shoved the mechanikin back in his bag. “I'm selling this for 30 royals,” he whispered, taking out the leather case instead. “It's quality leather. The best.”
The dealer ran his finger over the symbol of the First Light Foundation. He looked awe-struck. “Well now, where did you find this?” he said.
Kite ducked down. He'd just spotted Cob Savage stalking along the wharf toward them. “Want it or not?” he whispered.
Clay sucked in air. “Tricky things to sell, Weatheren goods. Lots of risk for such an investment,” he replied, having the decency to keep his voice low. “Everyone knows the Foundation reserves title over their property.”
Everyone knew that. But Kite knew the Savage Salvage Company ran Dusthaven not the Weatherens. “Twenty-five,” he said.
“Twenty,” said Clay.
Cob Savage had stopped now and was scanning the crowd. “Look, twenty-five, that's as low as I'll go,” he said.
Clay rubbed the end of his moustache between finger and thumb, eyeing the case hungrily. “Twenty-three,” he said.
The Immortal Storm (Sky Chaser Book 1) Page 3
