Updraft

by Fran Wilde

“Who has charge of the vents? The windbeaters?”

  When she didn’t answer, I looked for Moc. He was already disappearing down a ladder. I chased him. I heard Wik call out behind me, but I did not stop. Ciel ran with me, but halted at the landing.

  “You’ll be fine,” I said.

  She stared down the ladder. Wik appeared behind her, put a hand on her shoulder and dipped his head to me. She let him lift her up and rested her head on his shoulder. Safe.

  If I lingered, I would lose track of Moc entirely. I turned and hurried down the ladder.

  I caught up to Moc on the next level. Grabbed his robe and held him by it. “Tell me now—what is happening?”

  He pawed the air with his fists. “I am trying to find out!” His voice cracked. “Someone is sabotaging the Spire—your wings, the vents! Other things too. It is not over. It is not decided.”

  He swung so hard that I dropped him to the floor. He got to his feet and began descending the next ladder.

  “Why is no one else asking questions?”

  “They don’t see everything Ciel and I do. Some don’t trust us because our aunt is on the council. So they don’t listen to us either.”

  I heard truth in his voice. Followed him down into the depths of the Spire. Someone had sabotaged my wings. Someone had tried to hurt Ciel. If I found out why, I might gain better leverage with Rumul. Perhaps I would then have gossip for my father.

  We reached the lowest levels, where the windbeaters lived. Bolts of dove-colored silk lined the halls, and silk spiders’ nests clung to corners and to the ceiling. I spotted a loom in an alcove. The walls were covered in carvings. Some bone spurs had been carved so deeply and intricately, they resembled lace and lattice more than walls.

  Ahead of me, Moc stepped into the shadows, out of the dimming light.

  “They keep busy down here.”

  “They make a bunch of things. Wings, nets. The plinths for wingtests. Trade them for goods from the other towers,” he whispered.

  Two aged windbeaters leaned out over the Gyre, large wings spread on the floor behind them. They did not turn as we passed.

  “What are they doing?” I looked back. One windbeater’s eyes were white, like the skyblind. He was tethered to the floor with bone cleats and long sinew ropes.

  “Listening to the wind. Learning to shape it.” Moc didn’t spare them a glance. “Even the injured can do that, if they’re good enough. And if they still have use of their arms and shoulders.”

  Moc kept walking until he reached an alcove carved into the thickening outer wall. Strange carvings surrounded the room like pipes. Long stretches of hollowed-out bone rose to the ceiling. Some had pulley ropes run through them, or hinged lids. They looked like a group of rainspouts.

  A bent form was working the pipes—a man, judging by the breadth of his shoulders, though his robes hung strangely. He moved as if each gesture brought pain.

  The pipe covers snapped open and clicked shut, sounding like Laws chips. The alcove smelled like old bone mixed with fresh air. The man’s fingers stilled. He seemed to be waiting for something.

  I heard a soft clicking. Like echoing.

  “Civik Spire,” Moc said. The figure did not move. Moc cleared his voice and prepared to shout, before shaking his head instead and touching the figure’s sleeve. The man spun halfway towards him. Singer marks scarred the skin around his ruined eyes. The left side of his face had been flattened: a broken cheekbone. Something sharp had taken his right eye.

  Sound came sudden to my lips. “Oh.”

  The figure turned to me fully now, as if he could hear me easier than he could hear Moc.

  A rasp, like a gate opening. “Skymouth speaker.” He said it slowly, as if he rarely spoke. “I’d wondered when they’d find a new one.” His laugh was bitter and ended in a cough.

  “You almost killed her last night, you broken old man,” Moc said, though his voice was softer now. He turned to me, murmured, “Civik’s deaf in the left ear. Once you get his attention, it’s all right.”

  I looked at them both, suddenly aware of how much Moc knew about the tower’s comings and goings. He hadn’t spotted the resemblance between me and the ruined man before me, though. This was one thing he did not know.

  But I knew. I saw it in Civik’s hands, his long fingers, so similar to my own. I recognized the rasp in Civik’s voice as a worn echo of my terrible singing voice.

  Civik knew me only by the tones behind my voice. Knew me as a skymouth shouter. But I knew him for much more.

  I held my tongue, for now.

  Civik pushed on the walls and grabbed handholds to move away from the pipes. I heard bone grind against bone. Civik’s robe shifted with the motion. For a moment, I saw that his body was bound with spidersilk to a bone pedestal. Where Civik’s legs should have been, his under-robes ended in a knot. Carved bone rollers at the pedestal’s base allowed him to move.

  I gasped again.

  “Young person who has arrived with the impertinent Moc,” Civik rasped, “is shocked at my appearance. It hasn’t been that long, has it, since my last battle?”

  “Twelve years, Civik,” Moc said. He gestured uselessly to me. “But this novice arrived a few months ago. And you almost killed her with faulty nightwing straps. And just now, you nearly killed Ciel, too, with your backdraft.”

  I bit my tongue so that Civik would not realize anything more about me, and let Moc rage on.

  “Could you get something right, Civik? You didn’t distract the council from deciding against Terrin. You didn’t even stall them. You’re dangerous. I should find a new windbeater to bribe.”

  Civik grumbled. “I am trying, young Moc.”

  “What is going on?” I said.

  They both answered at once.

  Civik said, “Moc owes me tools and gossip.” While Moc said, “Civik’s useless—I won’t give you any more gossip, Civik, until you help us.”

  “You were trying to help Terrin by sabotaging the Nightwings?” I asked.

  The windbeater shrugged. “Terrin’s argument was his. He flew too early. We could have postponed it. We had our own goals.”

  “But you weren’t supposed to target novices,” Moc said quickly. “Wik was out there.”

  Civik waved a hand. “If the night fliers have a setback, that delays Rumul. Long enough for Terrin to seek more support. And many other things.”

  Swaying from foot to foot as he thought, Moc looked very young. I held myself still, listening to what was being said and what was not being said. How many layers of allegiance and independence existed in the Spire? In the city, loyalty was to tower and family first, then friends and allies after. A tightly woven fabric—except when there was a flaw. I thought of how Densira and my aunts had almost abandoned my unlucky mother. In the Spire, loyalty was different, focused on power: on gaining it, on keeping it. Much was dedicated to duty. Still more to the city itself. Then, to other Singers, as long as they were skilled enough and did not break tradition. Singers with Spire family had another layer as well. It reminded me of the Gyre’s wind gusts, spun together to form a powerful current that lifted a flier’s wings. Or made them fall.

  I did not understand all of it, by far. And, from what I’d seen, some Singers valued certain layers over others. If I didn’t figure out the connections, those forces would work against me, pull me down.

  Worse, I stood in a room with my father, and I could not bring myself to greet him. He was weak and ruined. He’d almost killed Nightwings last night and Ciel today, to aid his own plans. I didn’t know him. How could I want him as a relative, much less an ally?

  I thought back to Civik’s attempts to delay Rumul. To Moc’s words. “Why did Terrin need support?”

  Moc blew air through his lips in exasperation. “You still don’t understand, Kirit.”

  At my name, Civik’s head turned farther. His blind eyes looked like kavik eggs. I shivered. “Kirit?” he whispered and leaned towards me. His cart rolled forward, his fingers
reaching out, and I stepped back, involuntarily.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  At my words, Civik leaned back, and his cart retreated towards the wall.

  Moc answered. “He fell, during his last fight. Lost his legs. Destroyed his shoulder. Before that, he broke his hip, but he still fought in the Gyre.”

  “When did you go blind?” I whispered, circling to stand nearer to Moc. Civik’s white gaze followed the sound of my voice now.

  “His first fight. A challenger. She devastated him, but let him live. He became a windbeater, but he emerged twice to challenge again.” Moc sounded sad and proud at the same time.

  “You fought blind?”

  Moc laughed. “Singers fight until they can’t. Of course he fought blind. You could too, if you got better at echoing.”

  Of course—as a skymouth shouter, Civik would have also trained as a Nightwing.

  “And he can’t stop fighting. Civik thinks he’s the conscience of the Spire, don’t you?” Moc stepped close and tapped Civik on the shoulder. The two were nearly the same height.

  “Kirit is a name I haven’t heard in a long time,” Civik finally said. Then his shoulders slumped. “What tower are you from?”

  But I had my own questions. “Years ago, you betrayed Naton Densira, didn’t you? Why?”

  Civik bent farther with more hacking sounds. Finally he caught enough breath to speak. “Is that what you think? Who told you that?”

  I was about to answer when Moc looked up, head tilted. “Someone’s coming.”

  Wik emerged from a ladder well.

  “Moc. Kirit. Why am I not surprised? You’ve caused quite an uproar.” His voice sounded stern. His eyes, though. They looked grateful.

  He saw Civik, bent down to clasp the man’s gnarled hand.

  Moc pointed. “Old man’s been trying to sabotage things all the wrong ways. First the wings, then the Gyre blowback. If Ciel had fallen…” His voice tightened on the last words.

  Wik raised his eyebrows. Civik interjected before Wik, too, could grow angry.

  “Moc didn’t tell me how to stir things up, just that folks wanted them stirred. Hasn’t paid me either.”

  Moc. The Nightwings. No.

  “Fine,” Moc said, ignoring my shocked face. “This is your gossip: Rumul has accepted the oath of an adult novice to take your place as a shouter. Kirit. He won’t need you anymore once she’s trained.” His voice was angry and mean.

  Wik frowned but didn’t contradict him. I knelt next to Wik and Civik.

  I put a hand out and touched the windbeater’s fingertips. “Not replace. Moc is angry.” Civik’s fingers were dry and callused. He startled at my touch, then wrapped his hand around mine. For a moment, I imagined that we had always been this way. Then I squeezed his hand hard, and he yelped.

  “Why did you leave Densira? Why did you betray Naton?” I would not let go until he told me.

  Wik put a hand on my shoulder. “You have it backwards, Kirit. Civik has been trying to help.”

  “I made a mistake,” Civik whispered. “A lot of mistakes. But I am fighting now.” His eyes rolled, searching for light he’d never find.

  “When he returned to the Spire and lost his first challenge,” Wik said, “he was allowed to concede. And then he didn’t stop challenging. His injuries didn’t matter. He kept flying. When Rumul finally beat him, he broke Civik’s collarbone. Civik was no longer able to fly beyond the Spire without help. He couldn’t return to Densira.”

  I turned on Wik. “And who are you? Rumul’s man? Like Sellis?”

  Wik shook his head. “I see the good the Singers do, and I defend the city. But Rumul’s decisions have consequences for everyone. I supported Terrin and wanted the city to know what he had to say. I was one of a few who wanted this. There are others.”

  “What was it that Terrin wanted to say?”

  “It has to do with the skymouths,” Wik said slowly. “But it has been decided.”

  Civik coughed, ignoring Wik. “Ezarit? Does she live?” So he did remember. He’d drawn into himself, his arms wrapped around his chest.

  “She does,” I said. “Though she seems to be at the end of her ability to negotiate with the Singers.”

  I heard Moc gasp.

  Civik hung his head. “That is my fault too.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He answered me. “If I’d lost properly, or had told her everything, she would have had more to bargain with.”

  Then the timing clicked. Civik’s initial downfall. My mother’s challenge. Her voice telling me the story, after the wingtest. I was ruthless, Kirit. She’d fought Civik. To gain her security in the towers.

  I looked around Civik’s alcove. The pipes, the smell of fresh air and old bone. His sunken, gray cheeks. The darkness. “Are you in pain?”

  He shook his head. Then nodded. “Always, a little. Enough.”

  “You were a Singer and a skymouth shouter. Why are you down here?”

  Wik answered instead. “He challenged Rumul. Who could have killed him.” I frowned, though I understood. Wik continued. “But shouters’ voices? They’re valuable. Civik could no longer fly, but Rumul went to great lengths to keep him alive.”

  Civik’s voice. The rasp of it. Stilling with one shout a skymouth, all teeth and maw and grasping tentacles. That was one power Rumul lacked, except when he could control it in others. I looked more closely at my father. His lips were chapped and cracked. His clothing very dirty. He was thinner than Wik, by far.

  Rumul might have been keeping him alive, but it was a very near thing. And I couldn’t imagine Civik outside the Spire, being flown by another Singer, in the midst of a skymouth migration. There was something else that I was missing.

  My hand went to my throat. “How does Rumul use Civik’s voice inside the Spire?”

  There was a long pause. No one answered me.

  “It has been decided,” Wik said, looking away.

  Terrin’s challenge. “What did he want to tell the city?”

  Civik’s laugh was a sour echo. “Secrets.”

  Wik took my hand and tried to pull me out of the alcove. I refused to budge. Finally, he said, “Come. I will show you.”

  He took a long loop of knotted rope from the wall near Civik’s alcove. The ladder wells had been filled in below this level. Going below the windbeaters, I remembered, was forbidden. We headed for the Gyre’s edge. Wik tied the rope to bone hooks carved in the wall and tossed the loop into the depths of the Spire.

  18

  DOWNTOWER

  We climbed down the rope, far into the darkness below the occupied tiers, until we reached a thick set of nets. Multiple layers of them.

  Wik touched my arm. Whispered, “Stay very quiet.” Then he walked slowly towards the center of the Gyre, across the nets.

  An acrid smell grew stronger as I followed his path. The nets rose and fell with our motion, but also with an odd pressure from below our feet. I wobbled and fought hard to keep my balance. When I looked down, I could not see anything but shadowy ropes and more darkness.

  Wik reached the center of the netting and pulled on a series of knots. An access gate opened to the space below. He lowered himself through the hole, tugging on my sleeve to guide me, then closed the gate behind us.

  I relaxed my hands, which had tightened into fists. Tried to calm myself. I would not regret demanding to know. This was where I’d wanted to be.

  It wasn’t where I wanted to be at all.

  We stood in the center of the nets and Wik said, “Kirit, you must control your voice in here, as we’ve practiced. You must not make any mistakes.”

  Something moved beyond the nets. Something big.

  The hair on my arms rose.

  “Do not shout. Do not speak. Just echo.” Wik’s lips touched my ear, his voice sounded almost inside my head.

  My eyes adjusted, slowly. I could now see where Wik’s face was, his cheek a different shade of darkness than the shadowed walls ar
ound us. I saw the quick flashes of his teeth.

  But that was all. Wik was right. This was not a time for using my eyes.

  His voice was patient, and urgent. “You will understand soon. Just echo.”

  I was still learning how to echo and hum; the combination was difficult. Now I hummed through my nose while clicking and tried to remember to breathe. The movement on the other side of the net stopped.

  “We would have had to do this anyway, to complete your training,” Wik whispered.

  The completion of my training was skymouth shouting. I stopped echoing. “Is a skymouth caught in the nets?”

  I imagined a mouth opening beside me, tentacles reaching for me, with only ropework between us.

  I tried to refocus, to corral in my thoughts. Breathe and echo.

  I heard the shape of something beyond the nets. Something large, in motion. I turned and echoed again. More of the same shape, slightly smaller. I could not breathe.

  “Not one skymouth,” Wik said, his voice close in my ear again. “Many.”

  I stopped humming. Darkness surrounded me. Wik’s hand brushed my arm.

  I bit back a scream.

  “Many?” My voice rose, and there was a rasp on the other side of the net. Motion. Faster. The ropes bulged towards us.

  Something tugged at my hair. My robe. Something that slid and grabbed and pulled. My entire body went gooseflesh. I could not breathe at all.

  Wik hummed, and the sinister motion slowed. The tentacles receded. My breath returned, but my mouth was dry. It took time to rebuild my echo. For a moment, I was overwhelmed by the darkness, blinded with fear.

  “We are safe here,” Wik said, stopping his echo once mine had started again. “The nets will hold.”

  I kept echoing, hearing the coils and tentacles, the long bodies of the penned skymouths that my hum was defining around us. When they moved, the echo blurred into a confusion of roiled air. “Why?” The nets went dark again when I stopped echoing to ask the question. But even in the dark, I could see the pattern of the nets. I had seen it before, on Naton’s bone chips. This was what he had carved. The blueprint for these nets. A skymouth pen.

  “Some of the skymouths here will be used for their sinew, for bridges. Some give us the ink that lines their glands,” Wik said, lifting my hand and putting his thumb on the mark Rumul had given me. Wik hummed again, and I joined him. The movement around us stilled.