The rain streamed across the window and Mirrlees-on-Weep streamed with it. The city’s lights nothing more than glittery tears tracking down the glass. David had not cried. He let the city do it for him. It cried too much. He wondered when he might return. Not for a long, long time, if ever. Which suited him fine. He didn’t want to go back. He let out a long breath and let himself believe that he was out of the city, that things might just be getting better.
He started to whistle a tune that his mother used to sing to him.
“Whistling, I can’t stand it. Stop that now,” Cadell said, with a vehemence that surprised David.
“All right,” David said. “Sorry.”
“I’m sorry too. Just that tune brings back bad memories.” Cadell frowned and mumbled under his breath. “Hot in here. The air’s stale and I don’t like the way it smells.”
David held off suggesting that that smell was probably them, after their flight in the storm; the Vergers trailing them, down street and along creaking bridge. He considered opening the window, but thought better of it, preferring to leave the rain outside for a while. So he ignored Cadell and watched his home – the city that he had lived in all his life – slip behind him, becoming a single wavering brightness that, in turn, faded to nothing.
Cadell, despite his misgivings, fell asleep almost at once. David envied him bitterly; he had no such luck. He shut his eyes and that dark space only served up memories he did not want, his father or an eyeless Lassiter, spiders bubbling from his lips. He thought of his Aunt Veronica in Hardacre, she ran a school there. He wondered if she would even recognize him. They’d never been close. She hadn’t even been able to make it down for his mother’s funeral. But then again the cities of Hardacre and Mirrlees were hardly on good terms. She was family, a good woman, and he knew he could start his life again up there. Of course he had to actually reach Hardacre first.
He kept his eyes open and gazed at Cadell. In sleep he seemed older, frailer – though not nearly as old as he claimed. Cadell moaned, rolling away from the window; drool pooled onto the engineer’s shoulder.
David peered a little closer. A single tear, gleaming in the cabin light, followed the line of Cadell’s left cheek.
David looked away, embarrassed. He didn’t understand his own grief, felt shamed by it. Someone else’s tears were worse.
Outside, buildings rushed by in the murk, fragments of metropolises and structures that pre-dated Mirrlees-on-Weep and the Council. Most of them were deserted centuries ago but not all. Lights burned fitfully from narrow windows, figures moved from shadow to shadow.
Old Men, smoking pipes, stood framed in ancient doorways and raised their hands at the passing of the Dolorous Grey. In greeting or as a ward against evil, David could not be sure.
David wondered what their lives were like, here, away from the city. How they could survive? These train-swift fragments were not enough to give him any answer. He knew you could survive pretty much anywhere: the two obvious exceptions being within the Roil and in the far north. And here he was on a train racing to Chapman and the edge of the Roil.
He gave up on sleep, Cadell was right; it was stifling in here. He wondered where Cadell had hidden the Carnival, perhaps he could just… The Old Man snorted in his sleep, and shook his head.
David opened the window a touch, scowling when it did nothing but let in damp hot air.
He picked up the pamphlet.
The illustration printed on it was masterful in its detail work, crowded with Aerokin, balloons and even a kite or two above the famous Field of Flight.
HEED THE CALL.
There has never been a better year to attend Chapman’s aerostatic event. The release of ten thousand BALLOONS, to represent the fallen. The sky a fury of fliers, a fantasy of flotation, the Roil an imposing and majestic backdrop. Security and delight are assured. At prices undeniably reasonable and reasonably undeniable.
FLY ONE, FLY ALL! HEED CHAPMAN’S CALL!
The Mothers of the Sky have approved this event, a portion of the proceeds of which will go to the maintenance of Drift.
The whistle blew ahead. Once, and then again, a shrill and mournful sound.
Heat and sadness.
There was so much noise: the clatter of metal wheels running on metal tracks, the shrillness of whistles and the animal growls of steam.
So much noise, and yet so little.
That thought gave him pause.
Where was everybody?
Surely people should be walking up and down the train. Children exploring, folk gossiping, or even someone snoring. But he had not heard a thing.
Too quiet.
Too hot and too quiet.
The door handle rattled as the train jolted round a bend, as though someone was trying it, turning it, soft and slow, so as to be barely perceptible. A Verger, perhaps.
It rattled again. Violently.
David jumped, looking around for some sort of weapon.
He shook his head. Just a few rough spots on the track, that was all. He was being paranoid.
He took a deep breath and stood up. Then crept towards the door and flung it open. The hall was empty; lights flickered along its length. He poked his head through the doorway; nothing grabbed him.
David carefully observed the aisle from the rear carriage door to the front.
No one.
No movement.
He waited a few breaths, then stepped into the hallway closing the door behind him, after checking that Cadell was asleep – and he was, dead to the world, another tear tracking down his face. David considered waking him and decided against it. He’d be gone a minute or two, no more.
He walked to the cabin next to his and put his ear against the door. Silence. He opened the door slowly. The cabin was vacant.
And the next. And the next after that.
He turned to stare back at his cabin. Just one more door, then he could give up and go back. He swung it open. A porter sat within, dressed in his uniform, looking down at his hands. He blinked, turned towards David, and smiled.
“I can’t remember why I’m here,” the porter said. “It’s a little cool, don’t you think?”
David was about to say that it was anything but cool, then thought the better of it. The porter shivered; looking at him was enough to make David feel cold.
“Have I seen your ticket?” The porter asked.
“Yes,” David said, and hoped that the lie sounded believable.
The porter’s eyes narrowed. “I think I’d better see it again.”
“It’s here somewhere,” David patted his pockets, then remembered Cadell had them. “Um, it’s back with my-”
The porter slapped his hand down on the seat. “It is of utmost importance that the passenger keep his ticket with him at all times,” he said, his voice rising alarmingly in pitch. He frowned. For a second, David caught a glimpse of some sort of shadow leaking from his lips, and then it was gone. The porter raised a hand to his face. Tapped his head. “There’s all sorts of buzzing going on in here.” He made an odd snorting sound that David took some time recognising as laughter. “It’s all right, come in here, with me. Just having a joke.”
“I think I better get my ticket.” And wake up Cadell. David didn’t like what was happening at all.
“I said it’s all right. Sit with me.”
“I better get my ticket, after all there are rules.” He wished his paranoia had extended to waking the Old Man up.
David took a step back.
The porter bounced to his feet and strode towards him.
“I said it’s all right.” Something slipped from between his teeth. It fluttered moth-like, then dropped, the porter tried to snatch it out of the air and missed. “Odd, but it is too cold.” His voice was a whisper. The porter was out the door, blocking David’s path back to Cadell.
Another moth tumbled, dead, to the floor where it sprayed a little dust. The porter bent down, picked it up, and put it back in his mouth. “Much t
oo cold. Now, come here, there’s things I can do. Things I can put in you. Just come to me, eh.”
David did nothing of the sort. He turned on his heel and ran fast as he could, towards the dinning car.
Whatever had gotten into the porter, he did not want in him.
The rain poured down, hot fat droplets driven north by wind and Roil. The engine of the Dolorous Grey raged and roared, blasting heat and noise against the driver’s face. His lips peeled back in a rictus of pure joy. The train had never been pushed so hard or fast. He felt connected, utterly connected with Roil and engine, furnace and fire and speed.
And it was glorious.
“On with you, lads!” he roared at his men feeding the steamer. “On with us all, to the heat and the dark and the cities what dream.”
Heat. They had to keep their bodies hot. Here, they were in a fortunate situation, but those behind, in the carriages. So new to this, and having to deal with the comparative cold, he pitied them a little, poor, new-sprung things.
If worst came to worst, body heat was enough, but the hotter the better, and the closer one came to the Roil: the easier it was to think clearly. The easier it was to hear the Roil’s voice.
One day all this would be theirs. In his mind, he could see the land as it had been and would again, swallowed and warmed by the Roil, its glorious croon echoing, echoing in his skull. But, for now, they could only visit, briefly and madly, this chillier Roilless place.
It was just too far away from the Roil itself. The Dreaming city’s commands were too fractured: nonsensical.
From the cabin behind came a growl, then something else snarled in reply.
“Settle,” the driver whispered. “You will get your run, in the dark and in the heat.”
The snarling stopped, though it took its time about it.
The driver stared into the rain. The Roil two hundred miles south, roared in his blood, a violent glorious siren song.
Faster, he had to drive the engine faster.
DOLOROUS GREY, 170 MILES NORTH OF THE ROIL EDGE
Was the train running faster? It took a corner and jolted, David stumbled through the door to the dining room hall, ready to shout out a warning.
He stopped, mouth agape.
Maybe this had not been such a bright idea after all.
It was the poetry that disturbed him, and the music, utterly unlike anything he had ever heard. No, everything about this room disturbed him. It was off in the way the world was off after a day or two straight without Carnival. Two fiddlers played loudly, and in an odd tempo, coming to abrupt halts and sudden bursts of quiet and crescendo.
Fiddlesticks, toothpicks, drown ’em in sweet
Shadows are singing. Shadows are singing
Buried in me from my nose to my feet
‘orrible ‘orrible cascading shoes
‘orrible ‘orrible singing with youse.
Moths in the cradle. Served with a ladle.
Shadows are singing. Butterfly’s eaten eaten my brain.
The smoky dining room was, like the rest of the train, far too hot and almost airless. Bodies pressed together here, too close; almost the entire population of the train had to be in this long room. There was something almost insectile about them, as though he had just opened the top of an ants’ nest.
Popular place, David thought. Odd as it was, he should be safe in here. There were plenty of witnesses.
He took a couple of steps into the room. The music ground to a halt, every eye in the dining carriage trained on him: as though he just might be dinner.
“My eyes, but he isn’t one of us,” someone chortled.
“Soon will be.” The crowd took up the call. “Soon will be.” Men, women and children their lips edged with darkness, crowed. “Soon will be.” And around them all, in spiralling streams, the moths moved, from eye to eye and mouth to mouth. Then they lifted into the air and dipped, crashing towards him.
Tiny wings made a soft soughing noise like the first breath of wind. One brushed him, burning his skin. David stumbled back to the door.
The Porter stood there. Moths slid from his lips, bearding his chin with fluttering darkness. His eyes were more focused now, sharp and cruel.
“Not so fast,” the Porter said, and walked towards him. “Much warmer here.”
Another moth touched David’s arm. He yelped, brushed it away.
“That’s it, give ’em room to fly into that mouth of yours. Let ’em kiss your blood.”
David clamped his mouth shut.
“Don’t matter they’ll find a way in.”
The dining car door slammed open, and with it a whip crack of cold. The whole room chilled.
Moths tumbled around David, a rain of ash-veined shadow, blasted back. People, who were no longer people at all but something else – something monstrous that David did not understand – shrieked.
“Well hurry up, lad.” Cadell was bent over, his face curiously pale and dark as snow. Cadell’s arms were raised; blood streamed from his nose. From where the Old Man stood, frigid air howled as though he were a portal to another frozen realm. The glass in the windows nearest him had cracked; so swift had been the change from heat to cold.
“Hurry.” Cadell breathed
David bolted towards the Old Man.
Someone grabbed at him, their boiling fingers curled to claws. The Porter. Its fingers tightened their grip around his arm.
“No. You’re staying here,” he said. “With us. You’ll like it.”
David lashed out with an elbow and the Porter groaned and fell.
The room warmed. David’s heart pounded in his ears, and his only thought was, out.
Out.
Out.
Out.
He reached the door and was through. Cadell slammed it shut behind them and pressed his hand against the panelling, ice sheathed the door at once.
“What was that?” David demanded.
Cadell waved the question away, his fingertips blistered, blood oozing from one dark nail. “No time now. Just run.”
The door behind them jumped in its frame, and David jumped with it.
“Hurry.”
The ice cracked. The door creaked. They sprinted down the aisle.
“They’ll all be back in there, or in the engine room where it’s hot,” Cadell said. “Those bound by Witmoths do not like the cold. And thank goodness for that, this far from the Roil, and this newly sprung, they’re confused.”
“Witmoths?” David asked, looking back at where they had come. There was another loud crack, and the doors panelling fell away. But they were in the next carriage, and Cadell was locking the door and sheathing it in ice as well.
“Witmoths, moth smoke, it goes by many names. But it’s what happens when the Roil gets inside you,” he said as he worked on the door. “Haven’t seen its like in a long time, and then it was the desperate gambit of a desperate enemy. It’s as though I’ve stepped into a corridor of ghosts.”
They crashed down the carriage, the door behind them already taking hits. Boots slapped on the roof above, people cackled and screamed.
They worked their way back through the carriages until they reached their own. Cadell grabbed his bag, gesturing that David leave his where it was, and then they continued on.
“Where are we going?” David demanded, his heart pounding in his ears. “Where will we be safe on this train?”
Cadell stopped at the last exit, leading outside, and paused, panting. “Nowhere,” he said, his hands working the bolt on the door. He tugged at it and the metal creaked then cracked. Behind them a window smashed, a people howled and laughed.
Cadell flung the door open with an ease, despite his breathlessness, that David would not have credited but a few hours before.
The rain-smeared world rushed by, lightning flashed in the murky distance and thunder followed. David didn’t like the look of that darkness, of all that space, but he felt it pulling him. Or was it the nightmare things coming after them, the clo
ying heat driving him out?
“On the count of three,” Cadell said.
“One.”
Back down the aisle, they rushed towards them, a knot of angry cackling flesh, moths running from their chins like blood.
“Two.”
Moths and smoke boiling and billowing before the crowd. Cadell raised his spare hand and the air cooled again, the moths and the smoke scattered, and tumbled, and all along the aisle men and women screamed, but this time they did not stop their pursuit. A hand reached down over the exit, Cadell touched it, and it jerked back, a scream coming from above.
“This is madness,” David exclaimed.
“Indeed, it is,” Cadell said, quietly. He hurled the bag through the opening, then grabbed David’s arm, fingers digging painfully into the muscle as though to illustrate the truth of it and, with that confounding and illogical strength, he hurled him out the door.
“Three.”
Chapter 15
The Mothers of the Sky. These progenitors of Aerokin were politically moderate, and utterly unfathomable. Their impact upon history negligible.
• Michael Pompis – The Scales of History
THE AEROKIN ROSLYN DAWN, THE OPEN SKY
“You will do this. He is to be treated as one of us, unless or until we tell you otherwise.”
“No,” Kara Jade had said. “This is madness, absolute folly, and besides there are plenty enough Aerokin in Chapman. I will not risk the Dawn.”
Of course, she hadn’t actually. If you wanted to fly, if you wanted to serve your Aerokin, then you did what the Mothers told you, even if it meant danger, even if it meant doing things that you would rather not, like coming down out of the air, like having to deal with people. All she wanted was the air and her Roslyn Dawn. There were plenty of Aerokin in Chapman too, for the Festival, but none of them were like hers.
Kara Jade did not like flying this close to the Roil. The Roslyn Dawn liked it even less. It hadn’t stopped complaining in its slow deep tongue since they’d left Drift.
Mirrlees-on-Weep dominated her mirrors. The river metropolis was not as wondrous as the pilot’s city of Drift, but impressive in its way, with its monstrous bridges and its crooked towering skyline. Though now it languished beneath masses of dark storm cloud like a beaten dog.
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