Magpie's Song

by Allison Pang

  “Aye.” I choose to ignore the ominous implications of her words and peer over her shoulder at the carving, only recognizing the word Meridian. “What’s it say?” I ask.

  A snort escapes her. “‘Spriggans are Meridian suck-tits.’”

  “A work of living poetry, to be sure.” I pause. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen Sparrow flitting about?”

  Penny yawns, absently rubbing her crippled left hand over her brow. Somewhere along the way, two fingers were sliced off when she was caught in Spriggan territory, but she’s never seen fit to share the details.

  “I should have known she’d be in the thick of it with you,” Penny says on a sigh. “But aye, she made it home a short while ago. You might want to get back to Rory about that. And sooner rather than later seeing as he won’t let her leave until you return.”

  “There’s nothing quite like blackmail to keep one’s clan in check,” I snarl. Inwardly, relief washes over me. At least Sparrow is safe.

  “If it works,” Penny agrees, her mouth compressing into a thin line. “The Inquestors paid us a visit. Seems they’re demanding restitution for the loss of one of their number.”

  A jolt races through me. “Did she die?”

  Penny spits. “Near enough. They wanted Rory to turn you over to them, but he’s put them off for the moment. I suspect if we pay them enough, they’ll forget all about it.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask about the dead Meridian, but something makes me pause. Penny hasn’t brought it up, so perhaps the Inquestors have not chosen to share that information, either. Better, perhaps, to leave it alone until I know just how much trouble I’m in.

  “I don’t suppose they were good enough to bring back my hammer?” A humorless smile rolls over my lips. “Last I saw, it was stuck in the Inquestor’s eye socket.”

  “That was poorly done, Mags,” Penny snaps, losing patience with me. “Thanks to you, we’ll be under heavy scrutiny for weeks.” Her eyes fill with bitter humor. “I wish I could have seen it, though.” I sigh, and she gives my arm a squeeze. “Go on and take your lumps. The sooner you do, the sooner Rory will move past it.”

  “Hopefully right over a cliff,” I mutter darkly, resting one hand on the pipe ladder.

  Her lips quirk up in a ragged grin. “An improvement either way.”

  Blood fills my mouth as Rory backhands me across the room. “Do you have any idea what you’ve started?”

  I stagger to my knees, the taste of copper on my tongue. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. They were trying to take my scrap.”

  Not entirely true, but admitting anything else would only lead to a bigger beating, and I’m not going to volunteer for that.

  Rory paces, prowling in tighter and tighter circles until he has pushed himself nearly against me. He’s tall and robust, with knuckles as gentle as packed ball bearings. He’s older and better fed than the rest of us, and it shows in the muscles rippling beneath his ill-fitting shirt. His coat snaps out behind him as he moves, and his pale hair is tucked neatly beneath his cap in a queue.

  The only thing in his eyes is rage.

  The center hall of the Lady Slipper Hotel that makes up the Banshees’ home base is octagonal—a wide open courtyard, flanked on all sides by the crumbling ruins of pillars and stone hallways. Crowded around the upper levels, other Moon Children stare at us, their faces hollow, tinged with fear. A thread of guilt weaves its way through me. The tiniest hint of rebellion on my part and my clan is reduced to being punished for it.

  Sparrow crouches at the far corner, her mouth pinched tight. My lips sting, and I glare at Rory. “What would you have me do?”

  He snatches my jaw, still aching from where he hit it. “You crippled one of his soldiers, Mags. Blinded her eye. By rights, I should take one of yours.” He stares at me, his gaze half-lidded and cruel. “After all, you don’t need two to survive in the Pits. I’ve half a mind to Tithe you right now.”

  Hatred grips my gut, cutting at my innards with cat’s claws. It’s not an idle threat. The Pits lie past the Warrens, the remains of a salt mine that gleams like a forgotten portal to the Hells. And we’ve all seen the Tithes, the plague bearers shrouded in white as they trudge through the streets led by pale-haired Moon Children and flanked by Inquestors and gray-cloaked salt priests spouting their empty platitudes.

  At least one Moon Child is chosen by clan leaders to be taken for each Tithe, to escort the infected into the Pits to watch them live out their final days and care for the dying.

  And the Moon Child never comes back out.

  “You wouldn’t dare.” I dance away from him as he steps toward me. “I’m one of the best scrappers you’ve got . . .”

  “And that is the only reason I haven’t Tithed you yet, Mags. But it won’t save you forever.”

  My nostrils flare wide. He hasn’t mentioned anything about the Meridian body; either the Inquestors haven’t told him or he doesn’t want it blabbed to the rest of the clan. I dig through my coat pocket and flip him the Meridian credit chit, desperate to find him something else to focus on. “I found this.”

  He snatches it out of the air without taking his eyes off me, and I notice a bruise blooming on his temple beneath the fall of his hair. He scowls at me when he sees where I’m looking, but holds the chit up to the flickering light of the lanterns.

  I shift my hips, my legs preparing to run if makes another move on me.

  His mouth curls into a sneer as he tosses the chit back to me. “You are going to off-load that at Molly Bell’s tonight. Tell her to credit it to my account. Every penny,” he warns. “We’ll pay the Inquestors restitution via their own money, and none will be the wiser.”

  “Aye.” I pocket the chit again when he dismisses me.

  Sparrow gives me a pained smile as she rises from her corner and we fall into step. The others disperse into the shadows to find some other distraction for the evening. It will be subdued, though. I’ve stirred up enough trouble to last the rest of the week.

  Run-down staircases lead up to the second and third floors, and we take the closest one, pushing past several younger Moon Children, their eyes saucer wide. As best we can tell, the Lady Slipper was once a well-appointed hotel but was abandoned in the bowels of BrightStone’s Lower Tier when the plague hit. At least the hotel has rooms for all of us, even if running water and heat are nonexistent. Superstition—or fear—keeps people away these days. I guess being immune to the Rot has its advantages.

  Sparrow and I share a space at the top of the third landing with a broken window and a couple of rag-filled mattresses. None of the doors have locks. None of us have anything worth stealing, anyway, and anything of value goes to Rory, one way or the other.

  Sparrow shakes her head as I sink onto the mattress. “Be glad you weren’t here earlier,” she says, tossing her sack onto the floor. “The Inquestors . . . They hit him, Mags. They came in and forced him to his knees. Threatened to shoot him on the spot if he didn’t make it right.” She bites down on her lower lip, as though to keep it from trembling.

  The vision unfolds in my mind, and I can’t keep the smirk off my face. “I’d pay a bit of jingle to have seen that.”

  She shakes her head at me. “No, you wouldn’t. I know the two of you hate each other, but he’s the only protection we’ve got. If something happens to him . . .”

  I sigh. Sometimes I forget how young she is. “I’m not sure it would be that bad, frankly. With him out of the way, Penny could take over. At least she wouldn’t beat us as much.”

  “Don’t you get it?” She whirls on me, shoving me against the wall. “He was going to Tithe you! He told the Inquestors as much! The only reason he didn’t was that stupid chit.”

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur, squeezing her shoulder and trying to ignore the chill rippling over my spine at her words. My panic won’t help her. “I didn’t mean to make light.”

  She wipes at her face and turns away. “I know. I didn’t know where you were, and then the Inq
uestors showed up . . . and I’m not sure I can see a way out of this. Why couldn’t you have just left the body alone?”

  “What’s done is done,” I remind her.

  “So what are you going to do?” She paces to the broken window to stare down at the alley below. The remains of a fire escape cling to the crumbling brickwork, a thick vine of weeds roping around the iron like the skin of some dead reptile.

  I rub the stitches on my head. “I’ll take the credit chit to Molly Bell’s, but I want to look for my bag before we go. I threw it on one of the rooftops, and assuming we can find it, we’ll off-load it as quick as we can.” I look at her sharply and lower my voice. “Did the Inquestors mention anything about the dragon?”

  “No. And they didn’t mention that you found a Meridian, either. Just that you injured one of them.”

  “Probably for the best.”

  What I’ll do with the money from selling the dragon, I don’t know. Such an amount might be enough to bribe a way out of the city entirely, but it would have to be planned so very carefully. I’ve never really thought about it before. I’ve never had the jingle to even consider it.

  But now . . .

  Sparrow says nothing when I stand beside her to look out at the city. The lights of BrightStone’s Upper Tier sparkle like a bauble, waiting to be plucked.

  I tap Sparrow on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  The place where I found the Meridian is still crawling with Inquestors when we near it, airship patrols buzzing to and fro with a disgusting regularity.

  “Tch,” I grumble. I can’t risk being caught again, and both Sparrow and I know it.

  She tilts her head toward the foundry as if in question. I nod, and we race across the crumbling rooftops until we reach it. We sit down without words and stare up at the night sky. Not that there’s much to see—the perpetual fog surrounding BrightStone never really leaves, even as high up as we are. Every once in a while, a shaft of silver slices through to light up the rusting drainpipes, blurring everything into a crystalline softness.

  “Well, that was a waste of time, aye?” Frustration heats my face, the window for this potential opportunity at freedom slipping through my fingers.

  “Maybe tomorrow, then.” Sparrow pulls out a cigarillo from her coat and lights it with a snap of a lucifer match, puffing it slowly. She offers me a drag, but I wave her off.

  “Maybe.” I shift in my wool coat, stretching out to cross my arms behind my head. The damp of the roof seeps into my skin. I ignore it, the same way I ignore the constant rumble in my belly and the lump of concrete digging into my calf.

  Meridion’s shadow drifts above us, a floating monstrosity of luminous glass, and the pale sphere of the moon crests the spire of its highest cathedral to taunt us in seductive mockery. On the clearest nights the bottom seems to glow silver, like a polished shilling. I’ve never been able to make out any real details as to what makes it hover, though a series of massive black chains anchors it far offshore beyond the docks. Perhaps to keep it from floating away like a balloon.

  “Do you think you can see the ocean from atop it?” Sparrows asks the question without her usual cheer, a wistful longing in her voice as we stare up at Meridion. She obsesses about the sea. Always has.

  But not me. My heart lies above us, wrapped in the promise of Meridion. Freedom. The chance to fly away from here, or even just be lifted so far above that I can’t see the ugliness on the ground.

  Not that the great floating city pays its fallen Moon Children any mind. The old tales say the Meridians come from some far-off land, fleeing the decay of their own civilization. It’s a pretty story, painting them in a romantic light, but isn’t that always the way with history?

  For all the insistence that each Moon Child is the unwanted progeny of a Meridian father and a BrightStone mother, I’m not sure how it’s really possible unless Meridians are sneaking down to seduce BrightStone women in their sleep. My own mother died when I was young, so I’d never gotten the chance to ask her where I’d come from. Like nearly every other Moon Child I’ve known, somewhere around the age of twelve I woke up with silvery-white hair and an immunity to the plague, only to be rounded up and sold to a clan.

  I glance at Sparrow, her hair glimmering as white as my own. It’s pulled into a loose bun, ringlets bordering her narrow face. She’s a tiny thing, her bony frame lost in an oversized coat and trousers two sizes too big. Her body never seems to stop moving. But tonight, her dark eyes are glassy and blank, lost in thought.

  “Probably,” I say finally, taking pity on her. “Perhaps if the mist is gone. It’d be something, though, wouldn’t it? To be up there so high with the whole world stretched out before you . . .” A soft exhalation escapes me. “I’d give anything to see it, just once.”

  She sighs. “My mam used to tell me stories of the ocean before she died. Like a great mirror as far as you can see, sparkling green and blue. Nothing like the nasty waters of Bloody Bay, aye? But the sea . . . Mam said you could sail away on it to a better place. Like magic.”

  “Anyplace is better than here,” a gravelly voice rumbles at us. It startles me into sitting upright as Ghost emerges from behind the shadows of a rotting chimney, his naked feet as silent as his namesake. He’s a lanky fellow, a few years older than me, with high cheekbones and dusky skin a few shades darker than mine. His graceful limbs slip past us, shrouded in patched trousers and a loose coat, and the shaggy cut of the pale hair beneath his wool cap declares him a Moon Child, same as us. Silver hoops glitter from his ears.

  Sparrow and I exchange a look. Ghost doesn’t deign to speak with us often, and for good reason. He’s clanless, one of the few Moon Children without the protection of a gang. Rumor has it he keeps house within Molly Bell’s establishment, perhaps under her employ, but it’s nothing I’ve ever been able to confirm. None of my business anyway.

  He crouches beside me, his toes blackened with soot. I watch them curl into the grooves of the roof, calluses thick and hard. “And Meridion isn’t made of magic. Just men who think they are.” A snort escapes him. “There is a difference.”

  “Like you’d have any idea,” I scoff, waving my fingers in a little flourish. “Everyone knows they glitter like starlight and dance with an angel’s grace upon currents of wind. Science or magic, it’s all the same.”

  He shrugs. “The Warrens are full of patrols this evening . . . looking for somewhat.” He says it casually, like he already knows why. Sparrow stiffens beside me, and I nudge her. His eyes narrow, but his mouth kicks up in a cynical smile. “Keep your secrets, then.”

  “There’s nothing to keep.” I turn to face him. My arms hang over my knees, fingers playing with the laces of my thin-soled boots. “And if I was involved, it doesn’t really concern you, now does it?”

  “As you say.” He rises and strolls to the edge of the roof, a hand lightly trailing behind him for balance. He pauses, tipping his chin toward me and shrugging off his coat. “You might want to keep better track of your things, though.”

  I freeze as he slides the strap of my bag off his shoulder and tosses it at my feet. It clinks with a heavy thud, but no movement comes from under the cloth. My heart sinks, but I don’t let it show on my face.

  “Thanks,” I mumble. No sense in being ungrateful.

  On the other hand, what if he had looked inside?

  I glance over at him, but he’s already sliding his coat back on, absently peering into the fog. The silence stretches out for a span of minutes, and then a weak hissing emerges from the bag. Almost as one, our heads swivel toward the sound.

  A sardonic gleam lights up Ghost’s eyes. “You’ll forgive me if I wish to see what that’s all about, aye?”

  Shit. Our gazes meet, my fingers clutching the drawstring tightly as I measure my options. Take the bag and run, or fight him for it. Neither feels particularly appealing, especially since he’s given it back to me. “Fine. But it’s mine,” I say hotly. “I found it.”

  “Did you?�
�� He crosses his arms. “I’d say you lost it.”

  I stare at him a moment longer, and he finally acquiesces with a little nod.

  I tug at the drawstring, easily undoing the knot. The burlap falls open as a golden rush of metal erupts from between my hands. The dragon retreats a few steps before whirling to face us. One wing droops, slightly bent.

  Ghost lets out a slow whistle, and there’s something half-admiring about it when he crouches to get a better look. The dragon’s mouth opens to reveal a glittering set of pointed teeth.

  “Don’t touch it,” I snap, my arm raised to shove him.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says disdainfully, rolling his eyes. “Where did you find it?”

  “The slag heaps.” My upper lip curls. “I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “It’s not, but that little piece of wonder right there? It’s Meridian made, no doubt. If you’re caught with it . . .” He glances up at the floating city, as though to ward off some secret attack.

  Sparrow steps forward for a closer look at the dragon. “’Ware IronHeart’s breath and IronHeart’s claws, for when IronHeart roars, Meridion falls.’” She intones the familiar nursery rhyme, almost seemingly out of habit, and then her eyes widen, sparkling. “Do you think it could be? IronHeart, I mean?”

  Even Ghost snorts at this. “Doubtful. It might be a dragon, but it doesn’t exactly look large enough to bring down a city.”

  “Size isn’t everything,” Sparrow says sourly.

  On the surface, I suppose she’s right, though the whole idea is ridiculous. Nursery rhymes aside, I don’t know anyone who truly believes a massive metal dragon named IronHeart lives in the belly of the floating city. Only the Meridians would know for sure, and they’ve never said anything about it. Then again, having a generation of citizens raised on songs that wish for your demise probably isn’t anything to be proud of.