Damien bent down, the soft leather of his gloves grazing Buzz’s throat.
Fear seized Buzz and cut through his confusion. Frost nipped at his skin. The spark in Damien’s eyes flared as his gloved hands wrapped around Buzz’s throat.
‘C’mon mate, what’cha playing at, what you playing at you motherless runt? No need for more rough stuff, eh? It sings to me, it sings…’
‘Yes.’ Damien’s voice was little more than a whisper. ‘It does.’
He squeezed.
Gallows prowled through a narrow passageway, leading back to the Temple of Irros. He kept his shortsword drawn.
In a corner painted sunburst-orange from a lantern, a crone begged for water. She was on her back, head resting on a bundle of rags. A man, large and dressed in a robe so black it might have been woven from the darkness around him, tipped water into her mouth, humming as he did so. ‘Hm-um-um-um…’
Gallows picked up the trail, head still throbbing from Buzz’s assault. The weird thing—the goddamn annoying thing—was that he still felt sorry for the guy. He rounded the corner, a tunnel stretching out ahead of him.
Gallows’ blood froze.
‘Damien.’ His voice echoed along the limestone.
Damien looked up with wide eyes.
After a moment, he released Buzz from his grasp. He stood to his full height and spoke, his low voice unhindered by any trace of emotion: ‘Tyson. I found him.’
Gallows’ grip tightened around the hilt of his sword. ‘Yeah. So I see. Buzz, you okay down there?’
The junkie coughed blood into the ground.
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’
Buzz scrambled to his knees, wobbled, fell into the wall and slid down it face-first. ‘Your man’s off his rocker Tyson,’ he spat. ‘Near choked the life outta me!’
Gallows held Damien’s gaze a moment longer, before looking down on Buzz.
‘What life?’
‘…she’s a weird one, found a dog… witch…’
Buzz had flitted between various states of consciousness during the whole journey to the courthouse in Old Town Square. The moon reclaimed its seat above the steel and glass slum towers. The centre of the city was much more spacious than Dustwynd.
Orbs of orange light signalled the gatehouse to Old Town Square was ahead. It was bordered by a tall, thick sandstone wall notched with battlements, constantly lined by watchmen clad in bronze-brown uniforms and duster coats. Their ignium lanterns cast a halo of fire around the wall.
‘Keep moving,’ Gallows said. Buzz’s spindly legs carried him forward, and for once he didn’t answer back. The gatehouse archway welcomed them, though the watchmen that flanked it eyed Gallows with suspicion.
‘Don’t look like they’re overly fond of you, Ty,’ murmured Buzz. Then his body jerked and he snarled, ‘Maybe after I get out and skin you for this they’ll help me stitch your skin to the bathroom floor so I can piss on you every day!’
Gallows yawned. ‘Lovely. We’re here.’
One of the watchmen stepped ahead of Gallows. ‘Stop. State your purpose and identity.’
‘Hunters’ Guild,’ said Damien. He produced papers from his belt and unfolded them. ‘We apprehended the fugitive Bertram Fitangus. We’re handing him to the court for sentencing.’
‘“Apprehended”, that what we’re calling it?’ questioned Buzz. ‘This loon near killed me, killed me! I’ll carve his bloody-’
The guard slapped Buzz hard with the back of his hand. ‘Quiet, filth! Alright, let them through.’ The heavy, iron gate rose in front of them.
‘Come on,’ said Gallows, moving off.
‘Aye, charming, you two sit by and watch me take a slap. Dunno how you live with yourselves.’
‘By knowing when to shut up.’
‘Oh yeah, that’s you, Ty—steel trap, always one for taking orders and doing as you’re told, you rabid cur. How about you?’ Buzz glared at Damien. ‘You sleep at night knowing the coppers beat on people? Yeah, you do eh, probably puts a tingle in your tadger, eh? Hey… Hey Ty? Remember when we was young, Ty? Remember before the sector walls went up an’ Dustwynd was decent and clean and honest, Ty? Remember the markets an’ fancy shops? Very civilised it was. And you remember when three coppers was kicking some poor young sod across the cobbles, laughing at him and passing each other his loaf of bread, holding it above ’em and making ’im jump for it? You remember, Ty? Do you remember?’
The memory burned in Gallows’ head.
‘And you remember who saved my skinny arse?’
Gallows said nothing.
‘Aye, you remember. You remember when I wasn’t even nine years old and got beaten senseless for lifting an apple! You remember ’em spitting on my bread and making me eat it! An’ who was it that got me out? Who threw buckets of swill over the roof an’ got the bloody coppers to chase him all the way through Scab End? Who was it got caught and took a beating of ’is own? Where’s that lad who wouldn’t take anyone’s shit now? Who was it?’
‘Me, Buzz. A goddamn lifetime ago, before you turned into a thieving, lying bas- Well, you were always a thieving, lying bastard, but before your days revolved around jamming crap into your arm.’
‘You’ve changed mate. You came back from the war but I reckon you left something behind. Like your spine.’
Gallows’ grip tightened as he hauled him towards the courthouse. The old building dominated the centre of the Square, washed in white light and draped in crimson, gold and purple banners.
Other Council and admin buildings dotted the Square, sitting on flat, fan-pattern cobblestones which resembled shallow waves in a lake. Before he could stop himself, Gallows glanced to where the lush, vibrant Royal Garden used to be. Redwood footbridges connected the islanded Garden area, once straddling an ornamental lake.
All of it gone, replaced by gnarled trees and arid soil.
‘Move.’ The statue of Prime Councillor Raleigh Trevelyan glared down at Gallows from its pedestal in front of the courthouse. Gallows never got the chance to meet the man, but he’d heard the stone didn’t do the sternness of his face justice.
‘The Magister will likely be tough on a repeat offender, Mr. Fitangus,’ said Damien. ‘You’d be wise not to aggravate whomever is presiding.’
‘Yeah,’ said Gallows. ‘Hope you brushed your tooth this morning.’
‘Funny bugger, ain’t you? The Magister can juggle my spuds. I got friends, Tyson! High-up friends!’
The air in the foyer smelled like an old, musky library. The place was still, dead. A heavy, round man in dirt-brown Watch fatigues and dust cape shoved the corridor doors open, pulling a stretcher. A younger watchman with cracked, yellowed skin and bloodshot eyes lay atop it, mouth stretched open. Clumps of his hair had been ripped from his head.
The body bag had only been zipped halfway up.
‘Tyson,’ said the copper wheeling the corpse through. He wore a tidy, thick orange moustache on his red and puffy face, .
‘Waltham. Holy shit, what happened?’
‘New recruit. Tried skipping town through Irros' Beckon. Turned back when the burns got too much to bear, but the radiation had gone to work. Found him lying in the mess, thrashing on the floor.’
Gallows shook his head, stomach squirming at the sight of the kid. The Poison Veil that hung over the sea of Irros’ Bounty was miles out, yet just a hint of it could burn your organs. ‘How the hell did he get through to the harbour?’
‘A gap in the barricades.’ Waltham stared down at the kid on the stretcher before zipping the body bag. ‘Two years since the war ended and still see death everywhere I go. I wasn’t even meant to be on duty tonight—young Daroh came down with a fever and coughing fit, apparently. Don’t know what it is with these young lads. No constitution. Paraded this ’un through so the others could cop a look at what happens to deserters.’
Gallows’ stomach churned. Sergeant Waltham used to be a soft touch. Parading a corpse through the courthouse to send a message to rec
ruits wasn’t right. None of this was right.
‘Tyson?’ said Damien.
‘Right.’ He nodded to Waltham and led Buzz through the corridor.
‘Reinhardt’s presiding,’ said Waltham. ‘Good luck, Mister Fitangus.’
‘Oh sir, yessir,’ said Buzz, his head lolling from side to side and offering a pitiful attempt at a salute. ‘Fine upstanding citizen of the capital, me. Predict I’ll be a constable in the Watch meself soon. Gots the experience after all, you lot being the biggest crims there is.’
When they were back outside, Damien shuffled the stack of aeron notes and water tokens, handing half to Gallows.
He counted his earnings. Æ50—barely enough aerons to make it worth it, and tokens for a week’s worth of water. Guess I’ll only shower once this week.
The two men moved towards the Arrowhead gatehouse in silence.
Eight roads, officially beginning from the gatehouses of Old Town Square, led out to the different districts of Dalthea: Dustwynd to the south and The Sands to the south-west, Petrel’s Tail to the west and Arrowhead to the north-west. The north-east gate lead to Musa’s Harp, and Kingsway was to the north of the Square, which led to Castle Rochefort. The south-east lead to the mountainous Widow’s Trail, but most of the section lay in ruin. Only the textile mills were still operational.
Irros’ Beckon—out to the east, closest to the sea—was the only district permanently closed off.
Gallows tried to stifle his memories, like he did every time he passed through the square—but trying not to think about something was the surest way of inviting it into your head.
He smelled the fresh sea air, watched the grand galleons approaching the harbours, white merchant sails spiking up like petals from vibrant, clean blue water.
And Sera.
He heard his words, promising her he’d return soon.
Not soon enough.
Clamouring screams, the heat from the fires, the mushrooming inferno on the horizon…
The Night of Amberfire.
‘Tyson, are you okay?’
‘Huh?’
‘I asked if you were all right,’ said Damien. ‘You were in a trance.’
His hands tremored. Gallows couldn’t meet his partner’s eye. ‘I’m fine.’
He forced his legs to move. His skin prickled. He had to get out of this place. ‘How close were you? Earlier. With Buzz.’
Damien’s face betrayed no emotion. ‘I was in control.’
‘Didn’t look like it.’
‘I was in control.’
‘Citizens of Dalthea—curfew is now in effect. Citizens of Dalthea—curfew is now in effect. The City Watch will apprehend anyone in the streets who fails to produce relevant papers. Repeat: Curfew is now in effect.’
The whine of the nearby Information Tower echoed its familiar drone above the rooftops of Arrowhead. Gallows pressed himself into the cramped cubicle.
He caught himself in the mirror. He looked much older than twenty-seven.
The valve twisted with a scrape. Exposed pipes crawling up the wall shuddered into life. The dial bobbed back and forth, hovering ahead of the red quadrant. Three jets of water—neither cold nor warm—spilled out in stuttering streams.
The water stung his fresh wounds. Blood oozed from where Buzz’s nails had scraped his skin, and the scars lining his back burned as the water flowed over them.
He soothed his back against the tiles, sliding to the floor, arms wrapped around his knees, letting the precious water rush over him.
Tomorrow he’d end the suffering.
Tomorrow he’d let himself die.
And you’ll promise yourself the same thing tomorrow night. Take the knife and be done with it. Coward.
And later, when sleep came, so did her laughter, and the tranquil voice that caressed like the flat of a blade.
‘I am Grand Perceptor Nidra Hraat-il-Theiah of the Great Empire of Idar, the Holy Twin Cities, the Sun and Moon and all that which the holy Sovereign Sons survey. I am the Divine Perceiver, the Envoy of the Great Seer and loyal instrument of the Two Emperors—and you cannot lie to me.’
Chapter Three
Airships soared overhead.
Their vapour trails scored the sky, and the staccato hums and plunging strains of engines caressed Fitz’s ears like a silk-gloved hand.
Tiera looked as rough as he felt. Gods, but he needed a drink.
The cauldron-black walls of the skyport hangars curved like the Outer Wall that surrounded the city. Place used to be a fortress, and the black spikes on the ramparts made it easy to believe. Arching, metal ribcages steepled towards the sky like some hellish temple, threatening the pristine blue. Not the most welcoming sight, given it was the first thing folk would see when they disembarked.
‘We should be looking for Vaughan,’ said Tiera.
Fitz grimaced; Tiera had kept on at him the whole way here. Not that he blamed her–it was easier to deal with anger than grief. ‘Aye, we will,’ he said. ‘Once I get the wages.’
‘Money. Three of our own are dead, and you’re worried about money.’
‘Gods above, woman. I got a regular crew plus casuals that need paying too, and once I kick up hell with Roland, it’ll be a damn sight harder to get our earnings.’
The skyport was at once vast and cramped. Ignium and fried street food burned Fitz’s nose. People huddled in shadowed corners, merchants yelled over one another. Urchins scattered across the aisles and between the steel struts that shouldered the landing pads, oblivious to the trains of people trampling across the concourses. It danced to a different rhythm than the rest of the city; always going, always breathing, always consuming. Steam spurted from every available cavity, hissing like a rattlesnake. Long, intestinal tubes connected to vessels, feeding them igneus. Avenues between the hulking metal struts and pillars twisted into the distance, as long as any street. A dedicated Info Tower announced every arrival, departure and delay. Staff amended hasty chalk scrawls on their boards with each announcement, and workers hefted barrels of rainwater from raincatchers to be boiled and filtered.
A troop of Val Candrian monks in lime green robes bumped into Tiera as they marched past. ‘Curs,’ she hissed.
Wages. Good one, Cap’n Fitz. You’ll be lucky if Tiera don’t gut you.
Truth be told, he was of half a mind to gut someone himself. The only reason these sheep were here was the Remembrance. ‘We’ll get the writ signed, then straight out. The casuals will skip onto another raincatcher—best get ’em paid so we can concentrate on ourselves.’
Some of the airships descended like the gentle approach of a butterfly—others stumbled down like bluebottles, jittery and uneven. Some flew the flags of Ryndara, Mercuria and even Phadros. Gods, it would take more than a week to get here from Phadros. Wrenwing Gap—the only passage through the Steelpeak mountains that could accommodate air traffic—must have been choked to the brim.
A lot of the ships sported paintings of the Gods: Aerulus, Belios, Musa, Nyr and the rest, all glaring down at him. Fitz touched two fingers to his heart. Sometimes it was a comfort to believe in a higher power, and he always had a soft spot for Deolira, God of the animal kingdom. All the rest had crowns and swords and robes, but Deo, well—she was a lioness and that was that.
Ground crews scurried back and forth between the landing platforms, readying each craft and wheeling cargo. Even a few first-generation airships were moored here, tethered to landing pads with cables. Kept aloft only by gargantuan overhead balloon cells, they were slow and beyond obsolete—but goddamn if they didn’t look majestic.
Fitz had heard talk lately of the Royal Sky Fleet designing a vessel powerful enough to soar above the Steelpeak mountains. I’ll be dead before that day comes. ‘Aerodynamics’ was the word. Fancy shite. Most new-gen airships had wings; thrusters pushed the craft and air went over and under the wings like water over a knife edge. Rotors too. But nothing could beat the first-gens, not for an old sky pirate like Fitz. Something beauti
ful about ’em. Romantic, even.
And now, the talk was that Prime Councillor Thackeray was pushing to arm the Watch with guns, reinstate mandatory military service and set up civilian militias in case of another invasion. Fitz couldn’t see any of that working out well—swords were one thing; they were legal, visible and, Fitz admitted, elegant.
But giving guns to spotty Watch runts with no experience? Do more harm than good.
Councillor Alspeth gal Simara had built her whole platform on stopping Thackeray's measures, and Gods above, it looked like she was going to steal the election from him. But as sure as one of Feria’s golden shits, another war’s coming—might be we end up grateful for them spotty Watch runts.
‘There’s the customs office.’ Fitz pointed to a squat, glass-fronted counter. ‘Give me a minute.’
Fitz shoved his way through a tangle of tourists, hearing Tiera curse at a blind, blue-robed monk spouting off about Aerulus. Nothing pisses Tiera off more’n priests.
Fitz stumbled as something charged into him.
‘Uh, uh, pardon me,’ said a thin, elderly man. ‘Damned easy to get lost here. Come on, Fabian.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ said Fitz. The man wore a fine, white suit and matching hat. The silver monocle around his eye glinted, and he carried a black cane with a silver owl’s head handle. Rich Ryndaran oaf, Fitz guessed. Or someone who wants people to believe he’s a rich Ryndaran oaf. Fitz dusted himself down, concealing the fact he was checking his pockets. Even if the oaf was rich, that didn’t mean he wasn’t a rutting klepto. Fitz had performed the same trick himself.
When Fitz reached the customs counter, the woman behind the window didn’t look up when she said, ‘Name and writ.’
Fitz handed the contract over. ‘Captain Fitzwilliam, Liberty Wind, Raincatchers’ Guild.’
She scribbled this down on a form. ‘I’ll need your first name.’
Every goddamn time. ‘You know who I am.’
‘First name.’ Her voice chimed like a bell.
‘My name,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘is William.’
Symphony of the Wind Page 4
