Symphony of the Wind

by Steven McKinnon

  Her face turned from red to white in a flicker. ‘Oh sweet bloody Musa…’

  Fitz leant forward and smiled. ‘But that’s the thing, lass. Dixon, he was… He wouldn’t have been… interested. He was more…’

  ‘What, because I’m too young? Because you all reckon I’m a kid?’

  ‘He leaned towards menfolk, lass. He and Culran, they were… Together.’

  Her eyes shot open for what felt like the first time in her life. Grief gave way to embarrassment.

  ‘They kept it secret, like. You know how the Fayth is with things like that. The pair of ’em use them canisters as cover to sneak away for five minutes before the work starts.’

  ‘I… Oh hells. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘You reckon you should be the first to know when a pair of crew fancy getting cosy? Should I prepare a schedule of mine and Tiera’s liaisons for your approval, Captain Serena?’

  She unleashed the most vicious scowl she could muster.

  He smiled at her, a warmth coming from him that was absent of any mocking. ‘I know, it’s hard to believe. If it’s any consolation, he always speaks o’ you with…’ Fitz’s voice trailed off, realising his mistake. ‘Sorry.’ He looked down at the floor, coughed and collected himself before drawing up again. ‘He always spoke of you with nothing but admiration. Said we were lucky to have you on our ship. Said the Wind would fall out the sky if it wasn’t for you an’ yer wrench.’

  Serena felt like she’d grown foot taller.

  ‘An’ you know what?’ Fitz continued. ‘He was damn right. You might be too young for it to be official, but you’re as much a part of the Liberty Wind as any of us. Angelo, too.’

  ‘…Thanks, Captain.’

  ‘Now c’mon. Dixon wouldn’t want ya to be tearing up at his funeral. None of ’em would. Let’s see ’em off in style, eh?’

  Drimmon sang and strummed an old, warped guitar with four strings and a flaking red veneer. ‘This ’un’s for Ena! And the good advice of crewmates!’ His voice wasn’t much cop, but his enthusiasm made up for it.

  Tiera loved music, back when she was young. She’d sneak around the monastery in the dead of night to listen to Phadrosi folk music with Yulia. It was worth the beatings when the priest discovered them.

  Fitz smiled at her and raised a glass. He looked like a grizzled bear. You’re near half my age, he’d tell her.

  It is not the number of years that makes a person young or old, she’d say back.

  Fitz was governing an arm-wrestling match between Roarke and a casual. The game was popular among Raincatchers. Tiera had been debating the merits of the competition with Captain Ashe of the Callan. Being around Ashe made Tiera itch—all finisa who followed the Fayth had that effect on her—but she was a Raincatcher and she was here.

  ‘Oh, I’m not saying I’m not impressed by the display,’ started Ashe, face dark underneath her tricorn hat and fringe of scarlet hair. She was the only person decked out in black and silver, the traditional funeral tones of the Fayth. ‘I just don’t understand the why of it all.’

  ‘Such is life.’ Tiera’s words scoured like sand paper. She always sounded more Phadrosi when she’d had a drink. ‘Why does the sun shine, why does it set, why does anything happen?’ The liquor burned her throat, just the way she liked it.

  ‘That’s why we have the Indecim.’ Ashe’s voice weighed as heavy as a church bell. ‘The Gods guide us. Do you follow the Fayth?’

  Tiera slammed her flask onto a table. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘C’mon…’ growled Roarke.

  ‘I read The Analectus and the Great Gospels of the Indecim every year,’ said Ashe, ‘the Codex every other month. Cover to cover. But they cannot explain this.’

  Tiera strained to tune her out. Why can’t she get drunk in peace, damn it? ‘It’s just a game. Blows off steam.’

  ‘Yes, but why not Liar’s Dice or Coxswain’s Bluff?’

  Tiera did not have the patience for much more of this conversation. ‘Children’s games. This—this serves a purpose.’

  ‘Right, right,’ said Fitz as Roarke won the match, ‘one-all, next ’un wins the game.’

  ‘Physical competition gives us a focus for the anger and frustration,’ Tiera continued. ‘A fight without the friction. Resolves grievances between crewmates, extinguishes the fire that consumes us.’ Tiera took a deep swig. ‘For a time.’

  ‘The Fayth tames the beast within us all.’

  ‘I served my time with the Gods,’ spat Tiera. Hazy memories of the day she abandoned Yulia flitted through the grog. The circular brand on her lower back itched. Been a while since she’d given that day much thought.

  ‘Yes!’ Roarke shouted. ‘You owe me five aerons and two cans of peaches.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, fair and square,’ spat the casual, massaging his forearm.

  Tiera motioned for Ashe to take a seat at the table. Breaking something always made her feel better. ‘You and me,’ she slurred. ‘Now.’

  ‘I prefer chess. Or Ryndaran Switch.’

  ‘Huh? Taking turns and waiting as you let your opponent think? Foolish.’

  ‘Chess is a game of strategy and patience. Worthy virtues, both. You were a warrior of the Phadril Sea, yes? One would have thought you could see the appeal in games which employ tactics.’

  ‘Hah! Chess ain’t a worthy substitute for war. Set your board, Captain Ashe, and think and plan and place your pieces where you will. Meanwhile, my pawns are advancing, my knights are mowing your flanks and my queen has snuck up behind your king and slit his throat.’

  ‘Well,’ said Ashe, ‘it is just a game.’

  ‘Right!’ barked the lad when he put the guitar down. ‘I got me a girl to marry!’ He stumbled to his feet and marched off, face beaming.

  ‘To your fallen,’ Gallows murmured, louder than he’d meant. He raised his glass. The girl called Serena looked at him, raised an eyebrow, and looked away.

  ‘Damien.’ Gallows looked to his partner. ‘Do you reckon it’s as they say? We die and go to the Heavens for an eternity of bliss?’

  ‘Religion doesn’t hold court with me.’

  ‘The Idari reckon all souls go to Heaven, only to be judged when they’re there. If you committed atrocities during your time on Earth, they say that Aerulus sends your soul to one of the hundred hells. Says a lot about ’em, huh? One heaven and a hundred hells. Can I have your alcohol tokens?’

  ‘No. I think it’s time we left.’

  ‘I’m only half as drunk as I want to be.’

  ‘For you, Tyson, I fear that one drink is too many—and two is not enough. Let’s go.’

  ‘I should’ve had a funeral. I should have died in Nidra’s cell.’

  Damien hauled Gallows to his feet. ‘There will still be alcohol tomorrow.’

  Gallows tipped his glass into his mouth. ‘Challenge accepted.’

  ‘Come on, tomorrow’s a big day.’ Damien hooked Gallows’ arm around his shoulders and marched him outside. The cold night air hit Gallows like a train.

  ‘The Remembrance.’ Gallows’ belly filled with hollow anger. ‘I’m not gonna be nearly hungover enough tomorrow.’

  ‘I’d like to take that wager.’

  Laughter spilled from Gallows’ throat, before his voice became a whisper. ‘Why didn’t you kill me when you were supposed to?’

  Damien didn’t speak for a while. Then he said, ‘Your blood would’ve stained my robes.’

  The large, yawning windows of the orphanage loomed ahead of Serena like souls screaming in anguish. The image chilled her skin—and the scowling gargoyles didn’t help.

  She’d expected to be restless after the funeral, or so stricken with grief that she couldn’t move or cry or speak. Instead it was the absence of these things she noticed—not numbness, not relief, but something in between.

  They say it comes in waves.

  All that effort to get Dixon to notice her. He’d have laughed and winked like he always did. Maybe that was th
e best way to honour him—by reminding herself not to sweat the small stuff, just as he wouldn’t.

  She latched onto the pipe that ran up the wall and anchored herself on a low-level windowsill.

  Her heart froze when she reached the halfway point.

  In the window, Sister Ingrid was talking to Petrakis. Serena couldn’t make out what they were saying, but Ingrid’s hand clasped over her mouth. It’s well after three—why are they awake?

  Serena scrambled up the wall, feeling loose stone tumble below her. After a few moments, her sore foot found the familiar feeling of her windowsill. She eased onto it and teased the barred gate open. A thin blade of light sliced into the room from the doorway. Strange. They always close it after their rounds.

  She eased the window open, its squealing creak just loud enough to make her bristle. She stooped low and stepped inside the dorm, making a mental note to lock the window later.

  Rapid footsteps clattered beyond the door.

  Shit.

  Her heart raced. She hitched her leg onto the ladder of the bunk, but-

  The door bounced off the wall. Petrakis filled the doorway. Ingrid flanked her, face white and staring with red-rimmed eyes.

  ‘Serena!’ the sister yelled.

  She stepped back down onto the floor. ‘What? I was cold so I got dressed and-’

  ‘Serena.’ Petrakis spoke again with trembling lips. ‘Come here. It’s okay. Walk towards me.’

  ‘What’s… going on?’ she asked.

  ‘Just come here, Serena.’

  ‘What’s happening?’ Serena stepped back, panic rising.

  ‘Don’t move!’ A watchman—the big one Enfield had stationed here. He stared at Serena, eyes flicking to the bunk. Sweat ran down his forehead and into his burned copper eyebrows, the same colour as the Liberty Wind’s engine casings. ‘You… You’re…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just walk toward us, girl.’ Ingrid spoke like a new mum. ‘Slowly.’

  ‘Why?’

  And then she saw it in the dim light.

  All of it.

  Marrin’s eyes wide open but devoid of curiosity.

  Her face delicate and peaceful, but for the slit across her throat.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘The time is nine o’clock on the Eleventh Day of Terros. The time is nine o’clock on the Eleventh Day of Terros. Today we remember the brave men and women who gave their lives in service to our kingdom. Prime Councillor Thackeray reminds citizens that services will be held throughout the city. A procession starting from Rochefort Castle and leading to Old Town Square will commence at high noon. King Owain regrets that he will be unable to pay tribute in public. Repeat: The time is nine o’clock on the Eleventh Day of Terros. King Owain—blessed be his name and long may he reign—wishes you a good day.’

  Motorcarriages were a rare sight in Dalthea. It wasn’t hard for Aulton Carney to imagine why; the cobbled streets were not conducive to a comfortable ride, and the other roads in the town were little more than dirt tracks. He had seen the carriage’s like in Rhis of course, but an old man’s eyes always appreciated wonder.

  Fabian was perched at his side, examining himself in a mirror, while the driver sat beyond a black partition. A plume of black-red ignium smoke trailed after them, a miniature sandstorm pursuing the carriage but never catching it. Everything always a chase. A young person’s folly. Fabian chases glory, Genevieve chases peace… And me, always chasing that perfect performance, the pièce de résistance for which my name will be forever remembered. When does ambition become obsession, I wonder?

  ‘How much longer will this take?’ mumbled Fabian. ‘My bottom is red raw! Do you hear me, man?’ His knuckles rapped on the partition.

  ‘Sit down, would you?’ Aulton spoke without removing his gaze from the window.

  ‘How do I look?’ Fabian straightened his frilled shirt and tightened his green velvet jacket. His long, straight, glossy hazel-brown hair hung behind his shoulders.

  ‘Very pretty,’ answered Aulton, still not looking at his associate. It would only encourage him.

  ‘As I should think.’

  ‘Gods, if only you spent as much time cultivating your voice as you do starching your collars and oiling your hair, we’d have sold out every concert hall between Tarevia and Val Candria.’

  Fabian’s face stretched in horror. ‘My voice and Genevieve’s are the only things keeping this company alive, old man! I have the voice of an angel! Sent from Musa herself! I carry the name of the One Father! Was it not I who, from the age of four, spent years under the tutelage if Henri Tavril Magnus tal Carrero? Was it not I who reduced great King Arnault to tears with my heavenly rendition of The Seven Blessings & Curses of Angelique of Adeline? Was it not I-’

  ‘Do shut up.’

  The city whizzed past the window. People die of thirst here. Hollowed out homes of scorched brick and stone are commonplace. This Kingdom—if one city can be called such—perpetually teeters on the precipice of collapse. Misery seeps out of its soul, yet its people carry on—sustained by what? Loyalty, duty, hope? A smile curled on his lips. ‘We shall bring these people hope, Fabian.’

  ‘Mm?’ Fabian was enthralled by his fingernails. ‘You sound like Saint Genevieve. A fool’s errand.’

  ‘Anyone who strives to bring peace and hope to this world is anything but a fool, Fabian. Ginny is as noble and pure a soul as I have ever met.’

  ‘She is easy to love,’ acknowledged Fabian. ‘So much so that you could charge ten times as much money.’

  ‘When you reach my age, boy, you realise how little wealth means.’

  ‘Ha!’ squealed Fabian. ‘Boy, he says! I am thirty-two years old! I just look nineteen.’

  ‘You’re forty!’

  ‘How dare you!’

  Fabian’s voice was almost as divine as Ginny’s, but damn, he did grate. ‘This carriage is taking too long.’

  ‘Alas, my bottom and I are in agreement.’

  ‘Then perhaps you would like to shut your mouth and convince your ass to speak for a change? I’d wager it has more brains. And a better singing voice.’

  Fabian closed his eyes and joined his hands in prayer. ‘Oh Nyr, merciful, holy Nyr, I will that you please take this man’s soul soon, so that I might be granted a reprieve from his lowbrow wit.’

  Aulton tuned Fabian’s mewling voice out. Tonight they would bring Dalthea the world’s greatest voice, and nothing would detract from that.

  The glass dome of Raleigh Trevelyan Train Station glinted like diamonds in the sun. Columns of people spilled from its bank of rotating doors and ascended its ignium-powered mechanical staircases. Aulton had read up on it during the airship journey; seemingly, the train station was constructed in the architectural fashion of the Ryndaran capital Rhis, ‘the City of Steel’. Following Dalthea’s war with Ryndara, the Prime Councillor of the time–Elizabeth tal Waverley—declared the train station be made to welcome travellers from Ryndara. In turn, a sister station in Rhis was to be constructed in sandstone and bear the hallmarks of Dalthea.

  A noble but ill-fated idea, Aulton learned, as tal Waverley never lived to see its completion, having been poisoned in her sleep at the hands of her own people, outraged that Dalthea was pandering to its most bitter enemy.

  ‘Still. It’s the thought that counts.’

  ‘Mm?’ said Fabian.

  ‘Nothing. Let’s keep moving.’

  They cut across a queue of people spiralling out from a water station. The swelling sound of overhead strings and cellos floated through him.

  ‘How undignified,’ spat Fabian. ‘All these machines and motors are the devil’s work! No craft, no music, no soul. Just endless, unfeeling repetition.’

  ‘Gods,’ said Aulton, ‘I haven’t the faintest idea what that’s like.’

  The interior of the train station was brighter than the city’s skyport but the smells were the same. Frying food sizzled, smelling of onion and garlic. They’d imported frozen fruit an
d vegetables here since the tragedy inflicted by the Idari. His stomach rumbled.

  Visitors here brushed past the teeming homeless at their feet. The vagrants stood in alcoves, huddled around food vendors, begging for scraps.

  Aulton shook his head. ‘Do you know, they call this the “Nomad’s Umbrella”.’

  Fabian turned his nose up. ‘Can’t imagine why.’

  ‘It does not behove a renowned artistic talent to look down upon their lessers, Fabian.’

  ‘But it’s okay to refer to them as our “lessers”?’

  Aulton groaned. ‘We privileged should set an example.’ He strode towards a young man, aged well beyond his years, lying on the ground and wrapped in threadbare clothes. Aulton drew a fistful of aerons from his pocket and clasped the notes into the young man’s hand. He looked at Aulton with semi-closed eyes, squinting as if unable to see the man two inches in front of him. His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out.

  ‘Fortune find you, friend.’ Aulton stalked off towards the train platform, beckoning Fabian to follow.

  ‘All touching, Aulton, really. But do you mean to tell me you intend on changing the world by offering charity to every vagrant, tramp and vagabond you pass? I fear the world should not hold its breath.’

  ‘As I said, I simply mean to bring hope. Songs and stories travel further, faster and last a hell of a lot longer than money. People need to be roused to action, Fabian. I aim to see the change one day.’

  ‘Kringla swirls! Get kringla swirls! Better than the Ryndarans-ow!’

  Aulton turned on his heel to see a patrolling watchman shove a young boy to the ground, sending his tray of baked goods to the floor. ‘Stop pestering folk!’ the watchman called as he marched past, head held high.

  The boy scrambled to collect his wares, head snapping left and right in a panic.

  ‘Excuse me, young sir.’ Aulton bent down to address the boy.

  ‘They’re fine, honest, guv’nor! Barely a speck o’ dirt on ’em, honest! Better than the Ryndarans make! I’ll… I’ll give you a discount if you want ’em!’