Symphony of the Wind

by Steven McKinnon

  Aulton’s smile grew wider. ‘I don’t doubt it. Tell me, what’s your name?’

  ‘Milo, sir.’

  ‘Well I’ll tell you what, Milo. I’ll pay full price for all of them—provided you give them to the homeless here.’ A noise prickled in Aulton’s ear, which sounded an awful lot like Fabian.

  ‘Are you playing some kinda joke, mister?’ said Milo, his blue eyes as wide as saucers.

  ‘No, Milo, no jokes. Here, take this money. Keep a little extra for yourself.’ Aulton produced the notes and fed them into Milo’s grubby palms. ‘Tell me, do you have parents?’

  Milo shifted on his feet. ‘Well, I got a mum, sir, but she don’t keep too well.’

  ‘Well, buy her something nutritious. And if she happens to be well enough to attend the concert,’ Aulton conjured two golden tickets from his suit jacket, ‘then perhaps you can accompany her?’

  ‘Wow! One Father, thanks, mister! She’ll more’n likely sell ’em, but thanks all the same!’

  Milo ran off and, bursting with enthusiasm, dishing the kringla swirls out to the nearby souls sleeping rough.

  ‘Hope,’ said Aulton to Fabian. ‘It propels us to greatness.’

  ‘And provides a nice, warm, fuzzy feeling,’ called a voice amidst the tide of travellers.

  Aulton turned and laughed with all the air in his lungs. ‘Genevieve! You look radiant!’

  ‘A gentleman as always,’ she said, ‘though I’d be severely disappointed if you can tell how I look.’

  ‘A mere disguise cannot hide your beauty, Ginny.’ Fabian spoke with a smile as broad and genuine as Aulton’s.

  Her modest clothes were nonetheless impeccably clean, and though her hair was tied back, some of her golden locks trailed beneath the silk head scarf. Even the dark-lensed spectacles she wore couldn’t hide the brightness of her gaze.

  ‘You are a splash of colour on a canvas of grey and black,’ said Aulton. ‘I do wish we had arrived a few days earlier to give us time to rehearse.’

  ‘Fear, terror and despondency don’t take a break,’ she explained. ‘Too many wrongs in the world need righting. We can see the sights of Dalthea when her people aren’t living in panic and squalor. Is the Musicians’ Guild far?’

  The rickety water apparatus shrieked in Gallows’ ear. The pain in his head stung like a swarm of mosquitoes, and ceaseless sweat tumbled down his back. Gotta be the worst hangover I’ve ever had.

  The inside of Gallows’ wrist ached. He didn’t remember unsheathing his knife during the night, but he woke up to find it lying on his bedroom floor. It told him what was going through his head after the funeral, but no blood stained the blade.

  Coward.

  Gallows had dreamt of Sera again, of course. Would Major Fallon be at the Remembrance? What would Gallows say if he saw him? How many times could he punch his former commander before the Watch pulled him away? These were the things one had to consider.

  But what if he does have something new on Sera’s death?

  Like what? She was dead. Gallows had buried her. He’d grieved for her and she wasn’t coming back—why open old wounds? What would it accomplish?

  No, it was just a ruse by the major—a trap to snare Gallows into some scheme or other.

  The cheap paper token tore in Gallows’ hand.

  ‘Next,’ the watchman droned. The queue shuffled ahead, inch by tortuous inch. A copy of the day’s newspaper lay trampled at his feet:

  DALTHEA VIATOR

  Back-Stabbing Rookie Alspeth tal Simara describes Veteran War Hero Pyron Thackeray’s proposals as ‘Barbaric Warmongering’.

  People Say: ‘But We NEED Security!’

  The shrill noise of the pump swelled again, and caustic sweat filled Gallows’ nose and throat. Chorusing curses erupted behind him, people eager to get their ration in time for the Remembrance Parade in a couple of hours’ time. But do they have to be so loud?

  ‘Couldn’t spare us a cup of water?’ a weak voice croaked in his ear. It belonged to a crone, her shoulders and head wrapped in a threadbare blanket. Her mottled skin displayed deep lines and a milky glaze clouded one of her eyes.

  ‘Next,’ repeated the watchman.

  ‘Please, mister… I’m dying, I’m dying…’ She gripped Gallows’ arm.

  ‘You got a cup?’ asked Gallows.

  ‘Right here, right here. Gods bless ya, mister.’

  ‘Next!’ barked the watchman, a stout man with a red face and thick, drooping moustache. ‘You’ve a whole queue behind you. Hurry up or move along.’

  Another officer—a woman—operated the apparatus, an eight-foot cylinder affixed with a nozzle.

  Gallows handed his water token over.

  ‘Six gallons,’ the copper said, stamping the note.

  Gallows gripped the handles, one barrel in each hand. The woman trailed behind him as they untangled themselves from the queue—and she made sure to display just how old and feeble she was.

  When they’d stopped, she held out a small, chipped and filthy ceramic cup, which shuddered in her bony hand. ‘Thank you, thank you. May the Songstress bless ya.’

  Gallows took the cup and smiled. ‘No big deal—I’ll just have two showers this week instead of three. What’s your name?’ He yanked the stopper from one of the barrels and tipped water into the cup, then handed it back.

  She slurped at the water before she answered, some of it trailing down her chin and dripping onto the hot, baking ground. ‘Elsie Travers. Couldn’t trouble you for some more? Not that I enjoy taking water from them near as old as me...’

  Gallows chuckled. ‘You’ve got a funny way of asking for a favour. I’m twenty-seven, by the way.’

  ‘Aerulus above! You’re at least fifty!’ She cackled again, good eye glinting and her pale, blotchy face widening with humour.

  Gallows couldn’t help but like her. ‘Hey, where do you live?’

  ‘Makes my home any place the Watch don’t kick me out. Right now it’s by an apothecary near Barra’s Bazaar. I prefer Irros’ temple but them scuzzers and harlots have made that their territory.’

  ‘Yeah… All right, lead the way. I don’t have much time.’

  ‘Eh? Not sure I take your meaning, son.’

  ‘Can’t carry one of these all the way home yourself now, can you?’

  ‘Gods bless ya! Follow me then. And try to keep up, old man.’

  Damien was already in Kirivanti’s office.

  ‘You’re late, Gallows,’ announced the guildmaster.

  ‘Yeah, had to pick up some water.’

  ‘Fine. We received a priority message from the Council: all Raincatcher operations have ceased, so the RSF will be undertaking their duties.’

  ‘Because of the accident?’

  ‘They did not go into detail. Now, to work: Junior Councillor Enfield tells me that the Prime Councillor intends on unveiling the first of the new aerial warships today.’

  Gallows chuckled. ‘Well sure, why not swing your dick around when the eyes of the kingdom are on you, eh? Parading a warship on Remembrance Day stinks of Pyron Thackeray.’

  The Guildmaster steepled her fingers upon her desk. ‘Finished?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Good. You are to report to this new airship.’

  ‘What?’ Gallows wasn’t sure he could stand more than a minute in the company of some arrogant RSF rotorhead. He glanced at Damien. ‘Well at least you’ll be in good company.’

  ‘Damien will be undertaking a separate assignment today. I assume you can stand to be apart for a day?’

  ‘Just barely,’ said Damien.

  ‘Good. Civilians and reporters will be aboard the RSF Schiehallion. As they are shorthanded covering the Raincatchers, you’re to act as a guard, Tyson, and follow all orders from her captain.’

  Sounds like a shit-show. ‘Who’s the captain?’

  ‘No idea,’ Kirivanti replied. ‘The Council has hired us to assist the Watch and provide security at the parade—they clearly wish that
to extend to the skies. I trust this won’t be a problem?’

  ‘Not at all. If some juggler’s ball strays too high into the sky,’ Gallows said with a salute, ‘I will risk life and limb to poke it with a sabre.’

  ‘I should think so. This may also pave the way for more lucrative contracts with the government for us, so I remind you to be on your best behaviour. You are an ambassador for all Hunters.’

  ‘Yeah, noted.’

  ‘Additionally, you are ordered to perform your duties today in your official Hunters’ Guild formal dress. Show our critics just how good we look.’

  ‘Huh? We don’t have dress uniforms.’

  ‘We do now.’

  Light brought the particles swimming in the water into view, like a Tarevian snow globe. Fitz had been to Tarevia more than once, and the scars on his back were the only souvenirs he’d picked up.

  Tiera grunted behind him. The single bed croaked something awful. He downed the water—couldn’t be too picky about the quality—and swung his aching legs to the floor.

  The cupboard by the shower unit always gave off the same musty smell, like old books left out in the rain. He hefted a small barrel marked Liberty Wind, Cpt. Fitz and jammed it up by the tank. It was the last unit they had, which meant queuing for refilling. Fitz weighed the barrel in his hands, debating whether to keep it for drinking—but gods, he needed a shower. He took the nozzle from the contraption and inserted it into the top of the container.

  The shower cubicle would have been tight for a slim man, but Fitz made do. Icy water rushed over him, but that was fine—he always preferred it cold.

  After he’d got himself cleaned up, he prepared a bowl of oatmeal for himself and Tiera in the communal kitchen—basic fare but hearty enough. It was from Aludan and tasted of cardboard, but Fitz welcomed anything that didn’t get slapped out of a can.

  A chorus of murmurs flitted through the hallway beyond. Tugarin and his crew. Good of him to show last night.

  Tiera staggered through, a loose night dress covering everything but her calves. Damn, but she looked fine in the morning.

  ‘Reckon I’ll talk to Roland again today,’ he said when she’d sat.

  Tiera snorted a response.

  ‘Surely,’ Fitz started, ‘Tiera Martelo—brutal and feared first mate of the Liberty Wind, Scourge of the Phadril and all-round arse-kicker—ain’t suffering from a hangover from a spot of grog?’

  ‘Do not mock me,’ she grunted. ‘Gods above and below, this is a headache fit for the hundred hells of Nyr…’

  ‘Captain Fitzwilliam.’

  Fitz turned to see Guildmaster Roland and Father Talbot standing in the doorway. They looked grimmer than usual.

  ‘Am I the only bugger not cowed by his liquor?’ asked Fitz.

  ‘It’s about one of your apprentices,’ said Roland.

  Fitz didn’t need to guess which one.

  Being back in the chapel brought comfort to no-one, but it was the only place they could talk in private.

  Clara and Roarke sat with Fitz and Tiera at the end of a long table. They looked as sour as Fitz felt. ‘Where’s Drimmon?’ he asked.

  ‘He went off to find Ena,’ answered Clara. Her round face bore more lines than usual. ‘I spent most o’ last night convincing him not to propose while he was drunk. What’s this about, Fitz? I got an order of canned strawberries to pick up, and if I ain’t there by-’

  ‘Serena,’ he interrupted. ‘She’s gone. The Watch reckon she had a hand in a death at the orphanage. And all Raincatchers have been grounded.’

  Clara’s jaw loosened. ‘An accident?’

  ‘The Watch don’t give a rat’s arse for accidents,’ said Fitz.

  ‘Do they know where she is? Is she safe?’

  ‘We don’t know anything. The Council are keeping to ’emselves for now.’

  ‘There’s a surprise,’ cackled Roarke. ‘Well I ain’t wasting time looking for her, not if we’ve been bloody grounded. I need paying!’

  ‘She’s one of us!’ Clara insisted.

  ‘We’re workers; she’s a poxy layabout. Good riddance.’

  ‘Quiet!’ roared Fitz. ‘We got enough trouble.’

  ‘Young Angelo,’ Clara began, ‘is he okay?’

  Fitz nodded. ‘Reckon Roland would’ve said if not.’

  ‘We should go on strike,’ said Roarke, hooking peach segments from a can and slurping them from his fingers. ‘Show ’em they need us and can’t screw us like this.’

  ‘Belios, Roarke!’ Clara shook her head in disbelief. ‘Our priority is Serena, not your next wage!’

  Roarke shrugged. ‘I ain’t in this game to babysit.’

  ‘Our livelihood is being torn from us, Fitz.’ Tiera’s voice simmered. ‘Your speech last night—strong words. Was that all they were?’

  Fitz shook his head. ‘I mean to take action. An’ I got an idea. I still don’t trust that pillock Vaughan, but we ain’t got proof he was involved in firing up the Spire. And I ain’t doing anything stupid until I know what I’m walking into.’

  Tiera uttered a guttural, rasping snarl. ‘He stole our contract from under us!’

  ‘Would we have done different if Roland ordered us to take his contract? He’s guilty as all the sins you care to name, but I don’t reckon he’d set up a fellow crew like that. It was the Council who gave Roland the orders, and the Council control the Spires. Vaughan didn’t need to come to the service last night.’

  Tiera’s scowl could quell an inferno. ‘Then who, huh? Who in the Council would want to kill us? You swore we’d get to the truth, Fitz.’

  Fitz planted his knuckles onto the table. ‘And we will. But I don’t believe in firin’ wildly and hoping something sticks. Remember, I was a smuggler for years, and a damn good one; that takes planning, precision, calculation.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Tiera threw her hands in the air. ‘So we sit on our arses and… count!’

  ‘You listen to me—I said I’d do something and I will. You ain’t got the patience to follow, then you’re free to leave. If you’re staying, then you damn well do as I say.’

  Tiera stalked around the table, and slinked an arm around his waist, pulling him towards her. ‘Good. Just making sure my man ain’t going soft.’

  ‘Reckon finding Serena’s the priority,’ said Clara. ‘That girl is out there, scared, alone, and who knows what else.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Fitz. ‘Which is why I’m gonna reach out to Vaughan.’

  Roarke spat syrup over the table. ‘How can that prick-fiddler help?’

  ‘He won’t—but he’s got a line with the man who might.’

  ‘Who’s that then, eh?’ asked Clara, her voice carrying a note of accusation.

  Tiera spoke for him: ‘He wants to see Farro Zoven.’

  ‘Zoven, eh?’ nodded Roarke. ‘He’d kill her after five minutes of listening to her bleat about how tough her life is. One night with the Courtesans will show her how easy she’s had it.’

  ‘That man’s a beast,’ said Clara. ‘I hope she’s as far away from him as can be.’

  ‘Aye, and everyone knows the coppers are ball-deep with him,’ said Roarke. ‘He’s probably handed her over already.’

  ‘Not if there ain’t anything in it for him,’ Fitz said. ‘And that’s where I come in.’

  ‘Reckon your arse won’t make Zoven much money,’ mumbled Roarke, tipping the rest of the can’s contents into his mouth. ‘Mind you, Vaughan could rent you out for weeks.’

  ‘You’re disgusting,’ said Clara.

  ‘Listen!’ Fitz called. ‘The Watch an’ the Council are in bed with Zoven. He’s got enough dirt on important people to keep ’em from sniffing too close. And if Zoven’s tied up with the Council-’

  Tiera breathed through her teeth. ‘He may know who set us up with the Spire.’

  ‘Exactly. And have a bead on Serena. If anyone knows how to get lost and lonely girls in their corner, it’s that bastard.’

  ‘Gods,’ whispered Clar
a. ‘She could be dead for all we know.’

  ‘And you think you can earn Zoven’s trust?’ Tiera seized Fitz’s gaze. The silence in the room ballooned. ‘Again?’

  Fitz shrugged. ‘Don’t see why not. With the Remembrance, he’ll be hawking all sorts of goods. Reckon he’ll need good men to keep up with demand, and I was the best smuggler he ever employed.’

  ‘That was a long time ago,’ said Clara. She’d never approved of Fitz’s dealings with Farro Zoven.

  Fitz rubbed the back of his head. Gods, he needed a drink. ‘Look, the man’s a brute, but so am I when need be.’

  Done with the empty can, Roarke fidgeted with his knife. ‘Don’t much care how folk get their jollies—as long as it ain’t an affront to the Gods—but lately I hear Zoven’s as likely to kill you as help you.’

  Fitz had heard the rumours too, like the one where Zoven killed one of his own lads for thinking he was stealing from him. Power and paranoia was a lethal cocktail. ‘He’s a businessman. He’ll appreciate my offer. Anyway, we’re grounded. Need to get the aerons in somehow.’

  ‘I’m with you, boss,’ sneered Roarke. He spun his knife in the air and caught it by the hilt. ‘Don’t scare me anyway. Ready to carve any bastard that has it coming to ’em. And if not, maybe one o’ Zoven’s girls can sort me out with releasing the tension in my loins.’

  Clara looked up at Fitz, face wrinkled. She didn’t say anything, but Fitz knew she was as worried as him. Is it worth putting my entire crew at risk for one person? The thought invited flashbacks to the Idari POW camp and leading a revolt against the guards. Only he and Roarke had survived.

  Damn right it’s worth it.

  ‘You all do what you like. I’m going to stay here,’ said Clara. ‘In case she comes home. She’ll need a friendly face.’

  ‘Bless you, Clara.’ Fitz smiled at her.

  ‘Shove your blessings. Just make sure she’s okay.’

  Fitz placed a hand on Clara’s shoulder. ‘If there’s any member of this crew who can get herself out of a scrape,’ he said, ‘it’s Serena.’

  She woke up startled, scared and alert.