‘You… You want to come?’ The boy’s face reddened. ‘I got two tickets and my mum… She won’t make it.’
‘Uh, thanks, but I can’t, I…’ He cast his gaze to the ground, and a swell of pity rose inside her. ‘If I’m still in town. No promises, okay?’
His face lit up. ‘Okay!’
‘I’m serious Milo, this ain’t a promise, all right?’
‘Okay!’ he cheered again. ‘So, so, where you off to now?’
‘To see… a contact.’ She winked. ‘Sorry, I can’t tell you more.’
‘Oh, that’s cool. So, I’ll meet you at seven o’clock by the clock tower outside the opera house. Bye!’
‘What? Milo! I can’t-’ Milo bounded off, disappearing among the throng of people surrounding the fire-breather. How does he have the energy?
An airship wheeled in the air above her, an RSF patrol blimp.
No trains. No airships. A boat would do, if Irros’ Beckon wasn’t a total junkyard.
A thought seeped into her head. A nomadic, seafaring race… I was raised on boats, never staying in one place too long…
‘Aerulus’ golden shit,’ she said out loud. Is that why that old woman spoke to me last night?
She glanced at the crumpled paper she had planned on passing off as a ticket.
Mages’ Guild: Small Laurel Lane, Arrowhead.
It was the air that Fitz found strangest.
His nose detected earthy, pungent smells. Not odours as such, but not pleasant either. There was the distinct, fruity smell of the desert temetum insidiae plant, and hints of ignium and other stuff Fitz had no clue about. He didn’t know much about the temetum insidiae either, until he was paid to smuggle it across the Steelpeaks. He wasn’t accustomed to being paid well, so naturally it made Fitz curious what was so special about a bloody flower.
That was when he found out it was used to produce scuzz.
Vaughan’s side line in narcotics wasn’t so much a poorly-kept secret as it was a well-known fact. The synthetic smell cloyed at Fitz’s nose, no doubt the result of some chemical concoction entirely unfit for human consumption. The Liberty Wind won’t win prizes for beauty, but at least she won’t explode mid-air.
‘You sure you know what you’re doing?’ Tiera whispered.
‘Aye,’ he growled.
Darkness pervaded in the room, offset only by small, dimmed ignium lamps dotted around the floor and hanging from the ceiling. The lamps were each washed with faint red paint, bathing the room in blood. Symbols, swirls and strange patterns decorated the walls. The whole room was made all the more eerie by the strains of slow, discordant classical music emanating from some unseen corner.
‘Let’s get this over with,’ spat Roarke. ‘This place is wrong. I can feel it. Gods I wish I had my knife.’
Fitz understood the sentiment; he felt naked without his effects. They were obliged to relinquish any weapons and tools they had on their person to a middle-aged watchwoman, officially there to stop the Whimsy from taking off but no doubt on Vaughan’s payroll. The absence of his flask gnawed at Fitz in particular; he should have taken a swallow before he left, just to steady his nerves.
‘No talking,’ Tiera instructed in hushed tones, bringing him back to reality. ‘Best not give anything away.’ She kept her eyes on the only other person in the room, one of Vaughan’s crew she hadn’t seen before: A tall woman sporting cropped chalk-white hair as pale as her skin. She wore metallic red eye shadow, burgundy trousers, and a frilly, cream Ghillie shirt, like the kind they had in Aludan. Her knee-length, tan-coloured work boots were adorned with belts and pouches—Fitz had a similar pair himself when he was a sky pirate.
‘You talk like you’re in the middle of a game of Coxswain’s Bluff,’ Fitz remarked, ‘or about to start a war.’
She shrugged. ‘Not far off.’
‘We can handle Farro ruttin’ Zoven,’ said Roarke. ‘Only thing we got to worry about is Vaughan steering clear o’ me long enough so I don’t slit him from balls to belly. And what’s your story, eh?’ he shouted to their silent observer. ‘Don’t imagine it’s much fun for ya, traipsing around with Vaughan. How about it? Fancy getting a job with a real man?’
The woman angled her head as though looking at a curious stain on the floor. In an instant, she darted across the room and whipped her heel into Roarke’s head. The force sent him flying. He screamed, but she stamped on his throat, turning the scream into a scratching hiss.
The smile on her face didn’t falter once.
‘Serves you right,’ sneered Tiera. ‘Vaughan won’t tolerate your idiocy.’
Fitz straightened his back as the cargo door swung open. ‘Speaking of whom...’
‘Captain Fitzwilliam! Tiera! Lovely to see you both!’ Vaughan rubbed his hands with glee. He wore a bright teal get-up today, two shiny medals pinned to its breast. ‘And you brought your pet rat as well!’ He cast a gaze towards the woman. ‘Now now, Jynx, that’s no way to treat our guests; he hasn’t even paid you to do that.’
Jynx slinked back to her position against the wall, the shadows reclaiming her.
Roarke struggled to his feet, a hacking cough complementing his sweat-gleamed face. ‘Ya freaky bitch!’
‘Don’t expect much from Jynx, Mister Roarke,’ Vaughan began, ‘she hasn’t uttered a word in all the time I’ve known her. But then,’ he chuckled, ‘who needs words when you can do the things she can do?’
Fitz growled. ‘Can we get on with this?’
Vaughan met his gaze and smiled. ‘So, to what do I owe the pleasure? Come to volunteer aboard the Hurtling Whimsy? Good! We could use the help, particularly in the latrines. No budget to pay, feed or water you I’m afraid—but good for exposure, no?’
‘Stow it,’ ordered Fitz. ‘You know what this is about. We’ve come to talk.’
‘Talking, is it? I see! Could this—perchance—be something to do with my damn crew being grounded? Or are you intending on throwing more baseless accusations my way? Because I have little patience today, Fitz, and a crew asking questions I can’t answer.’
‘Zoven.’ Fitz let the word hang in the air. ‘I want a meet. You can make that happen.’
Vaughan sauntered over to within an inch of Fitz’s nose, hands clasped behind his back.
That’s when he laughed. ‘No can do. Now, can I interest you in some pharmaceutical recreation on your way out?’
Fitz swallowed. ‘Listen, we’ve never seen eye to eye on much, Vaughan, but… I’m prepared to believe you ain’t responsible for what happened to my crew. At least not directly.’
Vaughan’s eyes widened. ‘Well I’m happy to hear it, Fitz, but I must confess to not being overly concerned with your opinion of me. Now! We have things that will make you float among the stars, send your soul singing and achieve a level of enlightenment so exquisite you’ll find yourself conversing with the Gods! Though I do find them rather dry.’
‘We’re not interested in your junk,’ hissed Tiera. ‘Only answers.’
‘You talk as if I am some lowly scuzz peddler! My products are the best!’
‘Zoven’s products,’ corrected Tiera.
‘Semantics. I make them, he sells them. They are mine. Not that they’re appreciated by the filthy philistines in Dustwynd, ugh.’
‘This is getting us nowhere, Fitz,’ croaked Roarke. ‘We can talk to Zoven without this clown.’
‘What would it take to set up a meet?’ asked Fitz.
‘Hah! Well firstly, it’d take a why. Though it had better be damn good; he does not like interruptions, and he does get a lot of business during the Remembrance.’
‘For the love of Eiro… I want answers!’ Fitz’s voice reverberated around the room. Sweat crawled down his back. His hands tremored. Then come the palpitations. ‘It sure as all Idari hells weren’t an accident,’ he snarled, ‘and Enfield’s a cockless piss-ant with all the agency of an unstrung puppet. Zoven’s the one with influence—he’s the one with his finger in every pocket. Serena�
�s missing, we’re all grounded an’ the Council’s doing bugger about it. Can you tell me the last time any of ’em gave a shit for a missing orphan, eh? Add all that up and we have a situation where I ain’t in no mood to be palmed off. You either help or you don’t, Vaughan, but if you say no, I’ll march into the Courtesans’ Guild and drag Zoven out myself.’
Vaughan arched an eyebrow. ‘Serena’s done a runner, eh? That girl is more clever than the rest of your crew put together! Where has she got to, eh? Better digs than your flying rust bucket, no doubt.’
Fitz roared, ‘If I knew where she was, do ya reckon I’d be here, mongrel?’
‘Fitz!’ Tiera snapped. He waved her off. If there was a time for nagging him on his damn temper and blood pressure, this wasn’t it.
‘Well,’ Vaughan began, ‘as it happens I am meeting with him today. I’m sure it wouldn’t cause… too much upset if I were to… bring a guest.’
‘Good.’
Roarke perked up. ‘We going to a whore house?’
‘There is, however, a condition,’ said Vaughan.
Tiera shook her head. ‘Why is it never simple?’
‘Because simplicity is boring.’
‘What condition?’ asked Fitz.
‘One of you has to stay here with my crew—for insurance. I don’t want you gutting me in a dark alley, Fitz. Should I meet such an untimely end, I want you to know that one of yours dies too.’
Now it was Fitz’s turn to laugh in Vaughan’s face. ‘Not gonna happen.’
‘Then you may take your leave.’
The muscles in Fitz’s forearms tightened. ‘Roarke. Stay here.’
‘Like hell!’ Roarke moaned. ‘Can’t promise a man some whorin’ and then take it away.’
‘Gods damn it, you’ll do as you’re bloody told.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Tiera. ‘I’ll stay.’ Her eyes sought Jynx. ‘These finisa don’t scare me.’
‘There, see?’ Roarke nodded to Tiera. ‘She gets it.’
Fitz clasped Tiera’s hand in his. ‘You sure?’
‘Just get our answers, Fitz,’ she demanded. ‘And raise the hells if you don’t.’
Tiera slipped her concealed throwing knife into Fitz’s palm, and kissed him.
It took almost two hours for Serena to find the woman’s address.
The city was different during the day, more exposed. Every single citizen must have been out for the Remembrance—along with the Watch.
She stole a glance to make sure no coppers were close and ambled down into a nearby, narrow path. A cracked and faded sign on a wall read ‘Small Laurel Lane’.
She’d wanted to buy a scarf to cover her hair but had zero money and less inclination to steal one. She was lucky that no-one gave her a second glance. Typical. The only time I don’t stand out is when costumed carnival freaks fill the streets. Funny way to remember the dead. Half the people looked more excited than they would on Wintercast.
…Would Dixon have wanted to be remembered like this?
Before she could give the thought any more devotion, a bright, fluttering dot spun past her and settled on a trash can. Serena started, a sharp intake of breath stabbing her chest.
The yellow-headed flickertail blinked at her.
After a moment, she held out a hand. The creature took up the invitation, perching itself in her palm. ‘Sorry for telling you to piss off earlier.’
It sang its forgiveness, and for a second, Serena forgot her troubles. She thumbed the tickly plume on his head, the tell-tale sign that the little guy was male. ‘Suppose I’d better call you Flicker, huh? Much better than “Scruff”, don’t you think?’
It stared up at her with curious black eyes.
‘The whole kingdom is on the brink of dying of thirst, but that doesn’t stop you, does it? Don’t you ever want to fly away?’
Flicker bounced around her, tiny wings fluttering in her ears.
She journeyed deeper through the lane, and Flicker bobbed behind her. ‘So you’re just gonna follow me, then? Weird, but okay.’
She came to an oak door with flaking blue paint. A fading symbol was etched into the wood, a circle with an eleven-pointed star in the centre, each point touching the edge. ‘Well, Flicker, I dunno what you want—but if you’re not giving up, I guess I can’t either.’
She knocked on the door.
‘I’m so glad you came,’ said the mage, placing a cup and saucer in front of Serena. ‘I was worried I’d scared you!’
‘Oh, nah. I hope I’m not in the way, um, Guildmaster.’
The woman chuckled. ‘If you’re going to call me that, you can leave right now. My name is Myriel.’
Myriel took a seat opposite Serena at a table that would have once looked grand. The room was the size of the orphanage’s common room, and just as messy—bright, colourful cabinets burst with books, and shelves warped from the weight of ornaments and trinkets. Vivid red dominated the walls and ceiling, accentuated with flourishes of gold, turquoise and purple. Exotic cushions sewn with intricate patterns were thrown around with liberal abandon. One of the several display cabinets exhibited a life-size human skull. Cool. If she’s got a skull on open display, then what’s behind the cabinet doors?
Books were stacked from floor to ceiling, and strange knick-knacks, charms and dreamcatchers hung on the walls. The heavy, dusty curtain above the room’s single window was drawn shut, the only light coming from candles. These were notable only because they weren’t ignium lamps, and Serena thought better of questioning how wise it was to keep so many naked flames around so much paper… Though she did enjoy the aroma.
A battered couch draped in blankets sat by an ancient fireplace. The floor was thick with rugs displaying kaleidoscopic configurations of reds, yellows, greens and more.
Years spent in sparse cabins and the dorm made Serena feel alien. ‘Do you live here?’
‘Oh yes! Didn’t used to. Well, I mean, I’ve always lived here, but it wasn’t always the Mages’ guild house.’ Myriel smiled, eyes lost in some memory. ‘Ours is the oldest guild in Dalthea—the mages once numbered in the hundreds and had houses in every major city in the world. We counselled every king and queen before the world outgrew us.’ She sighed. ‘I suppose there’s little need for mystics and alchemy when science explains everything. Anyway, never mind about all that! There’s your tea, drink up. I have plenty of water if you want more.’
Serena took a sip from the concoction of dried leaves and berries. ‘Where do you get the ingredients?’
‘This is from traders here for the parade, but sometimes I get the train north. Gods know where we’d be without tea.’
‘Uh… Yeah.’ Serena took another sip.
Myriel clapped her hands together. ‘Now! Grateful as I am for company, Serena, I do find myself a touch mystified. Shouldn’t you be in school?’
‘Uh, they gave us the day off. For the Remembrance.’
Myriel studied her. If she could tell Serena was lying, she didn’t show it.
‘I see,’ said the mage. ‘Well, how can I help?’
‘I, uh, had some questions.’ Serena smiled in an effort to appear nonchalant. ‘We have a test coming up. Well, a project. History. And I thought I’d best use my time off researching, and after talking to you at the… funeral, I thought maybe you could help. Better than studying in some old book. Not that there’s anything wrong with books!’
‘All right,’ said Myriel. ‘Fire away.’
Serena rubbed the back of her neck. She hated having to think on her feet. ‘Um, right, well, you’d mentioned a tribe of sea people. It caught my imagination, so I thought I could pick your brain a bit.’
Myriel nodded. ‘An obscure topic, isn’t it? How will they know if you’re presenting facts and not some hogwash you made up?’
‘Uh… I guess I’ll have to be convincing. I don’t know. Maybe it was a mistake coming, sorry, I should-’
‘Serena, I’d be delighted to help! I’m afraid I’ll need to dig out
some of my old books that you find so stifling. What specifically do you wish to know?’
Sweat trailed down her back. ‘Like, how they travelled, their ship-building technology, where they went, what kind of people they were and… stuff like that.’
Myriel smiled but her eyes narrowed. ‘I’ll see what I can do. You’re welcome to-’
Three loud bangs hammered on her door. Flicker burst from Serena’s pouch.
Myriel’s delighted eyes followed the creature as he bounced from corner to corner.
Whoever had knocked on the door did so again—much harder this time. ‘Two visitors in one day!’ declared Myriel. ‘I can’t remember the last time that happened.’ She got up and ambled towards the door
Shit. She knows I’m lying. Shit. Serena snatched a glance around the room but there was no visible way out. I’ll make an excuse, tell her I’m meeting friends or someth-
‘Officer,’ said Myriel. Serena froze in her chair.
‘Good morning. I’m Constable Nyara, and this…’
They found me! Serena inched away from the table and crept to the other side of the room, the thick rugs absorbing her footsteps. She stooped by the window and pulled the curtain back, spying the watchman—and another man, wearing a long black coat, hat and glasses.
‘I am Confessor Lenis Cronin of the Fayth and the Crown,’ came the other voice, sharp as a guillotine.
‘Ah yes,’ Myriel said, ‘I believe we’ve met at numerous governmental meetings. When I bothered with them!’
‘May we enter? It’s urgent business.’
Shit. A Confessor! Serena had never seen a Confessor before. In fact, she hadn’t been sure they existed. The pulp novels Angelo loved so much were full of stories about them, painting them as torturers and fanatics who made their suspects sign false confessions.
‘Remind me, Confessor,’ Myriel started. She placed a finger on her chin and spoke with music in her voice, ‘does your department have a seat on the Council?’
‘Regrettably, it does not.’
Symphony of the Wind Page 16
