Symphony of the Wind

by Steven McKinnon

  ‘Regrettable is the word! I’m afraid, then, I am bound by law to refuse your request. Sorry about that, ever so sorry.’

  The Confessor showed his gleaming teeth. ‘While your adherence to the law is admirable, I’m afraid the nature of this visit means I must insist. As a Confessor, I am privy to the king’s-’

  ‘Oh,’ said Myriel, a tinge of regret in her voice. ‘I’d love to, sir, really I would, but the absence of a councillor means I need to see an official writ first. This is Guild property, after all!’

  The Confessor spoke again: ‘It is of grave import, Miss tal Lo, I’d thank you to let us in. We will be brief, you have my assurances.’

  ‘Guildmaster tal Lo,’ she corrected.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Piss on this!’ spat Nyara. ‘Let us in, you old biddy. We’re the damn Watch! Let us in, or-’

  ‘Enough, constable! Guildmaster, please accept my apologies for Constable Nyara’s… enthusiasm. We are investigating—I am sorry to say—the murder of a minor. As you will appreciate, the details are distressing.’

  ‘No offense taken,’ said Myriel. ‘And that sounds awful, all parties involved have my sincerest condolences.’

  ‘My thanks. So I can assume your co-operation then?’

  ‘Of course! After I see a writ. Sorry to be awkward, but the rules were put in place for a reason, Confessor. The unions fought hard on these issues, and it’d be a slight against their troubles if I undermined them. You’ll remember the rioting, of course.’

  ‘Acutely.’ The word drew out of Cronin’s mouth like a doctor’s needle.

  ‘It’s well within your power to give us permission,’ Nyara continued.

  ‘Oh, are you a simpleton, son?’ Myriel said in the tone of a mother scolding her child. ‘Flinging orders around doesn’t count for much when you’re speaking with someone so far above your station I sincerely doubt you can count that high.’ Nyara snorted, but Myriel took no notice, though she did soften her tone. ‘You hear terrible things about the Watch these days, and me being but a crone, alone here... Well it wouldn't be proper.’

  She’s nowhere near as frail as she wants people to believe.

  ‘Nothing’s stopping you from asking your questions on the doorstep, Confessor.’

  ‘Wench,’ spat Nyara. ‘I can have you-’

  ‘Silence,’ Cronin commanded. ‘I’ll be brief: We’re looking for a young woman known as Serena. We do not have a surname. She is a student residing in the orphanage and works for the Raincatchers. We’ve interrogated her crew but I understand you were with her at a memorial service last night. Is that correct?’

  Shit.

  ‘It is, yes. Gods, is she all right?’

  ‘We have no reason to suspect otherwise, but she is missing. We need to speak to her in connection with the fatality. Formalities at this stage. Has she been here?’

  Flicker hovered over Serena, squeaking and making her heart leap.

  She balled her fists, and made ready to leap out of the door.

  ‘No, not at all,’ said Myriel. ‘Oh dear. I doubt the girl would even remember me. Seemed like such a sweet soul.’

  Serena allowed herself the luxury of breathing.

  ‘If she comes by, I urge you to contact me. Not the Watch—come straight to me. I will be stationed in Old Town Square while I carry out my investigations. Good day, Guildmaster.’

  ‘Good day, Confessor. Constable.’

  Myriel watched them leave before closing the door.

  ‘Well,’ she said, turning to Serena. ‘I should think now’s a good time to tell me the truth.’

  ‘How long will this take?’

  Jynx hadn’t uttered a word the entire time. She didn’t expect her to answer but she watched her reactions. How her lip twitches when I mention Vaughan… How her eyes get lost when the music changes… How she scowls when I threaten her.

  That damn music. It hadn’t ceased, that discordant, screeching din.

  How long have I been here?

  She knew it wasn’t—couldn’t—have been long since Fitz and Roarke left, but it felt like hours. Her head buzzed with a fog that she hadn’t noticed setting in until now. She felt the absence of her knives like a mother pining for her newborn. Good then, that the finisa who patted her down was too stoned to notice the throwing knives in her sleeves. Fitz better not lose the one I slipped to him. I ain’t broken it in yet.

  Her instincts had been gnawing at her from the moment they set foot inside. ‘What is this room?’ she asked. ‘What happens in here, eh?’

  As expected, her questions elicited no answer. How her lips almost curl into a smile…‘Well it’s more than a damn store room, I know that. Don’t suppose you got water?’

  Jynx’s head snapped to the left. The door inched open, hushed tones of someone’s voice filtering in. Jynx turned her back to Tiera.

  It’d be so easy. Dart over, grip her neck, snap it in one, send the throwing knives into the throats of whoever comes next. So easy.

  But Tiera knew better than that. She knew better than to underestimate this woman. You don’t stand guard on your own with no weapons if there ain’t something up your sleeve… And this is her turf.

  She caught Jynx pocketing something.

  And so it begins.

  Jynx slinked towards her like a cat cornering a mouse. The amusement on her face changed to naked malice.

  Tiera adopted a fighting stance. ‘Fitz. He ain’t coming back, is he?’

  Slowly, Jynx shook her head.

  Tiera’s blood rose.

  Jynx inched closer, hands behind her back. She didn’t look like she was on the offensive, but that had to be a trick. She’s baiting me into attacking first… She’ll get her wish.

  The throwing knife spun from Tiera’s hand.

  For once, surprise flashed on Jynx’s face.

  She was quick.

  The knife missed her by an inch and thudded into the door—exactly as Tiera had planned.

  Knowing she’d dodge the blade, Tiera rushed and hammered a spinning elbow into Jynx’s temple, sending her to the floor.

  Tiera palmed her other knife, ready to slit Jynx’s throat, but the door flung open.

  ‘Oi!’ A slow, haggard crewman appeared, hefting an old and rusty repeater rifle.

  The knife found his throat.

  Jynx slithered across the floor but Tiera pounced on her and drove her fist into her face. The blood bubbling from her nose looked black against her pale skin.

  Footsteps—the noise had alerted the other crew members—no time to finish the job. ‘I’ll see you again,’ Tiera spat. She rolled along the floor, yanking her knife from the crewman’s throat and the other from the door. She picked the repeater rifle up; no ammo. She discarded it and heaved the door closed behind her, barring it.

  Time was slipping away, and Fitz was in danger.

  Tiera ran along a passageway draped in gloom. Two chattering voices around the corner ahead of her, a male and a female. Tiera barrelled around, sliding into the woman and sweeping her legs from udner her. The man was quick to react, stomping at Tiera with heavy, steel-capped boots and missing her face by a hair’s width.

  She sprung up and drove her knee into his groin, slamming his head into the corner of a nearby crate.

  ‘Quim!’ the woman on the floor hissed. She scrambled to her feet and drew a long, silver knife.

  ‘That’s mine,’ said Tiera.

  ‘You can have it after I plant it in your gut.’

  She lunged for Tiera, slashing only air as Tiera dodged.

  Tiera grabbed her arm, broke it like it was nothing more than a twig, and snatched her knife. She enjoyed the weight in her hands.

  The girl stumbled against a bulkhead, howling in pain. ‘Wait, wait…’ she pleaded, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘If you… let me live… I can help you escape…’

  Tiera said nothing.

  ‘Bitch!’ Blood burst from the girl’s mouth. ‘Please, please don
’t let me die-’

  Tiera ploughed her knife into the girl’s heart. Pitiful.

  Vaughan had constructed labyrinthine walls and cubicles throughout his ship. Tiera turned a corner, taking her to a passageway identical to the one she just left.

  After several minutes’ frantic running, Tiera happened upon a door she was sure she’d passed on her way in. She stepped through.

  An overweight man with a curtain of greasy brown hair sat slumbering at a desk laid out with all of the confiscated weapons. A pockmarked and lopsided cap crowned his head.

  She prowled closer, snatching her other knife from the table.

  Tiera took position behind the sleeping guard. He reeked of body odour, and his black work shirt displayed splattered stains of paint and food. Tarnished white overalls were unfurled at his feet. So this is the runt responsible for the creepy paint job.

  He woke with a gasp.

  ‘Wouldn’t make more noise if I was you.’

  ‘I-’

  She yanked his head back with a fistful of greasy hair, pressing the cold steel against his throat. He gargled something in confused terror.

  ‘Scream for help, pig, and I’ll cut you open. Your innards will spill out for hours before you bleed to death.’ She clutched the knife tighter against his skin, a spot of blood rolling on the steel. ‘Tell me how to get out of here.’

  Tears gushed from his eyes. ‘Okay,’ he said in a small voice. ‘You, you want to leave this room, turn to the passage on the right. There’s a cupboard at the back wall, but, but it’s false. Pull it out. Vaughan uses the space to hide drugs during inspections but there’s a ladder too, leading up to the deck.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Please don’t kill me!’ A wet patch blossomed on his trousers.

  ‘How many more crew are here?’

  ‘I, I don’t know…’

  The second knife seeped into the flab on his thigh. He screamed.

  ‘I, I don’t bloody know! Honest! I’m not part of Cap’n Vaughan’s crew! My name’s Jacques! Check the crew roster if you don’t believe me!’

  Tiera growled. His watery eyes, wide and pleading, told her that he wasn’t lying.

  She glowered at him, then spun away. ‘Your work here is done. If I see you again, I’ll kill you.’

  Jacques nodded.

  She stepped out of the door—and came face to face with two stocky crewmen.

  The bigger one lunged first.

  Tiera moved quicker; she ducked beneath his punch and replied by thrusting a knife up through his jugular, blood spraying over her hand.

  The other wasn’t so stupid.

  He pedalled backwards. A knife had been taped to the end of the thin wooden pole he brandished. It wouldn’t keep Tiera at bay forever.

  ‘Stupid choice of weapon in close quarters,’ she said.

  ‘That would matter if I was tryin’ to kill ya.’

  The man backed to the alcove Jacques had mentioned.

  Tiera spat on the ground. ‘You won’t stop me.’

  ‘I don’t have to.’ The corner of his mouth curved.

  One of the ignium lamps in the ceiling popped out.

  Her opponent’s eyes flashed up to it.

  She took her chance.

  Her blades scythed through the pole, splitting it in half.

  ‘Shit!’ he yelped.

  Another ignium lamp snuffed out.

  Then another.

  Darkness bathed the passageway, but for the symbols glowing on the walls—the same as the ones in the store room.

  The clink of broken glass drew her attention behind her.

  ‘Shoulda killed me!’ roared Jacques.

  Tiera dodged his attack, but the space was limited. The sharp glass sliced into her shoulder.

  The cut damaged her confidence more than her flesh—fear seeped in, like a leak in an oil drum. ‘Pig!’ she screamed.

  ‘I’ll get her!’ The other man screamed and charged with the sharp end of his stick.

  Tiera used his momentum to her advantage: She jumped and shot her feet out to the walls, holding in place as she straddled the floor. He passed underneath her.

  ‘No, st-’

  Jacques’ face froze in pain and shock as his crewmate’s blade went through his belly.

  ‘Shit!’ said the other man as Tiera dropped behind him.

  Tiera slit his throat without thinking about it.

  Her fingers felt for the cupboard. She prised it from the wall, a smile playing on her lips.

  It disappeared.

  No secret passageways. No ladders.

  ‘No. No!’ She screamed out to the darkness.

  Discordant music filtered through the passageway, the same infuriating, screeching sound as before. The floor creaked. Shadows seeped from the walls.

  Tiera screamed again and spun. ‘Where are you?’

  The music increased in volume.

  It jarred her senses. Panic rose in her chest and made her shake.

  ‘I’m here,’ came a voice.

  Tiera stabbed at its source, connecting with air.

  She growled.

  ‘Or am I here?’

  She hacked the air, again finding nothing.

  ‘Or am I over there? Or down here? Or above you?’

  Each word came from a different place.

  ‘Or am I in your head?’

  Tiera ran, but in the darkness she couldn’t find her bearings.

  Still the music played.

  The walls spun, collapsed and resolved from the shadows.

  ‘How are you doing this?’

  The sweat poured from her.

  ‘Little rat, in a trap, doesn’t know where to run. Little rat, in a trap, hasn’t a place to turn…’

  Every ignium lamp flared to life, burning so bright Tiera flinched.

  Jynx appeared in front of her.

  No, she’s behind me… to my side… everywhere…

  She slashed at her—them—but the images disappeared.

  ‘Witch!’

  ‘Little rat, in a trap, running around scared. Little rat, in a trap…’

  Something hard struck Tiera’s face. Blood bubbled from her lips.

  ‘Should know when she’s been snared.’

  Jynx kicked the knives away and thrust her heel into Tiera’s stomach. Pain exploded.

  ‘I’ll… kill you.’

  A fist silenced her. When she hit the ground, the pain flowered throughout her body.

  Blood gargled in Tiera’s throat when she spoke. ‘You… should kill me…’

  Jynx’s face bore down, still wearing her shallow smile. ‘Hush now, baby.’ She spoke as though reading a fairy tale. ‘Why would we want to kill you?’

  Jynx’s hand shot up to her lips, and she blew a glittering pink dust into Tiera’s face.

  ‘What… What is…’

  Jynx faded and blurred. The music rang in her head, a melody forming. The symbols on the wall whispered at her. Tiera tried with all her might to grab at Jynx but her limbs refused to obey.

  The world turned black.

  Chapter Nine

  Citrus and almond perfume barbed Fitzwilliam’s nose and eyes.

  His feet sank into the lush carpet snaking along a blood-red marble floor. Extravagant vases bloomed with bright, artificial flowers, while dim ignicite lamps brought a hazy, intimate glow to private booths. Chandeliers drooped from the ceiling, sparkling in a lazy spin.

  Then there were the courtesans.

  Legions of women—and men—draped themselves over the maple-coloured handrail curling alongside the staircase. They smiled down from balconies, withdrew into secret alcoves and made sure their eyes lingered just long enough to plant the seeds of lust.

  A huge painting of Musa, God of Music, Poetry and Love, gazed out from beside the staircase. Fitz wasn’t the most religious man, but he doubted Musa ever sat astride a chaise lounge whilst decked out in obscene lingerie.

  Illusions, all of it, but it wouldn’t suck
him in. Shame, that. Ignorance is bliss, and if bliss was what you were after—or at least a close approximation for a fair price—then this was the place.

  His pocket watch told him twenty minutes had passed since Vaughan disappeared into the depths of the guild house.

  ‘This is bloody killing me.’ Roarke’s mouth gaped at a troupe of giggling girls in corsets corralling an old watchman.

  ‘Keep it in your pants,’ ordered Fitz.

  ‘We ain’t on the ship.’

  ‘Duty’s duty.’

  ‘Ha!’ Roarke counted out copper aerons. ‘Sometimes a man’s duty is to ’imself. Ain’t good for you, not getting release.’

  The gorilla man stood at the foot of the stairs. Pierro, was it? Remember his face.

  Seeing him unlocked unwelcome memories.

  The tremors crept along Fitz’s hands again. They were getting worse. Like his inability to cut Roarke loose, that was a side-effect from the prison camp. Sometimes he’d dream that he was still there. He told Serena he didn’t regret killing that lad, and for a spell that was true. His dead face would come in dreams, as would the screams of the people he abandoned.

  ‘Here.’ His voice rumbled.

  ‘Damn,’ swore Roarke, ‘lost count! What is it?’

  ‘Do you ever think about the war… and the prison?’

  Roarke’s posture shrank and he slipped the coins away. ‘What a way to kill the mood, mate.’

  ‘Sorry, I just…’ Fitz rubbed the bristles on his head. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Stop. Fitz. What we did-’

  ‘I. What I did.’

  ‘What we did, we did to save our arses. We was carrying dead weight, and it was us or them.’

  ‘I can still hear ’em screaming…’

  ‘I can’t. Look, all’s you can do in this life is whatever’s right for you, yeah? Take what you want, and to Hell with everyone else. Me dad taught me that, when he wasn’t laying his hand on me mum. Belios’ ball sack, why bring this up now?’

  ‘I… Dunno. Been thinking, is all.’

  ‘Well that’s grand, that is.’ Roarke snorted. ‘Don’t reckon I can get it up now.’

  ‘Sorry. Not about that, about your mother.’

  Roarke shrugged. ‘Gave him lip, dozy cow deserved it.’

  ‘Gods damn it, Roarke,’ swore Fitz, shaking his head.