Symphony of the Wind

by Steven McKinnon

  ‘Mister Zoven will see you,’ called a voice at Fitz’s back.

  He faced the dark-haired woman in the cobalt-blue dress. Her lips were as red as a refined garnet, standing out against her pale white skin like blood on snow. ‘Thanks, eh, Madam.’ He motioned for Roarke to follow.

  ‘Apologies Captain Fitzwilliam.’ The woman’s voice floated like mist on ice. ‘Mister Zoven wishes to speak alone.’

  ‘Oh aye, it’s like that, is it?’ Roarke smirked. ‘And how exactly should I spend my time? Don’t s’pose I get a discount, seeing as this is business?’

  Fitz waved a hand. ‘Stow it, Roarke.’

  ‘Screw that, I’m here, it’s legal, I been kicked about all ways and I ain’t ever been with a whore before. Well, not a Guild-whore, anyway. Maybe you can teach them in Scab End a thing or two, yeah?’

  It was almost invisible, but Fitz noticed the prickle in Madam V’s façade when Roarke said the word ‘whore’.

  ‘So then,’ Roarke pressed, ‘how much do you cost?’

  So much for spoiling the mood.

  ‘I am not for sale, Mister Roarke,’ said Veronica. ‘But I can pair you up with one of the girls, if that’s your wish. Captain, Pierro will escort you to Mister Zoven’s office.’ The giant waved from across the hallway. Great. Zoven’s hiring simpletons now.

  ‘I want someone pretty. And young,’ said Roarke as Fitz left. ‘She don’t gotta act like she likes it, if it keeps the price down.’

  ‘This way, then,’ said Pierro. Fitz followed him down a spiral metal staircase and into the basement. Cold air wafted into his face and disinfectant burned his nose.

  A dark, arching tunnel stretched out ahead beyond the final step, most of the brickwork still in good condition. A new, but familiar, scent twitched at Fitz’s nose. Wine. Gods, I need a drink.

  ‘Used to be a wine cellar,’ called Pierro.

  ‘I gathered,’ grunted Fitz.

  He trailed behind the big man. As he passed an open door, Fitz spied the old watchman from upstairs lying naked on a torture rack, whipped by a cane from an unseen hand.

  ‘Now it’s a sex dungeon,’ said Pierro.

  ‘I gathered,’ grunted Fitz.

  Pierro marched ahead, knocking twice on an ancient wooden door at the end of the passage.

  ‘Your Guild,’ said Pierro, ‘does it pay much?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Reckoned so. Decent leave?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shame. I get loads of time off. And a shit-ton of money.’

  Underground, cut off, in a den with this ape and Farro ruttin’ Zoven. Fitz folded his arms. The throwing knife he’d smuggled in his sleeve gave him some reassurance.

  ‘Come in,’ rasped a voice from beyond the door.

  Pierro hefted it open. A slender young lass with straw hair darted through the space, sprinting past in her bare feet.

  Pierro clapped Fitz’s back. ‘On you go! He hates waitin’.’

  ‘Captain Fitzwilliam.’ The words trickled out. Fitz could never place the accent; it was rough like Tiera’s but also sharp like the Ryndarans’. ‘Been a while, uh?’

  ‘Surely has, Fa-’

  Zoven snapped the lamp open before Fitz could finish, hand shooting up to shield his eyes.

  ‘Bright, yes?’ nodded Zoven. ‘One of the newer models. More efficient. Not available yet, uh?’

  ‘Fancy,’ said Fitz when he could see again.

  ‘Merely a trinket.’ Zoven stood and stalked around the table. He pulled his trousers up and fastened his belt.

  Fitz took his first good look at the man. Stiff white bristles of hair jagged from his chin. He’d aged a lot during the past couple of years; his thick, white hair had faded to a film of frost, and the light scarring on the pale skin of his face was made worse by the redness around his eyes. He ain’t one for drinking, an’ that’s a scuzzer’s blotchy skin if I ever I saw it.

  The clothes had changed too; dirty brown corduroys hung around his legs and waist, highlighting the gnarled toenails on his exposed feet, while the tearing on his light-green shirt was so severe that even the homeless in Dustwynd would be ashamed to wear it.

  But his eyes remained the same.

  Two dark, narrow slits that didn’t move whether he smiled or scowled. Always calculating, always thinking, piercing eyes that brooked no questions.

  He produced a glass jug of water. ‘I’d offer you a glass,’ Zoven began, ‘but there’s no profit in it.’ He poured the water into a small plant pot on his desk. Wispy green shoots nestled atop the soil.

  ‘Hang on—is that real?’ asked Fitz.

  ‘Oh yes. A cactus. None of the artificial crap the nobility use. Few real plants left, uh?’ Zoven caressed the plant with his pale and blemish-free fingers, as a father would his newborn. ‘Life is precious.’ He stared Fitz in the eye. ‘Well, most lives, uh?’

  Subtle.

  ‘Don’t hear from you for near three years, William, and now you show up—and not even to dip your quill in the very fine ink I offer.’

  Pierro giggled at his back.

  Fitz squared his shoulders. ‘I need information, Farro.’

  ‘So read a book.’

  ‘One of my crew’s in danger. Serena. She’s just a lass, skipped off. You know anything about that?’

  ‘Don’t know her. And I know all my girls.’ Zoven showed off his yellowing shark-toothed smile. ‘And the way I hear it, your whole crew is in danger. Unfortunate accident, that.’

  ‘Like hell!’ snarled Fitz. He took a step forward but Pierro’s paw halted him.

  Zoven sat on the edge of the table and motioned for Pierro to let Fitz go. ‘And you reckon I had something to do with this “accident”, uh?’

  ‘Reckon you might be able to point me in the right direction, aye. Vaughan hauled a package to the Spire, and he smuggles for you.’

  ‘Half your bloody Guild smuggles for me!’

  ‘All the more reason why you might have answers.’

  ‘And what makes you think it wasn’t me, uh? What makes you think I didn’t try and get rid of you? You did hurt my feelings something terrible, William.’

  Fitz shrugged. ‘Reckon we parted on decent enough terms. And if you wanted me dead, you wouldn’t need to go through the trouble o’ forging writs and planting bombs. You said it yourself: Half the Raincatchers are on your payroll—any one of ’em could’ve knifed me in my sleep.’

  ‘True enough!’

  ‘Roland signed the writ that gave Vaughan my contract. That means it was either a good forgery—or no forgery at all. That points to the Council. And if the Council are doing dirty work with Vaughan, then that comes back to you. He ain’t got the stones or the sense for big-picture stuff.’

  Zoven’s toes wriggled like worms in dirt. ‘Serious accusations.’

  ‘Ain’t got time to be nice about it. Someone is gunning for my crew, and I want to know who, and why. The Watch give about as much of a shit about Raincatchers as everyone else. And you’re a businessman. “There’s no profit in it”. It don’t benefit you if my crew’s gone.’

  Zoven nodded. ‘All true, William. But nor do I get paid by ratting on the Council. Pierro, see him out.’

  ‘Right you are, Mister Zoven!’ Pierro’s voice almost sang.

  ‘I thought o’ that as well,’ said Fitz. His stomach knotted. He’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this. ‘Gods damn it… If you tell me who in the Council wants us gone, and where I can find Serena, then I’ll smuggle for ya. Reckon you could use an extra pair of hands during the Remembrance.’

  ‘I have smugglers.’

  ‘I’ll do it pro bono. Free of charge. No matter how dangerous.’

  ‘You’ve squared this with your crew?’

  After a moment, Fitz said, ‘They’ll fall in line.’

  Zoven smiled again, considering his options. ‘Mm, “pro bono”. You know your Old Dalthean.’

  ‘Might’ve read a book or two.’

  ‘Hah! Smart
er than you look, William. That’s what made you a good smuggler, I expect—a cuttlefish changing colours to adapt to its surroundings.’ Zoven regarded him with those damn black pinholes. ‘Alas, I don’t have any positions, uh? Thanks for your interest. Pierro.’

  ‘Damn it,’ barked Fitz, ‘I’m a better smuggler than anyone else you’ve got!’

  Zoven stood straight and paced, head angled in deliberation. ‘You’ve been out the game for a while. Business has evolved. Vaughan is my supplier of… recreational substances, and the girls… Ha! Well, there are no shortage of girls, eh?’

  ‘Come on, you can always find work, Farro. And you know my hands ain’t idle.’

  ‘True enough, true enough. I do have a surplus of customers. The Remembrance did do wonders for trade last year. Thank the Gods for the war, uh?’

  Fitz bristled at that, but he bit his tongue. ‘So? We got a deal?’

  Zoven shrugged. ‘Maybe you pull a few jobs before we talk.’

  ‘Damn it, Zoven, this is real! I lost men! And on top o’ that I got a young lass running scared.’

  ‘Yes, yes, “Serena” you said. You have no idea where she is?’

  ‘None. Just glad she ain’t here.’

  ‘Yes,’ Zoven began, ‘yes, you see yourself as a white knight! A hero! Better than the likes of me! You forget I know you, Fitz! You reckon because all you smuggled was fancy Idari curios and liquor from Ryndara that no-one ever got hurt, uh? You reckon you don’t got blood on your hands?’

  The air turned to ice. ‘I got plenty blood on my hands.’

  Zoven’s blotched skin glistened with sweat. ‘Saving your girl won’t undo sins of the past.’

  ‘She’s crew,’ said Fitz. ‘Kin.’

  ‘Hah. And you have no idea where to start looking? No idea where she could be?’

  ‘None! That’s why I’m-’

  Fitz’s heart stopped.

  Bastard.

  Goddamn bastard.

  ‘I’m a bloody moron,’ he said. Pierro’s laughter erupted behind him.

  He closed his eyes, skin bristling. How could he be so stupid? Here he was thinking he could get information from Zoven—it never occurred to him that Zoven might be getting information from him.

  And Tiera warned me. I was screaming at Vaughan and told him I didn’t know where she was.

  He needed to buy time. One throwing knife wouldn’t do. The only option was to escape.

  ‘Funny, isn’t it?’ Zoven asked.

  ‘Aye, chortling my arsehole off.’

  ‘Hah! If you didn’t quit on me, Fitz, I’d never have needed to recruit that prancing dandy, never would’ve tried blowing your rutting airship out of the sky. No rewards for angels, Fitz, you have to take what you want in this life, uh? Forgot how good a pilot you are.’

  I waltzed into that flash bastard’s airship and offered up all the info he needed. That’s why he came to the funeral, to see if Serena was alive.

  Zoven nodded to Pierro. ‘Get on with it.’

  ‘Hold on.’ Fitz still had one ace in the hole—and he needed surprise on his side to pull it off. ‘Don’t suppose you can permit a man one last drink?’

  ‘Reckoned you’d say that,’ said Zoven. ‘Noticed the shakes, didn’t I?’

  ‘Funny, that. I noticed you became an old scuzzer as well.’

  Zoven glared at him, the tell-tale redness in his otherwise white skin flaring.

  Then he erupted into a peal of laughter.

  Fitz did the same. ‘You used to be respected, Farro. What happened, mate? They always said you kept things in line without ever raising a hand. You know what they say now? Farro Zoven’s a lunatic. Farro Zoven beats his girls. Farro Zoven’s losing it.’

  Zoven nodded, raising his eyebrows. ‘That’s what they say, is it?’

  ‘Aye,’ Fitz laughed. ‘That’s what they say.’

  The knife inched closer to Fitz’s palm. He had to take Pierro out—one quick slash to his throat. The blade was small and curved at the tip. He looked forward to reddening it.

  ‘You know,’ Zoven started, ‘I planned on having Pierro there work you over to make sure you told the truth about your girl. Gentle, like. Now I’m going to let him do it for the fun of it.’

  Fitz spun toward Pierro, the blade jutting from his palm as he threw himself at the big man’s throat.

  But he wasn’t fast enough.

  Pierro batted Fitz’s shaking arm away. Fitz thrust his head into the giant’s stone chin—Pierro stumbled back, face screwed.

  Fitz lunged again. Pierro twisted away, took Fitz’s wrist and broke it, leaving the knife to fall on the floor.

  Pierro didn’t let up—he threw Fitz into the wall at the other side of the room.

  Fitz slumped to the floor, breath forced from his lungs. Copper filled his throat. He tried to speak, but the words didn’t come.

  Pierro stomped on Fitz’s chest twice. A rib cracked. Agony speared his chest as Pierro hoisted him to his feet.

  ‘Go on,’ urged Pierro, ‘catch your breath.’

  Fitz coughed blood onto the floor. Lights flashed in his head.

  ‘Ready?’ Pierro asked. He bounced on his toes, palms floating up in front of him in a defensive stance.

  Fitz held up a hand—Pierro responded by punching him. Fitz crumpled onto his back, lights popping in his head.

  ‘So.’ Zoven watered his cactus again. ‘I don’t reckon I have to, but I’ll ask anyway: Where is the girl?’

  Fitz gasped for air. Pierro’s boot cracked another rib.

  ‘P… Pi…’ Fitz tried.

  ‘Hmm? You talking, uh?’

  ‘Reckon he’s gonna beg.’ Pierro watched as Fitz squirmed. ‘They usually start beggin’ about now.’

  Zoven sauntered over and crouched low, inches away from Fitz’s writhing mass. ‘What is it, William? Don’t worry, uh? It’ll be over soon. Where would she go, uh?’

  ‘Pi…’

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘Piss on you.’

  Fitz spat blood into Zoven’s face.

  Zoven wiped it off, his face placid.

  Then Zoven’s face changed. He roared into Fitz’s face and rained punches into his head. Blood burst from Fitz’s mouth, and swelling squeezed his sight away.

  ‘Where are my manners, uh?’ Zoven eased his assault and stumbled towards his desk. ‘You asked for a final drink!’

  Through bloodshot eyes and blurred vision, Fitz watched as Zoven produced a dusty bottle of wine. ‘Here you go. Phadrosi red.’ Zoven yanked the cork out and marched across the room, tipping the bottle over Fitz. ‘I’m sure it’ll be to your liking, uh?’

  Fitz growled as the alcohol burned his wounds and filled his nostrils.

  ‘Drink up, drink up!’ demanded Zoven. Pierro joined his master’s laughter.

  ‘Lick it up,’ Zoven pressed. ‘Lick it up and you can live. Go on. Lick it from the floor, dog. Lick it up, there’s a good boy.’

  Fitz crawled to the door with his remaining good hand.

  ‘Don’t reckon he believes you,’ said Pierro.

  Fitz’s vision flickered and thoughts flitted in and out like a bad dream.

  Pierro volleyed a kick into his side.

  Then another.

  ‘Lick it up and I’ll end it,’ spat Zoven.

  Fitz’s body twisted. Pierro’s face grinned down at him, each of his punches making his head ring.

  More than one of Fitz’s teeth scraped the back of his throat as shadows clasped around his eyes.

  The last thing he knew was Zoven’s laughter.

  Chapter Ten

  The Kingsway even smelled better than the rest of the city.

  No derelict tower blocks or scuzz peddlers here; every ignium lamp gleamed, their thin metalwork stretching tall and curving like swans’ necks. Even before the segregation of the eight districts, people could live their entire lives in this city and never set foot in the Kingsway.

  The people looked… Not happier, Gallows surmised—Gods kne
w that no man or woman looked happier than a stoned Buzz Fitangus—but something more subtle. Content. Unworried. ‘And they probably have enough water to drink and take a shower every day.’

  As per Kirivanti’s instruction, he had changed into his brand new, crisp Hunters’ Guild dress uniform—a bottle green outfit made up of a tunic jacket trimmed with gold on the cuffs, and straight trousers with a gold line running the length of each side. Light metal shoulder plates completed the outfit, decorations that were next to useless as armour. The Hunters’ flaming sword insignia was pressed into the gold plating on the right shoulder plate, while the Dalthean flag was engraved into the left. They were linked across his breast by a loose, golden chain, which served no function other than to symbolise the alliance between the Hunters and the Crown.

  He wondered if he looked as stupid as he felt.

  ‘Hunter Gallows?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  A tall young man in a pristine white RSF uniform approached him. His face looked lean and boyish, though his frame and posture spoke of a man who was no stranger to hard exercise. He stood by a slick black motorcarriage, holding the door open and beckoning Gallows over.

  ‘I am Flight Lieutenant Lyndhurst tal Royce of the Royal Sky Fleet.’ His right hand shot up in a salute, which Gallows was obliged to return. ‘A pleasure, Hunter Gallows.’

  Gallows was about to explain that there was no need to address him as ‘Hunter’, before deciding he liked it. He ducked into the vehicle, the leather seat embracing him.

  ‘Sparing no expense, I see,’ Gallows commented when Royce took a seat opposite him.

  ‘The Prime Councillor insisted on showing you the utmost respect on this day.’ Royce knocked on the partition behind him, and the vehicle glided across the cobbles, as smooth as a boat on gentle water.

  Gallows stared out, watching as the Journeyman Café, Nikito’s Seafood and the Kingsway Plaza Hotel slipped past. Remnants of the city’s past. ‘The Prime Councillor said that, huh?’

  ‘Well, one of his messengers,’ Royce admitted. ‘Can I offer you a refreshment, Hunter Gallows? I am permitted to offer you one glass of water.’

  Gallows pulled his eyes from the fleeting sights outside. ‘Sure.’

  Gallows took the water and emptied it in a single gulp. ‘So, now the welcome is out the way, can I ask where we’re going?’