‘Our glorious city had been brought to its knees, yet here we are—struggling together. Disease, thirst, famine, poverty—we endure it all! In unity! Look around and you will see the tribulations we face! Look to your neighbours in Dustwynd and Kingsway. Look to your families. Look to the children who die of thirst in our streets! Look to our people who are preyed upon by the corrupt! I know you suffer—as I suffer! I will restore glory to Dalthea! I will not sully the sacrifice our sons and daughters made! I will give each of you something to be proud of! I pledge before you, in the name of our fallen and by the Great Gods and the Lesser—we will prevail!’
The cheering roared out like a great peal of thunder—like junkies shooting scuzz, they lapped up everything he said and begged for more.
‘During one mission, the Valiant came under heavy fire. We strayed too close to enemy anti-aircraft emplacements. Our thrusters were destroyed. Our reserve gas balloon burned. Flames spread throughout the vessel. My commander perished before my eyes, and in that moment, I knew I would die. I prayed to Aerulus. I bargained, pleaded and promised the One Father that if I survived, I would dedicate my life to serving this great nation—and to atone for delivering so many men and women to their deaths. My body lay beaten, my leg crippled, my comrades dead—but the One Father heeded my call. He pulled me from the fires of war and forged me anew.
‘And today I serve you as Prime Councillor—and while I know Junior Councillor tal Simara believes she has our best interests at heart, dangers march towards our borders even now.
‘My critics often say I am a man of poor family—but who among us has not been left poorer since the war? They say I am not fit to be your leader, that now is a time for change. I say we stay the course! Remain steadfast! We are the righteous! My opponents are the same weak-minded cowards who spoke out when I arrested every person of Idari descent and saved our kingdom from destruction! The same short-sighted wealthy fools who believed the war could be won from a distance—by keeping their own hands clean! My hands are not clean just as yours are not clean!
‘The rich seek to overturn my economic reforms to line their own pockets, even as our streets grow crowded with the destitute! I consolidated the banking houses so their cancerous corruption could be halted! I chartered the guilds that give us water, that provide relief to our overburdened Watch and Sky Fleet! I cleaned Dustwynd from a haven for the filth that feeds off good, honest people! I legitimised the Courtesans’ Guild, providing safety to vulnerable women! I have dismantled organised crime in this city!
‘My detractors also claim that I am a man of words, not action! I wish that were the case. I wish Dalthea needed men of mere words.’ Thackeray let his voice bridle with passion, let the fury radiate from him in waves, intoxicating the horde and whipping them into a frenzy. ‘I wish that the myriad scars our kingdom bears could fade by words alone! I wish that our wounds could heal in time! But time is a commodity we do not have. The Idari sharpen their knives and prepare for war as we crawl over one another! They load their ships with more weapons of mass destruction, such as that which wrought the destruction of our harbours! With every minute they oil their war machines! We must act, yet my colleagues on the Council refuse to allow me the powers to pass laws which will protect us! They refuse to let me replenish our arsenals!’
Looking out to the sea of people, seeing the passion fill their blood as it did his, Pyron Thackeray knew that—in that moment—every soul would have died for him if he needed them too. ‘My people! I present to you our new flagship, the RSF Schiehallion!’
Accompanied by a trumpeting fanfare bursting from the Info Towers, the flying giant loomed further up into the sky, looking more fearsome than her namesake, the great dragon upon which Belios sat. Her spinning rotors whirred and her thrusters blazed righteous, white-hot fire.
Sweat sheened Thackeray’s face. He swept his arms into the air, fanning the flames that fuelled the great mass. ‘The Schiehallion will deliver swift retribution to those that would burn us from our homes! Idari blood will flow in their own fields! Their false Gods will fall! Their monuments will topple! And we, my people, will stand tall—as is our destiny!’
Their voices tore through the air like the war cry of a great beast.
For too long it had been caged. For too long it had survived on scraps. For too long its claws were bound.
It would be unleashed.
Gallows didn’t know what he was feeling.
Disgusted, that Thackeray would use the Remembrance as a political platform—and yet he couldn’t disagree with all he said. No treaty, ceasefire or decree would stop the Idari. The Poison Veil was a stop-gap, a stroke of luck that kept the invaders at bay. If Fallon and Lockwood were right—if the ignium fusion bomb was Dalthean—was that its purpose? A last-ditch defensive measure to stop the Idari armada before it reached their shores? Was it possible that the thing saved more lives than it destroyed?
It killed Sera. Gallows would watch the whole kingdom burn to have her back.
‘What’s it all about, do you think?’
The soft voice startled him. It belonged to Genevieve Couressa. She smelled of red toffee apples.
‘What, the parade?’
‘Mm.’
Gallows watched her eyes sweep over the city, darting left and right. ‘I… I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘I didn’t grow up with this. My mum spoke about the war with Ryndara, but we didn’t commemorate it—not like this. Though the school trips to the War Museum were pretty cool.’
‘Sounds like you celebrate war.’ She turned her head, her voice floating away like a whisper.
‘Celebrate victory. Though it’s all a bit hollow.’ Gallows pointed ahead of them. ‘See the monstrosity that looks even more derelict than the slums in the distance? The War Memorial Museum is underneath it.’
‘Fascinating. My school took us to ballet performances and poetry recitals.’
‘That sounds… Awfully safe.’
‘Clearly you’ve never worn ballet shoes.’ Genevieve’s slender fingers curled around the handrail like white ribbons. ‘Funny, the things we put up with in the pursuit of what we want.’
Gallows noted that she didn’t have any kind of entourage or minder shadowing her. I should go inside. They couldn’t get much higher before regulations demanded they be strapped with oxygen masks.
‘Do you like Dalthea?’ she asked.
Gallows’ brow knitted together. ‘I… guess? It ain’t perfect but it’s home. Why, you thinking of buying a holiday villa?’
‘Hardly. Don’t think I could stomach it here.’ Genevieve turned her nose up.
‘Charming.’ In truth, Gallows carried the same sentiment, but still. He was allowed.
‘I’ve offended you,’ she said.
‘Shouldn’t you have a bodyguard or something?’
The singer rolled her eyes and leaned forward, golden hair tumbling in the breeze. ‘Insulating oneself isn’t healthy. Not to mention frightfully boring.’
‘If only you were a ridiculously wealthy singer with the world at your feet.’ Couressa flinched at that, birthing a swell of bile in Gallows’ stomach. ‘Sorry, I-’
‘No.’ She waved a hand. ‘I should elaborate. It’s not your city I can’t stomach; it’s the injustice. The place reeks of it. Starving children crowd your streets. People queue for hours for a sip of water. The dead lay in alleys, forgotten. Radiation from your sea turns men and women mad before they succumb to fever and die. And nothing is being done.’
Gallows shrugged. ‘At least our kringla swirls are better than Ryndara’s.’
‘No,’ Couressa countered, ‘they really aren’t.’ No matter what she said, her voice lilted, like she could burst into song at any moment. ‘And for your information, I’m donating a portion of my “ridiculous wealth” to set up a foundation which will feed your children for years to come.’
Shit. ‘Ah. Sorry, that was… I had no right.’
‘I believe what your people need more than
anything is hope.’
‘More than water, medicine and fresh food?’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘But your government—your Pyron Thackeray—he is a warmonger. He’ll see this country to its grave.’
Gallows’ laughter was drier than the Obsidian Sandlands. ‘Feel free to explain that to him.’
‘I will. I’m meeting him and Alspeth tal Simara for lunch at his residence tomorrow, where I’ll be informing him of my intention to donate a sizeable amount of money to Alspeth’s campaign. She understands the value of hope. I will see that her voice is heard.’
Here five minutes and she’s already on first name terms with the government. ‘You sound pretty sure of yourself.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘It is fact, not arrogance. I want to help and I have the means to do so. Why is that a taboo subject? Why should that be looked down upon when your Prime Councillor is all but declaring war?’
Because no-one gets anything for free. Nobody does anything without thinking of themselves. Someone comes offering hope in one hand, they’re sure as shit carrying a knife in the other. And what’s ‘hope’ when you’re scraping rotten food together or licking moisture from the walls because some fat gangster asshole stole your water tokens?
After a moment, he said, ‘Pride?’
‘The folly of fools.’ Couressa’s lips pursed. ‘Hope, Mister Gallows—a life without hope is no life at all.’
Below, every soul in the capital stood enraptured, responding to everything Thackeray said with cheers and applause. Gallows’ blood boiled.
It galled him at how easy it was for people to forget. What right did they have to invite another war? Half of ’em weren’t even there, never felt coarse Sanctecano sand in their mouths, or known the terror of a kiro ambush—the shrieking wail of fanatics who took bullet, bomb and bayonet yet still raced towards their enemy with rabid madness in their eyes. None of them knew the feel of a bloodspear as its tip bit into flesh-
The shot tore through the din, audible even this far from the ground.
Thackeray collapsed, blood spraying from him. Empty static hissed through the speakers.
And terror reigned.
Chapter Eleven
‘Kringla swirls! Get your kringlar! Totally fresh… Just about!’
Milo floated through the forest of people. Most of ’em were too busy listening to the Prime Councillor’s speech to pay him any attention—to think he’d reckoned this would be a great time to sell.
Sweet Songstress, this was hungry work. Milo would be tempted to eat one of the pastries himself—if he didn’t know how long they’d been sitting out.
Wonder if Serena’s out there with the Prime Councillor?
It made sense, if she was some kind of secret agent. Hey! Maybe she was riding in that big airship? Gods above, it looked like something from a comic book. Milo had never read any of those Captain Crimsonwing books but he liked their bright red and yellow colours and the swords and monsters on the front. The airship could have come from one of those stories.
Thackeray’s words floated over him. Milo didn’t understand it all but the cheering crowd were screaming and applauding. Anyway, Milo knew enough—the Idari were scum, and that was that. When he was old enough, he’d learn how to use a sword and a gun and… whatever else soldiers used. He’d fight and shoot and… do whatever else soldiers did. Hey! Maybe he’d get to be a king’s agent someday too?
‘Kringla sw… Ah, never mind.’
Curiosity got the better of him. Milo abandoned his food on the ground and shoved through the crowd, ducking between legs, keen to get a look at Pyron Thackeray and the bridge and the-
A bang like the burst of a balloon.
Thackeray’s voice cut out, leaving a croaking squeal twisting out from the speakers.
Screaming filled his senses, like the sky was splitting. And like a paper boat upon a tide, the congregation swept Milo away. His arms flailed out but caught nothing. He fell to the ground and curled into himself, frozen with fear. Feet trampled him, and when he tried to scream for help, his voice disappeared. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—his small body skidded on the stone as someone kicked him. A warm, metallic taste filled his mouth.
And then something picked him up.
Milo dared to open his eyes. His body was limp but he felt himself being carried off. Ahead of him, a squad of watchmen tried in vain to halt the stampede of people.
What’s happening?
‘It’s okay, you’re safe.’
Milo recognised the voice—it was Gallows’ mate, Damien Fieri. Milo wanted to speak but his throat clenched. He held onto Damien’s sleeves as he sailed around street corners.
The Hunter ducked into an empty alley and set Milo down. ‘Are you alright?’ he asked.
Milo could only nod.
Damien’s eyes ran up and down Milo. ‘You have no serious injuries but once you’ve caught your breath, I’ll take you to a doctor.’
The burn of tears filled Milo’s eyes. ‘I-’
An explosion roared out like an earthquake. Screaming rent the air and smoke billowed into the sky.
Damien grabbed Milo. ‘We have to get out of-’
The Hunter set him down and spun to face the mouth of the alley.
Milo found his voice. ‘Wh… what is it?’
‘Someone’s coming.’
Milo didn’t understand how, but the Hunter was right—one of the foreigners dressed in carnival gear roared down the alley, waving a sword. His eyes were wide and his mouth was stretched in a howling scream. Milo’s legs turned to jelly.
Damien took one step—and with a flick of his wrist, a small throwing knife spun out, catching the attacker between the eyes. He crumpled to the floor, face still stretched with a menacing look.
‘On my back.’ Damien knelt so Milo could climb on him. ‘Hold tight.’
Like an acrobat, Damien floated up the wall, using pipes and windowsills to reach the roof. With startling speed, he ran across rooftops, leaping from one to the other without so much as thinking about it.
‘Don’t look,’ came the Hunter’s voice, sharp as steel. His feet rattled upon the tin roofs. ‘Keep your eyes closed until I tell you to open them.’
But Milo couldn’t help it—the sight of the fires and the blanketing smoke seized him. The smell of burning filled his nostrils, made worse when streams of orange fire whipped through the rush of people. Cries wailed like air raid sirens—and another explosion rang out.
Milo didn’t stop clutching Damien, even as the carnage dwindled in the distance.
Gallows charged into the COC.
An emergency alert sounded throughout the ship. ‘Take us closer!’ barked Lockwood.
The airship cruised towards the War Memorial Museum. Gallows scanned the horizon—the shot had come from somewhere within the scaffolding. Genevieve appeared at his side, eyes as wide as carriage wheels.
The ground below erupted with a stampede of people charging in every direction, screaming and trampling over each other. The Watch surrounded the Prime Councillor’s motorcar, shields and swords held aloft. Councillors and other dignitaries scrambled over one another. Dozens of watchmen assembled at the gateway to stop the crowds pushing through the Arc of Iona.
And there, oozing blood over his pristine uniform, lay Prime Councillor Thackeray.
Gallows’ stomach tightened. Genevieve shouted something in his ear but it was lost to him. The warmth drained from him, pearls of cold sweat running down his back…
He was witnessing Amberfire Night all over again.
‘Flight Lieutenant Royce!’ Lockwood bellowed from the helm. ‘Take Gallows and Couressa to the mess hall.’
His senses snapped back into place. ‘Wait! There.’ As the airship circled the Museum, Gallows spotted an open platform behind an unfinished wall. Surrounded by exposed steel and wood, three watchmen circled a woman in blue. They charged at her with their swords; she dodged a strike by the one in the middle, rolled to the si
de and rocketed an elbow into another’s jaw before disarming him.
‘Gallows, you are under my commr-’
‘Lockwood, I know who she is.’
She shoved past him, conjuring her binoculars. ‘Talk.’
‘Tiera… I think I heard someone call her Tiera before. She’s a Raincatcher.’
‘Tiera Martelo?’
‘You know her?’
Lockwood growled. ‘Keep us hovering in this position—do not lose sight of her! Lestra! Send a radio pulse, inform all patrol craft that the Prime Councillor is dead. Tell them the shooter is an associate of Helena tal Ventris. Tell them to close the gates to every district. But do not broadcast it from the Information Towers!’
‘She’s with the Scalpel?’ asked Gallows.
‘Used to be. Pardoned after the war, Gods know why.’
Shit. Does this have something to do with the Liberty Wind? Gallows peered out at her fighting the officers, easily holding her own. ‘Something’s wrong,’ he said.
‘Lieutenant Augostino, take us-’
‘Hang on, will ya? Listen, how did they get there so fast? Look, they ain’t even trying to arrest her, they’re going in for the kill!’
‘She just assassinated the leader of our nation!’
Royce tugged at Gallows’ arm but he swatted him away. ‘Let me go down there, let me talk to her. Think what Fallon told you, this could-’
An almighty explosion roared out below.
The Prime Councillor’s town car.
Smoke and gore flew out in all directions. Burning bodies ran in a frenzy, some throwing themselves over the edge. Gallows could only imagine the screaming.
‘The Council! The foreign dignitaries!’ Royce’s voice trailed off.
Another explosion, this one even bigger. Thick black smoke enveloped the bridge.
The next explosion went off by the War Memorial Museum.
Gallows peered down to see a scorched red circle smeared across the cobbles, strewn with bone and pulp. Scaffolding tumbled from the museum like a waterfall, raining glass and rubble down on the civilians. Thick plumes of smoke and dust billowed into the air.
Symphony of the Wind Page 21
