She pulled a heavy sack across the rough floor and stood on it, hands braced on the ceiling. She pressed her eye to the gap between the floorboards.
She could make out the mud-brown garb of the Watch, and two—no, three pairs of footsteps. They tore across the room, wrenching cupboards and cabinets from the walls, upending tables. Myriel’s possessions crashed to the floor.
Serena strained to hear them but it didn’t matter—she knew they were hunting for her.
Shit.
The Watch might be stupid, but she couldn’t count on that saving her here. She searched around the room for something she could use as a weapon. All this crap on magic and not a thing that’s useful.
Her eyes fell on a brass candlestick. She wrapped her hands around it.
‘Bugger off!’ The voice sounded right above her. It was deep, a man’s. ‘Bloody nuisance bird!’
Flicker.
‘Sir, she’s not here.’ A woman’s voice.
‘Keep looking—Cronin gave specific orders, and I don’t much fancy getting on his bad side.’
‘She could be anywhere,’ said a third voice, another man. He sounded young. ‘She could be one o’ them that died along with-’
Glass shattered and something thudded onto the floor like a barrel of rainwater.
‘Corporal! Are you okay?’
‘He’s bleeding!’ shouted the woman.
‘I’m fine, bloody rock flew at me!’
‘Away from the window! We’ll get it dressed. Gods damn it, they’re rioting out there!’ the woman continued. ‘Sir, we ain’t safe here.’
‘Alright, alright. You two, get out there and meet up with Cauldbright’s lot, I’ll finish up here. Kill any bastard that looks at you funny.’
Serena struggled to believe her luck. One watchman left—she could slip past one watchman. She’d done it often enough.
Jingling keys, heavy boots stomping on wooden boards…
Then silence.
‘Hush, birdie,’ she heard him say.
Sweat teased down Serena’s back. She shrank behind the bulging sack, which felt too small to conceal her.
The watchman’s foot eclipsed the hole in the floorboard, steeping the room in complete darkness.
She cowered there, ears straining for any squeak or creak above her.
He moved off, closer to the entrance…
Go past go past go pa-
The hatch heaved open. With anvil-heavy steps, he made his way down the ladder. He lit a portable ignium lamp tied around his neck, its weak light bleeding into the darkness.
Serena clasped the candlestick close to her chest. His helmet meant the only weak spot was his face. She’d need to spring up, catch him off-guard and launch the candlestick into his face—then scurry up the ladder and close the hatch before he recovered.
I can do this.
She’d need to be quick.
If he caught her—she was done.
If she missed—she was done.
Her heart rumbled in her ears.
Her throat dried.
Sweat slicked her palms.
The distant rumble of chaos in the streets, shouting, screaming…
He stopped less than a foot away from her.
She didn’t dare look out.
His slow breathing filled the room. The floorboard creaked, and-
Serena leapt and swung the candlestick.
But she was too slow. He lurched back, growling in surprise, and batted the candlestick from her hand.
‘Stop!’ he shouted. ‘Do not move!’
She threw herself into his chest but it was no good—he was as big as a house.
His meaty fingers wrapped around her wrists. ‘Stop struggling, girl!’
‘Screw you!’ She kicked at his shins, brought her knee up to his groin, but nothing worked.
‘Stop struggling!’ He backhanded her face and sent her sprawling backwards.
Livid pain spread over her mouth. She calmed the fire with a trembling palm.
But the pain didn’t compare to the ice that shot through her veins when she recognised him.
Dark, red-brown hair, the colour of copper—like the engine casings found on the Liberty Wind.
He was the watchman at the orphanage the night Marrin died.
‘Sorry,’ he croaked, squeezing his eyes shut.
But that didn’t stop him from unsheathing his sword.
He took another step closer.
So many things ran through Serena’s head. Her limbs weighed like stone.
And something caught her eye.
Flicker, staring at her by the open hatch.
Between heartbeats, she felt the strangest sensation—a tingling, reaching from her fingers and running up her arm like an electric current. She connected to the bird, sensing its weight, its form.
‘Get him!’ she shrieked.
The watchman’s face twisted. He stepped closer, sword raised-
Flicker cannoned into his head.
He swatted the bird away with his free hand. It only took a second, but that was all Serena needed.
She grasped the candlestick up and swung it hard into his face. It connected with a wet thump.
He screamed—his hand shot to his face and blood spilled between his fingers.
This was her chance; Serena spun past him, the light from the trapdoor beckoning like a lighthouse beam reaching out to a fisher boat.
But something inside made her stop.
Myriel’s book.
She took a step back and stuffed it into her overalls. Its thick corners jutted into her ribs.
‘C’mere!’ The watchman stumbled towards her, but the confines of the room didn’t give him space to arc his sword around in time.
She ran to the other end, throwing the candlestick up through the hatch and flying up the ladders. Her hands grasped the floor above her—but the watchman’s grip snapped around her ankles like manacles.
‘Get back, you little bitch!’ he spat, blood spluttering from his face.
‘Piss off!’ She dug her heel into his fresh wound. His hand spasmed and released her. The back of his head smacked into the wall as he fell down into the storeroom.
Serena crawled up onto the floor, Flicker wheeling past her. She scrambled to close the hatch—just in time to catch the tips of the watchman’s fingers.
He howled in pain. The hatch settled into place and Serena slid the bolt back with a hard thump.
She fell against a wall and slid down, feeling rushing back into her body.
Flicker perched himself atop her knee.
‘You did what I told you. Just like Scruff… Thank you.’
She stood and peered out of the shattered window. Smoke billowed out of homes and a hazy red fog filled Small Laurel Lane. She saw neighbours with bloodied faces help each other to their feet, giving each other water. Fighting rumbled in the distance, the clatter of horse hooves…
The Watch had destroyed the lock, but the door was still intact. Serena’s instincts screamed at her to run again, to seek refuge in the chaos. The muffled growls of the watchman in the basement rose up from the floorboards. Someone will come looking for him. I should get out of here.
But the realisation wrapped around her like a cold cloak: Wherever she ran, they’d find her.
No, Myriel was right; running wouldn’t solve anything. Cowering in fear wouldn’t help.
Now it was time for answers. Now it was time to fight back.
She drew the curtain, reset the door into its frame and placed Myriel’s book on the table.
Sirens. Mind-controlling entities…
Chapter Fourteen
‘You think I don’t know what you were trying to do with that stunt you pulled?’
Gallows marched alongside Lockwood, through a narrow hallway. They stepped into an elevator. The commander would be reporting to the Schiehallion soon, and Gallows… Well, he had no idea what to do next, other than stand here like a scolded child.
Th
e lift shuddered upwards. Why did they always make these things so damn slow?
‘You’re welcome to your damn death wish,’ Lockwood continued, ‘but kill yourself on your own time.’
‘I told her to turn herself in. I was trying to save her.’
‘An assassin, in league with terrorists.’
‘I’m not explaining myself any further. You wanna hang me for treason, go ahead. But the damn Raincatchers didn’t bomb the parade and you know it. You trust the Council after what you told me?’
‘No-one’s going to hang you, Gallows—yet. I don’t know how long you’ll be a free man, but I suggest you use your time wisely.’
If by ‘wisely’ she meant ‘drinking yourself to sleep’, then Gallows agreed. ‘I’m tired and beaten to a pulp,’ he said. ‘I’m done.’
No, almost done. He’d need to speak to Veronica.
The elevator doors slid open. Lockwood stepped out first. ‘Listen to me: Things will get worse before they get better. RSF patrol craft have been deployed. N’Keres will arm the Watch with guns. They’ve already started seizing foreigners for questioning. People are scared. Rioting will spread—not to mention the possibility of further attacks.’ She placed her hands on her hips. ‘Speak to Major Fallon. See for yourself what he’s uncovered; it could prove Tiera innocent.’
‘I will. Later. I need to do something first.’
‘This is more important.’
Gallows leaned against the wall, eyes closed. ‘The kid Enfield mentioned, the one who was murdered. I know her mother.’
‘The child in the orphanage?’
‘It’s… complicated, but yeah. She’s her mum.’
‘I’ll see that she’s informed.’
‘No, no, I’ll do it.’
‘Not today you won’t. Wherever your friend is, you’ll never get to her with the lockdown. Speak to Major Fallon. Do some good. Help make sure none of these deaths were in vain. I’ll grant you permission to cross district boundaries, but for this purpose only—then you can run your own errands.’
Damn it. He needed sleep, needed this to be over.
But she was right. No doubt the extra money Farro Zoven sent the Watch’s way would pay for extra guards—Veronica was probably safer than the king. No way he’d get to her. ‘Fine. Won’t N’Keres have given Fallon orders?’
‘I told you, they think he’s burnt out. No-one cares what he does as long as he does it out of sight. He had planned on undertaking an exercise beyond city limits while the commemorations took place. I daresay his plans have not changed.’
‘What kind of exercise?’
‘Something to do with his investigation. Go to the barracks but goddamn it, if anyone finds out you were the one who helped Tiera Martelo, they’ll toss your hide in prison without a second’s hesitation—and I won’t be able to stop them killing you out of principle.’
Gallows’ body screamed at him. Every time one ache faded, another took its place. But it’d be a coward who went to all that trouble to save Tiera, only to quit when things got really tough. A coward, as he called himself every time he took the blade away from his wrist.
A coward, just like Buzz Fitangus called him.
And Gallows would be damned if he proved Buzz Fitangus right.
‘Am I going to like what I see on this “exercise”?’ he asked.
‘No. But you might get yourself killed.’
Some things didn’t change.
The city was halfway to Hell—RSF patrol blimps hummed in the sky, watchmen raided homes and the Confessors’ hounds filled the air with their snarls—but the garrison hadn’t changed. It was like falling back in time: The same brick walls, the same pockmarked wooden floor—and officers striding past with the same look of self-importance.
The only things that had changed were the sounds and the smells—disinfectant burned Gallows’ nose and throat, and wails from injured and dying people choked the air.
He reached the rec hall. It brimmed with the wounded; some were missing legs and arms, and a mound of body bags loomed at the back.
If the garrison was this bad, then Princess Anabelle Hospital must be teeming. Come to that, what was everything else in Arrowhead like? Was Damien near the blast?
The thought followed Gallows as he ascended a staircase and passed rows of empty offices. Nah, he’s probably rounded up half of Tiera’s crew by now.
The brass of Major Fallon’s nameplate gleamed. Gallows hesitated for a moment, took a deep breath, and knocked on the major’s door.
‘Enter.’
Here we go…
The door groaned. The Major’s desk was aglow with soft light from a lamp, but shadows coated the rest of the room. The major’s cheap, scratched table was smothered in charts, papers and maps, and though Gallows knew Fallon had long given up his smoking habit, the smell of tobacco still seeped from the walls.
The man himself pored over the materials on his desk. ‘Tyson Gallows.’ Fallon’s gaze drilled into him and his voice was as coarse as crushed glass. Grey bristles peppered his deep brown skin, and his single blue eye glinted. One or two more lines creased his face since Gallows had last seen him, and a patch of scalp dominated his head. He wore a silver patch over his right eye, which Gallows had never seen him without.
He motioned for Gallows to step closer.
The Major was lean but strong, muscles taut like he was primed for a fight. Gallows had seen Fallon spar with guys half his age and sweep them across the canvas like paper bags.
‘Lovely to see you again,’ said Gallows.
‘No it ain’t, so let’s cut the bullshit, Corporal.’
‘I’m not a soldier any more.’
‘Habit. Tell me why you’re here.’
‘You asked. If your message about Sera was just a ploy, I swear to Nyr I’ll kill you right here and now.’
The corners of Fallon’s mouth turned up. ‘No ploys, no tricks. One of my guys found her name. Thought you should know.’
Gallows’ fists balled. ‘Where? Is… Is Sera alive?’
‘No,’ Fallon answered.
When Gallows swallowed, his throat tightened. He didn’t expect Fallon to tell him anything different, but it still stung. ‘So what the hell is this about? Why am I here?’
‘Lockwood speak to you? What happened at the parade?’
Screw it. Gallows told him about Lockwood’s revelation—about Tiera and his involvement in the attack.
‘Just like you to get yourself caught up in crap that doesn’t concern you,’ Fallon said when Gallows was done.
Nothing to say about me aiding an assassin? ‘You’re the one sending letters begging for my company.’
‘And here I thought they were gettin’ lost in the post.’
‘Why did you send messages?’
‘You concealed your address when you signed up with me. Anyway, I was tryin’ to be careful, Corporal. I’m being watched.’
Gallows scratched the back of his head. ‘You always were paranoid.’
‘Ain’t paranoia when you got proof. Anyway, to Hell with all that—the Council have more than an old vet to wet their breeks over. I’m glad you’re here; I need men I can trust.’
‘Yeah. Lockwood said you’re going on a mission.’
‘Woulda been done by now if it wasn’t for the attack, but the upside is I’ve got free rein to carry it out. We leave now.’
‘We?’
‘Corporal Sturrock, Lance Corporal Valentine and Lieutenant Rend.’
‘Lieutenant Rend?’ His was the only name Gallows recognised. They were not friends. ‘Good for him. You trust the other two?’
For a man with one eye, Fallon’s glare was powerful.
‘Right,’ said Gallows. ‘Does your crusade have anything to do with the terrorist attack?’
‘Not sure but I don’t have time to sit here and explain. We move out now.’
‘Wait—what did your man find about Sera?’
‘Daroh sent me a list of Idari colla
borators taken to a secret prison somewhere. Hers was on it.’
‘What?’ spat Gallows. Then he laughed. ‘Bullshit. You knew Sera—if this is some trick to get me to fall in line with you, it ain’t working.’
‘Pretty sure I already told you I ain’t pulling anything, Gallows. Don’t make me repeat myself. You wanna find the truth out for yourself, then come with me.’
Gallows thought about it. ‘Alright,’ he said, ‘but you pull anything with me, I’ll break your damn back.’
‘Sounds fair, Corporal. Let’s go—got an armoured car and an escort taking us to Petrel’s Tail, then we’re on our own.’
‘Armoured car? Where in all hells are we going?’
‘I’ll tell you on the way.’
‘What do I need to bring?’
‘A gun would be good.’
With legs as heavy as anvils, Tiera dragged her body into the attic of the Raincatchers’ Guildhouse. Her fingertips bled from prising the window open, but she’d made it without being seen. Her muscles sagged, her mouth gasped for water and the cut on her cheek still blazed from the watchman’s steel—but she was alive.
She struggled to get the first watchman’s face out of her head, the one in Barra’s Bazaar. The two in the tower she could square with; they were there to kill her and so deserved what came to ’em. But the first one, begging like a dog… Probably a filthy cur like every other watchman—but they made her kill him.
Made her see Yulia.
The muscles in her arms tightened and the circle of raised skin on the small of her back burned. The need for revenge propelled her. She had to be smart and stay concealed with the whole city baying for her blood—but Belios above, she came close to storming Vaughan’s airship and slaughtering everyone in it.
No, she needed to be in control, needed to think this through—needed her Fitz by her side. She didn’t expect to find him here; no doubt he’d been carted off to the cells in a Watch house by now—or the Gravehold.
But she needed to be sure. She’d speak to Roland, and if that didn’t turn anything up, well… Zoven was the last lead she had. He would talk. She would make sure of it.
She stalked through the attic with soft steps; it was a jungle of crates, junk and rusted airship parts. She’d have to be careful; the high ceiling and web of rafters presented infinite vantage points for someone to get the drop on her, and she didn’t trust any of these cut-throats, not any more.
Symphony of the Wind Page 26
