Symphony of the Wind

by Steven McKinnon

  ‘I don’t know. Interfering with nature is an affront to the Gods—Thackeray took enough bad press reactivating the lightning Spires, but this? The Crown would be forced to arrest him for crimes against nature. But whatever did this to her,’ Fallon motioned to Regina’s pulverised body, ‘it kept going after she died. Can’t think of many animals that do that to their prey.’

  An old woman living alone. She could have been shot in the head and buried out here, and no-one would know. Whatever beat her was inhuman. ‘We should bury the body.’

  ‘No time.’

  ‘Screw you, Fallon, she was innocent!’

  ‘And there’s nothing you can do about it now. Innocent people die every day. You gonna cry for every one of ’em?’

  Gallows said nothing.

  ‘You really wanna help, then help me. There’s nothing we can do for the dead but we can get the bastards responsible. Come on. We don’t have much time.’

  As he left, Gallows felt Regina’s eyes burn into his back.

  Chapter Fifteen

  In the end, it was even less difficult than Damien had anticipated. He didn’t even need to draw his cutlass.

  But the Raincatchers were a tenacious lot, and the watchmen he had been paired with were undisciplined—more hindrance than help. But he’d found his quarry all the same, leading them to an alley wedged between factory walls, where the Watch’s ‘meat wagon’ had been stationed.

  The worst thing about the assignment was the smell of the place. Human filth, needles and glass were strewn throughout the narrow space, as bad as Scab End. Possessing sharpened senses had its drawbacks.

  Right now, the whole city reeked of fear. In the distance, soldiers barked orders, glass smashed and men cried. Things would get worse before they got better. Damien’s heart danced.

  ‘Thank you for your assistance, Mister Fieri,’ said Constable Nyara, a lad of about eighteen with choppy black hair and pale, blotchy skin. He wore malice on his face the way other men wore spectacles.

  He brushed past Damien and slammed the rear door of the carriage. Two pairs of forlorn eyes stared back from the shadows. ‘We’ll see these traitors get what’s coming to ’em.’

  ‘They’ll be interrogated and—if it comes to it—tried,’ said Damien. ‘Lawfully.’

  The boy’s mouth curved to an arrowhead. ‘Aye, that’s as may be, but the Proclamation means a lot of things are “lawful”, eh?’ He slapped Damien on the shoulder. ‘The Watch has ’em now, and Confessor Cronin will sort ’em out quick. Thanks for your help, friend.’

  Nyara disappeared to the front of the carriage, an ancient contraption pulled by two emaciated horses.

  ‘They’ll torture us,’ came a weak voice from within. The woman’s—Clara Godfrey, chef on the Liberty Wind. Her pale face appeared at the bars in the door—curly brown hair matted to a face slick with sweat. ‘We’re innocent, son. They’ll torture us an’ they’ll kill us! Ain’t you got a heart?’

  Damien didn’t respond.

  ‘Drimmon here needs medical attention. Help us. ’

  The one called Drimmon sat slumped in the corner with unfocused eyes, a wet patch of blood on his temple. Nyara had not needed to blindside him with his truncheon the way he did. A favoured tactic by the Watch, striking the back of a suspect’s head when they had already been subdued. ‘Blackjacking’, they called it.

  ‘We had nothing to do with it.’ Drimmon’s voice scraped. ‘Tell Ena… I’m innocent… Please. Can’t have her engaged to a… traitor. Can’t. Ain’t fair.’

  ‘Listen here,’ snapped Clara. ‘One of our youngsters is missing. This ain’t a place for a young girl. Find her.’

  ‘Serena,’ said Damien. No surname. Absconded following a murder in the orphanage.

  ‘Aye.’ Clara’s voice turned hard and grave, like the coming of a winter’s wind. ‘You know they won’t listen to us.’ She kept her eyes on him as the carriage clattered upon the cobbles.

  Kirivanti had ordered him to apprehend the crew of the Liberty Wind; that much he’d done. But she’d told him to make sure they were arrested and not killed in the street.

  He knew the look in that lad’s eyes.

  He’d seen it often enough.

  The sun faded and darkness descended like a shroud. Ignium lamps sparked into life, and the ceaseless drone of an Info Tower hissed in the back of Damien’s head.

  ‘You are no Nyr-az-Telun,’ Azima once told him—words she came to regret.

  Damien made a decision.

  He flew up the factory wall using the shallowest of dents for handgrips. The smooth bark of the birch trees he’d trained among for years had taught him to maximise the potential of any foothold—these dents made it easy.

  The top of the wall was wide enough for him to sprint across, his body perfectly balanced.

  He tracked the carriage as it ploughed through the streets, towards the wall that separated The Sands from Petrel’s Tail. From the corner wall, he leapt onto a tin rooftop. It groaned beneath his weight.

  He stared down at another alley; a fat merchant house squatted ahead of him. The gap between the tin roof and the merchant house stretched too far to jump, but an old telegraph line connected the two. Long abandoned, the wire was nonetheless sturdy.

  ‘We are anointed at birth. You will die in the mud with the rest of them, fire-born.’

  Azima always called him that. ‘Fieri’ did not mean ‘fire’.

  He closed his eyes and his senses sharpened.

  The clamour of shouting, the copper tang in the air, the stench of urine—all of it faded. He floated across the tightrope and reached the merchant house roof in mere seconds, as invisible as a phantom.

  Swarms of people choked the thoroughfare and forced the carriage to halt several times. Groups of subdued citizens lined the pavements with sacks over their heads, kneeling and bloodied. The military were out in force; the far-off put-put-put of repeater rifles punctured the air. The gravediggers would be busy come morning.

  Bile churned in Damien’s stomach, and he had difficulty shaking the image of Nyara’s glare from his mind. Artless weapons. If Pyron Thackeray saw his wish to arm the Watch with firearms come to fruition, how would a man like Nyara wield that power?

  Glass smashed off the side of the wagon as it barrelled toward the gatehouse. The Watch and military on the ground had their work cut out for them. Finally, the wagon passed through, ushered by two soldiers in heavy armour. They levelled their rifles out to dissuade any potential pursuers.

  Damien scanned the area; the top of the Inner Wall was insufficiently guarded—nothing new there.

  But as he made his move across the rooftop, a patrol ship loomed out of the bruised purple sky. The thrum of its engines heralded its descent. A semi-rigid airship, its monstrous ignium-filled, steel-grey envelope and stabiliser fins brought to mind a bull shark swooping through the murk towards its prey. Its searchlights speared through the streets like the gaze of Aerulus.

  ‘This is the RSF Overseer. By order of General N’Keres, a state of curfew is in effect. All citizens are to return to their homes and await further updates. Any citizen found assaulting a member of the City Watch, Royal Sky Fleet or military will be shot.’

  Damien dropped from the roof. His hands clasped around a flag pole. He kicked his legs out for momentum and swung onto another pole. From this, he shimmied across to a second storey ledge and lowered himself to the spacious balcony on the floor beneath him. From there, he hit the ground.

  He concentrated on the sound of the Watch carriage; it weakened with every second.

  The Inner Wall was twenty feet of curving dark steel, much of it rusted over. He floated up and reached the top in next to no time, darting across its surface. A warm breeze lapped at his skin. No-one spotted him amidst the chaos; he’d know if they did.

  The bottom of Elmwood Arcade opened up, the road which passed through Arrowhead and Petrel’s Tail. A skirmish had erupted near a destroyed water unit; a pity. How many wo
uld go thirsty because of a senseless act of vandalism?

  He leapt from rooftop to rooftop, tucking and rolling where he landed to maintain momentum. He perched onto the red slate roof of what was once a luxury hotel; the wagon rattled across Elmwood Arcade towards Old Town Square.

  Straight to the Magisters, then. But why go through The Sands gatehouse rather than straight to Old Town Square?

  He pushed himself to move faster. With a thought, he regulated his heartbeat and breathing, conserving energy, just the way his former master had taught him in the Solacewood.

  Whistles pierced the air as he sprinted. Cries for help from the Watch. Would this violence have erupted had Tyson not intervened at the War Memorial Museum? Did he really believe Tiera Martelo innocent? Damien could not discount it—he had seen what the Idari had done to his friend.

  The wagon disappeared from view.

  Damn.

  Damien scanned the environment.

  Focus.

  His eyes tightened. He tuned out the turmoil erupting around him—the roar of angry mobs, the violence, the low, predatory hum of the patrol craft.

  He divined the clatter of horses’ hooves.

  Two blocks east. Definitely moving towards Old Town Square.

  He flew over the narrow gap and onto the bell tower of a church—one erected to worship Musa, judging by the harp motif hewn into the stone.

  The structures here were more luxurious than the architecture found in The Sands; more ornate decoration meant more nooks and handgrips. Only the half-built slum towers in Dustwynd were easier to disappear within.

  But the proprietors of this district had posted more guards in light of the day’s events—possibly even Hunters. Damien had done it himself once or twice; easing paranoia was one of the few things the rich didn’t grudge paying for.

  The sandstone building across from him belonged to the banking house of Campbell, Coutts & Crawford. Damien perched onto one of the church’s gargoyles. The fastest route to Old Town Square was to keep heading east—he could take the ground but his papers only gave him orders to assist in the arrest of the Liberty Wind’s crew, which had been fulfilled. If caught, he’d be detained for questioning, and he wasn’t sure Clara had that much time.

  The rooftops, then.

  Men armed with crossbows patrolled the balconies and roof courtyards of the banking house.

  Damien waited for the nearest guard to move before advancing. He dropped from the gargoyle onto the church’s gatehouse roof. From here, he leapt over the banking house’s gate, into its courtyard and scaled its walls.

  Legs hanging in the air, Damien shimmied along an outer walkway three storeys up, the guard above completely oblivious. His hands found faux vines, which he used to climb.

  He ducked into a corner steeped in shadows and strained his senses—the sound of the carriage had disappeared. It had stopped. Why?

  Time was running out. Without him there to witness the handover, anything could happen to Clara and Drimmon. They could already be dead.

  ‘Halt!’

  The voice shot like a bullet at his back. Pins and needles prickled Damien’s skin.

  He had never been caught before—not during infiltrations as a Hunter.

  He had to supress a smile.

  ‘Don’t move!’

  Damien stood.

  ‘Who are you? Speak?’

  He turned to face the man.

  It’d be so easy-

  ‘I asked you a question!’

  -to stride across the gap between us-

  The guard hoisted his crossbow.

  -and wrap my hands-

  ‘Screw this!’ the sentry said and pulled the trigger.

  The bolt pierced the air.

  Time slowed.

  Damien’s heart remained calm, his breathing steady.

  He spun, caught the bolt by its shaft and buried it into the ground. He turned towards the guard and leapt into a kick, sending him flying.

  Damien’s finger twitched.

  So easy, to simply reach out and-

  He tore his gaze away. The meat wagon was still out there.

  Concentrate!

  The colours around him blazed into vivid life. He picked out notes of smoke and ignium, blood and sweat. A cacophony swirled around his head. He separated the minute differences between the noise—dozens of watchmen, civilians, physicians, soldiers, nurses.

  No sign of the meat wagon…

  There.

  Just a few blocks away, horseshoes on stone. Unmistakeable to a trained ear. It had stopped, and the horses stomped with impatience.

  He raced towards it, leaping over gaps, his feet clattering on the stone slates of rooftops. He smelled blood in the air, and the far-off airship engines grew louder by the second.

  He thundered across the Elmwood Library, circling its domed roof.

  There.

  The meat wagon came into view, sitting by a squat, red stone office block.

  Nyara exited the cabin, a vile smirk on his face.

  ‘Be quick about it, it’s crazy out here!’ Damien heard the boy’s partner say.

  Nyara produced his baton.

  ‘Come on, get out!’ Nyara spat.

  ‘Leave her alone!’ shouted Drimmon. ‘Oi!’

  ‘Hold your mouth or I’ll blackjack you again—and maybe this time I won’t stop, eh?’

  ‘Takes more’n a runt like you to put the fear in me.’ Drimmon’s voice quaked, but the defiance was there.

  ‘What do you want?’ spat Clara. ‘Little bully!’

  The young watchman dragged her from the wagon and hurled her to the ground.

  ‘Answers. The girl on your piss-bucket airship—where is she?’

  ‘I don’t know! I’ve been telling ya that!’

  ‘Aye, I know—but I had to ask, see, so’s I can say that the beating was justified.’

  He lifted the baton.

  ‘Wait!’ Clara pleaded.

  His fingers clutched Clara’s jaw, silencing her. ‘What’s gonna happen is, I’m going to beat you black and blue, then the lad in there. Better this way. You know what happens to women in the Gravehold—even fat old hags like you? Lucky for you I get my kicks in different ways. You’re just another of the night’s casualties, a poor civilian who resisted arrest.’

  Clara choked. ‘The Gravehold… ain’t real…’

  ‘What ain’t real is your lip, you fat-’

  Damien’s cutlass cut through Nyara’s wrist like butter. The blackjack clattered on the ground. Blood fountained from the stump and the lad stared down at it with eyes as large as body pits. His skin turned as white as bleached bone.

  When the words he tried to speak became shrill and mangled in his mouth—that’s when he chose to scream.

  Damien’s finger twitched.

  Listen to that song!

  Clara stepped away, covering her mouth as she watched the boy crumple to the ground, mouth frothing.

  Nyara’s partner materialised. He eyed Damian and drew his sword. ‘What did you do?’

  Damien’s body sang to him. He lifted his own sword and prayed for the watchman to be stupid enough to make a move.

  Silence it, ‘Damien’. Disarm it-

  The officer lunged—Damien’s steel whipped his thrust away, as though swatting nothing more dangerous than a fly.

  -then slash the tendons in its legs-

  ‘Y…You’re under arrest for assaulting men of the Watch!’

  The watchman—fat, slow and dim—reared for another charge.

  -and when it’s on the ground, take your hands, wrap them around its throat—and squeeze.

  He dashed towards Damien, sword levelled. He closed the gap in less than a second—Damien somersaulted, spinning as the air rushed around him, and landed behind the watchman.

  Do it.

  He swept the man’s legs away.

  Do it…

  He collapsed on the stone—unarmed, confused, terrified.

  Damien’s blood su
rged.

  Do it!

  The watchman whimpered, and Damien stepped closer.

  DO IT!

  ‘Mister Fieri.’

  The voice was new, yet familiar.

  Ignore it, ignore it, GIVE IN!

  ‘Please,’ Clara said, panting. ‘I… I…’

  ‘It’s alright, I saw the whole thing.’

  Damien tore his gaze from the fallen watchman. ‘Sergeant Waltham,’ he began. ‘Allow me to explain.’

  ‘No need Mister Fieri, I was in the Mercantile Office, saw the whole thing from the window. These men sully the good name of the Watch! Are you alright, Miss?’

  ‘Aye,’ Clara answered. ‘It takes something a lot scarier than spotty watchmen to frighten me.’

  ‘You’re Clara Godfrey of the Liberty Wind, correct?’

  ‘Aye, that’s me.’

  Waltham’s face softened. ‘I’m afraid you’re still under arrest, Miss Godfrey. Don’t worry—so are these two.’

  Damien stared down at Nyara as the lad wrapped his coat around his arm. Pearls of sweat glinted on his skin.

  A job only half-done.

  ‘Suppose I better get him medical attention,’ Waltham huffed. He picked up the boy’s severed hand. ‘You,’ he called to the other. ‘You’re party to this man’s assault on a prisoner. This is the last night you wear a Watch uniform. Get in the back of the damn wagon. On you go, Miss Godfrey. I’ll see to it that you’re treated fairly.’

  Prisoners secured, Waltham slammed the wagon door closed. Between the bars, Nyara stared out at Damien, ignoring the pain he must surely be in.

  Damien had seen that look often enough.

  After a three-hour journey, the Bulldog came to a halt. Gallows tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, Regina Hessian’s face stared up at him. The quaking from the Memorial Museum’s collapse still rang in his ears and acid bile knotted in his stomach whenever he analysed his actions with Tiera. Should he have let the Watch take her?

  The baked clay of the desert spread out to the horizon, and sweat reeked from his companions, though the cold night air had settled in.

  The vehicle squealed to a halt. Gallows was the first to exit, grateful for the chance to stretch his legs.