Symphony of the Wind

by Steven McKinnon

  ‘I can get to Lockwood,’ said Valentine. ‘No problem. She knows me. Carried out some operations for her and Fallon. Get me to the skyport, and I can contact her. Easy as ridin’ a horse.’

  ‘Good,’ nodded Damien, ‘that irons out that particular wrinkle.’

  The more Damien talked, the more routes he marked on his notepaper and the more Gallows’ mind wandered. What if Cronin was there?

  ‘Tyson, I’ll get you access while Valentine gets into position outside. For all intents and purposes, you’ll be acting as Genevieve Couressa’s bodyguard until she goes onstage. Per the verbal contract with Aulton Carney, you’ll be taking orders from her.’

  ‘As long as she doesn’t expect me to duet with her, we’re golden.’

  ‘Now,’ Damien continued, ‘Tyson and myself can signal using flashlights while inside the opera house, but we have no way to keep in contact with you, Valentine, so you must remain in position. When you commandeer the vehicle…’

  Valentine sat there, nodding, growing more enthusiastic as Damien’s plan became more attainable. Gallows remembered how he was after Sera’s death; out of control, angry, drinking himself to death. He guessed having this to focus on tempered Valentine’s grief. ‘We can do it,’ she said over and over, a mantra to herself. ‘We can do it.’

  Gallows wasn’t convinced. Too many things could go wrong, and they had no idea what kind of protection Thackeray would have—not to mention the Watch. Fallon had been in custody long enough to give up Gallows’ description.

  And what if they succeeded? What if they managed to get Thackeray to admit to everything—what then? The kingdom would fall into chaos. Junior Councillor Enfield and General N’Keres would be the heads of state, and Gallows didn’t reckon they were much better than Thackeray.

  Kirivanti, the Watch, the military—no matter which way he cut it, they’d all come gunning for them.

  It was after four, and Myriel should have returned by now.

  Serena’s legs stretched out atop the chaise longue, a curving, velvet red tongue adorned with gold floral stitching. It looked more comfortable than it actually was. Flicker bounced from corner to corner, just as restless as Serena. And there was Francois, zoned out on his chair. He’d stirred once or twice in the last couple of hours, but he never woke up. Gods know what he’s on.

  She’d helped herself to whatever morsels of food she could find. None of Francois’s books held her interest for more than five minutes, and the longer she stayed cooped up, the easier it was to justify doing a runner.

  Can’t bolt. I owe Myriel.

  But there was no guarantee Myriel would come back. For all Serena knew, she’d been locked up…

  The minutes on Francois’s mechanical clock ticked past.

  Councillor Enfield…

  He didn’t seem like a killer. Granted, he sent other people to do it, but still.

  All this trouble, just for her. Myriel, Marrin… Smithy, Oxbridge… Dixon…

  Enfield had orchestrated it all. For no reason that Serena could see, he was convinced that she was something special, one of these Siren things.

  ‘What do you think, Flicker?’

  The bird squeaked.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  She stared at the creature. You didn’t do what I told you before… But in the basement I felt something, I know I did…

  ‘Flicker!’

  The bird bumbled in the air towards Serena’s open palm. She patted his downy hair with her thumb and looked into his gleaming black eyes.

  She maintained the lock on his gaze for a moment.

  Her heart slowed.

  Flicker angled his head and blinked.

  A buzz passed in and out through her head, like a half-remembered song, or a childhood memory struggling to resurface. Faint, but definitely there.

  It disappeared and re-emerged, a refrain buzzing back and forth, tingling up and down her arms and-

  There.

  It stayed still, an invisible globe of static energy tingling in her palm. She couldn’t fathom how, but she knew the energy to be arcing towards Flicker in a thin stream, like a translucent string.

  Electricity rushed through her entire body. The connection was slim but definitely there. ‘Flicker, perch yourself on Francois’s head.’

  The bird leapt into the air and sat on the man’s head. Serena’s mouth hung open but no laughter spilled out. She couldn’t quite believe it.

  And then, as quickly as it appeared, the connection disappeared.

  Serena rolled from the chaise longue, onto her feet. ‘It’s real.’

  She approached Francois, snorts blubbering from him, beads of his black dye crawling across his forehead. She took Flicker in her hand. ‘Sorry, buddy. I know what it’s like to be controlled.’

  Flicker sang to her.

  ‘Well, I still can’t speak Bird—but I reckon I’m definitely a Siren.’

  She didn’t know what it meant or even what she was. And right now, she didn’t have time to dwell on it. She needed to find answers—everything over the past few days had happened because someone knew what she was.

  ‘Francois. Can you hear me? You need to tell Myriel I’m going? Francois?’

  The hair dye had reached the bridge of his nose now. Must have been cheap stuff he was using, useless in the heat-

  It gave her an idea.

  She pulled at the racks of costumes and suits displayed all over the room. She’d seen something earlier, something that could work…

  There.

  Like everything else in here, the gown was old but beautiful. Shimmering—almost metallic—rust red pleats cascaded from a charcoal black corset. A pattern of deep red swirls waltzed upon it. Its light sleeves were the colour of charcoal too, and large ribbons had been sewn onto the shoulders and front, which made it look a little old-fashioned.

  But it would do.

  There must be shoes around here somewhere, and maybe a coat and a parasol...

  The finishing touch would be Francois’s hair dye.

  It was like she’d told Myriel: No more running. It was time to get answers—and now she had the power to make that happen.

  It was time to fight back. For Marrin, for Dixon, for everyone else.

  She drew the concert ticket from her pocket.

  Going after Enfield alone was a stupid idea and likely to get Serena killed—but who said it had to be Serena?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Nothing could have prepared Serena for the mass tide of upper classes; it was like stepping into another world, thrust into a story full of strange, alien characters from a bygone time. They paraded through the Theatre District of Arrowhead in their finery, as though stepping from the stage themselves. Was this what everyone in Dalthea looked like before Amberfire Night? Gods, it even smelled nicer here, like flowers. Roses maybe? Serena had never spent much time around flowers. She preferred the smell of refined ignium and machine oil.

  Talking of flowers, most of the men and women wore blue roses. Should she be wearing one? Did they even have flowers in Dalthea? Or were they the fake sort, the plastic things that Fitz hated so much? Either way, she wanted one. They were a sharp, dark blue—the same colour as the sky when the sun slips beneath the horizon.

  Her chest ached. She missed the Wind. That was who she was: A Raincatcher. Each time one of these fancy men and women caught her eye, she worried they could tell she was a fraud.

  Screw ’em.

  She swept across the cobbled street, its stones laid out in fan patterns. A smattering of motorcarriages surrounded her, even some fancy horse-drawn carriages. Usually only the poor folk used horses and carts, but here they were, regal and beautiful.

  Her bare shoulders prickled at the chill in the air; Francois didn’t have much in the way of outdoor wear. His synthetic hair dye smelled bitter and made her dizzy, but she didn’t have much choice if she wanted to remain undetected. If anyone asked, she’d call herself Alisabeth Compton, of the Ryndara Comptons. She co
nsidered sticking a ‘tal’ in there too, but that was pushing it.

  She really hoped she didn’t bump into anyone else with that name.

  The clock tower spiralled up to the stars on curling metal legs, four round clock faces housed on each side of a steel cube with concave surfaces. Seven in the evening. An inscription in Old Dalthean was etched onto it, some dedication to Terros, the God of Earth—and, apparently, time—but Serena couldn’t figure it out. Compared to the modest terraced housing of the Theatre District, the clock looked like it had stepped out of another, well, time.

  Serena stopped to stare at it; it glowed in the distance with soft ignium light, like a second moon. Rhythmic swirling shadows spun behind its jagged numerals. Cogs. She had to stifle a grin; the best thing about the Liberty Wind—when she wasn’t on the deck, watching the world float by—was when she got to fix things, when she could see—feel—the machines working in concert together. Those cogs kept her in the air. That was real magic; Angelo and Myriel had books, but Serena had machines.

  High beyond the clock tower, the Schiehallion blighted the sky.

  Serena ignored the yearning in her gut and forced herself to step through the cramped streets. She didn’t know if she’d ever see the Wind again.

  There must be at least a dozen theatres around here. Some of them looked grand—the Prima Cento, the Queen’s Theatre, the Steeple… Surely they could hold audiences of thousands?

  Then there were the smaller ones—basement theatres at the bottom of taverns like the Red Lantern and the Aurora. Most of their windows were boarded up, but once upon a time they’d have been majestic.

  Pictures of the discarded props and costumes she’d found in the sewer tunnels beneath Arrowhead crept into her head. If someone had told her, when she was rolling around with Scruff, that she’d actually get to see a performance here by the Genevieve Couressa, she’d have thought they were out of their mind with scuzz.

  I hope you’re still running around somewhere, boy.

  She quickened her pace; almost every other lady had a gentleman or chaperone, and she had begun to draw some looks—particularly from a pair of watchmen. She strode through the courtyard, doing her best to look like she belonged there.

  The vast opera house gleamed like a palace of ice, silvered in the night. It took her breath away.

  She regained her composure—the upper classes were difficult to impress. She held her head high and hovered close to a party of middle-aged attendees, following them into a piazza, where the base of the clock tower loomed. Gods she’d love to climb up and take a look at the workings within…

  That was when she spotted him.

  Milo, standing at the base, clutching a ticket to his chest.

  Serena slowed to a stop, her elbows drawing inward. Oh, yeah. He’d said he’d meet her here. Damn. It completely slipped her mind. A weight pressed on her back and chest, as if sandwiched between enclosing walls. She wanted to reach out to him, to make the little guy’s day.

  But if she did, she’d be putting him in danger. What if someone recognised her? What if one of Enfield’s men tried to kill her and he got caught in the crossfire?

  She couldn’t risk it.

  She watched him standing there—his hungry, thin eyes darting left and right, no doubt searching for her—his face lightning up and then frowning again every time he thought he’d spotted her.

  Sorry, Milo.

  She couldn’t look at him as she melted into the crowd.

  Curving stone arches of white marble rose and joined each other, like coalescing waves. Smooth, intricate corbels in the design of angels jutted out, shouldering tall pillars and beckoning visitors with trumpets. The aristocrats swarmed through the opera house’s grand doors. Gallows eyed them with contempt. Guess it’s easy for some folk to forget.

  Through the arches, a chamber led to the main foyer, rising up in fan vaulting like the cloisters found in temples. Fitting, that Musa should be worshipped here.

  At the peak of a lavish staircase, a bronze statue of the Songstress herself looked out to an impotent interior fountain.

  Sera was so impressed the first time she’d seen it, towers of water soaring to the sky in time with whatever music happened to be playing. She’d chucked so many aerons into the fountain that she probably owned it.

  Tonight, Gallows would put everything right.

  He patted the package in his arm and followed the trails of people. He spotted Kirivanti and Damien about a dozen people in front, arm in arm, gliding up the red-carpeted staircase. She looked resplendent, her long hair unburdened, cascading across the back of her violet dress. Damien, for his part, wore his new Hunters’ dress uniform—it actually succeeded in making him look more dashing than usual.

  Gallows struggled to imagine Damien with anyone, but the two of them looked good together.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, dress code is-’

  Gallows flashed the watchman a writ that stated he was part of Couressa’s entourage.

  ‘Apologies, sir. Do you require an escort?’

  ‘No.’

  The package in his hands read From Genevieve, with love. Gallows disappeared through the stage entrance that Damien had marked out.

  Men and women of the Watch infested the place like stoneroaches, but none of them gave him a second glance.

  The doors closed behind him. Ignium lamps bathed the corridor in amber, pools of light reflecting on the shining green marble of the floor. A door marked ‘Backstage’ stood in front of him.

  He pushed it open. No turning back now.

  Commander Lockwood… Gallows could only hope she’d keep her end of the bargain. She and Valentine must have a lot of respect for Fallon to put ’emselves on the line like this.

  He better not be dead already.

  ‘Not the greatest seats, I’m afraid,’ admitted Kirivanti. They sat at the back row on the lower level, beneath the overhanging dress circle, to the left of the stage. The furniture had seen better days, giving an almost imperceptible wobble as Damien sat down. High above him, moonlight crept through a circular stained glass dome depicting the Eleven Gods, their eyes bearing down on the crowd as if in judgement. Ludicrously ostentatious, but that was the Fayth for you.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Damien said to Kirivanti. He glanced at his watch: After seven. He had memorised Genevieve’s schedule for the evening: The curtains would part at precisely half past, and the intermission would commence at ten minutes after eight. Earlier than normal, due to the lengthy performance Genevieve had insisted upon. A second intermission was scheduled for nine thirty, with the concert ending at ten forty-five.

  ‘You seem tense.’

  Kirivanti’s voice unshackled him from his considerations. ‘I do?’ Damien didn’t think he seemed tense—in fact, he’d chosen to look relaxed. Kirivanti must be mistaken.

  ‘Something on your mind?’ she pressed.

  ‘No, just keen to witness Genevieve Couressa in action. Her voice is exquisite.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Kirivanti leaned forward, staring down at her hands. ‘My father is a big fan. He acts like he is not, but more than once I’ve discovered my record collection in his bedroom.’

  ‘And are you in the habit of breaking into your father’s bedroom?’

  Kirivanti laughed, before the curve of her lips straightened. ‘He is ill. The wasting disease.’

  Kirivanti had never been candid with Damien before. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Each time I travel to Nom Ganald, I see him decline further. I look after him while I’m there. My sisters, they fuss over him. His voice is gone, but his eyes… His eyes tell all. I see how much he hates depending on others. Listening to music is one of the few pleasures he has left in this world. I sit with him, saying nothing. I sit and play him my music, the records he used to claim were nothing but din. Not traditional Ganaldi music, you see. But I can see he treasures those moments as much as I do.’

  ‘It sounds like you’re close.’

  She left silence han
ging there, toying with the pendant on her necklace. A trishul—a trident with curved outer blades, common among Ganaldi depictions of Aerulus. A memento from her father, one can assume. Damien had never witnessed Kirivanti display sorrow with such openness—nor any other emotion, for that matter.

  ‘Guildmaster, I-’

  ‘It’s a night off, Damien. Call me Sheva. I am more than my occupation.’

  ‘Of course. My apologies. I-’

  ‘I shall be tendering my resignation.’ Silence, then, ‘I mean to go home.’

  ‘Oh. I see. You will be sorely missed, Sheva.’

  She turned to face him then, eyes shining. ‘I am recommending you succeed me.’

  ‘Sheva, that’s… I don’t know what to say. I am honoured. Thank you.’

  ‘I think this is the first time I’ve seen you speechless.’

  ‘It certainly is a night for firsts.’ Damien checked his watch again. Fifteen minutes until the performance started.

  ‘At the risk of being bold Damien, when the performance is done, would you care to escort me-’

  Damien stood. ‘Apologies, Sheva. Please excuse me.’

  Her eyes widened and narrowed, lips pursing. She turned to face the stage and said, ‘Of course.’

  Damien bowed, squeezed through the row of people, and made his way to the foyer. Kirivanti’s demeanour had changed there, from sorrow to anger via embarrassment, but he could not fathom why.

  ‘Ah, Mister Fieri, I was hoping to bump into you. Apologies once again,’ greeted Aulton. ‘Desperate times, and all that. I appreciate you briefing your man Gallows.’

  ‘Quite.’ Damien marched down the hallway, stopping outside Couressa’s dressing room. Through the door, he could hear her practising, the cadence of her voice climbing and lilting. He could sense her heartbeat too, feel the excitement in her blood. Gallows was in there, no doubt trying and failing to master the art of acting like a gentleman.

  ‘I may be prying,’ Aulton spoke, ‘but I do have some influence back in Rhis. If you’d like, I could-’