Symphony of the Wind

by Steven McKinnon

  She searched the corners for RSF and Watch—none. Didn’t surprise her, everyone knew they never looked closely at Vaughan. She would make his treachery work for her.

  Slowly, she inched out from beneath the landing pad, crouching low and hugging the wall of crates.

  Vaughan’s landing pad was even bigger than Tugarin’s, and Tugarin captained the largest Raincatcher. She remembered the Tarevian’s dissent in the Guildhouse. How long before Vaughan seizes the Talon for himself?

  If the silver-haired clown wasn’t here, then she’d simply stow away and get her answers when he showed his face. If he was, then all the better—her knives would make him tell her where Fitz was.

  The crew hovered like flies, but how loyal would his casuals be? I slaughtered half his crew before that bitch got in my head. Warm satisfaction settled in her belly.

  It turned to ice when Jynx slinked down the cargo ramp.

  Tiera ducked, brain throbbing at the sight of her. Her blades appeared in her hands. The witch saw me—looked straight at me.

  But nothing happened. Her heart in her throat, Tiera risked another look.

  She’d disappeared.

  Tiera breathed again.

  Stay sharp.

  Squeals accompanied a tall trolley as it rolled down the ramp. Tiera peered into the depths of the hold; there was no other cargo.

  This was her chance—dart into the belly of the Whimsy now before the ramp lifted.

  Her heart stopped when she saw who commandeered the trolley.

  Harvel Roarke.

  Her nails scraped along the crate. Traitor.

  Only a parasite turned his back on his crew and the ballad—betrayed the kinship between Raincatchers. She fought the urge to leap over the crate and open his belly, to choke him on his own guts.

  But her muscles relaxed. If he’s alive, Fitz could be…

  Roarke wheeled the cargo, exchanging banter with another of Vaughan’s crew.

  The hold was near-empty now. She would not have a better opportunity to get aboard.

  But Roarke was heading in the opposite direction.

  He would know where to find Fitz.

  But if he doesn’t and I’m caught, my chance to get to Vaughan is squandered…

  Roarke’s hacking laughter trailed away.

  The cargo ramp stayed pinned on the floor.

  She made her choice.

  Her fingers curled around the pommels of her blades—if Roarke was lucky, she wouldn’t have to use them.

  She made to leap over the crate-

  Cold steel pressed against the back of her neck, rendering her as still as stone.

  ‘You are under arrest,’ a voice said. ‘Pirate.’

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Sit still,’ said Genevieve.

  The solution she used on Gallows’ wounds burned like acid. Reckon I was safer out there.

  Over an hour had passed since they’d slipped past the patrol ship, and Gallows was still amazed that it had worked. He’d tied loose bricks onto the Bulldog’s accelerator, jammed the steering wheel and sent it off to Terros’ Crown with one of Valentine’s ignium charges on a timer. After that, they’d made their way to the Musicians’ mansion, knowing the Hunters’ quadrant would be empty.

  With Damien scouting ahead, they’d avoided trouble. Gallows was glad of the distance. He wasn’t sure he’d want to look Damien in the eye again.

  ‘Does a day go by when you don’t throw yourself knee-deep into danger?’ Couressa had a singer’s voice even when she spoke. She was in her loungewear and was at least one bottle deep into her apricot wine. After the night she’d had, Gallows couldn’t blame her. He’d wanted to stitch his cuts on his own but she’d insisted, and he was tired of listening to the complaints from his muscles.

  ‘Not lately,’ he answered, the burning on his skin retreating. ‘You almost done? We don’t have much time.’

  ‘I assure you, we’re quite safe.’ They sat in the Musicians’ Guild’s best suite. It was bigger than Gallows’ apartment, filled with artificial flowers and portraits of famous composers.

  The only light in Genevieve’s room came from a roaring fire, harsh red and orange bursting over him. With the Hunters scouring the city for them and the lack of music, the mansion possessed a mournful silence.

  Valentine was busy down in the Hunters’ quadrant getting supplies, taking inventory and setting up chokepoints with Damien. The odds weren’t good; they were up against the Watch, Hunters, and every two-bit criminal in the city. Coming here only bought them time.

  ‘I know ignium lamps can be used for heat,’ Genevieve said of the fireplace, ‘but I’m a creature of habit. Would you like some?’ She offered Gallows a glass of wine, some of it spilling as she swung it towards him.

  He shook his head. ‘Listen, you need to get out of here. It’s not safe.’

  ‘Yes, you’d mentioned.’ She placed the glass down and fixed a dressing onto Gallows’ torso. Her fingers lingered there, making his skin prickle. ‘Why are you so tense?’

  ‘I’ve been framed for terrorism and every gangster, thug and killer in this city wants my blood—and that’s just the Watch.’

  ‘Very droll.’

  ‘Also the truth.’

  ‘We can leave first thing in the morning,’ Genevieve said. ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘It has to be tonight.’

  ‘The skyport is closed to civilians and trains aren’t running. Do you propose we swim?’

  ‘You’re Genevieve Couressa. Buy your way out. Don’t reckon there’s an honest soul in this town, might as well take advantage of it.’

  Couressa swept a stray hair behind her ear. ‘That’s very presumptuous. And where do you propose we go, once we turn outlaw?’

  ‘Not “we”; I’m staying. You go with your people, take Serena with you.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  Why is she making this difficult? ‘I’m talking life and godsdamned death, Genevieve. Farro Zoven, Pyron Thackeray—they want Serena. She needs protecting. You’ve got the means.’

  Genevieve sipped at her wine. ‘You say she’s a “Siren” yet produce no proof. It’s all a little far-fetched, don’t you think?’

  With the time pressure, Gallows had been forced to tell her everything about Serena. He realised how stupid he’d sounded, but credit to Genevieve, she didn’t kick him out. Anyway, Valentine still had the evidence from One Three Seven—that would at least prove his allegations against the Prime Councillor.

  ‘You saw those Wraiths at the opera house,’ he said. ‘There’s worse out there. Believe me.’

  ‘The girl can protect herself, from what you’ve told me. Why should I put my people at risk?’

  ‘Yeah, she can kick ass and Gods know she saved mine more than once tonight—but how long will her luck hold? You’re the one who bangs on about hope and justice and charity.’

  She hammered the glass down. ‘I’m not convinced that extends to mythical mermaids that drown sailors!’

  ‘Junior Councillor Enfield killed people to get his hands on her. By now, Thackeray knows he’s dead, and Pierro’s gangs will have reported back to their pimp-in-chief. Thackeray will want her. She needs to get as far away from here as possible.’

  ‘And you think because I possess wealth, I can buy passage out of here, just like that?’

  The fire crackled, dancing embers flying and fading in the air—alive one moment and gone the next. ‘Yup,’ said Gallows.

  Genevieve rolled her eyes. ‘Always so black and white, isn’t it?’ She stood and marched to a table by her bed. From a velvet pouch, she produced a vial of laudanol and an ornate eye drop dispenser. ‘I have a pain killer. It relaxes the muscles and calms the mind. You should-’

  ‘No.’

  Her head shot around. ‘There’s really nothing to be afraid of; it’s harmless in small quant-’

  ‘I said no.’

  The drawer slid shut. ‘Suit yourself.’

  Velvet pouch, personal dro
p dispenser. You don’t use that for medicine, Genevieve.

  ‘Oh, don’t look at me like that,’ she scowled.

  Gallows didn’t realise he was looking at her like anything. ‘What you do in your own time is your business.’

  ‘Hah! “My business”, as if I have privacy! I am hounded in the street every time I leave my house. I am surrounded by sycophants. I receive death threats, legal threats and petitions for marriage every single day. I don’t require your judgement.’

  Gallows stood. ‘Genevieve, I apologise if I’ve-’

  But whatever deluge Genevieve had been keeping at bay had already burst. ‘You believe because I am surrounded by people who adore me, I cannot possibly feel alone?’ Rage edged in her voice. ‘What do you know of it? Who are you to look at me like I am some common junkie? I wouldn’t wish the pressures of fame on anyone. I almost died tonight and the world would have mourned—but who would have grieved?’

  ‘I’m… sorry. I didn’t realise. But this is all more reason to get out.’

  Couressa didn’t look at him. Her eyes reddened but without missing a beat, she composed herself. ‘I’ll have Aulton look for passage out of the city in the morning—your ludicrous curfew will make it impossible to grease anyone’s palm while the authorities are looking for the girl.’

  Gallows’ throat dried. His instincts told him to plead and argue but he knew she was right. No-one at the skyport would risk letting a motley crew sneak aboard an airship in the dead of night—not with the RSF zipping in and out on water runs, and whatever Captain Vaughan was up to. They’d probably only get far enough to get shot down by the Schiehallion anyway. Holing up here for the night was better than hiding in the streets—at least they had control of their surroundings. Damien could get Serena out if the rest of them fell.

  ‘Fine.’ Gallows relented. ‘We hole up.’

  ‘Splendid.’ A smile played on Genevieve’s lips. ‘Then we have some time.’ She closed the gap between them both. She wore a thin nightdress, a peach-pink colour, the same as her lips. That light, sweet, toffee-apple scent she wore coiled around her. The back of her thin fingers caressed him.

  He froze. Cold sweat collected on his back.

  ‘Whatever pain you’re carrying,’ she whispered, ‘let it go…’ She leaned in and her lips pressed against Gallows’…

  She drew back.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ The corner of her small lips curved. ‘You don’t want me?’

  Nidra’s talons, drawing blood as he hung there, powerless… Her voice threading through his head, pushing his protests down…

  She moved in again.

  ‘Stop,’ said Gallows.

  Genevieve turned rigid as she withdrew. ‘No man has ever rejected me before.’ She laughed—a short, sharp intake of breath. ‘I am… not used to not getting what I want.’

  Gallows tried to talk but language escaped him. How could he open up to this woman he barely knew? How could he tell her of his guilt—his shame?

  Genevieve turned her back on him.

  ‘I’ll take the girl under my wing,’ she said, sliding her bedside drawer open. ‘You may go.’

  She had no idea who the clothes used to belong to, but they fit better than Francois’s dress. Hunters’ gear wasn’t a million miles away from the overalls she wore on the Wind; thick work trousers with a utility belt, clean woollen socks and a long-sleeved linen shirt inherited from Fabian Aereli. A second-hand pair of brown steel-capped boots completed her ensemble. It made her feel new.

  Even better was the shower. The plumbers who attended to the Musicians’ Guild must have been much better than the ones who saw to the Raincatchers and the orphanage, because not once did the water stutter or stop. She stayed in the cubicle much longer than she’d needed to, even though the water stung at her scrapes and wounds. The shower sheared the grime away, eased the tension in her muscles—and Gods, it was good to rinse that horrid dye out.

  Valentine was busy taking note of what gear they had—she’d heard her say that the building was too big to fortify with what they had, so they’d have to choose their spot carefully. They’d bought some time, but soon their enemies would descend.

  She could only guess at what would happen next. Gallows’ trick with the motorcarriage diversion was clever, but they had been lucky to escape the RSF. Surely they would figure out what had happened? What would happen when Drina and the Hunters returned? Was this the calm before the storm? Would more people die because of her?

  She stepped into the main room of Aulton’s suite, boots sinking into the lush carpet. Synthetic flowers filled vases that sat atop tiny, useless tables—tables which only existed so other tiny, useless things could be placed on top of them. A trolley of suitcases and musical instruments was parked by the door. Fabian paced back and forth, stopping every now and then to examine himself in a mirror.

  ‘Ah, Serena,’ greeted Aulton, leaning on his cane. ‘Can I get you anything else? More water, perhaps?’

  ‘Uh, no.’ Serena hadn’t thought she’d ever refuse water, but there it was. ‘Has anyone come in? Any messages? The longer we stay here, the more you guys are in danger.’

  Aulton’s smile expanded but his knuckles whitened. ‘I assure you, we are quite safe.’

  Fabian continued pacing, lines etched on his youthful face. It made sense that everyone was tense—Gallows had informed ’em all of Enfield’s revelations. Genevieve was different; she was all fire and bluster, ranting about hope and justice before she disappeared to tend Gallows’ wounds.

  Fabian sighed. ‘You know,’ his voice chimed, ‘I often wonder if I’m not the Lost Prince of Ryndara. I’m handsome enough for it.’

  Aulton rubbed his temples. ‘Prince Arros disappeared as a youth fifteen years ago—you’re forty!’

  ‘How dare you! Serena, girl, don’t listen to Aulton’s fallacies!’ Fabian’s voice pitched so high it could shatter the mirror on the wall. ‘I am merely thirty-four.’

  ‘You are not, you thundering dunderhead.’

  ‘Anyway,’ shrugged Fabian, simpering into his reflection, ‘I heard his looks were vastly overestimated.’

  ‘Right,’ Serena said. ‘Um, am I… free to go?’

  ‘You are not a prisoner, my dear,’ Aulton told her. ‘Just… Don’t stray too far.’

  The door closed behind her, blunting the sound of whatever barbs the two musicians had started trading with each other.

  Being cooped up always bothered her, but it was worse now. Running and hiding got her nowhere; she had to do something. Find Myriel, for a start. Explain everything to Angelo. Spread the word about Enfield. Something.

  The suite was on the uppermost floor of the mansion. She stared down over the interior balcony; the entrance to the Musicians’ Guildhouse had been chained shut, but Gallows said that the Hunters didn’t use that one much anyway. Two more balconies hung beneath her, and a long staircase spiralled and split off into two. The marble of the foyer floor gleamed.

  She pictured the man who assaulted her on the skybridge falling over the edge of the balcony, arms flailing in the air, eyes piercing hers.

  She spun away towards the Hunters’ quadrant, seeking a distraction. Unlike the Raincatchers’ Guild, members here didn’t sleep on the premises. All this space, empty in the night. Half the kingdom’s homeless could fit in here.

  Genevieve’s suite was up ahead. Under any other circumstances, Serena would have been a nervous wreck in her company. Everything seemed… Smaller now, less important.

  The door swung out. Gallows appeared, looking worse than ever.

  ‘Kirivanti’s office, five minutes,’ he announced. ‘Tell everyone else.’

  Coffee-brown leather stuck to Serena’s skin, but the couch was comfortable. Lamps cast gentle light around the room, the colour of the sky at sunset. An illuminated globe sat on Kirivanti’s desk. Phadros, Aludan, Nom Ganald. Would she ever get to see them?

  Fabian sat on a wooden chair with a high, curving back, Aulton
on another couch. Valentine stood by the end of the desk.

  No Genevieve. The Hunters’ Guildmaster herself sat behind the desk, face haggard. She still wore her violet eveningwear, but she’d draped a thin blanket around her shoulders. Gallows had changed into the casual gear he’d had on at the funeral. He paced back and forth between them all, lines on his face.

  Damien stood alone in a corner.

  Serena was alone too, though the couch was big enough for at least three people.

  Guess Gallows has told them all about me, then.

  He’d been talking for twenty minutes now, going through a pile of notes bound in a Captain Crimsonwing dustjacket.

  The revelations about the desert lab stunned everyone to silence. Fabian huffed once or twice at the mention of dead-eyed soldiers and conspiracies, but the photographs silenced him—chilling images of corpses after surgery, some with organs hooked up to machines, some faces stretched in rictus horror as though they were still alive when the procedures had taken place.

  No-one questioned Gallows after that.

  ‘So we hole up here,’ he said. ‘Just until the morning.’

  ‘Place is wrapped up tight,’ said Valentine. ‘No guns other’n what we got from the Bulldog, but Damien here’s set up a few traps to dissuade intruders. We’ll tell y’all where they’re placed when we’re done here.’

  Serena didn’t like it—‘wait and see’ wasn’t any kind of plan. She’d never been to this Guildhouse before, didn’t know its layout, didn’t trust it. Not that the streets where much better—how many junkies and homeless had Enfield employed? ‘Reckon we should’ve stuck to the sewers,’ she said. ‘They can’t have explosives in every tunnel.’

  ‘We can’t underestimate our enemies,’ said Gallows. ‘Anyway, they’ll arrest anyone on the spot out after curfew. Our descriptions will be circulated. No way we can get out of the kingdom without an airship, and the skyport ain’t open ’til sun-up. We have to play this smart.’

  ‘Where’s Couressa anyway?’ Valentine asked. ‘Reckon she should be up to speed.’

  ‘Resting.’ Aulton’s answer came as quick as a bullet.