by Becca Lusher
Two
Nimbys
Nimbys, Imercian
6th Blizzard
THE FLYING CORPS’ headquarters in Nimbys was an uninspiring sight. It looked like so many other civic buildings in the city – the Records Office, the City Hall, the People’s Infirmary. It was tall, clean, rigid and, unlike the others, surprisingly large as it sprawled across the ridge; a rarity in a city where space was at a premium. Then again it was built several hundred feet above the others, so it could afford to spread out.
As Mhysra topped the rise and got her first proper look at it all, she felt both underwhelmed and intimidated all at the same time. True, the building didn’t look like much, but it represented everything she cared about. Hopes, dreams, disappointments, despair, honour, courage, power… the list went on. Her legs felt heavier with every step, and that had nothing to do with the long, winding walk up from the city.
“I can’t do this,” she muttered, her strides getting shorter and slower. Arriving at a fork in the path, she ducked cowardly off to the left.
If the headquarters building was uninspiring, the one she faced now was just disappointing. It looked like a giant barn perched on the edge of a cliff. Which was what it was. Except that it wasn’t home to any ordinary form of livestock.
With each step towards the barn, Mhysra felt lighter until she was practically bouncing. Roof hatches were propped open around the highest level, letting in the bright winter sun and letting out high-pitched shrieks, mutters and screams. Everyday sounds from a miryhl eyrie.
Grinning, she headed for the door and almost collided with the man coming out of it. Liquid sloshed from the bucket in his hand, releasing the unpleasant odour of blood. Mhysra leapt back with a yelp, barely saving her skirt from a soaking. The man’s boots were not so lucky.
He glared at her. “Can’t you read?”
Startled by the harsh tone, Mhysra blinked. She’d only spent eight days in Nimbys but had already fallen into the habit of being treated like a lady. No one had dared speak so sharply to her since she’d left the Lowlands.
“There.” He jabbed a callused finger at the sign on the wall. “Shift them big eyes there and look close.”
“Rift Rider property. Keep out! Civilian access by appointment only,” she read aloud, feeling her heart sink again. Gods, she hated this city.
“Got an appointment, have you?” asked the man, smirking.
Nettled, Mhysra drew herself up to her full height, putting them eye to eye. “My brother is a Rift Rider,” she announced, with all the ceremony she normally despised.
The man rubbed his stubbly chin with a hint of uncertainty, assessing the cut of her clothes. Skirts and dresses were not her favourite attire, but she had to admit that in this city they had their advantages.
“What’s his name?” he demanded, not prepared to admit defeat just yet.
“Kilai Kilpapan.”
The man wrinkled his nose. “Kilai?” he repeated, scratching his head. “Don’t know a Kilai. You sure he’s meant to be meeting you?”
“Hardly.” Mhysra chuckled. “He’s at Aquila.”
Her adversary scowled. “What you doing looking for him here then?” he demanded, since Aquila was half the Overworld away.
“I wasn’t,” Mhysra told him, trying not to laugh. “And I never said I was.”
Any hint of deference vanished as he dropped his bucket and folded his arms across his skinny chest, blocking the door. “Then what you wasting my time for? Civilian access by appointment only.” He jabbed his finger at the relevant words.
Frustrated, Mhysra balled her hands in her skirts. “I don’t want access.” Since she clearly wasn’t going to get it. “I just wanted to look.” She edged a little closer and tried the winsome smile that so often worked for her older sister. “Please?”
The man shuffled his feet, uncomfortable with her increasing proximity. Mhysra debated whether or not to bat her eyelashes. Deciding that it might be too much, she sidled forwards again, backing the man ever so slowly through the doors and into the shadows beyond.
A demanding shriek shattered the gloom, making them both jump.
“No!” the man suddenly shouted, startling her into stepping back. “I’m too busy to watch over the likes of you. Think you’re the first to come sniffing ‘round here, wanting a gander? Ever since that fool proclamation I’ve been booting them out ten times a day. Get along with you. This ain’t no place for bored little ladies.” Snatching up his bucket, he stepped into the eyries and slammed the door in her face.
“Little?” she gasped in astonishment. “Little! I’m taller than you, you scrawny, mannerless git!” Fuming, she spun on the spot and almost tripped over her skirt.
Honestly, it was enough to make a lady growl in public. Behaviour that would be thoroughly frowned upon by her sister, but then Mhysra had never pretended to be a lady. Milluqua was a natural who wore her breeding like a fine set of pearls. Mhysra had to work extra hard at it, and mostly didn’t see the point.
So she growled and stomped her foot for good measure. When her soft-soled walking boots failed to make a satisfactory enough sound, she kicked a stone over the edge of the cliff. Then felt stupid when her toes started to throb.
“I hate Nimbys.”
Hiking up her skirt, she strode over to the nearest boulder and sat on it, glaring down at the city. Narrow, winding and cramped, this view of Nimbys would never win any awards, but then the dwellings directly below her belonged to some of the poorest people in Imercian. Unlike the far edge of the ravine, which was dotted with sprawling mansions, and one or two even had gardens, which was the ultimate luxury in such a cramped city. Up there the wealthy made the most of the elusive sun, but back here, where the light so rarely reached, the tenements of Nimbys were squeezed in tight and built up high.
Reminded of her privileged position in life, and feeling worse than ever, Mhysra turned and shielded her eyes against the glare of the Stratys Palace. White marble, imported from the south at great expense, glowed in the midmorning sun. An architectural wonder, many said, but Mhysra hated it. Just as she hated everything else about this accursed city.
She stared across the ravine to the opposite ridge and sighed. There was another eyrie over there, barely even a barn – smaller, squatter, with holes in the roof and rot in the walls. Cumulo was inside it, hunched and miserable, trying not to complain. How she wished he was with her now. How she wished he could do this instead of her.
But he couldn’t, so she must. She had to do this, for him as much as herself. She had to get him out of that fetid building and into this one. If she could gain official access for herself at the same time, so much the better.
Patting her jacket pocket, Mhysra felt reassured by the crinkle of folded newspaper within and stood up. The city buzzed with talk about the fall of Feather Frost and the attacks on Kevian’s Edge, Heston Point and Shune. The Flying Corps were in trouble, people said, that’s why the big changes. There hadn’t been an opportunity like this for a hundred years. Perhaps there wouldn’t be another for a hundred more. She had to seize this chance or she might as well stay on the ground forever. It was time.
Dusting off her skirt, she straightened her jacket and took a deep breath. According to the newspaper in her pocket, more than a century’s worth of regulation, sexism and prejudice had been overturned. Now it was time to see if any of it was true.
It was time to join the Rift Riders.
Courage mustered, Mhysra marched towards the headquarters and pushed open the door. Stepping inside the spacious foyer, she quickly located the front desk, piled high with paperwork. That’s when she noticed that the entrance hall was full of Rift Riders, who fell silent at her entrance. While she stood hesitating in the doorway, man after man turned to look at her. Then the whispering started.
An audience. How lovely. There would be no turning back now.
Running a nervous hand over her hair, Mhysra summoned up the centuries-long breeding of her a
ncestors and walked across the room like she owned it. Cumulo would expect nothing less.
“WHAT’S YOUR WAGER? Runaway brat, curious miss or genuine girl?”
Lyrai looked up from studying the depressing duty roster. He was surrounded by grumbling Riders equally dismayed over their new assignment. Merry Midwinter, everyone. “Pardon?”
“We have another one.” Stirla nodded across the busy room, eyes bright and mischievous.
After five years together – from Lyrai’s first day at Aquila through to their current officer training – Lyrai had learned to be wary of that sparkle. Still, a little amusement might ease the sting of being quartered in Nimbys until the following autumn.
He turned to face the cluttered front desk just as the girl reached it. Slender and tall, her dark brown hair was pulled tightly back, accentuating the sharp features of her sun-bronzed face. She wasn’t pretty, but had big, pale eyes that glanced frequently at the Riders. Seeing the silver flashes on his and Stirla’s shoulder, she nodded respectfully before turning to the clerk at the desk.
“Strange little thing,” Stirla murmured. “So, which is it?”
Lyrai waved him to silence, wanting to listen and far too wise to wager with him. Even when he wasn’t cheating, Stirla’s luck was just too good to trust.
“Enrolment is closed.” Brenai the clerk had fussy ways, but he was the best administrator in Nimbys. Lyrai smiled, wondering how the girl would react to his sharp manner.
“I know, but I was unable to come until this morning.” Her voice was polite and clear, softened with a hint of a country burr. Well born, but not local. “Since classes don’t begin for another five days, I hoped I might still be admitted.”
Her friendly smile didn’t sway Brenai one bit. He peered over his glasses and sniffed. “Enrolment closed yesterday. Rift Riders live or die by their punctuality. We make no exceptions.” The gathered Riders snickered. In theory what Brenai said was true, but in practise…
Irritation flashed over the girl’s face. Instead of unleashing it, though, she took a deep breath. “I was unable to come before, sir.”
“Try again next year,” Brenai advised brusquely, with more than a touch of disapproval. Which came as no surprise. The clerk had been particularly vocal in opposing the recent changes to the Flying Corps.
The girl took another deep breath and forced a smile. “If I had another choice, sir, I would not ask,” she said, a hint of desperation creeping in. “It’s Midwinter.”
Brenai’s eyebrows drew together and he pushed his papers aside, squaring the corners neatly as if the haphazard piles behind him did not exist. “I hesitate to be rude, miss, but what’s the hurry? The proclamation will still apply next year. It’s a five-year trial. There’s no rush and there will be plenty of miryhls left, if you want this badly enough. The thinking time will do you good. This isn’t an easy life. Take a little Midwinter advice and leave it for another year.”
The young woman’s hands clenched and her body stiffened with all the hauteur that the upper classes had cultivated over the centuries. “You do not understand, sir,” she growled. “I’m not some featherheaded miss with no clue as to what Rider duties entail. I don’t need to think about it. A year’s grace will not do me good. I am not anticipating an easy life.” She leaned over the waist-high desk and whispered something too softly for the curious Riders to hear.
Brenai sat back, clearly surprised. Then he laughed. “What a Midwinter tale! Wingborn, indeed. You must think me thirty years younger than I am.”
Wingborn! The shock rippled through the room as the Riders reassessed the girl. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen and showed no signs of a life with miryhls. She was too thin and free of scars. As wondrous and intelligent as miryhls were, they were still giant eagles with all the sharp edges and predatory instincts to match their wild cousins. Even the gentlest bird might draw blood on occasion.
Unlike Brenai and the civilian population, Rift Riders knew Wingborn existed – but they were rare. A miryhl hatching at the exact moment a human was born, within less than a mile of each other. One soul split in two. The phenomenon had once been more widespread when miryhls had bred more freely, but they had never been common. Breeding farms were now established in more remote areas, protecting the birds and limiting human contact until they were fully trained. Who was this girl and where was she from?
“I can prove it,” the girl insisted, trembling with anger. “Just let me fetch my miryhl.”
The clerk stopped laughing. “You have a miryhl?”
“I am Wingborn,” she growled.
Brenai waved her words away, all stern business now that the joke was over. “Where did you get it? Name, place and date of birth, and the same for your miryhl, if you please. You do know it is illegal to own a miryhl outside of Rift Rider purposes, do you not?”
“Unless one is Wingborn,” she reminded him stiffly. “Or of a ruling royal or political house. I know the regulations, sir. I was born at Wrentheria.”
“The village?” the clerk asked, searching for fresh paper.
The look she shot Brenai was almost pitying. “The manor. I’ve been breeding miryhls for two years and helping to raise others my whole life.”
Lyrai raised his eyebrows, unsure if he believed her. Wrentheria was renown throughout the Overworld as one of the best – if not the best – breeder of miryhls. The simple way she said the name didn’t sound like a boast, but nor did she look tough enough. Miryhl breeding was not easy, especially for those of shorter stature. The girl was tall for her age, but still barely half the size of an adult miryhl.
Brenai looked sceptical and held out a hand. “Your letter of recommendation.”
Her shoulders sagged. “I don’t have one.”
The clerk sighed and took off his glasses to massage his nose. “You come here making wild claims with no supporting evidence and expect me to admit you, even though official registration closed yesterday. Your credentials are wondrous, miss, if they are true. Since you cannot prove them… The Rift Riders do not look kindly on timewasters.”
Her jaw clenched. “Then I will fetch your proof, sir.” Turning on her heel she stormed away.
The watching Riders waited eagerly to see how the drama would unfold next, whispering bets between each other. It was almost as good as a play. When the girl was two angry paces away from the door, it was flung open by a young man with wind-tossed curls and a beaming smile. He wore the lightweight gear used by messengers and carried a document bag over his shoulder.
“Mhysra!” he greeted and, without even a hitch in his stride, swept the girl into his arms. “Well met and Midwinter blessings. I was coming to look for you next so you’ve saved me an awkward meeting with my aunt.”
“Mherrin!” the girl squealed, completely at odds with her previous behaviour. “What are you doing here? Where are you staying? How long? Is my aunt well? How is everyone? Oh, I’ve missed you!” She wrapped her arms around the messenger’s neck again.
“All right,” Stirla murmured in Lyrai’s ear. “I’m completely lost. Are you keeping up?”
“At least it’s entertaining,” Lyrai replied, while the youngsters chattered about people no one else in the room knew. There was enough of a similarity in their sharp features and softly-burred accents for them to be related. “Which is more than we usually get in Nimbys.”
“Seven months,” someone else groaned, setting off a rumble of discontent.
Brenai stood up and cleared his throat loudly. “Messenger, have you anything for me?”
Recalled to his duty, the lad dropped the girl, straightened his jacket and strode across the room. He sorted through the letters inside his bag, handing two to the girl and a third to the clerk. That done, he straightened up importantly.
“I bring greetings from Mhylla Wrentherin Mhynara of Wrentheria, and her personal recommendation that her niece, Lady Mhysra Kilpapan Kilrenma, be permitted to join the Rift Riders, in accordance with the ne
w proclamation readmitting women into their exalted ranks for the first time in over one hundred years.”