by Carrie Patel
She didn’t know what to do with it right then, but she filed it away for later.
“You realize that we’ve all eaten food from the farms? That I’ve been to them?” It was a risky angle – after all, Geist’s people could easily throw her overboard if they deemed her a “contaminant” – but she needed familiar ground under her feet.
Besides, if they kept wandering around without finding Roman, they might throw her overboard anyway.
Geist, however, was deep in thought, turning his cup in his hands again.
“You are esteeming they comprend where to encounter Arnault?” Geist’s face was still scrunched with doubt and disgust.
“If he’s been through any of the communes, Salazar’ll know,” Malone said, watching Geist’s face for a sign of surrender. If she could just get to Meyerston and Salazar, she might be able to get away from Geist, Lachesse, and the Glasauge. Then she could pursue Jane and Arnault on her own terms.
Geist took a deep gulp of his caffee, watching her over the rim of the cup. “I apport the navigator. You will recount the route.”
Chapter 12
The Floating City
Jane learned several important things in her first days on the floating city. The first was how to walk on constantly swaying ground while keeping her food down. The second – and only marginally less important – was that her new home was called Salvage, and the locals meant that name literally.
Salvage was a flotilla of interconnected, pre-Catastrophe ships that had been repurposed and retrofitted to serve as a mobile, waterborne city. The residents spent their lives eating, sleeping, and working in the kind of proximity that made Recoletta’s factory districts seem spacious. Most of them, she learned, had never set foot on dry land.
She was assigned a berth on a ship called the Lazy May. It wasn’t much bigger than a supply closet, and yet two bunks had somehow been stacked inside. The sleeper on the lower bunk groaned and turned from the door. Jane’s escort pointed to the upper berth and told her she was fortunate to have one to herself. She shuddered to think of what it meant to be crowded here.
She had also wondered why a newcomer like herself would get a bunk all to herself. At first, she thought it made it easier for Salvage’s leaders – the almirante, the capitans, and their segundos – to keep an eye on her, assuming they still had doubts about her story. She soon decided that it was more likely a question of corruption.
Salvagers had an obsession with corruption – a moral and physical filth that they believed collected in dark corners, grew on the undersides of hulls, and was secreted by those who did not wash often or thoroughly enough. Jane would have called these things grime, rust, and sweat, but they meant something much more to the people around her. And as best she could tell, the origins of all such corruption were the muddy, heathen lands on either side of the sea.
When she considered it that way, it made sense that no one wanted to bunk with her. Besides, she was happy for what privacy she could get.
It also explained a lot about her job. After her interrogation, she had been assigned to Salvage’s army of cleaners – people who swept, scrubbed, and polished every inch of the city every single day.
It was unpleasant, but it was something. And it gave her an excuse and opportunity to observe the city and its people.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t been able to find Roman yet. They’d been separated as soon as they’d come aboard Salvage. Jane’s interrogator had told her he’d be assigned to the Albatross, one of the handful of engine ships that moved the city. The information, however, was less helpful than she might have hoped – by all accounts, thousands worked the Albatross, and in three or four shifts throughout the day. Worse, directions on Salvage were practically unintelligible, even when she could get past the accent. Everything was leeward or windward of some ship or another, none of which Jane knew in the first place. All she could tell was that the Albatross was far from her usual rotation. Given that she barely had the stomach to cross more than a couple of the ever-bobbing decks and swinging gangways before queasiness overcame her, it might as well have been back in Recoletta.
She could only hope he wasn’t having as bad a time of it.
In the absence of better company and happier thoughts, she tried to focus on keeping her head down, her ear to the ground, and her nausea in check.
The last part might have been easier if she hadn’t been assigned to clean one of the messiest boats in Salvage. She supposed she had her inherent “corruption” to thank for that, too.
Despite the daily cleaning routine, she could usually smell Nossa Senhora’s ammoniac musk from a deck away. And in the early hours, when the wind and waves were quiet and the masses crowded in their bunks, she could hear the trilling and cooing from even farther.
The cabin and the upper portion of the Nossa Senhora’s hold had been modified and fitted with rows of pigeon coops. The birds inside roosted on perches, huddled in nest boxes, or strutted and pecked along the floor.
All of it was covered with bird droppings, and all of those droppings had to be scraped up, collected, and carted off to Salvage’s floating farms.
With a sigh, Jane took a handkerchief and trowel from the supply cabinet, tied the former around her nose and mouth, and started cleaning.
No one had bothered to explain what the pigeons were for, and she had gotten the distinct impression that she shouldn’t ask. As far as she could tell, they ate, shat, and took short flights across Salvage. The only other person who worked the Nossa Senhora was Leyal, a short old man with skin the texture of calluses and eyes so pale they looked faded by the sun. He said little to her, but he nannied the pigeons as if they were his own three hundred grandchildren.
The work left her arms and back sore, but it added routine and regularity to her day. She could usually guess the time by how much progress she’d made along the coops. And how many times she’d gone out to vomit.
It was midmorning when her gut lurched within her the first time.
Jane rushed out of the cabin and onto the deck, taking deep gulps of salty air. After she’d retched most of her breakfast overboard, she started to feel better.
Three weeks of this, Roman had told her. And only three days had passed.
She was leaning over the railing with her eyes closed when a hand, rough and dry as sandpaper, fell on her shoulder.
Jane spun with instincts tuned by paranoia. Leyal stood before her, a gray pigeon on his shoulder and something yellowish and shriveled between his fingers.
“Toma,” he said.
It took some gesturing on his part before she understood she was supposed to eat it. She took it and tried a bite. It was sweet and spicy, not in a way that burned her tongue, but in a way that left her head feeling clear. She chewed the rest of it and relished the clean, tart taste.
Leyal nodded in satisfaction. “Gingiber,” he said. “Pa’ aki.” He patted his belly.
“Thanks,” Jane said.
“Any mal, you say something. O it aggravates.” He stroked the bird’s slate-colored back. Something on its leg glinted in the light.
“Maybe I should say something about getting a new assignment,” she said. One that didn’t clog her nose and fog her head with the stench of birds.
Leyal laughed. “No, no. Only you aki.”
“I know, I’m already covered in corruption,” Jane said. The private berth almost made up for it.
“Ess the mensages,” he said, tossing the pigeon up. It took off toward the other end of Salvage.
“The what?”
He gave her a pitying look and clucked. “You don’t conosse? Palomas transport notices. Relatos. The segundos send you because you don’t layer.”
It suddenly clicked into place for Jane. The interrogator had said something similar to her. Something about decaying “livros” and all the things her people didn’t know.
They thought she was illiterate.
“Yes,” Jane said, testing her theory. “Few in the bu
ried cities can even write their own names.”
“Claro, everyone conosse this.” Leyal was still watching the bird as it disappeared.
* * *
Now that Jane understood the purpose of the pigeons, she started noticing a lot more about them. She got to know the schedule by which they came and went. She kept track of Leyal’s rotation around the coops. She noticed the little metal canisters that so many of the birds wore.
She noticed, after a week cleaning the Nossa Senhora, that one of them was red.
The bird in question had found its way into one of the few empty coops from the trapdoor outside. In all her time working there, she hadn’t seen any red canisters or any birds in that specific coop. What was more, she was in the middle of the quiet morning hours when the birds almost never arrived. And Leyal was on the upper deck, fussing with the pigeons there.
She knew she was supposed to keep her head down and avoid drawing any attention to herself – or Roman – until they got close enough to leave for the Continent.
And yet this mystery was just sitting here, preening its feathers. A question begging to be asked.
Besides, red was the universal color of trouble. And if trouble was brewing on this strange city where she understood so little, it would be better to know it now.
Floorboards creaked overhead, and the rusty melody of Leyal’s singing drifted down to Jane.
He never started a song unless he was distracting himself from a long, mindless task, which meant he’d be busy for at least a couple of minutes. Probably.
Jane opened the coop, wincing as it clanged. The other birds cooed and trilled, bobbing their heads in little stop-start motions to watch her.
The lone pigeon only fluffed its feathers, settling deeper into its perch.
But when she reached into the coop, a rough wave knocked her to the side. The bird flew out of the coop and over her shoulder.
Jane cursed as the little creature flapped to the top of the supply cabinet. The damn thing was almost twice as tall as she was.
She cursed again as the floorboards near the ladder squeaked and Leyal’s humming grew louder.
His feet appeared on the topmost rungs.
Jane eased the coop door shut just as his shoulders came into view.
The errant pigeon was still perched quietly atop the cabinets.
“The palomas greet for repast.” He dusted his palms on his trousers, which looked dirtier than his hands could possibly be.
“Sure,” Jane said. She was trying to keep her voice light and airy, but it just sounded high.
He jerked his thumb toward the ladder. He hadn’t noticed the stray pigeon yet, but if Jane opened the cabinet to get the feed, he almost certainly would.
She needed a distraction. She thought of the one thing that was sure to grab his attention.
“The droppings in the last cage smelled off,” Jane said, pointing to the row of coops beyond the ladder. “The black-and-green one seemed… sick. I think there’s something wrong – something mal – with it.”
“Ah-ah!” Leyal cried, loudly enough to startle Jane. Thankfully not the roosting fugitive. “Something mal with?” He watched her, his faded denim eyes wide and bright.
It took Jane a moment to understand what he was asking. But then she remembered that his pigeons were never “it.”
“With her,” she said at last. It was a guess, and apparently a good one.
“Which ess her nome?” Leyal recited the pigeons’ names at least twice a day, chanting them in his rough singsong and often prompting Jane to repeat them back. It had always felt like a frivolity, but she’d made a career once upon a time out of humoring frivolities.
Fortunately, Leyal was so eager to see her get this one right that he was practically mouthing the name himself.
Jane put on her most patient smile and followed along. “Tea- um. Teodora.”
He raised three fingers. His eyebrows climbed up his forehead.
“Teodora III,” Jane said. Most of the pigeons had a number of some kind affixed to their name. As old as Leyal looked, and as many pigeons as he’d likely been through, she supposed he’d had to start recycling names at some point.
“Splendido!” he shouted, nodding vigorously. The cooped pigeons stirred and warbled, but there was nothing from the cabinet behind Jane. Yet.
“I will see her. You bring the repast,” he said, already turning his back to her.
Jane looked back at the cabinet. Her fugitive sat there still, peering at her in profile.
Holding her breath, she eased it open. The bird pecked crossly at the door and scooted to the edge while she wedged the bag of feed out of the cabinet.
But as the pellets and seeds rattled inside, it trilled with interest.
Jane glanced over her shoulder. Leyal was still absorbed with the cage at the end of the row.
The runaway pigeon cooed again, hopping to the front of the cabinet. Jane waved an arm at it, and it retreated back. She hurried toward the ladder before the little creature could get any more ideas.
Ahead of her, Leyal was holding Teodora III in one cupped hand and stroking her with the other, murmuring softly. She had to draw him away from the deck if she hoped for a chance to read the message.
She balanced the food sack on her shoulder and started up the ladder. The fugitive bird was still perched atop the cabinet. As she watched it, it ruffled its feathers and shat.
The birds on the second deck were pleasanter company. They cooed their appreciation as she doled seed into their troughs. They hopped and flapped toward her, staring back with black, barely blinking eyes.
Meanwhile, Leyal’s song was winding to a close.
He thumped around below. The squeal and rattle of metal signaled that he was shutting the gate. Heading to the supply cabinet.
There wasn’t much time to think. Another big wave rocked the deck, and Jane dropped the bag of seed. She threw open the door to the nearest coop, waving her arms to scatter the pigeons inside.
The panicked birds flitted past her, dispersing throughout the deck. Jane could have whooped with relief. “They’re loose!”
Leyal’s rough work boots clomped toward the ladder. His head rose from the hatch, twisting and swiveling like one of his birds’ as he took in the empty coop, the seven escaped birds, the spilled seed bag, and Jane’s fervent display of panic.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “the deck pitched, and I grabbed the coop, but I–”
“Shh,” he said, hoisting himself onto the deck. “Never chant them panico. Always calm with the palomas.”
Jane heaved a sigh. “Sorry. I–” She grabbed at the ladder as the deck rose and fell again. “I think I’m going to be sick.” It was probably true.
He shooed her toward the hatch. “To the gingiber.”
“Thanks,” Jane said, but Leyal had already turned from her to soothe his birds. As she climbed down, she grabbed a handful of spilled feed.
The cause of her trouble was still waiting for her on the cabinet. Jane approached and dropped the feed on the floor, watching the bird as it noticed the prize on the ground. It hopped to the edge of the cabinet but no further.
Jane took one slow step back. Then two.
She’d taken a dozen before the pigeon descended to its peace offering. It pecked away at the seed, raising its head at every third or fourth tap to make sure she wasn’t taking any liberties. Leyal, meanwhile, continued his singing and sweet-talking upstairs. The pigeons trilled along with him.
She took an exploratory step forward, and the bird stopped pecking. It looked up at her.
“Shh,” she whispered. “It’s okay, bird.”
She felt foolish, but the pigeon cocked its head and cooed back.
She took another step forward. “I just want to see what you’ve got.” Another step. “Friends?”
The bird hissed and puffed up its feathers.
Jane swore. She was still too far to grab the bird, especially with the deck rocking under her.
And if Leyal heard the damn thing start flapping and screeching, he’d be back in seconds.
She was almost level with the fugitive’s empty coop. Close enough to read the names hanging from the side.
Maybe there was something to Leyal’s manner with the birds, after all.
“Flavia?”
The bird shifted on its little gray feet, squaring off against her.
“Angelo.”
It gave a desultory peck at the pile of seed, watching her still.
“Goo… ah. Gyoo-seepay?”
Nothing but another half-hearted peck. Whatever the name was, she’d have to hope it wasn’t that one.
“Carmela.”
The pigeon raised its head – her head – and cooed.
“Carmela,” Jane said again, stepping closer. The bird cooed again and resumed feeding. By the time Jane was close enough to grab her, she climbed willingly into Jane’s hand and suffered herself to be picked up.
Jane stroked her soft back as she listened for Leyal. He was still singing upstairs, but this would all be for nothing if he returned to find her holding one of his pigeons and reading the message it carried.
So she steadied herself with splayed elbows and a wide stance and carried Carmela outside.
The bird gave her a cranky trill as the sea breeze blew the door shut behind them. Jane shushed and stroked her, looking around to satisfy herself that she wasn’t being watched.
For now, the decks of the ships immediately downwind were clear. For once, Jane was grateful for the Nossa Senhora’s stench.
Jane examined the red capsule and hesitated. Some part of her brain was nagging at her, telling her she shouldn’t be doing this. After all, hadn’t her snooping gotten her exiled from Recoletta in the first place? And arrested in Madina later?
That was only half true. In Madina, she’d been able to warn Roman about the Qadi’s impending invasion. And the fact that the Qadi and her allies had been after Roman – well, perhaps that was something she could have learned if she’d had more information.