Wrath of Storms

by Steven McKinnon

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘Stopping at Quatier-de-Fer, Ferros Arcade, Avenue-des-Lys, The Brons Row, Upper Tempête, and terminating at Royal Palace.’

  ‘Her voice sounds much happier than the information towers in Dalthea,’ said Myriel. Then her wrinkled face furrowed deeper. ‘But then, the dying gasp of a rabid dog sounds happier than the information towers in Dalthea.’

  The carriage screeched and spluttered every time it stopped, and it carried the same smell as Serena’s palm after she’d clasped copper aerons. Ventris’ crew filled the compartment; Serena stared out of the window rather than look at them—she watched people cower beneath glass canopies to shield them from the lashing rain, just like in Dulwin. The world passed in a watercolour blur as the carriage skated away from the platform and climbed higher and higher.

  Rhis’ streets were as narrow and cramped as Dalthea’s, but back home, you could still see the sky. Here, gunmetal-grey towers reached so high they threatened to bleed the heavens. Factories belched smoke, alive with energy. ‘The City of Steel’, they call it. City of Rust would be more accurate.

  Glass windows stretched like the cackling mouths of witches, and exposed steel struts clashed with polished stone and glowering, angular gargoyles. Some towers stood elegant and thin, like the Spires in Dalthea’s desert. Others sprawled across entire blocks, rising in boxy tiers, like towers-within-towers.

  The carriage swivelled and climbed on a snaking, single railway track, coiling across the exterior of a building marked ‘Templeton Brewery’. The air turned sickly-sweet. Exposed clockwork and pulleys were visible within its walls, like the insides were growing faster than the façade.

  Identical trains criss-crossed the brewery building, avoiding a collision with Serena’s carriage by inches.

  And as the carriage advanced, Serena caught fleeting glimpses of the Colossus of Belios, God of War—the God whom all Ryndarans favoured.

  ‘That statue grows as tall and pompous as King Arnault’s ambitions,’ said Myriel.

  Serena spied the monstrosity’s seven blades, one for each of Belios’ daughters. Another story said the colossus would stand tall until the day Ryndara fell, when it would awaken, weep blood, and destroy the kingdom’s enemies—but Gallows had been drunk when he told Serena that.

  ‘Some place, true enough.’ Solassis snorted. She sat in front of Serena, next to Gallows, making a show of displaying her antique pistol. Not that we can try anything anyway—not while they’ve got Enoch and Ginny trussed up. ‘Reckon I’ll take in a show.’

  ‘You don’t strike me as the musical type,’ Myriel observed.

  Solassis hawked and spat on the floor. ‘Helena’s into that shit. I mean the Challenge.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Serena asked.

  Solassis leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Her lips curled like burning parchment. ‘Reckon you’ll see.’

  Classical music filtered through the carriage’s speakers; a Genevieve Couressa tune. She’s from Ryndara—how will King Arnault feel when he finds out his country’s most famous daughter was beaten and rounded up by pirates?

  Serena replayed the moment Solassis killed Vabrizio over in her head—the shock on his face, the way he clutched at his wound and sank to his knees…

  Electricity ran through Serena’s fingertips. Her siren-song thrummed inside her, clear and strong.

  Pyron Thackeray had told Serena that she’d grow so powerful, she’d be able to reach into hundreds of minds at once—could she do that here, now? Manipulate the minds of the pirates? Was she strong enough?

  The electricity inside her dissolved. Serena didn’t shed a tear for Colette—but manipulating her into attacking Solassis and failing proved she didn’t have as much control over the siren-song as she thought. I can’t risk it.

  ‘Something on your mind, Miss Compton?’ Solassis gave Serena a little bow from her seat.

  ‘Yeah—why didn’t you just fly us to the palace?’

  Solassis withdrew a golden-green apple from her pocket and took a bite. ‘Why have you got weird hair?’

  Myriel nudged Serena. ‘Rhis’ streets are too narrow for inter-city airships, especially ones as big as the Queen of the North. These monorails were built to compensate. First there was just one, but today the monorails stretch across the entire city—almost a city themselves.’

  The carriage delved into a labyrinthine network of conduits and tracks careening beneath a suspension bridge. Spotlights swivelled and painted arcs of light into the sky, like the burning glare from the machines Serena had read about in Captain Crimsonwing and the Mad Baron’s Mechanical Army.

  Serena had always been drawn to machines—and there was no arguing that Rhis was impressive—but without Dalthea’s graffiti and its mish-mash of architectural designs, Rhis seemed… Soulless. Dalthea might be messy, but mess was natural; forcing everything into straight lines and geometric constructs robbed a place of its personality.

  Rhis’ central districts rushed closer; in a neon blur, the sign of a Campbell, Coutts & Crawford building smeared past.

  ‘Now alighting at Quatier-de-Fer,’ the announcer said. The carriage rounded a corner and screeched to a halt. ‘Next stop, Ferros Arcade.’

  Serena’s heart hammered in her chest as the carriage slipped beneath the station’s glass roof. ‘Wait, hang on…’ The bright pinks and yellows of a florist’s shop caught Serena’s eye. People streamed past, clutching shopping bags close to their chests. ‘But… We’re miles from the ground.’

  ‘Piss off,’ growled Solassis when a young woman tried to enter their carriage. ‘By order of the royal dog sitting across from me.’

  The woman’s face turned a livid red, but she spun on her heel and left.

  ‘Huh,’ Solassis said. ‘Travelling with royals does have benefits.’

  Serena ignored the pirate. ‘Aren’t the streets all the way down there?’

  ‘Some of ’em,’ Gallows explained. ‘We’re going much higher up, S—Alisabeth.’

  ‘There are streets above streets?’

  ‘More like a city on top of a city on top of another city. Unlike Dalthea, when the ignicite rush hit, Rhis didn’t have much flat ground to build upon—so they built up.’

  ‘For real?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Myriel cut in. ‘They say one can live their whole life in Rhis without ever setting foot on the true ground.’

  A week ago, Serena would’ve been in awe of Rhis’ machinery. She’d have had questions, figured out the best way to climb its highest points, figured out how everything worked. But though she wasn’t shackled or chained, she was still a prisoner.

  The carriage lurched and picked up speed. And I thought Dalthea was huge when I first saw it. You could fit five or six Daltheas here.

  The carriage came to a halt and the automatic doors opened. The sounds of Rhis spilled into the carriage; the bustle of people, the shriek of discordant music from bars and clubs. A city on top of a city… Does it have a limit?

  ‘Don’t be too quick to make plans to settle down here,’ said Gallows. ‘Bloodlung still chokes the people in the lower districts.’

  Serena’s brow furrowed. ‘Bloodlung’s been cured.’

  ‘Sure, if you have the aerons. But they still use coal here, and those doing the mining earn the least money from it.’

  Gallows was right; the higher the monorail climbed, the more visible the charcoal-grey smog became below.

  ‘There aren’t many ignicite deposits in Ryndara,’ Myriel explained. ‘And the ones they do have don’t yield the best quality—not like what we have in Dalthea.’

  ‘They went to war over it, right?’ That fact was one of the few lessons Serena retained from her time in Dalthea’s orphanage.

  ‘Aye,’ Solassis said. ‘Dalthea put a premium price on ignicite because Ryndara didn’t have a choice. Had ’em over a barrel, you lot did. Arnault’s a man whose ancestors were raiders and killers—what did your King Owain expect him to do?’

&
nbsp; ‘They fought over what ignicite represented,’ Myriel said. ‘Over what it meant for each kingdom. Wars have been waged for much less.’

  ‘That’s… really bloody stupid,’ Serena said.

  The carriage stuttered to a halt. ‘We have arrived at Royal Palace. Service terminates.’

  Smog turned the sky a bruise-purple and blunted the edges of the sickle moon. Colossal metal towers lined with riveted struts dwarfed the tilting cathedrals and sprawling stone buildings.

  The boxy seat in the motorcarriage’s passenger cab dug into Morton’s lower back, and the chains around his ankles burned more than the ones around his wrists; taking away a man’s hands was bad, but his freedom of movement? Gods above, he might as well be dead.

  ‘Should be offering us a job, not bloody trussing us up,’ he muttered. Qitarah sat across from him, and any time Morton met her eye, he got the feeling she was mocking him.

  The spires crowning the Royal Palace jutted up above the horizon, like the talons of a great beast clawing up from Hell. Arnault’s clockwork fortress. Straight to the dungeons, then. No audience with the king for us.

  The motorcarriage trundled across a bridge; a manufacturing plant churned waste the colour of puke into the river beneath. Emaciated men and women toiled, their papery skin slick with sweat and grime. They shoved carts of raw metals and coal along tracks, eyes red above their breathing masks.

  Sourness filled Morton’s throat. Folk in the worst conditions doing menial labour for them who live above.

  The big fella with the slate-grey skin, Enoch, looked like he was about to cry. ‘All this water, and they choose to pollute it.’

  The bloke gave Morton the creeps, and his deep voice sounded like it belonged to a sad poet. Morton hated sad poetry. Don’t much care for happy poetry, either.

  Qitarah tilted her head back, closed her eyes and said, ‘Staring at the outside is akin to torture. Accept your fate.’

  ‘Reaching for a thistle often comes with the sting of a nettle.’ Again, Enoch spoke like he was reciting poetry.

  Morton watched Qitarah’s black hair tumble to the side, like the smoky tendrils of a shadow dragon—mysterious, alluring, dangerous. She’d always carried herself with breezy confidence, but her eyes—her eyes were hard as bloodstone. He hadn’t noticed that when he hired her.

  ‘So, this Ventris,’ he started. ‘Hear she’s a killer. Hear she’s the worst pirate in the world.’

  Qitarah’s lips mimicked the curve of the sickle moon. ‘Or best, depending on your view.’

  ‘Didn’t stop the Daltheans from capturing her. You an’ me, friend, we outran and outgunned her lot though. Whatever happens to us, take pride in that.’

  ‘Mm. Makes you wonder, yes?’

  Morton barked a laugh. ‘Nah. Just chalk it up to luck, really.’

  ‘Mm, “luck”. Never mistakes when you lose, and ever your fault—always “luck”. Must be an easy way to live.’ Qitarah closed her eyes, like she was ready for an afternoon nap.

  Morton couldn’t believe how cavalier she was. ‘You ain’t worried? About what’ll happen to us?’

  ‘I’m sure your Gods will provide divine intervention,’ Qitarah answered. ‘Commander.’

  The vehicle rattled forward, every screech and whine a soundtrack accompanying the stories of Helena tal Ventris filling Morton’s head. Maybe Darron and Schaefer got it easy—dying quick’s better’n what that lunatic has in store.

  Then the motorcarriage halted.

  Qitarah smacked her palms together. ‘Guess this is my stop.’ She slipped the shackles from her wrists and rubbed at the red burns in her skin. ‘Be seeing you, boss.’

  What?

  The motorcarriage door slid open, and Qitarah stepped out.

  ‘Son of a bitch, you’re one of them?’ Fire rose in Morton’s chest. ‘You been with us for weeks! I watched you take out those Avispas!’

  Qitarah shrugged. ‘Fewer crew, more loot to go around.’

  Morton’s teeth gnashed. This is why you don’t hire strangers when you’re drunk and on a losing streak. ‘If you were a pirate all this damn time, why even bother riding with us here?’

  ‘The stone monk sitting next to you,’ Qitarah explained. ‘Had to make sure he didn’t bust out.’

  Damn. No answer would’ve satisfied Morton, but at least she could’ve said she was there because of him.

  ‘You flew with us, drank with us. What about the crew? What about me? You could’ve blown me out the sky any time.’

  Creases formed around Qitarah’s eyes. ‘You’re alive because we’ll need to blame the damage to the Queen on someone.’

  Qitarah slammed the door.

  So, this is what it feels like when your luck runs out.

  ‘Wait here,’ demanded Solassis. She marched across the palace’s vast reception room, leaving Serena and Myriel alone with two pirates named Madyx and Thommo.

  Two Crimsoncloaks stood at either side of an empty throne—palace guards who wore red capes and braided beards.

  A curious thing, pirates walking through the palace like they own the place.

  Myriel tried to ignore Thommo’s hot breath on the back of her neck—it was as fruitless as ignoring the constant cracking of Madyx’s knuckles.

  ‘You reckon Gallows is okay?’ Serena asked.

  ‘I’m certain he is.’

  The reception room hadn’t changed much since Myriel had last seen it; it had the same high-backed throne, the same large windows, the same infuriating chug of unseen clockwork doing Gods know what within the bowels of the palace.

  A mural wrapped the circumference of the room, depicting a battle between the Indecim and the Orinul. Aerulus rode upon Torenir, his raven-black hair wild behind him and a bloodied sword in each hand.

  Candelabras lined the walls and pillars, their candlelight flickering and breathing life into the mural’s static flames.

  Belios was a new addition; the War God and his seven daughters commanded an entire wall by themselves. He stood three times as tall as Aerulus, roaring and swinging a double-headed axe through a violet-skinned demon’s skull.

  Serena stepped forward and angled her head, transfixed by one portion of the painting in particular: A lone woman surrounded by fiery tornadoes, green hair trailing behind her, sword raised high.

  ‘Musa,’ Myriel called behind her. ‘One of many interpretations of the Renaissance of the Gods.’

  Thommo cleared his throat and said, ‘This ’un must be royalty right enough—or she wouldn’t be talking so bloody much about murals, seeing as her life is but a coin toss from being pissed away.’

  ‘Our friends don’t appreciate fine art,’ Myriel said, raising her voice.

  ‘O’ course we do,’ Thommo protested. ‘If we didn’t, then we wouldn’t know what was worth thieving.’

  Myriel opened her mouth to argue but, actually, that was a good point.

  ‘How long’s Arnault gonna keep us waiting?’ Serena complained.

  ‘Keen for the kiss of Nyr, eh?’ said Thommo. ‘We ain’t seeing Arnault—he’s busy at the Challenge. Nearly Wintercast, ain’t it? It’s tradition.’

  Serena looked at Myriel and asked, ‘What’s this Challenge everyone keeps talking about?’

  A gnawing pain shot up through Myriel’s legs and burrowed into her lower back. A regular occurrence, these days. ‘It’s a competition. Nothing we need to concern ourselves with.’

  ‘The king presides over it every year,’ Thommo explained. ‘Thruzgaz Blood-Dancer’s the reigning champion. I got a hundred aerons on him to beat—’

  Madyx silenced Thommo with a cough.

  Myriel rolled her eyes. ‘Men and their manly contests.’ Though she was no stranger to sitting by a boxing ring herself, it was important to make sure these pirates kept underestimating her. If her ruse failed, they’d all hang.

  Tall doors at the opposite end of the room swung in with a thunderous crack. Helena tal Ventris marched through, decked out in new clothes:
A navy blue military uniform with gold buttons. Solassis had changed into similar garb, and they both carried Ryndaran military sabres.

  ‘Shit,’ muttered Serena.

  Myriel agreed with her sentiment. They work for Arnault.

  A young lad with red hair and skin as pale as sour milk trailed behind the pirates. He wore thick, fine brocade clothing with silver stitching chasing purple thorn patterns. Myriel placed him at around sixteen.

  A man in a dark blue dress uniform accompanied him, the lines in his face telling Myriel he was only around ten years her junior. He walked with a back as straight as the rapier hanging at his side and wore his long, salt-grey hair in a braid. Unlike most Ryndaran military men, he had no beard.

  ‘This is them?’ the boy asked of Ventris.

  ‘Aye,’ said Solassis. ‘These are the ones who claim relation to your father.’

  Ah, Prince Garald—the last fruit of Arnault’s loins.

  The prince analysed Myriel first, then Serena; his eyes lingered on her a little longer.

  ‘And what of the stone-skinned man?’ The prince’s silvery voice possessed the timbre and resonance of a Ganaldi sitar. It pleased Myriel’s ears.

  ‘Straight to the gallows, with the commander of the Stormriders,’ Ventris answered.

  ‘No—please, spare him—hand him over to Lunosdatter; I am told he may be instrumental in the king’s designs. Captain Thorir, you’ll see to it?’

  The man in blue bowed. ‘I will, your highness.’

  Garald motioned to Myriel. ‘You must be Mathildé.’

  ‘Your highness.’ Myriel beamed and curtseyed. ‘No doubt your father has received word from Eparch Tiama of my arrival, yes?’

  ‘I’m afraid not—but please, do not be alarmed: There is always space here for practitioners of the Fayth, and family, too… once Culaire’s Peerage, Baronetage & Knighthood confirms your claims. In the meantime, we ask that you remain in your quarters—a servant will be posted to take care of any requests.’

  ‘Of course, your highness.’ Keep us under guard, you mean. Still, easier than I anticipated… What have we stumbled onto?