by Alex London
“Thanks for the tip,” Brysen replied, puzzled that the attendant would care enough to warn them off. It was another reminder that in the Six Villages, you’d always be what you always were, and Brysen would always be Yzzat’s unfortunate son.
Until he changed things. Until he captured a ghost eagle. Then they’d tell different stories about him. Ymal the Cask-Breaker, Valyry the Gloveless, and Brysen.
As he and his sister stepped through the doors into the darkness, he thought how he’d need a good epithet. Something fitting for the legendary hero he was about to become. Brysen the Heartstrong. Brysen the Limitless. Brysen the Boy Who Didn’t Die in Goryn Tamir’s Office.
He’d have been happy with any of those for the moment, especially the last one.
10
The doors slammed shut, and Kylee and Brysen stood in a pitch-black chamber. Brysen felt Kylee’s hand brush against his, and, out of habit, he took it.
The room shuddered and began to sink. Gears clanked and cables strained. The chamber was a cage in the walls of the Broken Jess attached to a pulley system that could raise and lower it into the crypt below. The only way in or out of Goryn Tamir’s private office was by this moving cage, the only one like it outside of the Sky Castle. Everyone knew about it, but Brysen had never expected to ride in it. It was quieter than he’d imagined and smelled like oiled ropes.
As the chamber sank, they passed the turning gear wheel in a torch-lit wall niche. It was lit purely for the benefit of the passengers. The unfortunate souls operating the gear couldn’t see a thing by the firelight around them. They were hooded and hobbled.
There were five of them, a mix of men and women, all stripped down to tatters of cloth and all with heavy leather hoods over their heads—human-size replicas of falcon hoods. The hoods were bolted at the back so they couldn’t be removed. Only the prisoner’s lower jaws were visible, and they breathed, panting, through their mouths.
They were chained to each other by the ankles, again with heavy leather anklets and thick corded jesses, imitating a falconer’s equipment, but custom-made in human size. Someone made these hoods, Brysen thought. Someone in the Villages had done sketches and estimated a price to make them. Some artisan was complicit in the Tamirs’ cruelty. Then again, everyone who paid any piece of bronze their way was complicit. Including Brysen.
The prisoners’ arms were pinioned behind their backs, elbows out and hands tied at their waists, so the bent elbows resembled wings. In the bend of the elbows, the long wooden spindle of the gear shaft had been thrust and secured with a cross bar. They trudged sadly forward in a slow circle, turning the gear that lowered and raised the small chamber.
The turn of the shaft and the circling of the sorry souls was a pale imitation of a falcon’s circumscribed flight, and the alcove in which they circled had been painted—again, for the visitors’ benefit only—in a sky-blue color with puffy white clouds. This was Goryn’s sense of humor and his gift for cruelty, which in some men were exactly the same thing.
Brysen let go of his sister’s hand. She didn’t need to know his palms were sweaty.
The chamber sank below the circling slaves, its roof cutting off the sight of their heads, then necks, then chests, like the dark devouring them from above. Kylee breathed beside Brysen and their breaths fell into a quiet rhythm until the cage clanged to a stop, shuddered, and settled. After an interminable wait in the pitch black, the doors squealed open and the chamber flooded with light and noise and music.
Goryn’s office was neither the bleak dungeon his prisoners at the wheel suggested nor the stodgy counting house his official title—Master of Ledgers—implied.
It was an underground party. The walls were painted dark red, and large glass chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The colorful glass was shaped like curled ribbons of fabric, styled like a market tent. Piles of thick carpets were stacked around the floors, and Tamir’s attendants, friends, hangers-on, and business associates sat on top of them. Servants in white aprons came and went through indigo-blue doors at the far end, bearing silver trays of food and pungent water pipes.
There wasn’t a ledger book in sight.
“He works here?” Brysen marveled.
“He wouldn’t keep the family’s accounts where his sisters could look for them,” Kylee said. He had a stone fortress of a house on the bluffs overlooking the village, and it was surely there where he did his work. His aviary was up there, too, a wood-and-glass building with a forest growing inside. It was rumored he had over a hundred kinds of hawks and falcons. A few eagles, too.
Down here, there wasn’t so much as a peacock feather. Brysen noticed that none of the men and women at the tables had birds with them. There were no perches, no cages or boxes. It was a rare sight, especially at this time of year, and an unsettling one. Maybe just taking away something familiar was enough to cloud a person’s judgment.
Had Brysen’s judgment been clouded by the thought of Dymian being taken away?
It had, but he didn’t care. A hawk wasn’t rational. No guilt, no memory, and no reasoning. It just felt, instantly and purely, everything it could feel, and it acted just as fast. People put too much faith in thinking when the heart’s commands deserved at least as much respect as the mind’s.
Is that why my heart’s beating so loudly now?
At the far end of the room was a pile of carpets higher than any other, and it was on this that Goryn Tamir sat, alone, reclining against lush blue cushions along the wall. A squat candelabra burned bright in front of him, and light from oil lamps on the wall above flickered off the ribbons of glass to cast colorful patchwork patterns across his face. The colors danced, but Goryn sat still as a predator, heavy-lidded eyes half-closed. His carpet pile looked oddly lumpy, and it was only then that Brysen saw the legs sticking out from under it, tied in place to the floor. Goryn Tamir was suffocating someone beneath his seat.
Brysen wished he hadn’t let go of Kylee’s hand.
A servant led them to Goryn—one of his hands was missing a finger, Brysen noticed—and conversation hushed as they passed. Brysen’s eyes found, sticking out from underneath the piles of carpets, a hand here and a sandaled foot there. Every pile had one of Goryn’s enemies underneath it, or an unruly servant, or anyone who displeased him, suffocating. One wrong move, Brysen feared, and he and his sister would be lucky to end up tied to the gear wheel in the wall niche.
“Did I not just leave you cowering over that clip-winged hawk master?” Goryn asked when they stood in front of him. Brysen did his best to keep his eyes up and not glance at the barely squirming legs crushed beneath the heap of rugs. “Why would you bother me again before I’ve even had a bite of lunch? Did you know I get very moody when I’m hungry? My mother says I was always this way. Terrible biter. Once I couldn’t get a snack, and I bit the finger off one of my houseboys. Mother gave me quite a beating for that, but she laughed the entire time. You should have seen the boy’s face when I gave the finger to my little climber’s falcon. He never forgot my snack again, did he?”
Goryn winked at the nine-fingered servant behind them. “No, ser,” he said. Goryn waved him away.
Brysen bit down to squeeze more juice from the hunter’s leaf in his cheek. No going back now. “I want to keep Dymian’s promise to you,” he announced.
Now Goryn frowned. “No time for small talk, eh? Rude.” He gestured for Brysen to sit. Brysen looked again at the legs sticking out of the carpet pile. Goryn saw him look. “Sit down,” he repeated.
Brysen heard himself whimper, but he crossed his legs and sat, glad for the first time for his small size. Maybe he didn’t weigh enough to make a difference? Maybe the person below was already beyond suffering?
“My brother doesn’t know what he’s saying, Ser Goryn,” Kylee cut in. She had not yet sat; she hadn’t been invited to. “We’ll be paying off our debt when the market ends, and perhaps Dymian could have more time to pay off his, too, as a show of good faith?”
Goryn rested
his palms on his knees and stretched his fingers.
“It sounds to me,” he said, “like you don’t know what your brother is saying. Is it time you’re asking for, Brysen? You’ve come to plead for … what? Days? Weeks? A whole season? Are we to haggle for your man over a number of sunrises?”
“No.” Brysen glared at Kylee. “I’m not here for time. I’m here to say that I’ll do it. I’ll get you…” He looked over his shoulder, glanced around the room. Everyone was listening. Talk too loud of a bird like the one he was after could get your throat slit, either by a poacher or by some fanatic of the old faith who thought chasing the great winged killer was the worst kind of blasphemy. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’ll trap the ghost eagle for you.”
Brysen was amazed at how easily it came out. How could he have been so afraid of mere words for so long? They were just a collection of sounds, air pushed through the throat, over the tongue, past the teeth. What made some words scarier than others, some sounds too dangerous to be said?
Memory.
It wasn’t the words themselves that had power but the memories that stuck to words like ticks on deer, draining and infecting them. If you shut down your memory and ignored the knowing-self inside you, you could say anything.
“I will capture a ghost eagle,” Brysen repeated, just because he could. Then, feeling the buzz of confidence, or perhaps the hunter’s leaf, he picked up a copper mug from the tray in front of Goryn and spat into it.
Goryn ran his tongue over his teeth.
“You’ve seen your brother training?” he spoke at last. Brysen shot Kylee a sideways glance.
“Yeah, I’ve seen him training,” she said.
“And what sort of falconer is he?” Goryn asked. “Can he do this thing? I’d hate to leave my books unbalanced just to have another member of your family die on a mountain. You haven’t got that many left to spare.”
“He’s a good trapper,” Kylee said at last.
“Good enough for this?”
“Is anyone?” Kylee replied, which brought a smile to Goryn’s face.
“You’re a good talker, Kylee, but it’s very obvious that you’re avoiding my question. There are others on the mountain as we speak, looking for the very same bird. They are better trained, better funded.”
“They aren’t from here,” Brysen interjected. “Spoiled nobles and fools with guidebooks … I’m from these mountains. I have a trapper’s blood.”
“You also have the blood of an Altari, if I’m not mistaken?” Goryn cleared his throat. “I assume your mother would not approve of this expedition?”
“She doesn’t matter,” Brysen snapped. Goryn raised an eyebrow at him but returned his attention to Kylee, which made him want to throw his spit cup in the scuzzard’s face.
“I’m told that you have certain talents that might be of use,” Goryn said to Kylee. “Will you help your brother capture what I want?”
“I don’t need her help.” Brysen didn’t give his sister a chance to answer. He would be the one to save Dymian. He had to be the one. “She’s not a falconer.”
“That’s not what I hear.”
“Your spies should use their eyes instead of their ears,” Brysen told him. “They can’t believe every crazy thing they hear. They see me flying raptors every day. She plans to leave the business the moment our debts are paid.”
In his peripheral vision, he saw Kylee tense. She didn’t think he knew her plan, but they were twins. How could he not know?
“This true?” Goryn pursed his lips. “Retiring so young?”
Kylee shook her head. “I don’t have to. We can add Dymian’s debt to ours.” Her voice broke, but she pushed through it. “What’s another few seasons of business? We’ve made it this long.”
“Kylee, no,” Brysen said. For himself, he didn’t care if he stayed trapped in the Villages if it meant saving Dymian’s life, but he couldn’t bear to keep Kylee caged, too. He wouldn’t let her sacrifice her happiness that way—not because of him. “You stay and work our tent. I’m doing this alone.”
“Business is going to get worse in the times ahead,” Goryn said. “Haven’t you heard about the Kartami raids? Who knows if there will even be a market next season?”
“We’ll find a way,” she said. “We always have. Even if it means I have to start training with—” Goryn held up his powerful hand to silence her. He studied Brysen and Kylee with the distant focus of a cropped-up falcon, a bird that wasn’t at all hungry but was still curious about the prey in front of it.
“So you’re keen to go all on your own, young Brysen?”
“I am,” Brysen repeated. He looked straight at Kylee. “I have to.”
“Then you’ll go,” Goryn declared with a clap. “Maybe your sister will come to her senses and help you, but regardless, you will get me what I want. Do you understand that you are making this promise to me? You know who I am. You know how I treat those who break their promises. Fail me and you should hope the eagle has taken you, because death will be a lot quicker in its talons than in mine.” Then he rested his eyes on Kylee. “And your sister will inherit your debt to me. Doubled.”
A small noise escaped Kylee’s lips, and Brysen wanted to turn to her, to comfort her, to tell her it would be okay, he had a plan, he could do this, they’d all be okay, but in truth, he wasn’t so sure. He knew, however, that it was now too late. He could show no weakness and no doubt.
“I understand,” he said. Threats didn’t scare him. He’d lived through enough pain to know that real danger didn’t threaten; it simply struck, like a falcon’s dive.
Scuzz it, he thought. He’d been the scuttling prey for too long. It was time to be the talon that crushed the rabbit. He’d catch his prey and save Dymian, his sister, and himself, all in one fell swoop.
“Dymian stays here, though,” Goryn added. “If he tries to leave town, our deal is off.”
“I understand,” Brysen repeated. “He’s in no shape to help, anyway. You broke his leg.”
“Oops.” There was a giddy twinkle in Goryn’s eye. “So you’ll go alone, like the great trappers of old?”
Brysen nodded.
“Bry, no,” Kylee pleaded, her voice no louder than a breath.
“We’re done here.” Goryn waved a servant to show them out. Brysen stood carefully, trying to keep his weight even until he was off the rug pile. It was the least he could do for the poor soul beneath.
“You have until the last of the convoys leave the market,” Goryn explained. “Come a moment later and our deal’s off.” His eyes shot down to the copper cup Brysen had used as a spittoon. “And keep the mug. Hunter’s leaf is a disgusting habit.”
Brysen spat again. He wasn’t about to take health and etiquette lessons from Goryn Tamir.
“I just hope you know what to do with the eagle once you get it,” Brysen said. “It’d be a shame to see it disembowel you after I’ve gone through all this trouble.” He set the copper mug back down on the tray, letting his bright green spit slosh over the sides as he left it behind and strode back to the pulley chamber, treating Kylee like she was invisible.
He knew that if he looked at his sister, reality would come back to him. He knew that if he looked at her, he’d realize what he’d just agreed to do and how ill-prepared he was to do it. He’d be tempted to beg for her help, but he’d already sworn to himself never to do that.
Not from her.
Not again.
ALL THINGS TRUE
In the Sky Castle, Kyrg Bardu unwound the message from the pigeon’s ankle and gently placed the bird back into the pigeon loft. “Goryn Tamir has made a deal with some Six Villages kids”—she shut her eyes, reflected on the absurdity of her next statement—“to capture a ghost eagle.”
“Kids?” Her hawk master frowned. Beneath its ornate hood, the falcon on his fist looked like it was frowning, too.
“Apparently, one of these young eyasses showed a remarkable talent at the battle pits yesterday.” Kyrg Ba
rdu’s mouth twisted around the words battle pits. She found the whole practice vulgar. She was an avid pigeon racer, and given her position as proctor of the Council of Forty at the Sky Castle, she was able to maintain the finest flock of homers, racers, tumblers, and divers from one end of the plateau to the other. She kept falcons and eagles, too, of course, as she must, but merely for appearances. Raptors did not terribly interest her.
The pigeons, on the other hand, were a sign of her power. She could fly a flock, confident that any falconer who mistakenly took one of her little pigeons with their bird of prey would pay for it fivefold. Such was the royal prerogative, and its enforcement on behalf of the most common members of the avian family reminded everyone of their position relative to hers. Power, like a hawk, needed careful tending and frequent flight if it was to stay keen to its purpose.
She was content to let Lywen, her very well paid hawk master, manage the care and training of her raptors. He enjoyed the status it gave him; it didn’t hurt that he was her nephew.
“We have our own expeditions in the mountains, as you know,” Lywen said. “They are after gyrfalcons and various eagles, but they are always looking for signs of more precious sport.”
Kyrg Bardu snorted. She had no faith in the loyalty of trappers, who’d sell their catch to the highest bidder. For now that bidder was the Council of Forty, but as the Kartami grew they might have the metal to begin buying for themselves. They’d been more aggressive of late, raiding camps and convoys in the grasslands on the edge of the desert, moving toward the foothills. She had reports that they’d entered the trade of stolen raptors, using smugglers and sympathetic Altari in good standing to sell the most valuable birds they captured, in some cases ransoming them back to the very Uztari they’d stolen from. None would publicly admit that they’d paid a ransom to the Kartami, but many had.
Kyrg Bardu wanted to make paying a raptor’s ransom a crime, but she had no support among the lesser kyrgs. Perhaps as these hordes of kite warriors got closer to the foothills, support for her idea would grow. In government, fear was a much more effective tool than reason. Only when their own safety was threatened would the rest of the Forty do as she demanded. Until then, she would manage the threat with the tools she had.