The wind buffeted my wings. I exerted my strength and held them steady, like struts. I respect the winds, because at a touch some gales could snap my bones and tear my muscle, so to be weather-wise I study the clouds.
Flying long distances is a very fulfilling challenge, because it has taken me all my life to learn the rules of the sky. It is always laid out like a chessboard halfway through a game, a confusion of risks and potentials. Flying puts the minutiae of life into perspective – I was concentrating so hard playing out the moves, I didn’t dwell on any of the daily worries.
I looked for the small, fluffy white clouds that sit on top of thermals. They had been forming all morning and were drifting with the wind to make an archipelago, each cloud a signpost in a corridor of updraughts that would carry me south.
I entered the first thermal and felt a jolt of lift. I turned and circled close to its centre, the tips of my wings spread wide to catch the rising air. The moorland spun under me as I rose smoothly, and all the time I was looking around, trying to predict the next source of lift. After a few minutes the warm air bubble faded and no longer bore me up, but I had already gained so much height I could glide out towards the next one.
This is the best way of flying. From birds I learnt the trick is not to flap all the time but glide as much as possible to save effort. It’s a game of wits for me, though. When I was on drugs, I took the overfamiliar countryside for granted; flying around in a daze, delivering letters or failing to. No longer – I was seeing it with new eyes, full of gladness that I’m clean at last. The excitement of the real world made me high – the sky was more vivid than a trip – how could I have forgotten the scenery’s intense beauty when in love with all the Shift worlds to which cat could take me? The Fourlands was so much better.
I pulled my little round sunglasses down from my forehead and looked out far in advance. The shape and colour of the ground influences the wind currents and spots where thermals form.
As I left Lowespass the lines of trenches fell behind, but pillboxes and platform towers dotted the border of Awia – places to seek refuge from Insects. I could tell I had crossed into northwest Awia when I went over the Rachis River, a thin silver thread shining like flax unspooling through flower-spotted water meadows.
I was flying over the upper Rachis valley, patchwork farmland thickly and evenly spangled with villages. This was the muster of Plow. All manors are divided into musters of roughly equal population, with the original purpose of marshalling fyrd. Each muster is administered by a reeve who is appointed by the manor lord. The reeve’s family change their surname to match the muster, a system created in the distant past, probably to make it easier for us immortals to remember them.
I caressed the air over Plow, the largest town in its muster, but still not much more than the reeve’s moated farm around which gathered stone granges with red-tiled roofs and courtyards. They belonged to the tenant farmers who work the land under the reeve, and the vavasours who sub-rent from the tenant farmers.
All the barns were empty of hay and the cattle turned out into the fields. Men and women looked up and pointed me out, pausing from their work bent double pulling up weeds from between shoots of wheat and barley. I waved and motion flourished all over the fields as hundreds of people simultaneously waved back.
No wonder Plow muster is called ‘the bread basket of Awia’. Rock dust ground by glaciers in the mountains blows down in the high air streams and settles across the area, where the rivers add loam and make the most fertile land in the Empire. Awia is fortunate that the country is so fruitful; it would otherwise soon be ruined since it bears the brunt of the Insect incursion while the rest of the Fourlands can prosper free of any fighting.
I passed over Toft town, built of ivy-clad marble tracery salvaged from old palaces. It was once famous for being the seat of the Fulvetta dynasty, and now famous for nothing but its ruins.
The land started to bump up into grassy slopes. The last thermal failed me and I had to ascend by flapping. I beat strongly, breathing deeply to quell the pain in my wings and stomach muscles. When I fly long distance I try to dissociate from the pain by counting off the landmarks and seeing how soon I can pass them. It’s just like running a marathon; it gets harder and harder until a certain point. If I can break past that point I feel I can go on for ever.
I crested Irksdale, the heather grouse moor, into Micawater manor. The land dropped steeply in limestone bands and escarpments, leaving me gliding high above fresh beech and old oak woods. This was no wild wood but Lightning’s carefully managed purlieu, a hunting ground popular for the revels of ladies and gentlemen. They come up from the Awian palaces and the summer homes of Hacilith businessmen further down the valley. Every time I fly over it brings home to me how rich Lightning is, with all these thousands of people paying rent to him. His manor alone was probably worth half the Plainslands. Long accustomed to immortality, he plans far ahead and his people profit from his vast experience. He looks after them well; in fact, nobody lives as a cottar in Micawater.
Lightning would be even richer now his investment in Trisian trade is starting to pay off. But I’m not envious. What would I do with all that cash, hey? I have twenty primary feathers and the blue dome of the sky!
A herd of fallow deer caught sight of me and panicked. They were so far below, they looked to be the size of hares; they bounded beneath the trees, white tails flashing. I could only see them occasionally, grey-brown backs and the stags’ antlers in velvet, but I drove them along in front with glee. They reached the edge of the woods and waded out into the shallow Foin River, where I left them standing in the fast current. The Foin is fordable along its length, giving rise to the proverb, ‘When there are two bridges over the Foin’; that is, never.
I looked directly down and found myself staring into the ground – a rocky chasm. I was over the fuming torrent of the Gilt River in a breath and above the trees again. The Gilt cascades down from Darkling where it rises in the mountains’ black granite and schist, from which it abrades tiny translucent flakes. They sparkle in the water all the way downstream and embed themselves in the plashers of waterwheels from Kettleholes to Micawater town that glitter as they turn.
The shadows were lengthening and already the evening was drawing in. It was better to cut my journey short today and enjoy Lightning’s hospitality, than to press on, gain a few more kilometres but have to spend the night in a grim Fescue coaching inn. I leant my weight and swung left, to follow the river down to the next village, Chalybeate. A long skein of geese straggled into view, a few hundred metres below me. Their honking and whirring wings awoke my ingrained hunting lust. I let them pass under me, then swung into a standing position, folded my wings and fell, feet first. I hit the last bird in the line with the soles of my boots and knocked it stone dead. It dropped out of the air and crashed through the branches.
I landed, picked it up then ran to find the path, kicking up clouds of spores from puffball fungi. The stalks of bluebells on the bank were invisible; their flowers hung in the air like fine eye-shadow dust. Silky beech leaves were unfolding like fans from the buds, ferns uncurled like green question marks, up from the ground covering of dog’s mercury and herb robyn.
I knocked on the door of Chalybeate Chase, one of Lightning’s picturesque and immaculate hunting lodges. I have a delightful privilege as Messenger: I can ask for lodging anywhere. It always amuses me to see great lords scrambling to give their best suites to a junkie ex-street kid. The caretaker’s surprised face appeared in the doorway.
I held up the goose and he broke into a grin.
Every centimetre of Chalybeate Chase’s inside walls was crammed with hunting trophies. The table, where I was sitting to eat my roast goose dinner, was a glass-fronted cabinet containing a display of stuffed wildfowl. Hundreds of deer heads surrounded me, mounted looking left and right to fit their antlers into every available space. Pink and orange paper chains draped all over them – the debris left by Lightning’s las
t party hadn’t been cleared up yet. He has a habit of announcing that it is his birthday at random intervals. Sometimes he has two or three in a year, sometimes none for a decade. The first time he asked me to deliver invitations I thought it really was his birthday until Rayne explained it was nothing but an excuse for a party and no one knows when his real birthday is. According to Lightning, immortals’ birthdays don’t count.
Next morning I headed out of Awia, flying south and watching the Plainslands expand. It was fantastic, so refreshing! If one day I crash and die flying, then it will all be worth it. Look at me, the Emperor’s Messenger! I hold all the rights of passage. My strength, my speed, the scars of Slake Cross Battle seemed to burn in my flesh. God, but it was good to be alive, in the chill exhilarating air!
I waved my arms from sheer exuberance but that didn’t seem to help dissipate it. All I need now is my old guitar, so I can coax ‘The Frozen Hound Hotel’ out of it while I ride.
I glanced up to another layer of fine, thin cloud thousands of metres above. I have tried, but it’s impossible to fly that high. I can’t breathe up there and I come down covered in ice. I usually travel long-distance at about one and a half thousand metres and never higher than five thousand, much lower than the valley where I once lived in Darkling.
In such fine conditions I can glide a hundred kilometres without flapping once, but I could no longer see much detail. Navigation was easy; all I had to do now was follow the Moren to Hacilith. The river was speckled with barges sailing upstream to the mining villages. Their sails were angled and they had white mounds on their decks, probably sacks of coal being shipped in from the collieries of Avernwater and Fusain muster in Wrought. As the terrain flattened, the Moren began to meander lazily back and forth. Fescue manor continued on its south side, all poor sandy heath interlaced with dirt-track drove roads. Little more than gorse grew in central Fescue.
By early afternoon I passed over the Castle itself. From this altitude the grey octagonal walls, corner towers and the Emperor’s palace fitted inside looked as if they could sit on the palm of my hand. I couldn’t distinguish the elaborate buildings but I saw sunlight reflecting with a flash on the gold sun finial topping the Throne Room spire. A spur from the river fed the gleaming double moat. On the smooth glacis lawn grass I recognized various outbuildings; the oval amphitheatre adjoining the square gymnasium and the stables’ courtyard. The archery fields and jousting lists looked like green tiles.
It was strange to think the Emperor was sitting on his throne directly beneath me, not knowing I was gliding thousands of metres above his head. I unpacked my sandwiches and let the paper fall. It tumbled away and dropped behind me amazingly quickly, suddenly giving me something to judge my speed against. I hoped the Emperor was standing on his balcony and it fluttered down onto his head.
The Castle’s curtain wall dwarfed Demesne village just west of it, past the series of mirror-like fishponds. The Castle’s servants live in Demesne village and it is the only land the Castle has ever owned. The land on which it and the Castle stands is independent of any manor but much smaller than any muster. Its fields can only sustain the village itself and not the Castle, which is dependent on the good will of the Empire; San’s deliberate wish, to symbolise that the Castle is the Empire’s servant.
Pinchbeck town crowded into a bend in the river. Open, blunt-prowed barges no bigger than apple pips nosed onto its jetties. Timber-framed cranes were swinging sacks onto their decks. Here was the first sign of the city – Hacilith sucks in a vast amount of produce – the whole Plainslands and the rest of Morenzia can’t match the quantities its markets buy and sell. My excitement began to grow – even out here in Shivel you can feel the pull of Hacilith.
Heavier barges sat low in the water, carrying millstones and masonry from the Heshcam quarries. Felled logs butted among them, floating in huge rope corrals, to be drifted downstream to the hungry capital.
Pinchbeck diminished and I flashed by plain farmland; all beehives, tariff barns, cow sheds, pigsties, duck ponds, threshing sheds, oil-presses. Before me, Shivel, the second-largest Plainslands town, spread out from the river, flat over the land like lichen.
Shivel manor house was just outside the town on the main road. I contemplated how unlike most Awian manor houses that was. They’re usually at a distance from town in their own parkland, but the Plain-slands governors live near their citizens. That may encourage their people, but I’m dubious, because for all their physical proximity the Plainslands aristocracies are even more distant from their tenants than are those of Awia – and the corrupt oligarchy of Hacilith, living in the same streets as their citizens, may as well be in a different world.
Further on, I passed over a scatter of reed-thatched, run-down hovels, the dwellings of cottars who scrape their existence by hiring themselves to the tenant farmers at sowing and harvest, at little more than subsistence levels. In the months between, they labour at any odd job available – women were pegging linen on lines to dry. All the men seemed to be busy building another hovel from clay cob. Kids ran about barefoot and chickens scratched around under their ladders; the cottars let their scrawny livestock live in their own houses.
I lifted my wings a touch from the horizontal to glide efficiently. They cut the air; it forced over their hard, smooth upper surfaces with a swish like sword blades. I was having to fly faster now, to get enough lift, and I had neck ache from keeping my head up and looking forwards.
A squad of archers were marching along the road, just dots with long shadows stretching before them – probably a patrol returning from the downs – all governors use them to keep the main roads clear of highwaymen. The horse jumps in the next field looked no bigger than matchsticks and dainty trotting palfreys were like models. I felt I could reach down and move them about.
The land began to look crumpled, like a sheet that had been shaken and left rucked and folded. I was rising up over the tail of the Awndyn Downs. I went over Coutille town in its muster, all uncobbled roads and self-consciously traditional half-timbered homes. The walls of the oldest buckled outwards so they looked as if they were about to collapse and concertina down in a pile of thick thatch.
More signs of the city dotted the south Awndyn Downs: the handsome private houses of Hacilith industrialists or lawyers; litigious and venal merchants, shipmen, and businessmen. They were not interested in owning land because it’s more respectable to be a merchant in Hacilith, but they were eager to display their wealth.
All along the horizon white figures cut into the chalk hills were turning pink in the twilight. They were miniscule in the distance but just distinguishable as the badges of the adjoining manors, the dolphin of Awndyn, Eske plough, Hacilith fist and Shivel star, cut and maintained by their fyrds.
Hacilith cast an upwards glow on low cloud base; the pale yellow of cannel coal fires in thousands of homes. I could smell the coal tar already. Closer, and the larger buildings loomed into familiarity; I could name every one. The field of vision narrowed, the roofs increased in size, and the suburban tatter of the Pityme district opened out beneath me. It extended in a ribbon along both canal banks and for a shorter distance up the Camber Road as if stuck to it.
I cruised at the rate of two beats a minute, my legs straight and pressed together in quick accipitrine flight, above the road as it ran across the single, flint-faced span of Pityme Bridge, the oldest on the canal, carrying the Camber Road into the city of Hacilith and the republic of Morenzia.
The Moren River was silted and sluggish, seemingly a solid bulk. It reflected dully, as if shellac varnished, the lights glimmering on its far bank – the Marenna Dock piers and waterfront way over in Brandoch manor.
The Moren is tidal as far as Hacilith and its banks are brackish. I saw a dismal grazier wandering on the marsh, looking after emaciated sheep. Then the huge iron lock gates at the end of the Hacilith– Awndyn canal hove into view and the marsh ended in a continuous stretch of wharves.
This immense canal was F
rost’s grand waterway; it took her fifty years to complete and it ensured the rise to prominence of the Wrought armouries. The canal made Awndyn’s fortune too, but it turned Diw harbour into a ghost town, as ships no longer needed to risk rounding Cape Brattice.
Below me, the rough Galt district docks sprawled along the whole east bank of the Moren, surrounded by refuse tips and the shacks of ‘mudlarks’ who scrape an existence by beachcombing the mudflats. The paddletrams had been decommissioned decades ago, and their waterwheels had been dismantled, but the decaying supports reared like spires out of the river.
Fat chimneys, squat chimneys of pottery and slate. All the mucky house backs with alleys hung with washing and piled with so much refuse it was turning into soil.
I made very sharp turns and fell steeply with my wings fanned out and my legs dangling. My descent and angle of vision became more acute: the shop fronts too sheer to see, just lines and lines of roofs running in the same direction. I seemed to be going faster the lower I dropped, because I could measure my speed against every ridge and gutter. Landing is the most hazardous time and I concentrated completely on finding a safe place. It was impossible. I couldn’t glide down any of the roads without hitting a shop front.
I turned and the exclusive Fiennafor district tilted into view ahead. The tall eighteenth-century town houses were regimented in quarter-circle curved terraces. Aver-Falconet’s bronze-clad palace front glowed dully in the street lights. Puddles glinted among the cobbles on its wide parade.
Here was the arc closest to the palace, all double sash windows, Neo-Tealean white fronts with plain columns flat against the walls. The gates in their iron railings gave onto the parade, around an immaculate oval lawn with a spreading plane tree. It was The Crescent, and Lightning’s house was number one.
The Modern World Page 7