The Dawnhounds

by Sascha Stronach

  A cane clicked against the wood behind them.

  “Yep,” said Sen, “that’s light.”

  He sat down beside them, and pointed at the sunrise. His uniform was a mess, and he smelled faintly of wine. He wasn’t wearing his badge.

  “Liiiiiiight,” he said.

  Kiada still didn’t trust him. One of her hands balled into a fist, instinctively. Yat reached across and gave her forearm a gentle squeeze, an I’m here. They’d made a rule not to push thoughts on each other, so the touch would have to do. She turned to Sen, then knocked out a mock salute with her free hand.

  “With respect, Sarge,” she said, “go fuck yourself, ya fuckin fuckwit.”

  “That’s go fuck yourself Mister Kanq-Sen,” he said. “Handed in my papers. I’m a civilian now.”

  Yat was technically still a cop: she’d received a letter of amnesty that made a lot of ceremony around how gracious it was being, which also offered her the old job back. She’d asked them whether they’d let her run a unit that rehabilitated street kids, that got them off the streets and into good homes, that stopped the other cops from doing them wrong. Not just a token seat, but a change in attitude, a change of heart. There’d been no answer in almost a month, so she’d gone to the station and asked in-person. Nobody came out to see her, so she’d gone home and put their letter in the bin. She wanted to believe they’d consider her offer but she knew deep down they hadn’t, and they would never. It wasn’t about the people, it was about the people, in general when it was convenient and in specific when it actually hit the road; the wretched weren’t people, the different weren’t people, the poor weren’t people. It was so often about protecting those who needed the least protection. Her uniform was in the closet, back in her house—a house now several stories higher than it had been when she got it, now jutting out over Janhekai Street. It was larger too: an improbably huge bed, the glow of an electric lamp, stuck On, coming somewhere deep inside the wall. It made her feel very small, and she and Kiada had spent several nights doing their best to fill it. Despite that, she didn’t fit there: it was just a place they slept sometimes.

  She took her flask out of her pocket and turned it over.

  “You ever wonder whether you’re holding onto the wrong things?” she said. “Struggling to keep memories alive, while people close are hurting? Trying to help people but never asking what sort of help they need? I feel like I’ve been laying a story down on top of the world, then getting angry when it doesn’t fit; I never stopped to ask why it didn’t fit, because asking wasn’t part of the story. I never saw the woman standing next to me, because I didn’t expect her to be there. I became a cop because I wanted to be a hero and help people, and now I don’t know who I want to be, except I want to be with you.”

  The engravings were beautiful. The woman who owned it had been a hero; the woman who owned it had died twice. She barely even knew that woman any more. She took a deep swig of cold tea. It tasted like the flask: steel, tobacco, kiro. She spat it out into the water. Some of it ran down her front. She stood up, cocked her arm back, then threw the flask as hard as she could. It splashed into the water, and sank like a stone.

  Kiada stood up, put an arm around her waist, cocked her head so it lay against Yat’s shoulder. She was humming the aria: the third part, timid-yet-brave, filled with quiet strength. She hummed the whole thing, then kissed Yat on the cheek.

  “I wonder that all the time,” she said. “Now finding the right things to hold onto, that’s the bastard.”

  They sat there on the dock, making a powerful lack-of-eye-contact.

  “You’re looking at me, aren’t you?” said Yat.

  “Yeah dummy,” said Kiada.

  “Right.”

  Sen cleared his throat. Yat had forgotten he was standing there at all.

  “You gonna join us, Miss,” he said, “or are you happy with the whole lurking situation?”

  Ajat stepped out of the darkness. She looked different, like she’d looked when Yat first met her: no bags under her eyes, no shadow gracing her jaw. She was finely-dressed in rich silks, with biowork running up and down the arms: some alchemist-tailor was probably eyeing up a second house. The city had paid a lot to make sure everybody kept things quiet. Rikaza stood with her, dressed in practical leathers, though they’d replaced their old iron bullring with a silver-and-sapphire arrangement that made them look like the monarch of some long-forgotten empire.

  “We’re going north,” said Ajat. “Sibbi says there’s something in Dawgar that needs looking into. She also says that if you steal her bosun, she’ll hunt you down across every ocean and then make up a few more just to hunt you down across.”

  “She use those exact words?” said Yat.

  “She was rather more emphatic. It doesn’t translate well. I’d take her on her word: the last country that fucked with her doesn’t exist any more.”

  Yat grimaced. She’d felt at home on the Kopek, but she didn’t know whether she was back in Sibbi’s good graces. And Hainak was home: she’d fought for it. She’d made it better. She couldn’t just turn and run. She had family here, but she also had family on the Kopek. The realisation crept up on her while she rolled it over in her head: she didn’t have to choose one home: home was where-ever family was. Home could be with Mr Ot and his little daughter Bykra, home could be on the docks with Kiada, home could be a bar with a white door, home could be the Sea of Teeth or Ladowain or Suta or the thrice-cursed North if that’s where her family went.

  “I’m no sailor,” she said. It didn’t even begin to cover it, but she didn’t know what to say.

  “Bullshit,” said Kiada. “You’re a born sailor. You’re quick, you’re light, and you even come with your own cat.”

  She held up Fea. Most of his belly fur was missing, though it was growing back in patches and clumps. His legs swung back and forth. “Mrrow,” he said, looking as disdainful as a cat could.

  “I’m just—” said Yat. She thought back to that awful night, when she’d felt the shadow of Crane’s wings fall over her; when she’d looked into Źao’s head and seen a vision of a tree, going up and up into heaven. It wasn’t a metaphor: he’d seen something. She tried to think back, but it was all fragments: freezing cold, a monotone voice on repeat in a language she didn’t understand, roots drinking deep and—

  —the smell of fresh snow. Not her own memory: something she’d stolen along the way, but something painfully, intimately familiar.

  “North,” she said. “You said north?”

  She looked back at Hainak, then to Ajat and Rikaza, then to Kiada and Fea. She’d keep Kiada here and face Sibbi’s wrath if she had to, but she knew—on some level beyond sense—that this business wasn’t done. Whatever this was, it would be back. Her family in Hainak wouldn’t move and if they did, home would be where-ever they went.

  “North,” said Ajat. “Then? Who knows. I think we’ve seen enough of this town for the foreseeable future.”

  A squeak cut through the night: a sound like two pieces of soap being rubbed together. Yat turned to see Iacci walking towards them, rubbing a small dark block against the hair of his viol bow. He grinned as he saw them. He was wearing the same clothes as he always wore, and carrying the same viol, but tied to his back was a large hessian sack with the word ROSIN printed in blue across it. After rubbing on another layer, he held up his bow for inspection.

  “I have caught the mousy,” he said. “It is no more.”

  He put the rosin cake back in his sack, then placed his hand on his heart and nodded. Yat didn’t know what it meant, but he seemed satisfied with it, and pointed at Fea with his bow.

  “I have heard Mrs Sibbi’s protestations on the matter,” he said, “but I place my vote in the ‘yes’ for Miss Yat. She has a cat, and this is good on a ship.”

  “Well that settles it,” said Rikaza. “Can’t argue with the votes. You’r
e family now, Jyn Hok-Yat. Report to the Kopek by 0:700.”

  Yat sighed, and smiled at Kiada. She could do this.

  “Sure,” she said. “Not like I was doing much else.”

  Ajat turned to Sen. “You coming, old man?” she said.

  “Didn’t think you’d want a cop aboard,” said Sen. Ajat grinned at him.

  “Nah,” she said. “You’re good luck: pigs float, and I reckon I’ll make a friend of you yet. If you’re really lucky, maybe I’ll even give you a tattoo.”

  He sighed. “Sure,” he said, in a piping imitation of Yat’s voice “not like I was doing much else.”

  Yat flicked him a rude hand sign, and he grinned at her. For a moment, she felt cold, and knew she stood in the shadow of a great pair of wings. Crane’s words came to her unbidden: you will die by my hand or you will die by your own and either way you have no choice. She looked to the moon, then to her friends. She could feel the winter chill in her bones, feel the weight of the sky pushing down. She stood on the dockside, staring out over the endless dark water, and took a breath that burned her throat and made her voice quaver.

  “Maybe,” she said, “but not today.”

  Small words, but the shadow fell back. Kiada stared at her, eyes wide with worry.

  “You coming?” she said. “Everything alright?”

  “Yeah,” said Yat. “Yeah, I’m coming. Everything’s alright.”

  They stood in a circle around her, attentive. Rikaza put a hand on her shoulder, and squeezed. Ajat did the same, and Iacci, and Kiada, and Sen. They embraced in silence. Few words had moved between them, but they knew in the way of such families, and knew what to do.

  “I’m alright,” said Yat, her voice muffled into a shoulder, made rough by pain. “I’m really, really alright.”

  She meant it. She thought she had forgotten how to cry but it came up now, all at once, and she did not stop it because she did not need to, and so the rain came. She smiled through her tears, and felt them change course, running through the lines in her face—rivers breaking, merging, weaving across her smile, carving across her cheeks, turning barren earth into fresh soil again. The rain came, and she let it, and they stayed close until it was done, and the danger had passed. It was enough, for now. Kiada kissed her on the cheek again, and she smiled. Then she kissed her again. They kissed as the group moved back one-by-one, chuckling or biting lips or pretending not to look.

  “Ah,” said Iacci. He drew his bow across the strings, and played a bar of their song. When he was done, he lowered his violin and nodded to himself. He was staring out to sea when he spoke next.

  “It ends with a kiss,” he said. “Very good.”

  The group turned, and stumbled towards the ship. Kiada and Yat stayed close, leaning on one another, taking turns to hold the cat, taking turns to hold each other. The moon fell through the sky as the night rolled on, and the family went together.

  [log dgb 43 00:00:00 – fatal system error]

  Źao awoke face-down between the tracks. He groaned, and rolled onto his back. A guttering electric light flickered on the roof above him. His arms were stiff at his sides: he’d been electrocuted more than once by coming back in the wrong position.

  Where was everybody? The station intercom gave a distorted ping, and a synthesised female voice filled the tunnel. Message repeats: the 26:15 to Crow Hearth is delayed until [Dunbraig/1.4/7600 00:00:00]. Please remain in the terminal: an attendant will see to your needs. Norlink is proud to provide a selection of [panic: runtime error: index out of range]. Her voice changed: harsh, male. Red lights flickered on. error 458 error 458: Obstruction on the tracks. Staff, please report to platform 6.

  Careful not to touch the rails, Źao stood. A Faceless stared at him. Well, stared was the wrong word: it stood at attention, with its smooth skin-plate facing in his direction. The red light inside its head dulled, and turned halogen-yellow, and the female voice returned.

  Passengers, we are clearing an obstruction on the tracks. Please stay in your seats. Complimentary [panic: runtime error: index out of range] will be brought out to you, but remember: patience is its own reward. Have a nice day, and thank you for choosing Norlink!

  He took a careful step over the rail, then hauled himself up onto the platform. A squad of faceless normally had him in the sauna by now. He gathered himself, then turned to the faceless.

  “News,” he said.

  Static burbled from inside the faceless’ expressionless domepiece.

  “Status report: Crow Hearth,” he said.

  the 26:15 to Crow Hearth is delayed until [Dunbraig/1.4/7600 00 00:00:00]. Please remain in the—

  He waved it away, and made his way through the terminal. It was a mess. The food inside the vending walls was long-since turned to slime. The few faceless left weren’t working properly: they were stuck in strange loops, walking into doors, babbling nonsense. He made his way to the viewing platform, where happy families would—once upon a time—wait to watch the trains. At first, he thought something was wrong with the window-panels: maybe a malfunction that set them to white. Then he realised it was moving: a blizzard the likes of which he’d never seen. He stood for almost an hour, watching the snow fall. A faceless kept trying to bring him an empty jug, stained red with old wine. He ignored it, and stared.

  For a moment, just one perfect moment, there was a gap in the snow and Źao saw:

  —the great dam at Crow Hearth, towering into the night, a great dark edifice, its lights extinguished—

  —an iron hulk on the tracks, with the ruins of a train curled around it: something like a great spider the size of a city, crowned with a dozen chimneys, still letting out a gentle plume of dark smoke staining the sky black—

  —beyond the dam, emerging from the heart of the city itself, reaching to heaven, weaving back and forth in the polar wind—

  Despite his headache, despite the empty station, despite everything he’d been through, Źao smiled.

  There was work to be done.

  Acknowledgements

  This wouldn’t have been possible without, shit, so many people. For my family for keeping me around, for my friends for being there, for the writing group where the first draft originated (shoutout #WAD and #TD), to the writers’ Discord who put up with my endless neuroticism in the final stages of this thing.

  To Dave Agnew, who insisted on being my assistant and publicist, then absolutely crushed it. I think he's my agent now; like all the best relationships, we just sorta fell into it.

  To my beta readers, who helped fill in so many of the gaps. You were clever, and honest, and incisive, and I couldn't have done this without you.

  To Jay, who was instrumental in making this happen, but can’t be here to see it. I miss you.

  To the Seksan crew: you kept the house where I found my voice, and I miss you all dearly.

  To Pepper, for the cover. It kicks ass.

  To the Wellington spec-fic community; who knew there were so many of us?

  To the mushrooms in my house in Kota Sidoarjo, who grew so aggressively one wet night that they punched a hole in my nightstand, and kicked this whole wild adventure off.

  If there's one thing I've learnt above all in the last few years, it's this: it takes a city and change.