The Immortal Storm (Sky Chaser Book 1)

by Wilkes, S. D.

  “Deal,” Kite said, shaking Clay's hand.

  As Kite left with Clay's money tucked in his pocket he spotted something scurrying away, down in the dry-dock, in the oil-soaked dust beneath the Highwrecker's keel. Something hard and quick, moving beetle-like in the shadows. But it was soon gone and with Cob Savage on the hunt, so was Kite...

  6

  The Voice

  With a hook of hard wire Kite unclogged the mechanikin's eye-socket and unplugged its ears and mouth, careful not do any more damage. A few beads of oil worked some movement into the dry limbs. After a good hour's work, the thing started to show some promise.

  What had Dice Clay called it? A Clockwork Jinny. Kite laughed at that. The Weatherens were always gave their things fancy names. Yet something about the mechanikin puzzled him. At first glance it had seemed crude, but on closer inspection Kite picked out the craftsmanship of the face - the sad, oval eye and the delicate curve of the lips. Ugly and broken yes, but strangely human. It was beautiful.

  Then Kite spotted something he hadn't noticed it the dark the night before - a palm-sized compartment set in the mechanikin's back. He leaned closer. A tiny brass latch no bigger than his fingernail held a cover in place. Using the wire he flicked at it.

  Twik. The little cover sprang outward. Inside Kite found cables and tiny cogwheels encrusted with grey lint. He blew into the cavity and squinted. A dust-dulled orb the size of a nailbird's egg nestled in a copper cage. He prodded it. The orb was warm and buzzed against his finger. Bright metal shone underneath. He rubbed again, bringing out a gleaming surface etched with fine swirls. First the Weatheren's map and now this. He couldn't believe his luck.

  “Silver,” he said in a breathless gasp, as if saying the word out loud might give the secret away.

  “Arcus?”

  Kite jerked away and the mechanikin fell from his grasp, landing with a heavy clunk on the mat. For a moment he was certain he’d broken it but the mechanikin’s one eye had begun to glow an electrical blue. Some part of it at least was still working. Then an electronic scratch of a voice came from the gap in its lips. A girl's voice. A child.

  “Arcus? Arcus is that you?”

  Not wanting to damage it further Kite gently picked up the mechanikin and waved a hand in front of its eye. There was no immediate reaction.

  “Hello-oo?” Kite called, feeling a little bit daft.

  A faint crackle drifted from the mechanikin’s mouth, as if been delayed by distance or bad weather.

  “Clara? Is that you?” said the mechanikin, sounding almost alarmed. “No, you can’t be Clara. Clara is dead.”

  “I’m Kite,” Kite replied, setting the mechanikin on the corner of the crate and arranging it’s arms in its lap.

  “Kite is not a name,” the mechanikin said and adopted a know-it-all tone. “A kite is a small airborne craft controlled with wires, often used by children for amusement.”

  “I know what a Kite is,” said Kite, somewhat defensively. “But that’s my name. Kite Nayward.”

  “Hmm,” said the mechanikin doubtfully. “Well if that is your name that is what I must call you. You sound like a boy, Kite Nayward. Are you a boy?”

  “No, I’m four…fifteen actually,” he said.

  Kite was amazed at how real the voice sounded. Something about the way the mechanikin said boy reminded him uncomfortably of Ersa’s tone but the clipped, bright accent was definitely Weatheren.

  “Are you a Weatheren, Kite Nayward?” the mechanikin said.

  “Me? A Weatheren? Not likely,” he said calmly, despite his natural outrage.

  “Then where am I?” asked the mechanikin.

  “You’re in the Old Coast,” Kite replied.

  The mechanikin began to hum, as if making careful calculations. “How far is Fairweather from our current position?” it asked.

  Staring into the mechanikin's big glass eye an alarming thought occurred to Kite. What if the mechanikin was broadcasting it back to the Foundation? Maybe it was trying to find its way home. The Weatherens had all kinds of clever technology after all. Now he was worried he'd already said too much.

  “Look, do you know any nursery rhymes?” he said.

  “I know only one,” the mechanikin said softly.

  Kite grinned, wondering if Dice Clay was still in Ruster's Roost. Surely the dealer would pay up when he heard the mechanikin talking. “Go on then, sing it,” he said.

  “I must not,” the mechanikin said.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “I said I must not!” crackled the voice.

  Kite chuckled at the sharp tone. “Stroppy little thing aren’t you?” he said.

  “I am not a thing!” it snapped back. “I am…she was…”

  The mechanikin fell silent. The eye light dimmed. After a few moments Kite lifted it gingerly from the crate. “Hello?” he said, leaning in close. “Can you hear me?”

  Inside its tiny torso Kite could hear a soft hum. He licked his lips hungrily. That silver orb had to be some kind of computer. What’s more it was working. More or less. That had to make the mechanikin more valuable than the sum of its scrap metal.

  In a rush of excitement Kite buried the mechanikin in his bag and left the bothy, carefully padlocking the loading doors after him.

  Another sandstorm had blown into Dusthaven, darkening the afternoon to near twilight. When Kite emerged from the shelter of the containers the first thing he did was check if Ersa was still in the market. The Waste Witch’s plot was vacant. She was probably off haggling for flour or rice with the agricultists. Happy he wouldn't be seen Kite made his way to Ruster's Roost, huddled against the burning wind.

  The trading berths had emptied, with only beggars and bailiffs remaining. Kite couldn’t find Dice Clay anywhere. He cursed his luck. Clay had probably taken his advice after all and headed up the coast to Gullspit instead.

  After a few more minutes Kite decided to head back to the bothy when across the market place he spied Ebb Hoary, hurriedly shutting up his waste shop.

  “Whatever it is I ain't interested, Nayward,” said Ebb Hoary as Kite approached. The waste trader was folding away his awning canvas, cursing and battling the furious wind.

  “Just wondering if you'd seen that antiques dealer from Port Howling?” Kite said. “The only who came in on the Tailwind.”

  Ebb Hoary turned, his dust-blackened face pinched into a frown. “Dice Clay you mean?” he said, his voice hard but hushed. “You spoke to him? When? What did he say?”

  Kite was surprised by Ebb Hoary's tone. “Why you ask?” he said.

  The waste trader glanced sharply across to the berths. Kite followed his gaze. Gutter Savage had sold a good half of his Weatheren salvage and the cigar-smoking salvagemaster and his crew were busy beneath the Highwrecker's muddy lantern lights sawing up what remained.

  “I don't deal with Clay's sort, Nayward,” Ebb Hoary said, slamming the doors closed. He cracked a padlock in place and gathered up his sacks. “If you've got any sense, you'll do the same.”

  Kite watched Ebb Hoary scurry away into the shadows, wondering what that was all about. The waste trader wasn’t usually fussy about who he did business with. Not that Clay was Kite’s concern now. The Tailwind would return in two days. Others dealers would come. And any one of them would trade blood for silver.

  “Fyth Nafwth.”

  Kite halted. The voice was tiny, barely heard over the wind’s scratching hiss.

  “Fyth Nafwth.”

  The mechanikin was calling out again. Just as it had done in the bothy. Only this time it was calling his name.

  7

  Ember

  A relentless wind scratched at the corners of the dark bothy. Waves of sand and grit hissed against its metal walls, rattling the doors on its hinges. The stove fire had long-since burned out. Each breath was smoky and cold against Kite’s raw throat. Tomorrow was a scavenge day. He should have been sleeping. But he couldn't sleep. Not while the mechanikin continued to call his name.


  Wrapped in canvas, buried deep under his bedding, it spoke every few minutes, regular as the Undercloud’s thunder. Then it would stop. That was the strangest thing. During those silences Kite found himself waiting for the shape of his name in the darkness. And the more he listened, the more he wanted to talk to it again. To ask it the questions that begun to chip away at his thoughts. Eventually, against his better judgement, he gave in to that urge.

  “Kite Nayward. Kite Nay - ”

  “Keep your voice down,” Kite whispered, smothering the little mouth with his hand. He remained still for a moment, straining to hear if the mechanikin’s voice had woken Ersa. Luckily she was noisily asleep behind her own curtain, oblivious to the riot outside. The Waste Witch could sleep through anything.

  Kite relaxed a little. “You’ve got to stop calling my name,” he said to the mechanikin.

  “Then what should I call you?” the mechanikin replied, thankfully in a whisper. “Shall I call you Boy?”

  Kite gave the glassy blue eye a foul look. “Don’t you dare,” he said. “Look why did you want to know where Fairweather is?”

  “Arcus said it is important to know where our enemies are,” the mechanikin replied.

  “The Foundation is your enemy too?” he said.

  “Yes, Kite Nayward,” whispered the mechanikin. “Arcus said the Foundation must never find me.”

  Kite shuddered with surprise as wind rushed at the container doors, rattling the rusted hinges. Adrenaline spiked his senses. The voice's secretive tone had clearly set him on edge.

  “Who’s Arcus?” he asked.

  The mechanikin’s eye brightened, lifting shapes from the shadows around the canvas bedding. “Arcus gave me life,” it said. “Arcus gave me my name.”

  Kite pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. There was a tenderness in the way the mechanikin spoke the name. That only made him more apprehensive. “What’s your name?” he said.

  Eerily aglow in its own light the mechanikin’s battered features seemed softer, more human than ever. And when it spoke the voice was small and sad. “She was…I was... I am…my name is…Ember.”

  Kite let the name repeat in his mind. Ember. An odd name for a child’s toy. Yet somehow fitting for an object so brittle and fading.

  “This Arcus he’s a toymaker?” he said.

  “No, Kite Nayward,” the voice replied. “Arcus is the Starmaker.”

  The Starmaker? Kite didn’t know what to make of all this. None of the things the mechanikin was saying made any sense to him. One thing was obvious - the mechanikin was more than just an old toy. The Weatheren had rescued it from the Monitor for that same reason.

  “Where did you come from?” he asked.

  “Can I trust you, Kite Nayward?” Ember said.

  “Y-you can trust me,” Kite said, uncertainly.

  The mechanikin purred softly in his hands. “I am from Skyzarke.”

  “What’s a Sky’s Ark?” he asked.

  “You do not know of if? Skyzarke is a great city. I must return there,” said Ember. “Arcus said I must find the Cloud Room.”

  “Well, there’s plenty of clouds round here. Nothing but, ” Kite said sourly. “Never heard of a city though, except Fairweather. Is it in the Old Coast?”

  “The Cloud Room is where it is hot as ice and dry as fire, Kite Nayward,” said Ember. “That is what Arcus told me.”

  Kite chuckled as he tried to imagine such a place. “Bit of a joker this Arcus isn’t he?” he said. “Think he made that one up.”

  “Arcus would not lie to me, Kite Nayward,” Ember said abruptly. Clearly questioning this Starmaker was taboo. “Arcus is good and kind. Arcus said one day I will get a real body. Then I would be able to walk and dance and feel the sun on my face. Just as I once did.”

  For a moment Ember's words hung in the night air. Words heavy with sadness and bright with the promise of hope. The skin under Kite's collar tightened, making him shiver involuntarily. These weren't the words of a machine. They were the words of a child.

  8

  Mariner’s End

  The Undercloud was black as dried blood when Kite set out from Dusthaven. Guided by the rattling bones markers he tacked the sandboat onto the Bone Roads. Electrical flickers scurried across the dunes, playing tricks with his sleep-sore eyes. Each breath of greasy, warm air burned his nostrils. Mornings in the Thirsty Sea were always the worst.

  Stirred up by the storm winds chemicals clung to the air as oil floated on water. A drunken pilot from Iron Hill had once tried to convince him Foundation’s ascenders pumped toxins into the air. But then Ersa told him the foolish men of the old world had polluted the sea. Now those same poisons were being served up by the Undercloud in a deadly dust. Maybe he’d never know which story was real. But the ache in his lungs told him all the truth he needed to know.

  Further down the western track a dust cloud spiked Kite’s attention. All kinds of craft cluttered the westward path through the dunes. Windcutters with buzzing propellers and three-wheeled land-yachts. Even a shuddering, square-rigged duneclipper with container-high studded wheels. All of them chewing up the red dust into blur.

  Slowly the reason for all this activity dawned on him - the Monitor. News of the wreck must have spread with a fire’s fury. But as Kite uneasily passed by the crash site it was obvious that the Savage Salvage Company wasn’t going to risk their prize.

  Tom Skulls sneered from a ring of hastily erected flagpoles. Gutter’s crew held the dune-tops, armed with machetes and hooks. Skirmishes had already taken place with clutches of the bloody wounded regrouping on the roadside. The frenzy didn’t surprise Kite. You had to be mad to risk your neck against Gutter’s blades but these were desperate men and a bucket of oil-soaked sand could feed a scavvy family for a week.

  Ersa snorted at the scene. “Vultures,” she said. “Onward boy, there’s nothing for us here.”

  Only when they’d put three leagues between them and the crash site did Kite's nerves finally began to settle. His mind was still rattling with things Ember had told him and carrying such a dangerous item in his bag was making him jittery. Being found out by Ersa was one thing. Being found out by the Savages would cost him his life.

  By the time they arrived at the rubble heaps beneath Mariner’s End Kite was already exhausted. Stiffly he clambered down from the deck, wringing his blood-thick arms. The cliffs soared a hundred feet above; vertical slabs of dirty chalk glistening with seams of glassy blue flints. At the top, shrouded in the amber haze, the ruin of the old harbour wall jutted out, waiting for the ghosts of sea trawlers to one day return to port.

  A fresh fall had left a scatter of salt-white rocks to explore. Sieving the scree was crushing work. On all fours Kite picked out barbed fishing hooks and fat lead weights, brittle clam shells and nuggets of coral. Ersa sheltered on the sandboat’s deck barking out instructions when she spotted a silvery glint in the half-light. Kite hated it.

  As the morning wore on the temptation to secretly consult the Weatheren's map grew strong. How easy it would be to pick out one of those unexplored wrecks and suggest a course. They’d find more scavenge there than buried in this rubble that’s for sure. But Kite resisted the urge. Such new-found knowledge would only arouse Ersa’s suspicions.

  Then there was Ember.

  The Cloud Room? The Starmaker? All of it starting to sound like a made-up story. Then Kite had a thought. Maybe it was made-up. Maybe the crash had messed-up the mechanikin’s computer and now her confused little brain was jumbling up the nursery rhymes she was supposed to be singing. Surely that made more sense than a room made of clouds?

  Kite straightened his tormented spine and grunted as the pain softened to an ache. He sipped sparingly from his water can, letting the greasy, lukewarm liquid slide down his raw throat. Low over the dunes the smoke trail of a hungry salvage rig distracted him. A memory stirred. He’d heard a nursery rhyme the day the Monitor had been spat out from the Undercloud. A strange girl
ish voice singing about the sun…

  Ersa poked him. “Quit your daydreaming, boy,” she said and pointed the stick. “That bucket's not going to fill itself.”

  Reluctantly Kite resumed his work, turning over the rubble. All the while his thoughts were anchored to the mechanikin.

  “Does Fairweather have talking machines?” he said eventually.

  Ersa sucked from her own water can and wiped her dusty lips. “They’re all machines in Fairweather, boy,” she said. “Bred to obey. Ordered not to think. Mark my words.”

  “The real machines I mean,” Kite said, adding a lead weight into the bucket. “Can they talk and think like humans?”

  Ersa paused. The wind grew louder, flicking grit against Kite’s patchcoat. The lashed mainsail tugged against its ropes.

  “Why the sudden interest, boy?” Ersa said.

  Kite knew Ersa was staring into his mind, trying to read his thoughts. Kite tried to think of anything except the mechanikin. “Just something I overheard in Ruster’s Roost that’s all,” he said, with a shrug.

  Ersa coughed again. “You don’t want to believe everything you hear in that wretched place,” she said. “Place's full of halfwits and fools.”

  Kite nodded along but didn't dare look up from his work amongst the broken chalk and flint rocks.

  Maybe Ersa had her suspicions. Maybe she didn't. But Kite knew he couldn’t keep a secret this big for long, not with the Waste Witch on his back. Something had to be done. Puzzling as the voice was. Mysterious as her stories were, Kite told himself he had to be rid of the thing. There'd be no more stories. No more getting distracted from the task at hand. Tomorrow he’d sort it out.

  9

  Trust

  “The Starmaker made the constellations and planets come closer. The Moon with its seas and craters. Cronian with its hundreds of rings. At night when it was clear I'd go down to harbour and look out over the lake and the stars would sparkle on the water like millions of little diamonds. So many stars. I couldn't count them all. I was floating in the sky. Have you ever seen the stars, Kite Nayward?”