“What business does a military Corrector have with a couple of scavvies?” Ersa said. “Haven’t you got some history to erase, or truths to hide, or whatever it is you Correctors do in the name of that butcher Mercurius Lux?”
The Corrector seemed amused. “You seem extremely knowledgeable for a skyless,” she said.
“Pah, you don't get this old without seeing a thing or two,” Ersa said, dropping the stick to her side.
The Corrector looked over the bags Kite had lashed to the deck of the sandboat. “You seem in an awful hurry to leave,” she said.
Ersa waved at the air. “Dusthaven's gotten a bit rowdy for my liking,” she said. “State your business or let us pass.”
The Corrector’s painted lips thinned into a smile. “I think you know what business brings me here,” the Corrector said. She was looking at Kite now. “I seek the wreck of the Monitor. More precisely what was salvaged from it.”
Without thinking Kite's hand went to the bag. The Corrector's eyes followed. At the same moment the Ersa slipped the scissors from her cloak and held them dagger-like behind her back. Kite’s inside twisted horribly. He wanted to throw up.
“A wreck you say?” Ersa said, doing her best to sound deliberately deaf. “Lots of wrecks in the Thirsty Sea. Can’t recall any of their names though…”
As Ersa was speaking Kite heard another, smaller voice.
“Fe umphelli menth, fe umphelli menth.”
Barely audible over the thumps and cracks from Ruster's Roost Ember’s stream of confusing words, repeated over and over, muffled by the canvas bag. Kite smothered the bag as best he could. If the Weatherens heard it that would be the end of them all.
Then the wind changed. The tall man's cloak swept away, revealing a folded arrow of shiny black material at his side, as long as Kite was tall, with a bright silver needle-tip pointed down at the dust.
An umbrella.
“Fe umphelli menth, fe umphelli menth.”
Kite's blood ran cold.
The Umbrella Man. The Umbrella Man.
Ember had been trying to warn them. He glanced sideways. The giant Weatheren’s expression hadn’t changed. His face, like his body, remained unmoving and he stared into the gloom from behind his spectacles. Was this the same Umbrella Man that had hunted Ember all those years before she became trapped beneath the Thirsty Sea? How was it possible?
“You should be asking those vultures in Ruster's Roost,” Ersa was saying, her ringed fingers whitening on the scissors.
Kite willed Ersa not to do anything reckless.
“I will, in time,” the Corrector replied.
“You do that,” Ersa said, easing up on the scissors. “Now, if it's all the same to you, we’ll be on our way.”
“Very well, I have taken enough of your time already,” said the Corrector, without smiling.
The tension in the air seemed to relax a little. Relief washed over Kite. Maybe it was their turn for a bit of luck after all. Not that finding another safe place in the Old Coast would be easy with the Foundation crawling all over the place. At least they would escape Dusthaven with their secrets.
“However, before I go, I have one last question,” the Corrector said, taking her gloved hand from her pocket. “Are you certain you have never been to the wreck of the Monitor?”
Ersa tapped her leg with her stick. “With this hip?” she chuckled.
In an instant the Corrector snatched the necklace from Ersa’s throat. Brass buttons flashed and tumbled from the broken thread, tapping lightly on the compacted dust at her feet. Buttons from the uniforms of dead Weatheren soldiers.
“Are you certain of that?” the Corrector hissed.
Many things happened at once. Ersa stabbed the scissors at the Corrector’s throat. In a blink the Umbrella Man had reached his mistress and with one great arm he chopped at Ersa's neck. There was a sickening snap and Ersa let out a startled whimper. All of it had happened in a heartbeat.
Kite hadn’t breathed. There'd been no time even to think. Now Ersa was a heap of rags at the Umbrella Man’s feet, her stick and scissors lying beside her.
“You clumsy oaf, Beaufort,” the Corrector said, slapping the Umbrella Man's arm aside. She crouched and reached under the Waste Witch's hood, pressing for a pulse. She tut-tutted angrily. “Skyless are no use to me dead.”
A numbness enveloped Kite, drawing a seeping sweat from his skin. The shine had already gone from Ersa's eyes, leaving an empty, bewildered look. The same look the Weatheren scientist had worn when he breathed his last breath.
The Corrector leaned over Ersa’s body and hooked a long finger under her bandana and saw, with silent realisation, what had been hidden beneath. Then she looked up at Kite, a word forming on her lips.
Greys.
Kite jolted. Instinct flooded his senses like a drug. If he didn’t run he’d die. So he tore himself from the sand and stumbling, flailing he flung himself headlong into the containers…
16
The Umbrella Man
Hands clawing at the rungs, desperate to get to high ground, Kite scrambled up an unguarded ladder to the container tops. Lungs bursting for air he dragged his numb body up to the roof and staggered upright. Dusthaven was a battlefield. Shockfire flickered between the stacks, shaking the containers. Searchlights from the Occluder chased salvors into the containers, slashing nearer and nearer. Kite climbed higher still, knowing his pursuer was only seconds behind.
Heavy boots landed on the ladder below. Rattling, wheezing, laboured breaths rose over the wind. The Umbrella Man had found him. Kite hauled himself to the top of the stack, where he hoped the complicated climb would give him a momentary advantage. But the Umbrella Man simply copied his path, drawing closer and closer.
Kite clambered to top where planks, palettes and loading doors had been laid down to make makeshift bridges to the adjacent stacks. Some of the containers were packed so tightly in places that he could easily leap from one to another without breaking his stride.
The Umbrella Man came thundering after him, holding his high-hat on his head with one hand and the umbrella sabre-like in the other. Each bootstep slapping hard on the metal boxes. Each powerful stride closing the distance between him and Kite. Something about the Umbrella Man’s focus terrified Kite. The man had a relentless, hunter’s determination. As if nothing else in this world mattered but capturing his prey.
With no time to waste Kite vaulted across a short gap and landed hard on the metal roof. He dragged himself up to the next container where a wooden plank formed a narrow bridge to the next block, thirty feet away. He glanced back. The Umbrella Man wasn't far behind now, picking his way across the maze of containers. Kite knew he only had seconds. If he could get across the plank he could dislodge it and trap the Umbrella Man behind him.
Kite began to cross. The dry wood bowed and creaked under his weight. Beneath his boots swirled a hundred foot of wind - a drop sure enough to break his neck should he lose his footing. Kite thrust out his arms for balance and swayed, not daring to take his concentration off each dizzying step. Then, just as he reached the middle, something large and black hurtled by and landed with a crunch on the opposite side. Kite halted, barely able to believe his eyes.
Somehow the Umbrella Man had cleared the gap in one unnatural leap.
Kite shuffled backward, trying to escape the way he’d come. Stiffly the Umbrella Man bent his knees and grabbed the plank. He began to draw it in, pulling Kite toward him like a prize catch. Kite twisted, arms clawing at the air. Desperately he tried to keep his balance but he lurched one way then the other and with a cry he tumbled sideways.
Down, down Kite fell. Graffiti walls and rusted steel whooshed by. Then a sudden, sickening jolt halted him. Light exploded in Kite’s head, leaving blobs of red and grey oozed across his vision. His breathless body had gone numb, his side pulsing with pain. He was flat on his back on a container top, the iron taste of blood greasy on his tongue. Soon his focus sharpened. He could see the
stack of green and orange containers towering around him…
…And the Umbrella Man dropping out of the sky.
The Weatheren cratered the container roof on impact and straightened from his hips, stiff as an unoiled hinge. Kite clawed for the edge of the container, fearing a blow that would snap his neck in two. Instead a hand grasped his hood, yanking him upright and twisting him around. Kite found himself staring into the cold, unmoving face beneath the brim of the high-hat.
“Let me go!” he yelled.
The Umbrella Man said nothing.
Kite drew up his knee and mashed his boot into the Umbrella Man's face, twisting the heel as hard as he could. But the Umbrella Man barely reacted to the blow, nor did his skin bruise or bleed. Instead flakes of flesh crumbled away like peeling paint revealing beneath a dull metal skull gleamed. Kite gasped. A machine. An automechanical.
“Whemf clowfy if fug weffer...”
Ember’s rhyme snagged the Umbrella Man’s attention. He grabbed Kite’s bag, twisting the strap until the contents tumbled free. The mechanikin landed with a clatter on its back, one eye a fierce blood-red bubble. The rhyme burst from its mouth, over and over.
“...and thunder shakes the sky. The children of the sun will ask the question why.”
In an instant Umbrella Man shuddered to a halt. His hand snapped open and with a tongue-pinching thump Kite landed on his backside. For a moment Kite didn't move, half-expecting the machine to rattle back to life and crush him dead. But the thing had frozen stiff, hand still open.
Not wanting to waste his opportunity Kite grabbed the mechanikin and his bag and swung off the container, dropping the short distance to the sand. He landed with a thump, jarring his bruises, and stifled a cry.
“When stormy is the weather and thunder shakes the sky...” Ember was still singing, a beacon to his enemies.
“Shut up!” Kite hissed.
But Ember didn't seem to want to stop, despite Kite’s plea. Endlessly recounting her rhyme she seemed stuck in some kind of trace. Kite stuffed her into his bag and ran. Dipping under awnings and jury-rigged power cables, taking random routes through the maze of containers, Kite only stopped when he was certain the Umbrella Man hadn't followed him. In the shadows he waited, catching his breath. He watched for movement. Sand swirled in the gaps between the containers. Shouts and cries echoed across the town, but no there was no sign of the automechanical. Relief swept over Kite but he was too wired to rest. Not with Dusthaven crawling with Weatheren soldiers. After a few minutes he crept to the corner of the next container and slid around it.
The Corrector grabbed him.
Before Kite could breathe the woman’s finger tips jabbed under his scarf. A cold kiss of steel tingled against his skin.
“I would so hate to have to reduce your numbers further,” the Corrector whispered, leaning so close her almond-sweet perfume prickled Kite’s nostrils. “How ironic a Grey should have it. Where is it? In the bag? Show me. Quickly now.”
Kite dared not provoke her. The woman had some kind of blade woven into the fingers of her glove. With shaking hands he opened the bag, trying to keep his neck perfectly still. The Corrector glanced inside.
“Is this a joke?” she said, pressing her nails into Kite’s flesh. “Tell me where it is!”
A rotten voice said, “now there's something you don't see every day - a Weatheren and a Grey.”
Kite moved only his eyes. There was Cob Savage and a desperate handful of Gutter's feral crew, sliding from the gap across the way. All of them looked bloody and sheened with sweat, fresh from the battle in Ruster’s Roost.
“Still got the bag I see,” Cob said.
Kite swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbing under the Corrector’s deadly nails. The Corrector tightened her grip, but now her eyes were on the bailiff. Cob didn't seem intimidated by the Weatheren. He came closer, the shiv glinting in his hand. Two salvors came with him. One with hook-chain, the other with a fat-headed sledgehammer. Both with a hunger for Weatheren blood.
“That's close enough, gentlemen,” the Corrector said.
Cob worked his mouth and spat at the Corrector’s boots. “We ain't gentlemen,” he said and nodded to the salvors.
Hook-chain swung first. Fat iron links clanking toward the Corrector's head. She dodged sideways. Kite lurched in the other direction, twisting free of her grip, seconds before the chain sparked against the steel between them. The Corrector was fast. Too fast for hook-chain. She slashed her fingers across his neck and pushed him away. Blood misted on the air. Hook-chain toppled head-first into the sand, gargling and kicking.
“And I'm no lady,” the Corrector said.
The salvors peeled back spitting curses and threats. Cob Savage didn't retreat. Flicking his shiv back and forth he started circling the Corrector. Kite didn't wait to see which of them would bleed first. He was already running.
17
An Unlikely Ally
Kite crouched in the shadows. Every track out of Dusthaven was patrolled by Weatheren soldiers. Lookouts had pitched on the top of the chalk cliffs and crawlers whizzed overhead, red-eye lenses scanning. Kite had hidden himself in a sour-smelling alley. Down behind the knockyards - the toxic workshops where the salvor's processed their metals – where the tang of the acid quenchers stung in his throat. But even here wasn't safe...
“Go ahead, Corrector.”
Kite kept perfectly still. Nearby two Weatheren soldiers emerged from the workshops, their shockguns buzzing.
“Roger that, on the way,” one of them said and passed on the instruction. The two soldiers moved on between the containers and soon vanished.
A few minutes passed before Kite dared to move again. Hands loose between his knees he rocked silently on his haunches. His fingers were hot and full of blood. Desperately he wanted to cry but tears never came. Maybe he was too exhausted. Maybe there was something wrong with him.
A clatter to his right, followed by a whispered curse.
Kite's swollen fingers closed around an iron bar, heavy and lengthy enough to crack a Weatheren skull.
A voice squeaked, “I swear this whole rotten town's got it in for me!”
Dice Clay staggered from the workshop, hugging his battered tan suitcase under one arm and trying to untangle his trousers from rusted barbed wire with the other.
Kite snarled. “You!”
Clay froze mid-stumble. “Oh it's...now wait a minute!”
“You told Cob Savage about the case!” Kite said, trying to keep his voice low.
“N-no I didn't!” Clay stammered.
Kite stepped closer, the iron bar raised.
“Yes, all right I did!” said Clay, cowering behind his suitcase. “I sold the case to Ebb Hoary. Next thing I know the bailiff hauled me in and started asking questions. He threatened to drown me in the ballast tank! He did this.”
Clay's right eye was swollen purple, his nose encrusted with flakes of dried blood. Cob had been unusually merciful.
“You're...you're not going to hit me with that are you?” Clay asked, in a small trembling voice.
With a sigh Kite set the bar down. “No, I'm not going to hit you,” he said, even though he sorely wanted to hit someone.
Another crawler chattered over the workshops. Kite shuffled out of its range. Clay crab-walked over and crouched beside him.
“The case and the Clockwork Jinny,” Clay said, glancing at Kite's bag. “They came from that crashed airmachine didn't they?”
Kite gave him a suspicious look. “What if they -”
The growl of turbines cut him off. Kite recognised the familiar pitch. It was the Tailwind, readying to depart.
“The air ferry! Blast it! If only I still my money!” Clay said, giving Kite a thoughtful look. “Say, do you still have those twenty-three royals I gave you?”
“Why?” Kite said.
“Look, you seem an honest fellow. I really need to get back to Port Howling,” Clay said in a wheedling voice. “How about a short term loan?
Ten royals should do it.”
Kite knew there was no way out of Dusthaven. At least not on his own. The Corrector would be looking for a desperate Askian boy, afraid and untrusting. Maybe he could use that to his advantage…
“I've got a better idea, Mr.Clay,” Kite said. “You get me passed the Weatherens and on to the Tailwind and I'll pay your fare for you.”
Clay squinted at him from under the brim of his dust-speckled high-hat. “I seem to recall someone telling me not so long ago that nothing was free in the Old Coast,” he said.
Kite stared back fearlessly. “You don't want to stay in Dusthaven any more than I do right?” he said, calling Clay's bluff. “This way we both get what we want. Do we have a deal or not?”
Clay scratched at his stubby chin. He extended his hand. “Very well, you have a deal, Mister - ?”
“Nay -” Kite stopped short. That old name could condemn him now. “Call me Knotwood.”
18
Dice Clay Saves The Day
Kite peered out from the side of Ebb Hoary's abandoned waste shop. In the Occluder's shadow half a dozen bodies lay motionless in the empty harbour. Salvors. Some blackened from shockgun strikes. He didn't see a single crimson coat amongst them.
“This'll never work,” he whispered.
“Trust me, Knotwood,” Clay said, brushing dust from his sleeves. “I've dealt with Weatherens before.”
Kite couldn't see any sign of the Corrector or the Umbrella Man but that hardly mattered. Weatheren scientists in yellow and black rubber were everywhere, crawling all over the Highwrecker with hand-held detectors that crackled excitedly at the presence of skymetal.
Dusthaven was doomed. Anyone could see that. The salvors had all been rounded up. Bloody-faced, Gutter was on his knees, swaying from side to side. His defiance had cost his brothers dear. Another time Kite might have found some pity for them.
The Immortal Storm (Sky Chaser Book 1) Page 7