The Immortal Storm (Sky Chaser Book 1)

by Wilkes, S. D.

  “Watch yourself here, Knotwood,” Clay said, hugging his case. “Port Howling isn't like Dusthaven.”

  Kite slung his bag over his head. “That suits me fine.”

  22

  Port Howling

  Port Howling's Tumble Market was an wild explosion of harsh colour and unfamiliar faces. Under a sky of multi-coloured awnings, billowing in the wind, all kinds haggled, cried, begged and beckoned.

  Kite wandered the stalls, keeping his bag close and his eyes low. He passed by black-tooth Ergs patching sails and selling their hempware, watery-skinned Brollyheads flogging oilskins and waterproofs, snout-masked Gassers with their wagons of vent-gas cylinders, Donderoons offering lucky thunderstone charms and dozens more beside. He'd never seen so many people in one place. But none of them were Askian. Not that he expected them to broadcast their presence.

  Kite let the flow of the crowd usher him from the Tumble Market and into Port Howling's jostling streets. Mono-wheeled wagons with painted cabs and straw-roofed rickshaws rattled by. One-man dirigibles puttered low over the crowds, their chequerboard envelopes buffeted by the wind. The scale of Kite's task dawned on him. How could he hope to find Askians in a treacherous maze like this?

  Looking for some familiar sights Kite spied a scavvy gang. He followed them and found himself in the trade of Spoils Row. The closed-in red-brick streets bustled with merchants and scrap sellers. But Kite felt far from safe. Many of the faces were hard and cruel and there was a knife edge to the trading. Kite kept his buckled bag close and hurried on.

  By some foul twist of luck Kite spotted Dice Clay, hawking on the step of a sepia-windowed antique shop called Cuckooland’s Emporium.

  “...rare item, Mr.Cuckooland,” Clay was saying. “Most unusual.”

  “Get out, Clay you verminous clod!” a parched voice yelled from beyond the door. “If I see your wretched face here again I’ll call the bailiffs myself!”

  The door slammed in Clay' face. The dealer lifted his high-hat and slunk into the crowd. Kite almost pitied him.

  At the end of Spoils Row Kite scaled a hill of steps cut from the red cliff rock. He counted five levels in all, each with landings cluttered with stalls and carts, selling everything he could want but nothing he could afford. Here too were stone shrines carved from the rock face, with incense-filled altars to long-forgotten gods. Kite eyed them suspiciously before moving on.

  Kite recalled a story Ersa once told him. About how the old gods had abandoned men at the dawn of the Storm Age. Men, who always needed something to believe in, put their faith in machines instead. Kite didn't know if that was true or not. But machines made more sense to him than a load of hot air and chanting.

  Port Howling's quarters and districts branched off in all directions. Hundreds of streets and thousands of lanes for Kite to explore. Some were warrens, buried deep into the cliff - dark hollows lit by buzzing neon signs that beckoned with painted faces and flashes of pale flesh. Kite blushed and hurried on.

  After an exhausting climb Kite eventually reached Sky Trawler’s Terrace, Port Howling’s salvage harbour. Twenty berths stuck out into the wind, each one occupied by a rig. Oil-smoke and grime filled his nostrils. The air clashed and clacked with the familiar trade of scrap metal.

  Near the berths Kite found a sheltered spot, overlooking the crammed-in levels below. Nearby billboards fluttered with shreds of labour and wanted posters. Anti-Foundation graffiti had been daubed on nearby brickwork, shouting such propaganda as: Burn Fairweather Burn, The Only Good Weatheren Is A Dead Weatheren and Murkers Rule The Undercloud.

  With his back against the wind Kite took a sip from the water bottle. Hungry as he was he needed the food to last so he took a bit of the crackbread and put the rest back in his pocket. Food was the least of his worries. Sooner or later he would have to find a safe place to sleep. The prospect of his first night alone in this alien town filled him with dread.

  Kite watched the rigs and the ferries come and go and soon doubts set in his mind. With that kind of reward the Askians would be well hidden. And if he couldn't find them? How would he survive alone? Where would he go? He had five royals and that wouldn't last him a week, even being thrifty.

  Of-course he did have one item of value. One guaranteed to fetch enough to see him on his way. But would he sell it? Could he sell it? After all it was rare and...

  ... most unusual.

  Kite fumbled the bag's buckles and dragged out the shirt he'd wrapped the mechanikin last night. Where he expected to find Ember, two lumps of chalk tumbled out. Kite stared at them. His hands became shaking fists.

  Clay.

  Blood bubbling in his veins Kite flew from Sky Trawler’s Terrace. He tore all the way down to Spoils Row and into the stalls, begging for clues to Clay's whereabouts. The waste traders and scrap mongers clammed up, suspicious of this bad-tempered outsider asking all the wrong questions.

  Then he spied Cuckooland’s Emporium's dusty storefront and ran to the door. The sign on door read: Quality Goods Only. No Gassers, Weatherens or Scavvies.

  A lazy bell clattered as he pushed his way inside. Behind the counter Cuckooland looked up from the pocket-watch he was examining. Shod in a moth-eaten coat and dusty fez he blinked from behind a pair of magnifying lenses, eyes triple the size.

  “Can’t you lot read?” Cuckooland said, in a voice no more than a scratch. “I don't buy scrap!”

  “I’m not selling,” Kite said, edging by antique waterclocks and wind-up music-boxes.

  Cuckooland flipped the magnifying lenses. “Oh I do apologise, young master. Do feel free to peruse my humble collection at your leisure,” he said and thumped his fist on the counter. “This isn’t a one-penny store! Out!”

  “I just want to know where can I find Dice Clay,” Kite said.

  “Do I look like an oracle of the sands, sunshine?” Cuckooland sneered. “Information costs money. Do you have money?”

  He had five royals.

  Cuckooland narrowed his eyes. “You're new in Port Howling aren't you?” he said.

  Reluctantly Kite dug deep into his pocket for the matchbox. Inside was the only thing of value he had left. He pushed it open and emptied the geolume on the counter.

  Cuckooland raised a wiry eyebrow and flipped down his lenses. “Hmm, a genuine geoluminescent crystal,” he said, eyeballs magnified with yellow veins. “From the Hiemal, if I'm not mistaken. Well, colour me surprised. I believe it is worth one answer. You want to know where Dice Clay is?”

  Kite didn't take his eyes from the geolume. He nodded.

  “Well, if he’s hawking those stolen coralknives he tried to flog me last week try the Auction House on Cheater Street,” Cuckooland said. “No-one asks any questions down there.”

  “How do I get there?”

  Cuckooland tut-tutted. He lifted up the geolume in his waxy fingers. “That would be worth another geolume,” he said. “Do you have another geolume?”

  Of-course Kite had only ever had one geolume. The one Ersa had given him. All those years ago when he'd moaned endlessly about never having a birthday. A tiny rock that had brightened his darkest nights, when every scratch of wind was a soldier at the door.

  Kite swiped the geolume from Cuckooland's fingers. He fled from the Emporium back into the streets of Port Howling and ran until he thought his lungs would burst.

  23

  The Auction

  The canopy of Port Howling's Auction House was a rubbed-raw blister bulging from the slate rooftops of Cheater Street. Hours had passed before Kite had found the place. Each wasted minute he'd cursed Clay's soul. Hoping that the dealer hadn't sold the mechanikin already.

  Dealers and merchants and bookish underlings with ink and quills swirled in the Auction’s courtyard. A steady flow of them oozed in and out of the bidding rooms. Kite followed the line of clicking canes and swishing coat-tails across the cobbles and onto the bidding floor.

  Under a thatch of steel girders men were shadows in a mud-coloured haze. A mini
ature Undercloud of tobacco and tar smoke lit by guttering lamps that barely lifted the squinting gloom. Kite cursed his luck. All of them wore high-hats and frock coats. Anyone of them could have been Clay, slipping by him unnoticed.

  A chattering swell drew him to the bidding floor. A great oval pit with a teetering podium at one end where a beak-nosed auctioneer perched. The bidding was furious and as Kite arrived the gavel cracked hard signalling a sale.

  “Bring in the next lot!” the auctioneer cried.

  Kite scanned the faces in the crowd, hunting for Clay but he couldn't see any sign of the dealer. Cuckooland might've been wrong. He might even have lied. Right now Clay could be idling in one of Port Howling's smoke-houses, puffing on his profits. Kite's blood fizzled thinking about it. He turned to leave.

  “Lot seventy two, one antique Clockwork Jinny!” The auctioneer's rustling voice rose over the murmur. “Very poor condition, right eye missing, sings nursery rhymes.”

  Adrenalin swirling in his gut Kite shouldered his way to the front of the stalls. The stewards had sat the mechanikin on a scuffed wooden plinth. Surprisingly Clay had scrubbed the muck from her shell and Ember gleamed brightly in the dim lights.

  “The bidding begins at one thousand royals,” said the auctioneer.

  Kite heard laughter tickle the stalls.

  “One thousand for that junk?” called a merchant with a bowler hat. “It better cook my dinner for that price!”

  The auctioneer chuckled and leaned over his podium. “Care to reconsider your reserve, Mr.Clay?” he said.

  Kite followed the auctioneer's gaze to where Dice Clay skulked beneath the podium. The dealer looked hungry and nervous. He shook his head.

  The auctioneer turned back to the bidding floor. “Any bids at one thousand then?” he called.

  A few snorts and chuckles broken the impatient murmur but not a single bid was forthcoming. No-one would pay one thousand for a broken toy. That, at least, gave Kite a slither of hope. He cleared his throat and said, “one thousand two hundred royals!”

  Heads turned.

  “The young gentleman in the hood and goggles bids one thousand two hundred,” the auctioneer said.

  The greedy smile soon faded from Clay's cracked lips when he recognised who the bidder was. He glanced twitchily at the stewards. Kite enjoyed watching him squirm.

  “Do I have any other bids?” the auctioneer called.

  The bidders shook their heads. Kite could see that none of them saw any value in acquiring the mechanikin.

  The auctioneer raised the gavel. “Lot seventy two sol -”

  “One thousand three hundred royals!”

  “Austerman bids one thousand three hundred,” the auctioneer said. “Any further bids?”

  Kite spun around. The one called Austerman stood a head taller the others in the bidding room, wrapped in a slate-coloured greatcoat. His face was half-hidden by the brim of a slouch hat, but his skin was bronzed and clean. Kite didn't need to see the rest of him to know what he was - a Weatheren.

  “One thousand five hundred!” Kite blurted.

  A number of the bidders moved away from the Weatheren while others simmered with furtive looks of contempt and resentment.

  “I bid one thousand six hundred!” Austerman said, revealing a handsome face with a thin, leisurely smile.

  Kite's knuckles whitened on the handrail. The mechanikin was slipping from his grasp. Clay's greedy grin was becoming greedier by the second.

  “One thousand seven hundred!” Kite replied.

  Austerman countered immediately. “One thousand eight hundred royals!”

  All eyes in the bidding room fell upon Kite. Some sceptical, others expectant. “Two thousand!” he shouted. “No, three thousand! Three thousand royals!”

  The auctioneer peered doubtfully at Kite over his rusted pince-nez.

  “Three thousand!” Kite said again, but the spell had been broken.

  “The bid is with Austerman,” the auctioneer declared. “At one thousand eight hundred royals.”

  “No!” Kite cried out, pointing at Clay. “He stole it from me! He's a thief!”

  The auctioneer waved a dismissing hand. “Disputes are handled by the Receiver of Wreck,” he said. “Stewards, remove him.”

  The unsympathetic crowd divided. Auction House stewards in red waistcoats muscled up from the floor, jaws set in eagerness to clear him from the stalls.

  Kite looked at the mechanikin sitting unguarded on its plinth. What choice did he have? He seized the rail and vaulted over it. He landed in the pit and skidded on the sawdust. He scrambled forward and snatched the mechanikin off the plinth.

  “Stewards! Get rid of this boy at once!” demanded the indignant auctioneer.

  Kite realised he had no-where to run. The Auction House swirled around him. The crowd surged and jeered in the stalls. The stewards rushed forward; coshes and fists ready to inflict order.

  “Ember?” Kite said. “Say something. Quickly!”

  The eye flickered and Ember's voice said: “Incy Wincy spider climbed up the spout. Down came the rain and washed poor Incy out! Good. I hate spiders.”

  All noise was sucked form the air. Bidders stared in wonder. The stewards had stopped in their tracks. Austerman had come closer, staring at the mechanikin with an intensity that put Kite on edge.

  “Keep talking, Ember,” Kite said.

  “Where have you been?” Ember said, her voice suddenly amplified. “Some dunderhead has been teaching me nursery rhymes. But I didn't say anything. Just like I promised. It's very import to keep your promises.”

  “What is this nonsense?” the auctioneer said and shook his gavel.

  Kite held Ember closely. “Tell these people I found you.”

  “People? What people?” Ember replied, panicking slightly. “Where have you brought me?”

  Lifting the mechanikin Kite whispered. “If you don't tell them we can't go to Skyzarke.”

  Ember let out a little gasp of alarm. “Kite Nayward found me in the Thirsty Sea!” she shouted, loud as the little voice box would allow.

  Triumphantly Kite turned to the stalls. “Tell them you belong to me, Ember.”

  “I belong to Kite Nayward!” Ember continued. “I belong to Kite Nayward!”

  Clay jumped up. “Hah!” he shouted, stabbing a finger at him across the bidding floor. “His name's Knotwood. Knotwood from Dusthaven!”

  Kite shook his head. “No…it’s Nayward,” he shouted back. “Kite Nayward!”

  “Enough of this nonsense!” the auctioneer bellowed. “Stewards, remove the boy!”

  The stewards stormed onto the dais, swinging their bludgeons. Crack. Light exploded in his head. He tumbled on to the bidding room floor, his crown belling with pain. The mechanikin was yanked from his hands.

  “One thousand eight-hundred!”

  “Two thousand!”

  “Two thousand two-hundred!”

  As the stewards dragged him from the frenzied bidding room Ember's tiny voice called out to him. “Kite Nayward? What's happening? Kite Nayward where are you?”

  24

  Austerman

  Kite had no idea how long he sat on the Auction House steps, waiting for Clay to emerge. An hour, maybe more. Time enough for a brick-red dust to settle on his patchcoat. Time enough to invent a dozen savage ways to exact revenge on the dealer. Time enough for his fury to sour into despair.

  The leather rims of Kite’s goggles were greasy with tears. The tender lump on his skull throbbed with a dull pain that echoed in his jaw as he ground his teeth together. He couldn't remember a time he'd been more alone.

  “He's long gone, Mr.Knotwood.”

  Austerman loomed over him, coat tails snapping in the wind. Tucked under his arm was a canvas bundle bound with string. A bundle about the mechanikin's size.

  Without thinking Kite made a grab for it. Austerman was faster. The Weatheren seized his wrist, forcing Kite backward until he teetered on his heels.

  “Or
should I call you Mr.Nayward?” Austerman said.

  “The mechanikin's mine!” Kite shouted, lashing out.

  “Still that temper of yours,” the Weatheren said and let him go. “I didn't come to add to your woes.”

  Kite took a few steps back, fists still knuckle-white and eyes still firmly on the bundle.

  “I'm no fool, Mr. Nayward,” Austerman said. “I can see you've been swindled. I can see you're sore from it. You want justice. Maybe even revenge.”

  The Weatheren sounded far from hostile but Kite wasn't stupid. He couldn't trust a Weatheren of all people - especially one in disguise.

  “You don't know the half of it,” Kite mumbled.

  “I'm going to make you an offer, Mr.Nayward,” Austerman said, tapping the bundle under his arm. “Information about the Clockwork Jinny in return for compensation.”

  “I don't want Weatheren money,” Kite said.

  “Who said it will be Weatheren money?” Austerman replied, sliding an antique compass watch from his greatcoat pocket. “The auction went on for longer than anticipated. I'm running a little late and I have business across town. Why don't you join me, Mr.Nayward?”

  “Go with you?” Kite said. “But you're a Weatheren.”

  Austerman stared at him. “Indeed, you won't find a more loyal Weatheren this side of the Dreadwall,” he said and touched the rough brim of his hat. “Your choice, Mr.Nayward. Fortune favours the brave.”

  Austerman crossed the courtyard, the mechanikin - his mechanikin - tucked under his arm. Kite formed a fist. He had no idea who or what Austerman was but he wasn't going to lose Ember again. Not to a Weatheren...

  Keeping Austerman's hat in sight Kite followed him through Port Howling’s streets. The Weatheren made no attempt to hide himself even when he buried deeper into the narrows of the hive-town where the squashed-in streets and choked up alleys pinched out the afternoon half-light.