The Immortal Storm (Sky Chaser Book 1)

by Wilkes, S. D.

  Shelvocke's desk was cluttered the maps and charts. Leather-bound books were piled to one side. On the other, under a mosfire lamp, was a gold framed photograph; an elegant-looking Weatheren woman with wonder-filled eyes and a delicate smile.

  The rest of the Captain's cabin gleamed with enough brass and silver to make a salvor's heart sing. Telescopes and sextants, antique globes and astrolabes. Maps and charts were mounted on the walls between painted Weatheren posters. Kite couldn't help but raise an eye-brow. Weatheren or Murker, whatever he called himself, the Captain had no shortage of royals.

  One of the posters struck Kite in particular. A wind-swept lady with a spill of golden hair, all lovely curves and drama, summoning zigzags of thunderbolts from a unrealistic storm. He frowned, glancing again at the photograph on Shelvocke's desk. It was same Weatheren woman, he was certain. Kite wondered who she was.

  “That’s the one thing I miss about Fairweather is the theatre,” Shelvocke said, following his gaze. He waved at the big observation window behind him and chuckled. “And the sun, of-course.”

  “I thought the Murkers hated Fairweather?” Kite said.

  “Fairweather is just a city, Mr.Nayward,” Shelvocke said, pressing a key. “Do you know how the Murkers got their name?”

  The floating screens faded, replaced by news ones scrolling with text and hazy photographs. One grew large. An image of a massive construction, cocooned in a nest of scaffold. A vast fortified wall.

  “This was two-hundred years ago,” Shelvocke explained. “When the First Light Foundation constructed the Dreadwall. Dozens of towns were levelled to make way for it. Thousands left homeless. Some found themselves on the wrong side of the new boundary, forced into work camps. According to Fairweather’s ruling Corona Council it was a magnificent honour for the workers to be part of the great project. But there were some who did not agree with Fairweather's actions.”

  As Kite listened another image appeared. This one was a grainy snapshot of a dozen men in overalls and caps, holding machetes and hammers.

  Shelvocke went on. “A number of hardy souls from a village called Murk, banded together and formed a raiding party. They wanted to stop the Dreadwall being constructed. They wanted their homes back. They called themselves the Murkers. For a time they proved to be quite affective, attacking supply lines, sabotaging the machinery. After all the Corona Council hadn't expected anyone to resist progress. The name Murkers had become a by-word for dissent.”

  “I can guess the rest,” Kite said.

  “One by one the Murkers were tracked down, tortured and executed,” the Captain said, nodding. “A example to everyone who dare defy progress.”

  Another image came sharply into focus on Shelvocke's screen. A simple-looking Weatheren official in black robes, with a cruel secretive smile. The man was bald, with a single dot on his scalp and wore tiny wire-thin spectacles. He reminded Kite of the dead scientist.

  “This is Mercurius Lux,” Shelvocke said sourly.

  Fleer sneered in disgust at the mention of his name.

  “Who is he?” Kite asked.

  “The architect of the First Light Foundation,” said Shelvocke. “Lux was the man who, if you believe his own words, single-handedly reinvented powered-flight by discovering how to tame lightning in the corpusant. He is also the man who saved Fairweather from the Undercloud.”

  Another image. This one made Kite's gasp. A view from the ground of a vast array of concentric rings, spanning a cloudless sky.

  “The Ether Shield,” Shelvocke said. “Lux's weather machine. This behemoth keeps the skies of Fairweather free of cloud. His greatest invention.”

  “You sound like you admire him,” Kite said.

  The screens dissolved, leaving rectangular ghosts on the air. “Maybe I did, once,” Shelvocke said. “Ordinary Weatherens are as much victims of the Foundation as you or I, Mr.Nayward.”

  Kite gave Shelvocke a doubtful look, then watched closely as the Captain took the mechanikin from his desk drawer. At least Shelvocke had taken good care of her. He'd even cleaned her of dust and polished her eye.

  Click.

  The egg-shaped device popped out of Ember's body and into Shelvocke's palm. “Do you know what this is” he asked.

  Kite shrugged. “A computer?”

  “Of a kind, Mr.Nayward,” Shelvocke said. “This is a mempod. A portable memory machine. An electronic brain. Mempods store information and instructions, they're used in analytical engines and automechanical slaves. The Phosphene has five.”

  Shelvocke held the device under the desk lamp. The fine swirls and spirals etched on its surface seemed to come alive. It was beautiful.

  “Advanced technology, Mr.Nayward,” Shelvocke said. “Not usually found inside Clockwork Jinnys.”

  He remembered his last day in Dusthaven. The Corrector had seemed confused that he'd had a mechanikin. Now he understood why.

  Shelvocke had been watching him closely. “I think it's about time we let Ember tell her story, Mr.Nayward,” he said.

  Kite glanced at the framed map mounted on the cabin wall opposite Shelvocke's desk. The continent was vast, from the Ashlands in the south to the unknown north. Much of it empty and uncharted. Kite knew he couldn't find Skyzarke on his own, that much was certain. But neither was he willing to trust Shelvocke completely. He had an idea. One that might give him a way off the Phosphene should the Weatheren decide to trick him.

  “On one condition,” Kite said at last.

  “And what is that?” Shelvocke asked.

  “I want to fly a stormwing,” said Kite.

  As if to tell him she meant every word of her warning on the stairs Fleer shot him a ferocious look.

  “Stormwings are too valuable,” Shelvocke said, unmoved. “And I cannot afford to take unnecessary risks with our most valuable weapon.”

  Fleer nodded her agreement.

  But Kite wasn't about to give up so easily. “You're training Birdy aren't you?” he said. “Let me train with him.”

  “You have spirit, Mr.Nayward, I will grant you that,” Shelvocke conceded. “But you are reckless. If you truly want to join my crew you will have to learn to discipline that temper of yours.”

  More than anything he wanted to tell Shelvocke where to shove his discipline but this might be the only opportunity he'd get. “I just want a chance,” he said, surprised by the honesty in his voice.

  Shelvocke leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers to his chin. Kite could feel Fleer's stare on him, but he didn't give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

  “A chance is what we all seek, Mr.Nayward,” he said. “Very well, I will let you train with Mr.Birdy...if you allow me to talk with the mechanikin.”

  That wasn't much of a victory. But it was probably best Shelvocke would offer. Kite nodded slowly and with some effort said, “yes, Captain.”

  33

  S-E-C-R-E-T

  “Ember?”

  The mechanikin lay lifeless on the desk, her eye a bubble of cold glass. Kite put his weight on the walking stick, taking the pressure off his ankles and the needling pain in his legs.

  “Ember, can you hear me?” he said.

  Nothing.

  Kite had a horrible feeling Shelvocke may have been right. Maybe Ember had been damaged when the corpusant exploded under the Windspear. Trust his luck to have destroyed the one thing of value he still had.

  “Ember, come on, answer me,” Kite said. “It's time to talk. You want to talk don't you?”

  “This is pathetic,” Fleer said, crossing her arms. “The doll's nothing more than Weatheren junk.”

  Ember’s eye flickered. Blue at first but becoming pinkish. A sharp, irritable voice crackled from the mechanikin's mouth. “I am not junk!”

  “It's all right, Ember,” Kite said, relieved and terrified all at once. “She didn't mean it.”

  “Where am I?” Ember demanded. “This airmachine is from Fairweather. A Tempest class fulgurtine. 17,000 tons. Service ceiling
6,000 feet. Flying east by south-east, 37 knots at 4,543 feet.”

  Shelvocke sat forward. “How could you know that?!”

  “A Weatheren!” Ember gasped. “Kite Nayward, where have you brought me?”

  “Calm down, Ember,” Kite said, hoping the little witch wouldn't burst into song. “They're Murkers. Enemies of the Foundation. They want to help us.”

  “Tell me Ember, where did you come from?” Shelvocke said, leaning closer with eyes full of wonder. “Who created you?”

  “Kite Nayward, I don't trust him,” she whispered. “What if he's a spy.”

  Shelvocke chuckled. “I can assure you, Ember I am no Weatheren spy.”

  “Cross your heart and hope to die. Stick a needle in your eye,” Ember said. “Say it.”

  “You'd better do as she says,” Kite whispered. “She won't take no for an answer.”

  Reluctantly Shelvocke mimed the cross over his chest. “I swear I am not a Weatheren spy, cross my heart and hope to die,” he said and chuckled.

  “Go on, Ember.” Kite urged. “Tell him what you told me.”

  Ember's story was different this time. Skyzarke, the Umbrella Man and the Cloud Room, she spoke of it all but none of the detail was there. In a way Kite was relieved. She didn't trust Shelvocke any more than he did. But she was far cleverer than he'd believed and that worried him.

  Fleer spoke first. “This must is Patriarch technology,” she said, almost spitting 'Patriarch' as if it left a foul taste in her throat. “How else would it know about Skyzarke?”

  Shelvocke seemed doubtful. “I know the Patriarchs developed prototype memory machines but this is highly advanced,” he said. “But if the Starmaker did create it how did it come to be in the Old Coast?”

  Kite knew the answer to that. “The Weatherens dug it out of a tunnel under the Thirsty Sea,” he told them. “Ember was inside a train headed for Fairweather.”

  “Poor, poor, horrible Clara,” sighed Ember.

  Shelvocke leaned over his desk. “Ember, what is in the Cloud Room?” he asked.

  “Can't say,” Ember said.

  “Tell me,” Shelvocke demanded, sounding more irritable by the second.

  “Won't say,” said Ember.

  “I'm not playing childish games!” said Shelvocke, clenching a fist.

  Ember began to quietly hum. A sing-song tune that made Kite's skin tighten and sweat prickle his scalp.

  “Tell me, damn you!” Shelvocke thumped his fist on the desk, knocking over the mysterious photograph.

  The lamp on Shelvocke's desk flickered. The Phosphene shook as if struck by thunder.

  “Calm down, Ember,” Kite said.

  “I am calm,” came the reply but Ember still hummed and the lamp continued to tinkle as if the bulb was faulty.

  Shelvocke rounded on him. “If you have some sway with this machine, Nayward, make it tell me what I want to know!” he growled.

  Kite stared back at him. “That's her secret,” he said.

  “It's s-e-c-r-e-t,” said Ember.

  Shelvocke growled and wrenched the mempod from Ember's spine, silencing her.

  “You might have damaged her!” Kite cried.

  Ignoring him Shelvocke stormed to the window, fists clenching and unclenching. Kite had seen that dark, hungering look before. He’d seen it on the faces of profit-hungry salvagemasters and scavvies desperate for an inch of luck. He knew where it began and where it ended.

  Eventually Shelvocke calm enough to return to his desk. With care he lifted the fallen frame. “Forgive me,” he whispered and set the photograph down on his desk.

  A bristling silence followed. Kite waited for Shelvocke to speak again.

  “So, it appears Ember leaves us with little choice,” Shelvocke said at last, his temper waning. “We must go to Skyzarke.”

  Kite felt a prickle of excitement at the mention of the city. But Fleer's reaction quickly cast doubt in his mind.

  “It is forbidden,” Fleer said, her frown deepening. “The Askians will not allow anyone to enter to city.”

  Shelvocke glanced at her. “Your mother still holds a seat on the Council does she not?” he said. “She will help us.”

  “You overestimate her influence,” Fleer said, squirming at the mention of her mother.

  “So Skyzarke does exist then?” Kite said, looking at them in turn.

  “Is that a joke, Mr.Nayward?” Shelvocke said, looking at him sharply.

  “The boy doesn't know,” Fleer said. “He's not from the High Hollows.”

  Shelvocke dragged sheet of thin film from his papers. A Weatheren map, similar to the one Kite had briefly owned in Dusthaven. Only this one was of the far north.

  “There's your lost city, Mr.Nayward,” Shelvocke said.

  Kite frowned. Shelvocke had pointed to a great tract of nothing labelled 'Hiemal' and to the nest of city in the hills surrounded by little black spiders. The name printed below was FRORE.

  “I don’t understand,” Kite said.

  “The Foundation likes to rename the city states it conquers, Mr.Nayward,” Shelvocke said, lowering himself into his chair. “Frore is a an old Weatheren word meaning frozen. Lux was not without a sense of humour. After the war, after Lux had destroyed your people, Frore was the name he gave Skyzarke.”

  Fleer glanced away, unable to hide her disgust. “Every Askian knows that,” she whispered.

  Kite squeezed the tip of the walking stick until his knuckles burned white. Every Askian, it seemed, except him.

  34

  Ghosts

  “Of all the lunatic things to do!” Dr.Nightborn said, tugging the bandages tight around Kite’s ankle. “As if I didn't have enough to worry about with Fleer on one of those wretched things! You're all mad! Mad! Hold still will you!”

  Kite winced. The burns on his legs were rust-red and blotched with purple strikes where the mosfire had scorched him. At least it wasn't murder to walk but now his skin tingled as if hot ants were crawling over it.

  “And don't scratch!” Dr.Nightborn said, slapping his hand away. She finished securing the bandage with a safety pin. “I have half a mind to declare you unfit just to save you from yourself!”

  “But you won't?” he asked hopefully.

  Dr.Nightborn plucked her spectacles from her nose and kneaded her brow. “I should,” she said. “But I'm not your mother. Not that being someone's mother makes any difference on this infernal machine!”

  Kite raised his eyebrows. No prizes for guessing who'd been arguing again.

  Dr.Nightborn sighed. “Just don't fall off like the last one,” she said. “It's terribly bad for morale.”

  “Alto you mean?” Kite said, pulling his socks over the bandages. “Birdy said he had an accident.”

  “That's one way of looking at it,” Dr.Nightborn said, and began to put away her things. “I didn't get a chance to know him. Not really. He was about your age, perhaps a little older. Very angry boy. He argued with the Captain a lot.”

  “I like him already,” Kite said with a grin.

  “Fleer grounded him eventually,” Dr.Nightborn said. “So one day he stole one of the airmachines and took off on his own. He had some mad idea about seeing the sun. I still think Fleer blames herself.”

  Kite remembered Fleer's threat. Had she been trying to warn him off to avoid another tragedy like Alto? He couldn't imagine her being so concerned with his wellbeing. More likely she didn’t want to lose another stormwing.

  Just then Kite's stomach grew heavy. At the same time soft shadows shifted across the Infirmary walls. Two decks below the eternal drone of the fulgurtine's engines deepened, sending vibrations across the Dr.Nightborn’s gleaming medical equipment. The Phosphene was changing course.

  A metallic gurgle swilled in the loudspeaker over the Infirmary door.

  “Crew of the Phosphene, I have exciting news,” Shelvocke's voice rattled out, echoing in the corridor a fraction of a second later. “We have come into possession of vital new information. In
formation that may finally give us an advantage over our enemies. Our new heading is north. Our destination, the Hiemal and the Askian city of Skyzarke. I must ask each and every one of you to remain alert and extra vigilant during our dangerous voyage. Should we succeed we will finally be able to strike at the Foundation.”

  After Shelvocke's announcement had ended Dr.Nightborn sighed weightily. “Well, I suppose there's no avoiding it now,” she said. “Whenever Skyzarke is mentioned I can't help but feel sad.”

  Skyzarke.

  The name was stuck in Kite's throat - a bitter lump of frustration. He’d being trying not to think about it. About the task ahead. Sooner or later he'd have to tell Ember the truth about her beloved city. He shuddered at the thought.

  Dr.Nightborn sat on the bed beside him and smiled sympathetically. “The Captain told me what happened,” she said. “You didn't know about Skyzarke?”

  “Ersa never told me anything,” Kite said, shaking his head.

  “Ersa?” Dr.Nightborn said, frowning.

  Kite slipped on his boots. “The Waste Witch,” he said.

  Dr.Nightborn looked thoughtful. “I once knew an Ersa. A very long time ago,” she said.

  “She wouldn't tell me anything about the Askians,” Kite mumbled. “Said it was for my own good. Sometimes I wondered if she trusted me.”

  Dr.Nightborn gave him a sympathetic smile. “When we get to the High Hollows you will understand,” she said.

  “The High Hollows?”

  Dr.Nightborn hunched her shoulders excitedly. “Home,” she said.

  Home. The way Dr.Nightborn said the word surprised him. As if for once had true meaning. “Is Fleer going too?” he asked.

  Dr.Nightborn's lovely smile faded. “I suspect she will want to see her grandmother,” she said. “They are so very alike. Besides the Captain has sent her as his representative.”

  Kite nodded. “She seems very loyal to Shelvocke,” he said.

  “Fleer owes the Captain her life,” Dr.Nightborn said. “And for that same reason, I owe him my loyalty.”