by Ian Whates
Tom used this apparent mishap to mask the movement of a hand which darted into his clothing and emerged with the dagger. Quickly then, he twisted around, slashing with the blade. Slight resistance as it ripped through the guard's cape and a deal more as it cut into the man's arm.
With a yelp of mingled surprise and pain the razzer let go. Tom was free and instantly running. Yet he had barely begun to gather speed before he heard the familiar snick that warned of a puncheon being fired. His would-be captor had reacted far more quickly than expected.
Tom tried to dodge, veering to the left, but too late.
The missile slammed into him, instantly knocking him off balance. He was falling. Only then did he realise that his attempt to dodge had carried him nearer the edge and it was towards the edge that he now fell. He tried to stop, to twist, to hold himself, but momentum carried him on. His leg struck the balustrade and, before he could do anything, he was over.
"Help me!" he screamed into the wind as the city's wall gathered pace and started to speed past. He clung on to the hope that the Kite Guard would react instantly and swoop to his rescue.
Then he remembered the knife in his hand as it slashed through the razzer's cloak before biting into his arm, and it suddenly dawned on him that with his cape torn the Kite Guard could no longer fly. Ice cold fear gripped his innards, as he realised that however hard he screamed, there was nobody left to save him.
TWO
As Tylus watched the street-nick disappear into the darkness, the small form tumbling as it fell, all the doubts that had plagued him throughout his brief career came flooding back. He felt sick and he felt angry. For several minutes, until long after the boy had vanished from sight, he simply stood and stared, replaying events in his mind's eye and wondering whether there was anything he might have done differently.
The truth was, Tylus considered himself to be something of a fraud. He didn't really think that he was cut out to be a Kite Guard - a fact he would never have admitted to anyone, least of all to his parents. Yet Sergeant Goss knew. Somehow, the duty sergeant saw right through him and recognised exactly how useless he was, even when everyone else appeared to be taken in.
Quiet rage continued to simmer, fuelled by the futility of it all; an inchoate anger, directed at anyone and everyone. He found himself resenting the boy for throwing away his young life so fruitlessly, while at the same time berating himself for not being quicker and preventing the lad's fall; then there was the ever-hated Sergeant Goss, who had assigned him to night patrol yet again. He even spared a little anger for the gods, who had seen fit to put him in this particular spot at this particular time, and for the citizens of these Rows, whose need for protection required him to be here in the first place, while still more ire was flung impotently at the Swarbs - those dour denizens of a lower level who had witnessed his embarrassing loss of control over the kitecape and had even come close to catching him in their cursed nets. Being returned for a reward would have ensured the scorn of his colleagues in the department forever after, and the reaction of his parents did not bear thinking about. Their humiliation would naturally have been transferred to his own shoulders, becoming one more burden for him to carry on their behalf. Thank goodness he'd regained command of the cape at the last instant and avoided the Swarbs' nets.
Then his anger turned full circle and came back to the boy once more, for slashing said cape, which would doubtless earn him a dressing-down from a superior who needed little excuse to do so.
His arm started to throb, where the lad's knife had cut him; the pain making itself known as the rush of adrenaline deserted his veins. Tylus reached into his cape and pulled out a patch, slapping it onto the troubled arm. The flesh-coloured symbiote instantly spread, covering and sealing the wound.
He made a half-hearted effort to wipe away the blood that had run down his arm and hand, but knew it would have to wait until he returned to the station to be dealt with properly.
Already the anaesthetic qualities of the patch's secretions were calming the wound and dulling the pain.
He trudged up the flight of steps that led back to his patrol area, debating whether or not to cut this duty short and head for the station immediately to report the incident, but he decided against the idea, remembering the last time he had done so without an actual prisoner to take in. He had been bawled out by Sergeant Goss and told that in future, anything short of an actual invasion or the city burning down could wait until the end of shift before being reported.
It seemed only a handful of minutes later that he heard footsteps hurrying towards him.
"Tylus, wait," called a breathless voice.
Turning, he saw another uniformed figure striding purposefully his way and recognised Paulos, a colleague and almost-friend. It was clear that the man had been running, and Paulos would never have contemplated such undignified haste unless something important was up.
"Goss wants to see you, right away."
"What is it," Tylus wondered, "invasion or fire?"
"What?"
"Doesn't matter."
At some point during the brisk walk that followed, the patch must have withered and dropped off, its work done, because by the time they reached the station, Tylus's arm was marred only by a ridge of pink and puckered skin, a seam of newly-healed flesh that itched insufferably. He rubbed at it in distracted fashion while sitting outside the sergeant's office waiting to be summoned. He glanced across at the solemn, dark framed portrait that dominated the opposite wall: Commander Raymond, inventor of the kitecape and founder of the Kite Guard. Tylus considered how much simpler his life could have been had the man never been born.
Paulos had given little away during the walk back, either unwilling or unable to explain why Goss wanted to see him so urgently.
Not that Tylus had to wait long to find out.
"What happened to your cape, officer?" the eagle-eyed Goss asked the instant the young Kite Guard stepped into the room.
Tylus took a deep breath in preparation for a lengthy explanation.
"Well?" Goss snapped before he had a chance to speak.
Flustered, he blurted out quickly instead, "A knife, sir; while apprehending a suspect. I'll hand it in for repair and get a replacement soonest, sir."
"That you will. But the replacement will be a plain cape." Goss must have seen the dismay on Tylus's face. In effect, this meant the young Kite Guard was grounded. "Kitecapes don't grow on trees, you know. You can claim yours back once it has been repaired and fully renewed." A process that would take weeks. "Until then: a plain cloak. Perhaps this will teach you to take better care of your equipment in future. Though I doubt it."
"Sir!" The prospect of patrolling without his cape filled Tylus with dread. A Kite Guard without his cape was a walking statement that the officer had fallen short in some regard and was out of favour with his commander. Like some wounded predator, a hawk with a broken wing, such a figure was robbed of all mystique and authority; those who had formerly respected him and perhaps even feared him a little no longer had cause to do so. He could already picture the smirks and knowing looks that would accompany his next patrol. The children would be the worst. Their disrespect would be more open - pointing fingers and laughter. 'Kitties'; that was what they called a grounded Kite Guard.
This struck him as an ignominious and heavy-handed punishment for a cape that had, after all, been torn in the line of duty, but Goss was within his rights and there was nothing Tylus could do about it.
"Now, this suspect," the sergeant continued, "where is he, then?"
"Fell from the wall, sir. In the struggle."
The sergeant sat back, jaw locked and eyes burning. "So, to summarise, your night's exertions have resulted in no suspect, and a torn kitecape. Is that correct?"
"Yes, sir!" Tylus could feel his cheeks colouring from a combination of embarrassment and suppressed anger.
For long seconds Goss simply shook his head, as if in disbelief, while Tylus did his best to remain still and not to squi
rm. Then the sergeant sat forward again.
"I don't know what to do with you, Tylus, really I don't. Fortunately, it seems that such responsibility may soon be taken out of my hands. You're to report to Senior Arkademic Magnus in his chambers; immediately."
Tylus was astonished and for a second wondered if he'd misheard. He knew of Magnus of course, everyone did, but he never expected to actually meet the man. Why would such an elevated individual want to see him?
"Me, sir?"
"That's what I said, isn't it? Do you see anyone else here I could be addressing?
"No, sir."
"Apparently your infamy is spreading, even to the rarefied levels of the higher arkademics. Even there they have noted your unique qualities, the way you stand out in such singular fashion."
The sergeant's sarcasm and insincere tone washed over the young Kite Guard. Behind his own blank expression he was trying to make sense of this latest development and completely failing to do so.
"I am informed there was a murder earlier tonight," Goss continued. "Up in the Residences. Fortunately, the act was witnessed - by Senior Arkademic Magnus himself as it happens. Do you have any idea who the perpetrator was?"
"No, sir," Tylus replied, although he was beginning to have a horrible suspicion.
"A street-nick; a piece of scum risen from the City Below. Can you imagine that - a kid from the sewers daring to venture as far as these Rows? But of course you can; how silly of me. After all, you caught just such a lad earlier tonight, didn't you, and then you let him go!"
Goss shot to his feet, slamming palms onto the desktop and bellowing these last words. He leaned forward, straining towards Tylus as if it were all he could do not to leap over the furniture and assault the younger officer.
For his part, Tylus stared straight ahead, wishing he were somewhere else, determined not to focus on the contorted face that was so close to his own. He could feel the man's breath against his cheek and smell the unmistakeable tang of strong liquor that accompanied it. One more revelation in what was turning out to be an eventful night: he had no idea that Goss drank, especially not while on duty.
After long seconds the face withdrew and Goss sat down again, composing himself with exaggerated care.
"Should I arrange an escort, perhaps?" There was a swagger to the man's voice and in the way his head bobbed from side to side. "Or can you find your own way to the appropriate address?"
"I can find my way, sir!"
"Then what are you still standing there for?!"
Tylus retreated from the office as rapidly as he could, his thoughts in turmoil. A few of his fellow officers were already at their desks in preparation for the day shift. None of them would meet his eye; all suddenly found urgent things to do, such as paperwork which clearly required their undivided attention.
With a sigh, Tylus set out to find the dwelling of Senior Arkademic Magnus. Every step seemed a weighty one, as if it carried him a little closer to his doom.
Though it suffered from the low ceilings that were all but inevitable in Thaiburley, irrespective of status, there was no denying the impressive nature of the high arkademic's home.
False half-columns emerged from the stonework either side of a recessed wooden door, as if the city's walls were somehow birthing them, thrusting the columns out into the world, but the process had frozen part-way. The door itself was embellished with ornate brass fittings and studwork - testament of the occupier's wealth if not his taste. Tylus tugged twice on the ostentatious bell pull and stepped back. The servant who answered had about him an unassuming air yet still made the Kite Guard feel uneasy, though he couldn't explain precisely why. The man was certainly polite enough. Something in the eyes, possibly: too sharp, too knowing; as if their owner saw things and knew things that passed his betters by.
The servant led Tylus through a broad and dimly-lit corridor. Illumination came courtesy of a brace of electric wall-lights, dimmed to modest output - an economy the Kite Guard noted and approved of. Providing power to such a vast metropolis was a constant headache, electricity a privilege enjoyed by comparatively few. He was glad to find one of those few not being profligate with such a precious resource.
The corridor led to another wooden door - polished this time and lacking any superfluous brass adornments. The servant held the door open and ushered the visitor within, closing it once Tylus had entered without himself following.
Instantly, Tylus was aware of a sharp rise in temperature. He stood just within the threshold and gazed upon a room dominated by books. He had never seen so many books. The far wall was entirely hidden behind row upon row of cloth and leather spines, arranged upon uniform dark wooden shelving that stretched across its full length. More such were evident to his right. Yet the young officer's attention was drawn reluctantly from the wall of books by the fire that burned contentedly in the hearth to his left.
A real fire, which doubtless explained the heat. He could already feel the tickle of sweat forming on his scalp and wished the servant had thought to take his cape before showing him into the room. Homes built close to the city walls were often blessed with fires and chimneys and were much coveted as a result, but this dwelling was some way from the walls and Tylus wondered where the apparent chimney led to. Did it stretch straight up through the Rows above this to the upper Heights? Did some convoluted system of pipes and brickwork carry the smoke to the walls and the open sky beyond? Or were the fire's fumes disposed of in some arcane fashion known only to higher arkademics?
"Kite Guard Tylus, I presume."
The moderately spoken words made Tylus jump. So absorbed had he been by the books and the fire that he failed to notice the figure reclining in the upholstered armchair. True, the man was sitting sideways to him and so only partially visible behind the wings of the chair (unless sitting forward, as he now chose to do), but Tylus was a Kite Guard, trained to be observant. He should have seen him.
"Sir!" He came to attention, the click of his heels clearly audible over the popping of the fire. "Reporting as instructed."
So this was Senior Arkademic Magnus; not entirely what he'd expected. Younger than the man's reputation and notoriety had led him to picture, although such things were difficult to judge in the fire's deceptive light. A trickle of sweat chose that moment to run down behind Tylus's left ear and he wondered if it would be impolite to take off his cape.
"Relax, officer. You're not on parade now. Have a seat."
Magnus gestured towards a second chair, the twin of his own, which was angled towards the first seat with just a low table of polished wood separating them.
Tylus hesitated, surprised by the invite and uncertain how to respond.
"It won't bite, officer, and I have no intention of craning my neck in order to talk to you."
Taking a deep breath, Tylus complied, feeling uncomfortable despite the seat's deep upholstery, and not only because of the heat. He wondered fleetingly if this gesture was meant kindly, an attempt to put him at his ease, or whether it was deliberately calculated to discomfort him. He was so flummoxed by the arkademic's informal manner and the invitation to be seated that he hadn't even thought to remove his cape before sitting down.
Magnus was speaking again. "I want to show you something." He gestured, and the air above the tabletop shimmered. An image began to form within the shimmering, a solid-looking something which resolved itself into a section of the city walls in miniature. "Don't worry, Kite Guard, this isn't dangerous. It's merely a recording, an echo, if you will, of events that have already transpired." Under any other circumstances Tylus would have bridled at the patronising tone, but he was so fascinated by this wonderful apparition that he barely noticed. A figure stood atop a terrace and Tylus recognised first the uniform of a Kite Guard and then...
"That's me," he gasped, unable to believe what he was seeing.
"Indeed."
Just as it dawned on Tylus where and when this was, the perspective changed, zooming in and moving swiftly past
the figure of the Kite Guard, speeding down the walls and focusing on a second figure, one that was falling in an uncontrolled tumble.
The boy.
Even screaming became impossible as the air was wrenched from his lungs. At this moment of greatest mortality Tom's thoughts turned to Jezmina. He regretted never having tried to kiss her and his heart ached for all the things they would never share.
Then something touched him, hit him, enveloped him.
Netting; a swathe of thick cords that initially rushed past even as the walls had, then slowed and gained definition. Spongy cables that caught him and now bit into his body, burning his arms and legs and back. Still he dropped, but, impossibly, the net was slowing his fall, though surely not by enough. Nascent hope was stifled before it could properly form, to be replaced by horror as the net stretched and continued to give beneath him and he was still heading downward, albeit in slow motion compared to previously. He knew that this webbing was going to fail and rip apart at any minute, knew that he was destined to continue straight through, tumbling to his death despite the false promise of a reprieve.
Yet somehow the net held, and bit by bit its stretchable material leached the momentum from his body. Almost without realising, he was moving in the opposite direction, the elastic material pulling itself taut once more, tossing him unceremoniously up into the air, all flailing arms and legs, until he came down again, fully entangled this time, caught like a fish in a trawler man's drag.
Only then did he become aware of voices - gruff, male voices, jeering and laughing, which caused him to wonder what manner of men these unlooked-for saviours might be and why they had chosen to pluck him out of the sky. Rough hands gripped his limbs, pulling him towards the city walls. He was picked up and dropped, still entangled, to land painfully on the ground - more bruises to add to those already accumulated that night.
"It's only a scrawny lad," one voice said in disgust.
"Street-nick by the look of him."