Windsinger

by A. F. E. Smith

  Penn nodded. He felt stupid and light-headed. He watched the last traces of green smoke dissipate into the air from the broken glass, and thought vaguely, Poison. In a windowless room. We don’t stand much chance there.

  ‘Penn?’ Ree said in a small, wavering voice. ‘I feel strange.’

  ‘S’because it’s windowless.’ Penn squinted at her. Windowless. It reminded him of something. He took her by the hand, led her over to the far corner of the room, and pushed her down towards the ventilation block. ‘Breathe.’

  Ree lay down. He could hear her taking great gulps of air. Slowly, he slid down the wall beside her until he found himself sitting on the floor.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘You’ll be all right.’

  And he closed his eyes.

  The war had a chance of ending, but he might be the price of peace. Once Zander knew that, he found it even harder to stay in the safe house. He wanted to visit all the places in Arkannen that he’d never quite got round to seeing, before it was too late. He wanted to eat food from a street vendor and practise duelling in the fifth ring. Most of all, he wanted to spend all the time he had left with his friends. But Ree and Penn were busy, and as far as everyone else in the city was concerned he was still the enemy – and so he stayed put, feeling his entire life slipping away from him. As a result, when a message arrived from Art Bryan requesting a moment of his time, he jumped at the chance.

  He wasn’t technically allowed in the fifth ring any more, now that he’d lost his job. People were admitted through the Gate of Steel for one of three reasons: they worked in the fifth ring, they were training there, or they had legitimate business in one of the higher rings. But maybe the Watch didn’t know his status had changed, or maybe Caraway had told them he had special dispensation, because the two guards on duty didn’t try to stop him – merely greeted him in the usual way as he passed.

  Of course, he could have asked for Weaponmaster Bryan if he’d had any trouble getting in. But it was good to feel, just for a moment, as though he still belonged there.

  He found Bryan in his office, and walked in with a kind of bittersweet nostalgia already catching at his throat.

  ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’

  ‘Take a seat, boyo.’

  Zander obeyed. Bryan contemplated him in silence for a moment, before saying abruptly, ‘Tomas told me what the Kardise are likely to ask for.’

  Zander nodded.

  ‘And he told me what he said to you – that if it were him, he’d feel obliged to agree to it for the sake of peace.’

  Zander nodded again. Bryan gave a rueful chuckle.

  ‘He’s a good lad, Caraway, but he does have a tendency to be noble. There’s more than one way to do the right thing.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Zander said cautiously. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘Look,’ Bryan said. ‘I see a lot of young people in the fifth ring. And more of their lives than you’d think are shaped by what their parents want for them, rather than what they want for themselves.’

  Zander didn’t argue with that. He had only to think of his two closest friends to realise he was hardly an outlier.

  ‘Most of ’em mean well,’ Bryan added. ‘The parents, I mean. But there’s a damn fine line between guidance and control. Same as in teaching, I s’pose. And more often than not, those who fall the wrong side of it only want the best for their children.’

  Zander wasn’t at all sure that applied to his own father, who seemed far more interested in maintaining his own reputation than considering his son’s needs – but again he held his tongue.

  ‘Want to know what I tell the trainees?’ Bryan asked. ‘When they come to me for advice? I say, don’t let someone else define your choices.’ He planted a finger on the table for emphasis. ‘Ask Ree! She knows that as well as anyone. You shouldn’t have to constrain yourself just to make someone else happy.’

  ‘But it wouldn’t be to make him happy,’ Zander said. ‘It would be to stop the war.’

  ‘Only because your father has pushed that choice onto you. Your life here, or peace. The mistake you and Tomas are making is to believe that’s the only choice there is.’

  ‘You’re saying I don’t have to pick either option?’

  ‘I’m saying you find a way to make your own options.’ Bryan raised his eyebrows. ‘Have you forgotten everything you learned in training? You used to be a decent strategist, once upon a time.’

  ‘Even if you’re right, I’m not sure I’ll get the chance,’ Zander muttered. ‘I’m not likely to be consulted before they ship me off to Sol Kardis.’

  ‘Maybe not. But nothing’s ever final until we’re dead, Zander. You know that.’

  Zander wasn’t sure if the abrasive words were meant to comfort him – it wasn’t as if Bryan made a habit of being comforting – yet they did, all the same. Because the weaponmaster was right: as long as he was alive, he had options.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if I stay for a bit?’

  ‘Be my guest,’ Bryan said gruffly. ‘Plenty of jobs that need doing.’

  Zander smiled. ‘There’s nothing I’d like more.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Miles stood in the doorway of the mess hall, scanning the room as though looking for someone. The two bottles given to him by the faceless man weighted the pockets of his coat, one each side; his heart struck out a rapid drumbeat of anxiety.

  The hall was filling up tonight. Ever since the war started, the Helm had been on double patrol; more than half the sixty-strong force were present in the room, the majority of those who hadn’t gone with Ayla to Sol Kardis. The late-evening meal marked the handover between the men who had been on duty during the day and those who were taking the night watch, and Captain Caraway liked them to eat as a group. Men who might soon be fighting alongside each other needed to spend time together, he had told Miles, and this was the one opportunity they had to do it. Breakfast was a different affair, with one group leaving Darkhaven to spend a couple of days training and visiting their families, and another arriving to go on duty. But at sixth bell, when the Helm ate their final meal of the day, the tower was already locked for the night and they were free to gather.

  Of course, gathering every Helmsman in Darkhaven into a single room was madness, from a security point of view … but only if you expected treachery from within. And as far as Caraway was concerned, the traitor within the tower’s walls had already been identified.

  One or two of the Helm glanced up at Miles and lifted a hand in greeting before returning to their conversations. They were used to seeing him in the mess hall, though not so often without Art. Yet tonight, Art was down in the fifth ring training the reserves and wouldn’t be back until sometime tomorrow – for which Miles was infinitely thankful. He didn’t think he would have been able to carry out his task if Art had been there. The physician, Gil, also sat at the end of one of the tables; as Darkhaven’s main source of medical knowledge, he knew the Helm quite well and often came down to the mess hall for his meals, just as Art and Miles did. Unfortunate that he’d be caught up in this … but probably for the best, Miles told himself. The fewer people awake when the raiding party arrived, the less likely that anyone would be killed. What he planned to do to Tomas was bad enough.

  We do not want you to hurt him, the faceless man had said. It must seem as though he has neglected his duty. A sleeping draught should do it. A splash of alcohol on his clothing – he used to drink, yes? And then, you open the gate.

  But –

  But what? Your research in our service has already led to a man’s death. This is a very minor thing, in comparison.

  Miles had wanted to say that it was different. He’d wanted to say that it was worse, because Tomas was his friend, and because Tomas would never forgive himself for what it would appear he’d done. But the man hiding in the shadows of Luka’s temple would have cared nothing for that. It would have been of interest to him only as another weakness to be expl
oited.

  The same sleeping draught supplied to the mess hall will take care of the Helm, the faceless man had added. And that will make way for a small airship to land in the grounds of the tower without interference. The raiding party will be able to recover what we need from Darkhaven without any bloodshed whatsoever. That ought to please you.

  Please me? Miles had echoed. No, it does not please me.

  Perhaps he should have tried harder to rein in his sarcasm. The faceless man’s voice had dropped to a threatening growl.

  Remember your sister, Miles. Remember your lover. The Enforcers require the secret of the Change. And since you have been unable to supply it to us, we have no choice but to come and get it.

  And, of course, Miles had capitulated. He’d been able to convince himself that what he was about to do wasn’t so very bad. Certainly not on the level of allowing Mirrorvale to go to war with Sol Kardis. At least this time no-one would die – and since he was almost certain that what the raiding party seized would not, in fact, lead to the secret of the Change, it was really nothing to worry about.

  But at the very least, Parovia will make a fool of Mirrorvale, stealing into Darkhaven under the noses of the Helm. And Tomas will get the blame for it.

  ‘Sorry, mate!’ A passing Helmsman knocked his elbow. Vane, one of the youngest and newest Helmsmen: always ready with a cheerful word. Miles murmured something and shuffled a few paces into the room. His fingers crept up to touch the metal collar concealed beneath his shirt – the latest version of the one he was developing to protect ordinary people, which he wore all the time now because it made him feel safer. Then he looked around again, convinced someone must be watching him with suspicion, but no-one was paying him any attention.

  Do it now. For Mara. For Art.

  Seizing his courage, Miles crossed to the two massive kegs beside the door that led to the kitchens. Ale for the Helmsmen coming off day shift, water for those going on duty for the night; Captain Caraway was quite strict about that. In a few moments the serving staff would bring out the mugs and start filling them up, and then it would be too late.

  With a final glance over his shoulder, he prised the top off the water keg and poured the contents of one of the bottles inside, then did the same with the keg of ale. As always, a thousand doubts filled his mind. Had the faceless man got the dose right? Would it mix properly with both water and ale? Would everyone drink? If some of the Helm didn’t receive enough of the draught to fall asleep, what should he do then? Why in Luka’s name had he not thought to ask that question sooner?

  Stupid with panic, he returned to the tables and sat down next to Vane at the end of a bench. Not long afterwards, several maids emerged from the kitchens, some bearing platters of food for the tables, others with mugs which they proceeded to fill from the kegs. Miles sat in silence as the usual routine of the evening meal swirled around him: Helmsmen helping themselves to meat and bread, sharing banter with the maids, wishing each other good health as they drank. The atmosphere was one of elation. The Helm knew all about the evidence that had been sent with Naeve Sorrow to the border, and they all shared their captain’s hope that it would mean an end to the war. As a result, they drank deeply and talked to their fellows with all the carefree abandon of men who believed their lives would soon return to blessed normality.

  Miles rejected the offer of a drink, though for an instant he was tempted to take one and avoid the consequences of his actions by falling asleep with the rest of them. Instead, he crumbled bread on his plate and listened to Vane and Tulia talk. The maids left the room, the platters and mugs grew emptier, yet still nothing happened. Had the sleeping draught failed? What in Luka’s name was happening?

  Then, beside him, Vane began to choke.

  Alarmed, Miles slapped him on the back. ‘Are you all right?’

  The young Helmsman shook his head. His eyes watered. His lips were tinged blue. Miles gave him a harder bang on the back, glancing towards the end of the table where he had last seen Gil, but the physician was no longer in his seat.

  Across from Vane, Tulia took a long, wheezing breath and clutched at her throat. And as if in a nightmare, the sound began to spread. Miles looked wildly around him, but saw the same thing everywhere. People turning blue. People fighting to breathe. People dying.

  No. No, this is wrong. Horror rushed through him in a hot-and-cold wave, leaving him both sweaty and chilled. What is happening?

  He pulled himself to his feet, clamber-stumbling over a bench weighted down by gasping, choking Helmsmen. Help. I need to get help. Relief hit him as the door from the kitchens swung open and the physician re-entered the room, stopping abruptly beside the kegs as he took in the carnage. Miles tripped over his own feet in his haste to reach the man.

  ‘Gil!’ He will know what to do. He can stop it. ‘Help them. They are dying!’

  ‘Yes, I imagine they are,’ the physician said calmly, still surveying the hall. ‘Chanteuse tends to have that effect.’

  ‘What?’

  Gil turned to look at him.

  ‘I know I promised it would be without any bloodshed.’ His voice sounded both stronger and less hesitant than usual; his Mirrorvalese accent had gone, replaced by one more familiar and yet – from his lips – far more alien. ‘But I am afraid I forgot the kitchen staff.’

  Belatedly, Miles noticed the knife in the physician’s hand. The blood soaking the physician’s sleeve. Not only that, but he recognised the physician’s voice. Sometimes he heard it in his nightmares … and by now, there was no doubt that this was a nightmare.

  ‘You,’ he whispered.

  ‘For an intelligent man, you are really rather stupid,’ Gil said.

  ‘You are the faceless man?’

  ‘Evidently.’

  ‘And you have just killed …’

  ‘It was only a couple of maids,’ Gil said. ‘Waiting to clear the plates at the end of the meal. I could not have them raising the alarm.’

  ‘No.’ Miles shook his head, cold unreality creeping further over him with every breath he took. ‘This is … no.’

  With a sigh, the physician turned back the lapel of his coat to reveal the Enforcers’ token. Miles looked at it blankly, then back at his face.

  ‘But … the Helm are dying.’

  ‘Yes,’ Gil said. ‘You did a good job.’

  No. No, no, no. ‘It was meant to be a sleeping draught.’

  ‘Sleeping draughts are unreliable. You know that. It took me long enough to get your dosage right. Whereas strong poison …’ Gil shrugged. ‘That will kill anyone.’

  ‘But chanteuse?’ Miles knew all about poisons; his training had seen to that. Chanteuse was one of the many poisons that wouldn’t work on a Changer, but for most people it was a reliable path to death. It closed the airways, causing the victim to suffocate. Although there was an antidote, it had to be swallowed immediately to have any effect. ‘Did you have to –’

  ‘It had to be something fast-acting if we wanted to be sure of wiping them all out,’ the physician said. ‘But not so rapid that we ran the risk of it beginning to act before everyone had drunk.’ He gave a slight, condescending smile. ‘I assure you, Miles, I considered all the options, and this was by far the best of them.’

  Best? Best for who? Miles shook his head. ‘Why did you make me do this? Why, when you could have done it yourself –’

  ‘I would have thought the answer to that was obvious,’ Gil said. ‘In case the poison failed to work in all cases. If anyone had survived, I would have told them I saw you putting something in the kegs. You would have had no idea I was anything more than a concerned physician. And I would have been free to finish the job.’

  Miles knew he should have more questions. He should have more objections. He should be shouting, raging, running for help. But it was too late, wasn’t it? They were dead – or if not, they soon would be – and he was the one who had killed them. If he had only checked the contents of those bottles …

  The
knowledge settled on him like a shroud, leaving him numb – as though he had died alongside the Helmsmen and was just waiting for his body to stop working. Gods forgive me.

  ‘Now,’ Gil said, picking up a discarded cup and filling it with water from the poisoned keg. ‘Anyone who could have interfered is out of action, but we have one more obstacle to deal with.’

  Does he mean I have to drink it myself? Miles wondered. The prospect didn’t seem so bad. Enforced suicide would at least be an end. But the physician shook his head as if he knew what Miles was thinking.

  ‘Captain Caraway. He is still on lookout.’

  ‘And you want me to frame him …’ Miles began, but even as the words left his lips, he knew they were wrong. If the faceless man had lied about everything else, no doubt he had lied about that too. And sure enough, Gil sighed.

  ‘Of course not. What would be the point?’

  ‘You want me to kill him.’ Experimentally, Miles dug the nails of one hand into his palm, but he was still numb. Why was he so numb?

  ‘Technically he will kill himself,’ Gil replied. ‘Simply carry the drink to him, then take the key to the postern gate from his pocket once he is dead.’

  ‘You could do it yourself,’ Miles shot back, but Gil only laughed.

  ‘He trusts you.’

  Yes. He does. The thought was enough to lift the numb clouds that had settled on him, a little. Then … I will warn him. Tell him what has happened. Tell him not to drink. And the two of us together will overcome Gil …

  ‘In case you are getting any bright ideas,’ the physician added, ‘you should be aware that I have sent an assassin after your weaponmaster. He can be stopped only by a single command, and once Caraway is out of the way I will tell you what it is. Understand?’

  You want me to choose between Tomas and Art. Between Darkhaven and Art. Miles nodded. It was no more than the same choice he’d been making since he first found out who was behind the ambassador’s death. And once again, he couldn’t help but choose love.