Windsinger

by A. F. E. Smith

  Of course, she was far too short to do it alone; that went without saying. She didn’t think even Penn could have stretched that high. And standing on the bench wouldn’t help much either. Standing on Penn’s shoulders, on the other hand …

  ‘Penn.’ She crouched down beside him and shook him again. ‘I need you.’

  No answer. She put a hand on his chest to make sure he was still breathing, suppressing a sob of frustration. He needed more air, to clear the poison out of his system. If she could get the hatch open, that might be enough. But she couldn’t get it open without him.

  Unless …

  She was going to have to shoot it open.

  You can’t, her inner critic said promptly. You know how abysmal your aim is. And it was true, even after years of practice. She carried a pistol, as all the Helmsmen did, but it might as well have been a stick for all the good she could do with it.

  Still, it didn’t make any difference. She had to get that hatch open. And since Penn couldn’t do it, that made her the only chance they had.

  No pressure, then.

  Ree looked again at the latch, but it seemed impossibly small and far away. Surely she’d never be able to fire a pistol with enough precision to break it and open the hatch. She was more likely to shoot herself – or Penn. And since they wore firearms for defence and deterrence, rather than in order to get involved in a gunfight, they didn’t tend to carry the accoutrements around with them. The single bullet in Ree’s pistol was the only chance she’d have.

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then, lifting the pistol, she aimed and fired. The bullet punched a neat hole in the centre of the hatch.

  ‘Shit.’ Ree stared at the pistol in her shaking hands. I’m sorry, Penn.

  ‘Ree.’ To her surprise, Penn said her name quite clearly. Perhaps the little bit of air coming through the ventilation block was having an effect. She looked down at him, and saw that he was gesturing at the pistol in his own belt.

  As she took it, he mumbled, ‘You’ve got this.’

  ‘But I –’

  ‘Ree.’ His hand moved jerkily until it found hers. She felt the tremor in it. There went any lingering hope that he might make a swift and startling recovery in time to take over the job from her. ‘Better’n you think you are. Just take your time.’

  She straightened. Took aim. Hesitated. But what if I don’t –

  You’ve got this.

  The shot rang out. The hatch fell open, showering dust and cobwebs onto her upturned face. She blinked and spat, but she couldn’t help grinning. I actually bloody did it.

  ‘Knew you could,’ Penn mumbled. She got her shoulder under one of his arms and dragged him upright, using the wall as a support on his other side, until he was standing in the draught of fresh air. As soon as he felt up to it, they’d be able to escape.

  In the end, they dragged the bench under the hatch and climbed onto it. Penn boosted Ree up through the gap, before hauling himself out after her. The room they were in now appeared deserted: no furniture, just bare floorboards and more dust. And outside –

  ‘It’s dark,’ Ree said incredulously.

  ‘Mmm.’ Penn still seemed dazed, but he was talking normally again now and breathing easily rather than in gasps, so that was a big improvement. ‘Better get up to Darkhaven and tell the captain what happened. You still got the plans?’

  ‘Yep.’ She bumped him with her elbow. ‘Hey, you know what this means, don’t you?’

  ‘What?’

  She smirked. ‘You can never tease me about my aim again.’

  Caraway’s head was throbbing, and he was lying on cold stone, and for a moment he couldn’t work out where he was. On a street somewhere in the first ring, perhaps. He’d drunk too much and passed out again. That must be it. But then he moved, an involuntary twitch, and though it sent renewed agony sloshing through his skull, it also triggered blooms of memory. Ayla. The children. His captaincy. The entire mundane beauty of his life. He didn’t drink. He never drank. This was something else.

  He forced his thoughts back through the pain to the last clear moment he could remember, which was the day shift coming off duty. After that it was all fog, but surely … he would have gone to watch the gate, as he did every evening. Yes. He remembered it now. He’d watched the sun setting over the city. Thought some philosophical nonsense about beauty enduring even in wartime or … he wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. But he’d been alone. No reason there for his pitiable state now.

  Alone, until …

  Miles.

  Miles had given him something to knock him out.

  Miles was a traitor.

  And there had been a light, out on the hillside where no lights should be. A light approaching through the darkness, without hesitation, as if its owners knew there would be nothing to stand in their way.

  Darkhaven had been compromised.

  Which meant the children –

  He was on his feet before his body had time to protest, but it made up for that an instant later. He slumped against the wall, breathing hard, as coloured swirls filled his vision and the vice tightened on his brain until he had nothing left but the single basic drive to remain conscious. Yet after an eternity, the pressure eased and he found himself still standing. So that was something.

  He kept blinking, and finally the dizzy colours faded to reveal a narrow walkway and a waist-high wall. The lookout post. They hadn’t moved him. They’d left him where Miles had let him fall. Maybe that meant they thought he was dead. Or maybe it meant they didn’t care, because they’d already achieved their purpose.

  Marlon and the girls. Are they captured? Are they hurt? Are they –

  With a vast and painful effort of will, he pushed the questions aside. He had to keep going. He had no alternative. If there was any chance …

  Focus. One step at a time. His first task would be to draw his sword. His second task would be to descend the stair into the courtyard. His third task would be not to fall over while carrying out either of the previous two tasks. He’d think beyond that once he got there.

  Unfortunately, he soon discovered that task one was going to be impossible. He got the weapon out of its scabbard, but lifting it was another thing entirely. His fingers were numb and weak. His arms shook as soon as he put the muscles under any strain. If he met anyone who showed signs of wanting to dispatch him, the sword would be a liability rather than an asset. He fumbled it back into place, trying not to think about how easy he currently was to kill, and decided to concentrate on task two. Walking downstairs. Surely I can manage that.

  By the time he’d taken the five or six jarring steps to the top of the stair, he was beginning to think he didn’t stand any chance at all. Each step sent renewed waves of agony washing over him. It was worse than the worst hangover he’d ever had – and back then, he’d simply curled up in whatever dilapidated corner he had access to and slept it off. Every single part of his body was begging him now to do the same, telling him he just had to lie down and rest …

  Screw my former self, Caraway thought. And screw Miles’s bloody sleeping potion. We’re talking about my children.

  He gritted his teeth and forced himself down the staircase, swearing under his breath at each jolt. By the time he reached the bottom, he’d broken into a cold sweat all over.

  This is no good. I’m about as much use as a newborn foal.

  He tried to keep moving, but instead he found the ground coming up to meet him. Fuck. He caught himself on splayed palms, the impact vibrating up his arms and eliciting another swirl of painful darkness inside his head. His ears rang in the silence.

  Silence.

  Why was it so quiet? Where were the Helm? Surely if an invading force was trying to take Darkhaven, he should be able to hear resistance. They wouldn’t just roll over and let the enemy win! They’d defend the tower to their last breath, as was their duty.

  Unless they were incapacitated, just as he was. If an alchemist could brew one sleepin
g draught, he could brew thirty.

  Caraway cursed aloud, long and low and bitter; and in answer, he heard a faint groan coming from the shadows at the foot of the main gate. He didn’t think he could stand again, not yet, so he drew a small knife before crawling in the direction of the sound. His hands found the slick of warm blood on stone, then the bulk of a body. Someone was lying there, abandoned in the darkness. Caraway touched the man’s chest and felt the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. Wounded, but alive.

  ‘Who are you?’ he muttered. Sitting back on his heels, he grabbed the torch from his belt with his free hand and flicked the sparker with his thumb. The wavering flame cast a small light into the night, shaping the wounded man’s face in peaks and hollows. Caraway recoiled.

  ‘Miles …’

  ‘I am … sorry … Tomas.’ The alchemist’s voice was a hoarse whisper. Caraway propped the torch against the wall and grabbed him by the shirt-front, yanking the man up with all the limited strength he possessed to be menaced by the knifepoint in his other hand.

  ‘Fuck your sorry! I don’t need sorry! Where are my men?’

  ‘Dead,’ Miles gasped. ‘Poison, in the mess hall –’

  ‘My children?’

  ‘Taken.’

  ‘Taken where? Damn you, taken where?’

  ‘Parovia.’

  Miles sagged, a sigh escaping his lips as he lost consciousness again. Something small and bloody fell from his hand: the key to the postern gate. The one he’d taken from Caraway’s pocket.

  Down in the sixth ring, the temple bells tolled seven slow, solemn notes. Midnight. Caraway swore under his breath. They were into the seventh bell, now, the double-length period that would take them all the way to morning and the first bell of a new day. He’d lost nearly a whole bell already. And with every chime, his children were being carried further from him …

  Rage and horror rose in him like a dark, destroying flood. His hand tightened on the knife. It would be so easy to drive it home. There could be no doubt that the man in front of him deserved it. So easy …

  Too easy.

  ‘Fuck you, Miles,’ he snarled, letting the alchemist’s head bang back down onto the stone. ‘You don’t get to die.’

  Of course, he might not have any control over that. The man had lost a lot of blood. But all the same, he took off his own shirt and cut it into strips. A tourniquet for the leg wound. A staunch for the gut wound. When he was satisfied that he’d stopped the flow, he sat back against the wall beside the flickering torch and, finally, let his tears of despair fall.

  Dead. All those Helmsmen. He had known every single one of those men as if they were his brothers, and not just because it was his job. Miles had wiped them out, without even allowing them the dignity of fighting back. And the children –

  Caraway found he had leaned in towards Miles, knuckles white on the hilt of his knife. Although everything in him screamed for revenge, he forced himself to sheathe the weapon and sit back against the wall. As soon as he had enough energy, as soon as his head cleared and his limbs worked properly, he’d be going after his children. And he intended to use Miles to do it.

  Marlon. Katya. Wyrenne. He tried not to think about their fear, because that would only destroy him. Instead, he repeated their names over and over, silently, as if somehow they might know he was thinking of them and be comforted by it. Marlon. Katya. Wyrenne. They were alive, at least. If Parovia wanted them dead, they’d already be dead. And that meant he still had a chance.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Penn kept pace with Art Bryan as they walked through the Gate of Death and began to climb the hill towards Darkhaven. He and Ree had intended to bring along any Helmsmen they came across on their way through the fifth ring, in case what they’d uncovered proved to be serious enough to require the presence of the entire Helm, but instead they’d found Bryan and Zander. Penn wasn’t sure whether either of them would be much help, but he had to admit it was reassuring to have them along. His lungs still didn’t feel quite right, and Ree sounded hoarse too, so it was good to have people with them who were at full fighting strength.

  ‘You definitely agree this can’t wait till morning?’ he muttered to Bryan.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Bryan replied. ‘But there’s no harm in taking it now. Your captain’ll be awake anyway, no doubt. He doesn’t sleep much at the moment.’

  Penn nodded. To be honest, he always found it odd when people could sleep a whole night through. It was as though they didn’t have anything to worry about.

  He glanced up at Darkhaven. Though the seventh bell had rung, light still blazed from the mess hall windows. That was odd. And he couldn’t make out any guards at the various lookout points around the outside of the tower. Still, the main gates were closed, just as they should be, and all seemed quiet and still. Perhaps the Helmsmen on night duty had been called away for some reason. No cause for alarm, necessarily – but his spine prickled, all the same.

  The postern gate was locked, as he would have expected at this time of night, but there should have been a guard in place above it. Still, Bryan was one of the few people entrusted with a key. He pulled it out of his pocket, muttering something under his breath at the awkwardness of it in the dark, and fumbled it into the lock.

  As soon as the gate swung open, they saw the flickering light of the torch across the central square. And the body it illuminated. And the man slumped against the wall beside it as if his bones had lost all rigidity. He lifted his head at their approach, revealing a face streaked with dirt and blood and … tears?

  ‘Ree … Penn … you’re alive. Thank all the elements for that.’

  ‘Captain Caraway?’ Penn dropped to a crouch beside him. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He told me the Helm were dead. But I forgot that some of you, at least, were outside the tower.’ Caraway grabbed Penn’s shoulders, searching his face. ‘Did you see any more –’

  His gaze slid past Penn to Bryan, and sudden horror widened his eyes. ‘Art. Don’t – Miles –’

  Penn glanced back over his shoulder, and for the first time recognised the body on the ground. Bryan saw him at the same moment. He pushed past Ree and dropped to his knees beside Miles, cradling the alchemist’s head on his lap, heedless of the blood.

  ‘He’s alive,’ Caraway said. ‘I did the best I could. But –’

  Bryan looked up, murder in his eyes. ‘Who did this, Tomas?’

  ‘One of his fellow Parovians, I suppose,’ Caraway said wearily. ‘He’s a traitor, Art. He poisoned me. He poisoned the Helm –’

  ‘No.’ Bryan’s denial was instant. He stood, taking a step towards Caraway, hands balling into fists. ‘You’ve got it wrong. You’re lying –’

  ‘Art, please.’ The captain struggled to his feet in turn, using Penn’s proffered arm as a crutch. His voice started soft, but as he spoke it rose in volume and intensity until he was almost shouting. ‘My men are dead. My children are gone. I can’t walk ten paces without falling down. I know it hurts, and I’m sorry, but you have to believe me when I say I’m pretty fucking sure about this!’

  They stared at each other. Penn could feel how heavily Caraway was leaning on him; if the captain and the weaponmaster came to blows right now, Bryan would surely come out on top. Desperately, he fought to understand what had happened.

  The Helm are dead.

  The children are gone.

  How –

  The Windsinger. It hit him with full force. This was what he and Ree had feared when they saw the plans, though at the time they hadn’t known exactly what or who to be afraid for. But if the Nightshade children had been taken, that must be how.

  Penn gazed at Bryan, willing him to understand. They’d told him what they’d found. He must understand its significance. Yet the weaponmaster looked close to breaking, and if he did … Penn exchanged a silent glance with Ree. The two of them would stand with their captain, if necessary. But then Bryan’s fists unclenched, and deep devastation touched a face that lo
oked suddenly old.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to get my children back,’ Caraway said. ‘Art, listen. I know this is a shock. I know you’re grieving. But I don’t have time for any of that. I need information from him, and you’re the best person to get it.’

  Bryan closed his eyes. His voice was a hoarse whisper. ‘All right.’

  ‘What do you want us to do, Captain?’ Ree asked quietly. Caraway looked up and gave her a grateful nod.

  ‘Ree. I need you to go back down to the fifth ring and find any more of the Helm who weren’t in the tower when – when it happened. This is going to be a stealth mission, I think, but a few more men would be welcome. And I’d like to know …’ He glanced down at his shaking hands for a moment, before curling them into fists. ‘I’d like to know that some of them survived.’

  Ree nodded. Tears shone in her eyes. Penn knew how she felt. After two years in the Helm, he and Ree had become close to the rest of the men. The idea that most of them were now dead was too large and too terrible to comprehend.

  ‘Penn,’ the captain continued. ‘I’m sorry, but I need you to check over the tower. Confirm that the nursery is empty. Make sure the Parovians are really gone, that I won’t be leaving Darkhaven in enemy hands. Go to the mess hall and see – see if anyone is still alive in there …’ He shook his head, swearing under his breath. ‘I’d do it all myself, if I had the strength. But I haven’t. I just haven’t.’

  ‘It’s all right, Captain Caraway,’ Penn said. His palms were already sweating at the prospect of having to walk into the mess hall and look – but Caraway was right. It had to be done. ‘You can count on me.’

  ‘First, though,’ Ree added, ‘I think we’d better give you this.’ She reached into her pocket and pulled out the messily folded plans she’d snatched from the basement. ‘Long story, but if the children are gone … well, Penn and I have reason to believe this is where they’re being taken. The Windsinger.’