The captain’s musty office hummed with the stench of melting varnish. Palin, a tall, chiselled man with bushy eyebrows and vehemently receding hairline, was busy tidying his desk. He looked dressed for the road, white britches tucked into knee-high riding boots. After a moment scanning Guyen’s papers, he motioned for him to take a seat.
“So, think you’re cut out for Military Intelligence, do you?” His tone was brisk, no-nonsense, army fashion.
“I will do my best, sir,” Guyen replied.
“How are you with birds?”
That was a strange question. “Sir? Er, I like them?”
Palin nodded. “Good, because I’m sending you to the hawkery. You will assist Lieutenant Bayers intercepting messages passing over the city. The enemy fly Blackcaps east to west. There’s been a significant increase in communications recently.” Someone knocked at the door. “Enter!” he barked.
The door opened, and the familiar outline of a cadet appeared. Fuck. Not him. The scrag’s red and white uniform was pressed to within an inch of its seams, every silver button gleaming. Rossi stared back in disbelief.
“Come in, cadet,” Palin instructed.
Rossi marched up to the desk and gave a smart salute. “Reporting as ordered, captain.”
“Good. Always on time, I like that.” Palin waved a hand. “This Maker is serving under Intelligence for a while. Rossi meet Yorkov. Yorkov, Rossi.”
“We are familiar,” Guyen said.
“You are?” He shrugged it off. “Rossi, you’re babysitting, don’t let him out of your sight, and be sure to eject him from the environs before Ordinate curfew. No offence, Maker.”
“None taken, sir,” Guyen said. Offence wasn’t an emotion worth finding energy for.
Palin picked up his riding gloves. “You are both to assist Bayers at the hawkery today, he’s shorthanded.”
“The hawkery, sir?” Rossi’s voice pinged with annoyance. “I thought we’d be out on operations.”
Palin shook his head. “No time today, cadet. I have to get to the border. There’s been an incident.”
Rossi’s interest piqued. “What sort of incident, sir?”
Palin strapped on his sword. “We’ve lost Twelfth Company of the Drazic Fusiliers.”
“Lost, sir? As in—” Rossi hesitated. “Dead, sir?”
Palin nodded sombrely.
“The whole company?”
“Yes,” Palin snapped. He looked tired, under stress.
“But how?”
“I don’t know yet, cadet. They were murdered while they slept.”
“Infiltrated, sir?”
“Which part of don’t know yet do you not understand, Rossi?”
“Sorry, sir. Just trying to be useful.”
“Follow your orders, cadet. That’s all you need to do. Then I can report back to your father that you serve the Devotion with flying colours. I assume you’d prefer that?”
“Yes, sir.” Rossi saluted again.
Palin frowned. “Why are you still here?”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Rossi turned and glared. “Follow me,” he muttered.
Guyen closed the door behind them and trailed in silence, letting Toulesh remonstrate unseen with the bastard on his behalf. It was like some accursed dream, in tow to that scrag. Of all the people he could have been paired with! Still, maybe this was the chance he’d waited for all these months, an opportunity to get his revenge. But could he afford the luxury? He needed to avoid trouble if he was to make Yemelyan’s patch serum. Still, if an accident were to befall the red-jacketed arse, he couldn’t be held responsible for that, could he?
They turned past a parade ground, skirting a line of rusty cannon. “What are you doing here, gutterfill?” Rossi demanded.
Guyen fixed him with a dark look. “Ordinates take service with every Devotion, arsehole.”
Rossi sneered. “I know that, idiot. I mean, how are you even at the Devotions in the first place?”
“The Makers headhunted me, if you must know.”
“Pah!” He spat on the ground. “What could they possibly want with you?”
“I have unique qualities.”
“Horseshit! What’s really going on?”
“What’s going on with you?” Guyen returned. “I thought War Devotion only sent for the best of the best.” It was no use, he couldn’t hold it in. “You know my brother’s still ill?” he spat.
Stony silence.
“It wasn’t my fault the bridge fell down,” Rossi muttered.
“If you hadn’t attacked us, we wouldn’t have been there when it did. You were going to stab him.”
“It was a fair fight, Yorkov.”
“You had a blade.”
“I lost my damn horse.”
“That’s just a horse, you bastard.”
“It wasn’t just a horse. It was a thoroughbred gelding.”
How did you not punch the arrogant scrag in the back of the head? “Let’s make the day easier on both of us,” Guyen growled, “and skip the small talk.”
Rossi snorted a mirthless laugh. “Suits me.”
They continued the tour of Garrison in silence. The estate was vast, on par with the Makers—a covered arena, training courses for simulating street fighting, target ranges, storage and loading yards, several barracks, and stables housing hundreds of horses. They headed up a wooded hill. The trees broke at the top, revealing a patch of grass and a large hut inside a picketed enclosure, cawing emanating from within. They pushed through the door. Cages lined the walls, inside them various birds of prey. A square-headed man with cropped brown hair perched on a stool, a kestrel resting on his gloved hand.
He looked up. “Yes?” His eyes were as beady as his bird’s.
Rossi saluted. “Good morning, sir. Captain Palin sent us to assist you.”
“Who’s this?” He waved at Guyen.
“This is Yorkov, sir. Maker on Ordinate service.”
“Yorkov? What kind of name’s that?”
“He’s from Krell, sir.” Rossi’s nostrils flared like he gutted rotten fish. Guyen sent him a withering glare.
Bayers sighed. “Have either of you handled birds before?”
“Yes, sir.” Rossi beamed. “Best shot on my father’s estate five years in a row, sir.”
“That wasn’t what I meant. What about you, Krellen?”
This probably wasn’t the time to mention being a dab hand at a blackbird stew. “I can recognise most species, sir,” Guyen said. “But I have no experience handling birds of prey.” White shit covered every surface in the stinking hut. This wasn’t what he’d had in mind when he’d signed up for Intelligence.
Bayers slipped down from his stool. The kestrel flapped its wings for balance. “We’ll start with the basics then,” he grumbled. “Take a glove each.” He nodded at some falconry equipment laid out on pegs on the timber wall. They each put on a leather gauntlet. He took two hooded birds from their cages, placing them on the gloves. Guyen’s larger bird, a Red Talon, was magnificent, its rust-coloured feathers highlighted with speckled white and cream dots. Rossi’s brown Goshawk was rather plainer.
“You’ll need these too.” Bayers handed them whistles. “They’re different pitches, matched to each raptor—that’s what we call hunting falcons. Right, outside!”
It was gone tenth hour. Guyen stared up at the grey-blue sky, wispy clouds shielding the worst of the sun’s burn for now. He let Toulesh roam, and he rose several feet on the breeze. Did he actually feel the wind? Why did simulacra have to be so mysterious? If only people discussed them. But they generally vanished by the age of five, and who remembered that far back? Still, that crone from the Assignments Office had kept hers. How many other adults walked around with apparitions but were too afraid to say?
Bayers looked over. “Do I have your attention, Yorkov?”
Reality snapped back. “Yes, sir.”
“Good, then I shall demonstrate.” He unclipped his kestrel’s leash. The bird flutte
red off his glove, clear understanding between them, and shot up into the sky. “Our avian training here is second to none,” Bayers explained. “We teach them to respond to a specific whistle, rather than imprinting them to a handler. One whistle tells the bird to attack, two whistles calls it back to the glove. Any half-competent can control them.”
He gave a single whistle, and the bird changed trajectory, swooping down to snatch a passing starling in its talons. He blew the whistle twice, and the bird returned, dropping its dead prey at his feet. It settled gracefully on his glove, and he rewarded it with a mealworm. It was an impressive display.
“That was just to show you the ropes,” he said. “I don’t want a pile of useless vermin in the barrel, Blackcaps only. And I expect at least three each or you’ll both be on report.” He threw the dead bird in the empty barrel in front of them. “Blackcaps fly high, so let the raptors circle. They’ll attack anything fast-moving, but target the nearest flyer, so timing’s critical. Right, let’s see if you can get them to return to the glove. You first, Maker.”
Rossi tutted. Toulesh scowled at him. Bloody entitled arse.
Guyen shook his glove and the Red Talon took off. It rocketed eastwards, gaining altitude, and circled. What an awesome sight the Feyrlands must be from up there. To be that free…
“Right, now bring her home,” Bayers instructed.
Guyen blew his whistle twice and the Red Talon dived towards them, swooping low enough over the hill to make them duck. It made no attempt to land on the glove however, preferring to shoot back up into the sky. Bayers didn’t look impressed. Rossi smirked. Perhaps the whistle hadn’t been right? Guyen cursed under his breath and tried again. This time the bird landed. He petted it, offering it a mealworm. Maybe he could build a rapport with the creature?
Bayers looked at Rossi. “Your turn, cadet.”
Rossi removed the Goshawk’s hood, slipped the leash and shook his glove. The bird flapped its wings but went nowhere. “Get off, stupid thing,” he muttered.
“Try a grub,” Bayers suggested.
“Yes, sir.” Rossi hung a mealworm in front of the bird’s face and threw it up. The Goshawk jumped from the glove, plucked the worm from mid-air, and soared. It circled the city, a majestic brown streak.
“Right, now bring her back,” Bayers said.
Rossi blew the whistle, then danced around waving his glove. The goshawk dived towards them, circled the hut once, losing speed, and fluttered gracefully down onto the gauntlet. “Ha! First time,” he gloated. “That’s how you do it, gutterfill.”
“If you say so,” Guyen sniffed. The cadet was a twenty-four carat turd.
After another hour’s practise, the lieutenant decided they were half-competent. “That will do,” he said. “Now we wait for a Blackcap.” And wait they did. Eventually, he saw what he was looking for, pointing out a small black dot in the sky.
“How can you tell it’s a Blackcap, sir?” Rossi asked doubtfully.
“Height, trajectory, speed,” Bayers growled. “Quick now, let them up.”
They released the raptors. The birds soared, rapidly gaining height until they circled just beneath the clouds. At Bayers’ nod, Rossi blew his whistle. The Goshawk turned but headed in the wrong direction. Rossi threw his hands up in disgust. “What is it doing?”
Bayers sighed. “Geese.”
He was right—a small V-formation crossed the horizon. The Goshawk attacked, dragging the leading bird towards the ground. The geese closed formation around it and the birds blended into a single blot in the sky. The hawk gave up, circling higher again.
Bayers shook his head in despair. “You try, Yorkov.”
“Yes, sir.” Guyen blew his whistle. The Talon was either more intelligent or closer to its prey. Within seconds, it was on the Blackcap. He blew the whistle twice, and the Talon dived towards them, obediently dropping the dead bird at his feet. It fluttered back onto the glove.
“Impressive, Maker.” Bayers nodded approvingly. Now it was Guyen’s turn to grin sarcastically at Rossi. The lieutenant inspected the bird’s leg for a message capsule. “Not this one,” he said, “but you get the idea?”
“Yes, sir,” Guyen returned brightly. Rossi grumbled his assent.
“Good, I have to be somewhere,” Bayers said. “Remember, at least three Blackcaps each, or it’s a strike on your records.” He threw the bird corpse in the barrel. “That one doesn’t count!” he grunted, and trudged back into the hut to re-home his kestrel. He disappeared off down the hill.
The raptors flew ever larger circles around the city for a good ten minutes, as Rossi’s mood darkened. “Well, this is fun!” he muttered. “I expect you’re missing those foundry fumes, pigswill?”
“Your breath makes up for it.”
“Hilarious.”
Guyen snorted. He wasn’t in jovial mood. Not with the sneering face of his most loathsome enemy for company. Perhaps he could wind him up—it was a bit of fun if nothing else. “Why don’t we make things more interesting,” he suggested. “A silver says I catch more than you.” This was one bet he’d win.
“You’re on,” Rossi snorted. He put his whistle to his lips and blew. The Goshawk dived.
As predicted, the sky turned blue and the sun beat down, but at least there was a breeze up here. The hill summited above the smog line and if you screwed up your eyes, you’d be forgiven for thinking you lived above the dirty grey clouds. If not for the acidic company, it would have been a day to savour, but detesting each other’s company wasn’t the only thing they had in common—neither of them had any Talent for falconry. The trouble was not so much controlling the raptors as intercepting the right birds. An hour later, a pile of dead starlings, thrushes and pigeons filled the barrel. Rossi stood over it, his Goshawk perched on the rim, guarding its booty.
“We should hide them,” he said, staring at the useless carcasses.
“Then Bayers will think we’ve done nothing at all,” Guyen pointed out.
“It will just aggravate him if he sees this pile of vermin,” Rossi countered.
Guyen tapped the barrel. “The only way he’ll be happy is if we fill this thing with Blackcaps. We need to be a bit cleverer. If only we were better at identifying them.”
Rossi swore. “It’s impossible to see what they are all the way up there.” He manhandled the Goshawk onto his gauntlet. “I need food. Let’s go get lunch.”
Now that did sound like a good idea.
They re-caged their birds and Rossi led the way down the hill to the mess hall, a similar affair to Makers’ refectory. Guyen grabbed a tray and sat on his own, leaving Rossi laughing and joking with several deferential cadets, his squad presumably. The other War Devotees in attendance found plenty of hard stares to send, but Guyen met them purposefully. Bitterness and resentment were better company than those bastards. And he had plenty of company today, mulling over what had become of his life, wondering whether Mother had received his letter yet. What was he doing here? His whole life was a mess. And the madness wasn’t helping. He loosed Toulesh to prowl along the serving counter, the clamour rising again. There had to be a better way to control his hallucinations. Summoning the simulacrum to extinguish them felt wrong.
Rossi left with his cohorts, leaving Guyen wandering back up to the hawkery on his own. He poked about, inspecting the falconry equipment, thoughts wandering to the last chapter in Milkins again. There had to be a way to persuade Nyra to help make Yemelyan’s cure. But how?
Rossi appeared at the door, an eyeglass in hand. “Good, you’re here,” he declared.
“Where did you think I’d be?” Guyen said. “What’s that for?”
Rossi tapped the eyeglass on his leg. “An advantage. I borrowed it from Palin’s office. Naturally, I’ll be in charge of looking through it.”
“You can’t even identify the damn things.”
“I found it, I’m using it. That’s all there is to it.”
“Fill your boots,” Guyen grizzled, doubtful it
would make any difference.
They re-gloved and began again, and with the help of the eyeglass, success rates improved immediately. By late afternoon they’d intercepted six Blackcaps between them, three each, but none carrying any messages. Guyen wrung the neck of their latest feathered victim. Somehow, it had survived the Talon’s claws. He threw it in the barrel with the others and slumped down on the grass beside Rossi, considering their bet.
“I will have that silver,” he muttered. “You got lucky so far.”
“If you say so, gutterfill.”
Guyen closed his eyes, vision turning pink as the sunlight warmed his skin. He opened them a moment later and squinted up at the sky, scanning the horizon for activity. Life was sparse up there. A formation of geese flew by, starlings, larks, then nothing for ages. Thoughts turned to Yemelyan, and then sourly to Rossi’s perfect family. Why couldn’t the arse appreciate what he had? Toulesh sprawled between them, the cadet lying on his back, knees up, shirt open, red jacket discarded on the grass beside him. Rossi took a swig of water and scowled over. “What were you doing talking to Ariana at Congress?”
“Telling her to steer clear of you,” Guyen sniped.
“You two have nothing in common.”
“Actually, we endured a lot on the way here.”
Rossi snorted. “Like what?”
“We were attacked. Barely—” A trail of bronze light shot through the sky in the west. That was odd. Guyen sat up. “Pass me the eyeglass.” Rossi rolled it over. There, a bird, far away, but a possible Blackcap. Something about it stood out. Something ineffable. The wind whistled, no, not wind, the air was still as a lake, that was the clamour. He let his focus slip, and the whistling became a whine as the view through the eyeglass changed, the sky fading to black as the bronze trail seared his vision. Alarmed, he pulled the glass back. The world blurred. He was Faze seeing again. He hadn’t meant to. His heart beat faster, hands clamming over. Panicking, he summoned Toulesh. The simulacrum folded in and the clamour died away as the world came back into focus.
He scrambled to his feet, pointing up at the sky. “There. That one. It has a message.”
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