Cloudwalkers

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  Twenty minutes later, showered and dressed in a clean shirt and kilt—his rackstaff tethered to his belt next to his sporran—Conn descended the Empire State’s inner stairwell, taking the steps three at a time. Hardly winded, he bounded out the main entrance into a glorious, sunny day. There was excitement in the air, as dozens of septs prepared for the Open-Air Fair Jamboree that coincided with the opening of the Skylander Games Gala, later in the day. In the distance, he could see even bigger crowds of people near the Skylander Town Square Bell Tower, where they were setting up stalls and spaces for the main fair. For the next three days, all cicerones’ duties were suspended; Midtown life atop the cloudbank would be completely devoid of Grounders.

  Well, thought Conn, thinking of Misty. All except for one.

  Conn jumped out of the way as a bright-red slipskid sled, pushed by two brawny septs, whisked past him, nearly flattening him. Wheels of any sort were useless on the cloudbank. Sleds, with their runners, moved much more smoothly, and didn’t cause the deep, long lasting ruts that wheels left along the cloudbank’s surface. He watched as the slipskid came to an abrupt stop ahead, its two sept drivers hurrying to unload its cargo. Piece by piece, the high-stacked lengths of Ragoon timber would soon take shape into one of many concession stands or market booths.

  Easily spotted in the crowds were the Cloudwalker Tamachins. A special function for retired, mostly-elderly Cloudwalkers, many of them were hunched over and slow moving. On their heads, they wore special clan-tartan berets, each embellished with a large, brightly colored, pigeon feather. The Cloudwalker Tamachins, with their trusty rackstaffs, typically roamed about during all such festivities where septs might mistakenly wander into unsafe quickfall areas. They marked out safe spaces of cloudbank before crowds arrived, and kept watch to make sure everyone stayed safe. The Tamachins took great pride in their role, but Conn knew, from first-hand experience, they could sometimes be mean, bossy old farts when patrolling their routes or manning their posts.

  Conn strode north, farther into the hustle and bustle, where a good number of booths had already been set up. Open crates, full of brightly colored fruits, vegetables, and an assortment of plump mushrooms were being positioned onto display tables. Whoof! Whoof! Whoof! Bright yellow flames suddenly shot high into the air on his right. A series of ChemBurn burners had been ignited, one after another. Conn eyed a nearby cage, full of squawking pigeons. “Sorry guys,” he said to the caged birds. “Things aren’t looking too good for you.”

  Music began to fill the air. Nearby was a seated group of musicians, mostly playing string instruments such as violins and cellos, though Conn spotted a flute or two, and several clarinets in the mix. By the sound of things, the group would need every minute of practice time before things really got started later in the afternoon.

  Conn waved and nodded, seeing one familiar smiling face after another. Pastry chefs and grocers, candlestick makers and fabric weavers, merchant guildsmen and bookkeepers, cobblers and brewers—regular folks he’d known his whole life, many since childhood. He’d sustained friendships with them, even after sept interactions were frowned upon by the upper class clan gentry. He couldn’t care less about such snooty nonsense. Up ahead in the near distance a large red and white tent was being raised; twenty men held ropes, positioned around the perimeter, and pulled and hoisted in unison. Their loud grunts carried across the white dunes. The outdoor fields, one hundred yards beyond, were correctly marked and delineated with long, tapered flags on posts that snapped and whipped high overhead, as brisk, briny-smelling winds blew in from the Atlantic.

  Conn, no longer walking, first began to jog, then ran full-out toward the distant fields. Competing clan athletes were there early, practicing for their featured events. It occurred to him he should have awakened a good hour earlier. Maybe even two. He passed by huddled groups of both male and female competitors. Their multi-colored tartan kilts blazed notably against the white cloudbank and the vivid blue sky. Shit! His own clan team members were already here.

  Conn’s brother, Michael—one of their team captains—stood upon a wooden crate, addressing the rapt, attentive Brataich competitors. A good many of his fellow Cloudwalkers, who also were Skylander athletes, stood around him. With very few exceptions, the assembled men and women were the biggest, strongest, and most badass Skylanders atop the bank. They had to be in order to duel with rackstaffs, or toss a nineteen-and-a-half foot long, one hundred and seventy-five pound caber across the field. In old time Scotland, during the original Highlander Games before the Ruin, the caber was typically made from a Larch tree. These days, a Ragoon tree, stripped of its branches, was used instead.

  Conn caught Toag’s eye. Halfway around the now huddled group on the other side, his brow noticeably furrowed, and he shot Conn a disapproving glance. Several other players cast similar glares his way.

  “Now that my brother has finally graced us with his presence, we can review a few last minute changes to the roster,” Michael said. “McCaslin, you’ll be second in the caber toss event tomorrow . . .”

  Conn only half-listened to his brother’s ramblings. Truth was, he was only competing in one event: a solo Dueling Lockwood’s Match. There was little expectation he would win, or even place amongst the top two or three competitors. Last year’s win, he knew full well, was a complete stroke of luck on his part. The problem was not that he wasn’t proficient; at rackstaff swordplay, he was far better than proficient. He could best the lot of them, if judging was based purely on various attacking and parrying points. The problem with Conn’s swordplay methodology was the amount of fouls he managed to accumulate during a match. No matter how hard he tried, Conn found it difficult to stay within the 14 by 2 meter combat arena known as the Strip. In other words, Conn was a beast of a rackstaff swordsman, but paid little attention to the finer elements of the sport.

  Conn’s eyes scanned his teammates’ faces. Jordy Gillian was there, and Calvin Branniff, both pretty good friends of his. He caught a flash of red at the back of the crowd and saw Maggie O’Brian. She was listening intently to his brother’s monotone voice. Where is Misty? His eyes drifted toward the distant horizon, where the top of the Pavicon Tower could barely be seen peeking above the bank. He tried to remember which of the windows belonged to the O’Brians. Were they up on the second floor, or the third? He pictured Misty, still lying in bed. Did Grounder girls sleep in the nude?

  “Hey claw baw! You think you might want to join us for a minute?”

  Conn’s attention returned to Michael, who was staring at him. Everyone was staring at him. “What? I heard everything you said. You said Donaldson’s got a plantar wart on his left foot. Shot Put’s a no-go tomorrow for the poor lad, but Gallagher’s taking his place.”

  “And?”

  “And what?” Conn asked back, already chiding himself for daydreaming.

  Michael looked away, clearly disgusted with him. “Look, not only do we need to know our own positions, but those of our teammates, as well. I guarantee, Donaldson’s plantar wart won’t be the worst thing to happen to a player during the competition. With a few exceptions—” Conn felt the glances of his teammates upon him. “—you’ve all been good about making it to practice these last few weeks. Today, we’re switching things up a little. Whatever your event—tossing the Caber, Hammer Throw, Shot Put, Tug O’War, or Dueling Lockwoods—today, you’ll be trading off with a teammate. One who’s not competing in your own sport.” Michael gave Conn a sideways glance. “Let’s start with you, little brother. You’ll swap with Calvin Branniff.”

  “Seriously? That’s the Caber Toss!” Conn, indignant, thought of the wounds on his back, and the yet to be removed row of stitches.

  Michael, ignoring Conn’s outburst, continued, “Maggie, no swordplay for you today. How about you trade with Jordy, try your hand at Tug O’War?”

  Everyone laughed with good humor. There wasn’t a single Tug O’War competitor weighing less than two hundred-and-fifty pounds. Maggie couldn’t top o
ne-ten on a scale, soaking wet.

  “Hey, I may be small but dinnae underestimate the raw power in these guns,” Maggie said, raising up her lean arms like a muscleman flexing his biceps.

  Even Conn couldn’t help but laugh. Five minutes later, when Michael completed the day’s roster changes, Conn headed in the direction of the Caber Toss field. In the distance, several of the event coaches, each one a mountain of a man, waited with their arms crossed over their broad chests. He eyed the stack of long Ragoon cabers and inwardly groaned. Off to the west, a band of men were assembling bleachers for tomorrow’s spectators. Was it only last year that he and Dob had sat over there together? He remembered being annoyed at the old professor, who’d gabbed pretty much non-stop, talking incessantly throughout the entire event. He’d felt he had to explain all the root sciences, the underlying physics of things to Conn. How the caber’s mass, along with its quick upward speed and momentum, and the pulling effects of gravity during the timber’s inevitable return to the cloudbank, were constants. The real immeasurable variable was the athlete’s strength, a strength that more or less depended on all kinds of things—what he’d eaten for breakfast that day, who was seated in the stands, and the level of applause or cheers he received. It was odd how strength could depend on something as trivial as how inspirational his coach had been, just moments before the big man on the field launched the Ragoon timber into the air.

  “Don’t you see?” Dob had asked excitedly. “One’s consciousness impacts the very properties of physical matter, my boy!”

  Conn stared up at the sky. “I really miss you, Dob.”

  Chapter 39

  Conn, in a foul mood, moved as any man would who’d recently undergone a re-suturing of an open, eight-inch knife wound. He stepped slowly and deliberately with no extraneous swinging of his arms. It took them close to ten minutes to descend three flights of stairs, and that was with his sister, Emma, by his side, offering needed support. The healer had been clearly surprised to see the additional welts and cuts on Conn’s back, but had said nothing as he tended to him. Conn had requested the healer to administer three extra bandage wrappings around his torso. Bleeding through his shirt was not an option tonight.

  “Sweetie, I’m so sorry, but I’m going to have to leave you here. Need to run down to the Gala.” Emma blew at a wayward strand of hair. Flustered, she secured it into an ornate hair clip worn at the back of her head. “I didnae ask for this, but certain duties come from being the lady of the house.”

  Conn resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Emma would never allow anyone to takeover the reins of hostess for the Skylander Games Gala. She shot a quick glance up the stairs. “Cleve, hurry on down here and take Conn’s arm. You ken how I hate being late!”

  “Sorry that I’m holding you up, sis,” said Conn. “Go on, both of you. I’ve got this. Just moving a bit slower tonight.”

  But Emma was already clomping down the flight of stairs, holding the hem of her long gown above her ankles. The shiny green fabric made swishing sounds as she hurriedly descended each downward step.

  Cleve joined Conn’s side and clasped a hand onto his forearm. “What were you thinking? The Caber Toss . . . good God! I could have told you that was a bad idea.”

  Conn, not wanting to get into it, didn’t bother to answer. His brother-in-law, a former healer, took care in helping him down the stairs.

  “Well, you must be excited to see your pretty young lady again.”

  Conn had to think about that, before remembering Lili Folais was, in fact, his date for the night. The pain in his back suddenly intensified just thinking about it.

  “Aye. I hope she’s not wanting me to spend a lot of time on the dance floor.”

  “Who else amongst the Folais Clan is attending?” Cleve asked, as they slowly descended several more steps.

  “The Folais Clan appeared well-represented out on the field today,” Conn said. “Their tartan colors were present for each event. I saw both of Lili’s twin brothers—God, they’re big. There may have been a few cousins, too, and an uncle or two. They all were wearing black bands around their arms.”

  Cleve pursed his lips, looking somewhat mystified at that. Then his brows shot up. “Ah, I forgot. Yes, Janis Folais and his, um, untimely accident.”

  “Well, according to the death glares they were shooting my way throughout the day, I don’t think they’ve viewed it as any kind of accident. More like murder, due to us in the Brataich Clan.”

  “That’s crazy! Why would we do harm to that Folais lad?”

  Again, Conn didn’t have the energy to respond. His brother-in-law was family, one of the nicest people he knew, and just perfect for Emma. He allowed her to be the more dominant one between the two. Conn seriously doubted there was a malicious or envious bone in Cleve’s body. But he was clueless when it came to discussing clan or family politics. Conn couldn’t remember ever seeing him attend any of the CloudMaster’s weekly briefings, not even once. Although he lacked interest himself in that regard, he tried to always show up because it meant so much to his father that both his sons attend.

  A rousting burst of music echoed upward into the stairwell. Conn heard his sister’s voice resonating out: “From Clan Carmichael, a warm welcome for CloudMaster Jonah Carmichael and his wife, Miriam.” The sound of applause followed.

  Conn could sense Cleve’s attempts to hurry them down the stairs. “Sounds like the Skylander Games Gala has officially commenced,” he said, with far too much enthusiasm.

  Another rousing burst of music echoed up into the stairwell, followed again by his sister’s voice. “Of Clan Baird, a warm welcome goes to CloudMaster Toric Baird, and his lovely bride, Carissa.”

  “I really should be down there, standing beside Emma,” Cleve said, sounding apologetic.

  “Go. I’m fine, I promise. In fact, I’m feeling much better. Scoot on down there, Cleve.”

  By the time he reached the Empire’s 81st floor landing, Conn was more than ready to find a place to sit down. Instead, he took in a deep breath and opened the door to the floor known as Storm View. Under his sister’s direction, he was sure, the expansive room had been expertly decorated. Hanging down on ribbons from high above, mirror-like bedazzlements glimmered, gently spun about by invisible currents of air. Higher up, each evenly spaced around the room’s perimeter, brightly colored flags hung down one after another, representing each clan participating in the Skylander Games, their individual colors and coat of arms on full display. Warm, indirect amber light flickered within art deco sconces, their ChemBurn flames burning within. Conn eyed no less than ten Dorcha Poileas strategically placed around the room and standing at attention. Each was wearing their dress uniform. They were not here to participate, as they were not of noble blood. He wondered if Bryant Peirce was somewhere about; undoubtedly he would be.

  The music, loud and far too upbeat for his current mood, was the first thing to accost his senses. Second was the bustling crowd of Skylander nobility in attendance. They were already present in force, and waiting to be introduced as they entered the Gala; Conn was certain there was nary a one who wasn’t talking, yelling, or laughing. He looked longingly over his shoulder, back toward the closed stairwell door.

  “Conn!” It was Emma, her hand held high in the air, waving him over. “Come on, you need to be formally introduced before you head on in.”

  Terrific. He smiled and unenthusiastically waved back at her. He spotted Cleve, standing a few steps away from Emma, half-hidden behind an ornate pillar. His chin, bobbing up and down, kept beat with the overloud music.

  Straight-backed, and with measured steps, Conn slowly ambled forward in their direction, only to be cut off by two Baird Clan Cloudwalkers. Drinks in hand, they gave him a once over then chuckled. He heard Smitty Baird, the taller of the two, mumble, “Fud,” Scottish slang for a daft cunt.

  Conn moved past the line of waiting guests, ignoring their incensed stares. By the time he reached Emma, she had her back turned and was sp
eaking to an older woman he didn’t recognize. He patiently waited, not in any particular hurry to join the Gala. Catching sight of himself in one of the reflective hanging decorations, he thought, Pathetic. Formal attire for a Cloudwalker, like him, required a neatly pressed black shirt and a dress kilt, in his clan’s unique tartan plaid. Added to the latter was the formal element of a gold fringe that always seemed to tickle his kneecaps. An elaborately designed sporran hung from his belt, the peccary leather stiff from disuse as it was only brought out for special occasions. Brass buckles on black shoes that were polished until they gleamed, and black and gold striped stockings completed the look. Berets were optional, and as a general rule, the younger nobles wouldn’t be caught dead wearing them. God forbid they look even remotely like one of the ancient Cloudwalker Tamachins.

  Across the room’s expanse he could see the band playing on an elevated platform. Soon hundreds of people dressed in their best garb would be mingling, dancing, or standing along the periphery, where finger-food appetizers filled trays on linen-covered long tables. Conn took in the amazing room, where the most architecturally structural alterations had taken place since the Empire State Building was first built, back in 1931. It was midway into the twenty-third century when Storm View was constructed, the name first coined by CloudMaster Doreen Macbeth. Apparently wealthy, and never one to personally miss a Gala event, she desired there should be a midtown Manhattan ballroom the likes of none other. Although the Empire State’s overall number of floors remained the same, three of its floors—the 81st, 82nd, and 83rd—were renovated, eventually becoming this magnificent, highly vaulted ballroom.