Symphony of the Wind

by Steven McKinnon

  She hugged the wall, its black, spiked railings sticking up like swords. Impossible to climb, but she crawled through a hole punched into the brick. She peeked over the lip and saw the familiar brown cloak, trousers and helmet of a patrolling watchman. Enfield’s guard dog. He was big, but not fat. Pity. The fat ones were easier to outrun.

  She waited until he was out of earshot and leapt over the wall. A group of men huddled together beneath an ignium lamp, but otherwise, the road was clear.

  Still, it was a lengthy walk to Petrel’s Tail from The Sands, and a stray glance from a copper was all it would take to spend the night in a cell. She had to get there fast, disappear among any lingering pockets of Remembrance crowds, and make her way to the guild house…

  The thought of the funeral made her queasy, but she needed to be near her crewmates.

  Feet crunching on the gravel road, Serena quickened her pace—she was careful not to move too fast but to still look like she had a purpose. She sensed eyes on her, but no-one called for the watchman. She walked on, hands stuffed into her overalls, and turned onto a side street.

  Serena found herself smiling; this was the street where she’d seen a dog for the first time since before the war, a grey-haired border collie. A scruffy mess of a thing it was, with one eye, a limp, and a constant whine like the broken Gunningham Mk. II thruster that Fitz maintained was in fine working order.

  The mutt had barked and snarled at her and lunged to attack. Fear had frozen Serena as it raced forward, jaws snapping—but just as suddenly as it had moved, it halted, nails skidding across the cobbles. It looked up at her, and she recognised something in his eye—it was just a hungry, yearning animal, like most people in the city. A strange tingle had washed over her in that moment.

  ‘Come here, boy,’ she’d said—and like that, the dog padded over and sat to attention. It even wagged its tail.

  She’d shed her fear and clapped its tufts of fur. Serena named him Scruff—and immediately wished she’d thought of something better. The name stuck in her mind as they ran together through streets and alleyways. She had no idea how Scruff had survived the Prime Councillor’s pet cull—barely, it seemed—but she was glad that he had. The simple act of running around and rolling in the dirt with him, laughing as he licked at her heels and bounded towards her… She’d never known anything like it.

  Just a week ago. Wonder what happened to him? Here one minute, gone the next. Just like old Jozef. Thinking about the old man filled her with bile.

  She stepped over a liquid—which she told herself wasn’t what it smelled like—and came to a filthy street. Dirt and rubble from the incomplete tower blocks sat in glowering mounds. The once-elegant street existed beneath it—intermittent cobbled islands poking from the mud.

  A breeze creaked through a broken window. Serena rounded the corner, heart hammering like pistons.

  Serena stopped at a narrow alley. Its wall-mounted ignium lamp flickered and buzzed, a weak glow emanating from it. Nonetheless, shadows draped the walls.

  Halfway across the alleyway, the ignium lamp sputtered and died.

  Shadows swallowed her. Her skin prickled.

  Someone’s watching me.

  Her fingers closed around the wrench in her overalls.

  She spun around, convinced she heard the echo of a footstep, the wrench held in the air before she even thought about it.

  Nothing.

  Her heart thumped, tension leaving her muscles. She lowered the tool, turned and-

  A face peered into hers.

  The wrench shot up but cold fingers gripped her forearm with alarming strength. She screamed.

  ‘Hush, girlie….’ An ancient woman, hooded and blind in one eye. Her vice grip tightened around Serena’s wrist. ‘Water… Do you have water?’

  Serena jerked her arm but the woman was too strong.

  ‘Water tokens… Water, girlie, do you have any water?’

  ‘L-let go.’ With her free hand, Serena shoved the crone back.

  The woman collapsed backward into the brick wall, muttering ‘Water… water…’

  Serena stepped back, heart thrashing.

  ‘Water…’

  She half-ran, half-jogged the rest of the way down the winding alley. None of the ignium lamps were active, and she’d have missed what she was looking for, had she not felt it beneath her feet: A sewer entrance.

  Serena bent down, hooked her hand into a small opening and prised it from the ground. She swung down, feet finding the metal rungs with practised ease. After she hooked her hand up and slid the manhole cover back, she descended.

  She landed in something wet and viscous. The air stank of filth, and no matter how many times she did this, Serena could never get used to the smell.

  But the freedom the sewers offered made it worth it. The whole city was open to her from here, and not a watchman in sight. She passed the occasional scuzzer, and once an old man lying still in old editions of the Viator, whom she convinced herself was just asleep.

  Fully-functioning ignium lamps lit the curving path. Serena kept to the edge of the wall rather than trudging through the debris and detritus clogging up the disused waterway. The railings and sluice gates were all mangled bars and rust, and the once-ornate arched metal walkways were now little more than slag on the concrete. The metalwork was common in the capital, made from an alloy of iron and ignicite, the mineral which ignium and igneus were derived from. Serena liked the sculptures and baroque designs of the streetlamps and metalwork around the city.

  An old maintenance map was painted on a board, next to a broken console with a valve. Serena guessed it would’ve been used to raise the gates.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ she said, studying the angular web of lines that made up the map. She traced a route with her finger. ‘Tunnel PT-West. Petrel’s Tail.’

  She skipped off, the desire to escape the smell propelling her as much as the urgency of reaching the guild house in time.

  The first time she ventured into these depths, she’d attempted to follow the eastern tunnels to get a glimpse of the destruction in Irros’ Beckon—but the dark, labyrinthine layout made it impossible to get much farther than Dustwynd, and the barriers showed no sign of being moved.

  Her second attempt at scouring the underbelly of the city had proved more fruitful, reaching as far as Arrowhead to the north-west. She’d even made it to the Theatre District and opera house once, judging by the decrepit costumes and stage equipment she’d found lying down there. She gravitated there every time she snuck from the orphanage, prowling through piles of filthy but colourful costumes. She imagined they’d once looked grand.

  She’d taken Scruff to help her investigate the night she met him, hoping to find a prop sword or gun, but any worthwhile treasure had been picked clean.

  She missed him.

  For half an hour, she ventured into the dark and twisting tunnels. If she didn’t hurry, she’d miss the service.

  Though she knew no-one else was down here, she wished her footsteps wouldn’t echo so much. The feeling of being watched lingered.

  Conscious of time, she ran. Her feet pelted the concrete, flying muck covering the legs of her overalls. Her shoes skidded on a slimy substance, twisting her foot inward and sending her tumbling to her knee.

  ‘Ow.’ She sucked a breath through clenched teeth. The skin was tender but it didn’t look like anything was broken.

  And that’s when she saw it—the soft yellow glow bobbing around the corner ahead.

  ‘Shit.’

  She got to her feet, wincing as she backtracked.

  The glow burned brighter and a strange, musical hum rose in the air.

  She hobbled quickly, crossing to the opposite wall via one of the walkways. She huddled down, dragging herself through the shattered glass of an ignium lamp. The pain in her foot flared with every step.

  The music grew louder.

  Move, move, move.

  She found an alcove.

  Shit. The light was clo
se, the hum growing fervent. She burrowed into the alcove. It was shallow, but she didn’t have a choice.

  Dim fringes of light materialised.

  It was getting closer.

  Let him pass.

  The humming was audible now, a tune Serena recognised but couldn’t place. The faint yellow-orange light banished the shadows in the dank corridor.

  ‘Uhm-mm-m… m-mm-hum-hum…’

  The thump of her heart drowned out the music.

  The footsteps got louder.

  Tension knotted her stomach, and the sudden, chilly air clung to her. Please, please don’t see me…

  The figure floated into view, a hulking human shape draped in a dark robe. It carried a lantern.

  It stopped ahead of her and turned its hooded head to the broken lamp on the wall.

  Serena’s fingers wrapped around the wrench.

  It had its back to her. If she acted now, she could leap from the alcove and swing the-

  It stood, the lantern swinging at its side.

  ‘Hmm-mm-um-um-um…’

  When it passed, Serena breathed again. Her fingers tremored.

  She waited before stepping out and rounded the corner. She sped up, ignoring the pain in her right foot, determined to-

  Clang.

  The wrench slipped from her grip and clattered to the metal walkway. The noise echoed through the tunnel.

  Her blood froze.

  She snapped her head around, cursed herself and, and…

  And saw the light from the lantern approach.

  ‘No…’

  The figure came into view, striding towards her. Its face appeared within the darkness of the hood, aglow from the lantern in its hand.

  Serena screamed.

  It was a man, but twisted into something else. Its face was grey and human, but etched with thin scars. His red eyes sought her.

  She spun on her heel and ran, ignoring the pain shooting up her leg.

  Her feet pounded the floor with all of the strength she could muster.

  She turned a corner, eyes scanning the walls for metal rungs but seeing only crumbled stone and grime. The walls closed in on her but she powered through, her entire leg threatening to snap. Her lungs knifed her and her heart ran like an overpowered airship rotor.

  His eyes…

  Serena ran, twisting into tunnels she’d never ventured down before, barrelling through the passages and tumbling through shadows, convinced the man’s breath was on her neck. Her body screamed at her to stop.

  Her fingers felt their way along the walls, slime caking her gloves, the uneasy sensation of moving downhill weighing in her stomach. She turned into a narrow corridor bathed in complete darkness. Was it another alcove gouged from the wall, or an anteroom leading somewhere? The channel was tight but she had enough space to squirm through sideways. The air grew thin the further she descended.

  After a full minute fraught with claustrophobia, she came out to a chamber at the other side. She rested her hands on her knees, taking deep lungfuls of air—painful, like she was swallowing razors. She wiped her brow and bolted through the dark, not knowing where she was.

  She willed the strength to run, spinning into another shadowy passage, charging through. She landed on her right foot, buckling from the pain. She stumbled, skidding to the ground and crashing into a circular railing. She allowed herself a few seconds’ rest before yanking herself up. The railing barricaded a large circular hole in the ground. She peered down, its sheer blackness bottomless and dizzying.

  Her head was a jumbled mess of mazes and darkness. Had she been heading in the right direction? Was she anywhere near Petrel’s Tail? The thought of having to double back made her want to vomit.

  There was no choice.

  She had to keep going.

  Two tunnel entrances gaped ahead of her—she chose the one closest, prowling through the dark towards the lamp at the end. The light was dim but constant. She forced herself through the serpentine channels, annexes and passageways, hands tangled together in anxiety.

  And then she saw something which made her muscles relax.

  On the wall—next to an inset ladder and scrawled in white paint—were the letters ‘PT’.

  She’d made it to Petrel’s Tail.

  Chapter Six

  The pew was as bad as any torture device Gallows had ever seen.

  Wedged between Damien and Kirivanti, the old wood creaked at the mere suggestion of movement, digging into his bones. At Kirivanti’s instruction, they wore their normal Hunters’ garb and weapons. The place smelled of sawdust.

  Three coffins sat side by side at the head of the room. They were the prefabricated, plain kind in common use throughout the war, simple and mass-produced. Glowering above them was a large oil painting depicting Aerulus, King of the Gods, victorious in battle against an Orinul warrior. ‘The Renaissance of the Gods.’ The most trite piece of art ever produced.

  It portrayed Aerulus in the classic fashion: Riding Torenir—a galloping jet black stallion—and the three tines of his silver crown glinting. His coat of silver mail shone, his night-black hair billowed behind him, and his hands each clasped a curving longsword.

  The Orinul, by contrast, was shown as weak and bleeding, oozing black blood around its purple skin.

  The whole piece looked even more vulgar next to the coffins.

  Gallows expected the hall to be busier. Which means most of the Raincatchers decided it wasn’t worth their time. Guess they can’t silence the Spires when folk are thirsty. Everyone shook hands and mumbled condolences. Gallows had been to plenty of funerals and shaking hands always felt stupid.

  A big bloke with a bald pate and black beard eyed Gallows with naked suspicion, mumbling something in his Tarevian accent. Gallows was used to that; the Raincatchers were mostly made up of former smugglers and sky pirates, and faced with the option of hauling water or spending their days in the Gravehold—well, that wasn’t a choice at all. Guess they’re right to hate Hunters—probably worried we’ll be hired to arrest ’em.

  The muted chatter faded as a procession of five people snaked through a side door. Most of them sat down in the front pew, a couple of them choosing to stand. The crew. Gods help ’em.

  Father Talbot stood and climbed to an altar in the corner, setting a sheet of paper onto a lectern and bringing the room to complete silence. Bags hung beneath his eyes and his skin was almost as grey as his hair. ‘Thank you all for coming,’ he called. ‘The scriptures speak of death not as an absolute, but rather the next stage of a journey. Though their bodies have passed, the spirits of Henry Percival Oxbridge, Neville Dixon and Matthias Henning Smith continue on this journey, guided by the merciful hand of Nyr. Upon their cremation, the Gods will forge from their ashes life anew.’ He paused here, gazing out at the assembly. ‘And Eiro will temper the tragedy that befell these men—may they find peace-’

  The door at the back split open, creaking loud enough to echo across the flagstones. A young woman slipped inside, her long, deep green hair trailing around her like a nest of serpents.

  Talbot cleared his throat. ‘May these men find peace and rest in the afterlife. By Aerulus’ grace.’

  ‘By Aerulus’ grace,’ the crowd chorused.

  ‘I believe Captain Fitzwilliam would like to say a few words. Fitz?’

  With heavy steps, Fitzwilliam made his way to the lectern. His face was hard and grim.

  ‘I, eh…’ Fitzwilliam coughed, lines scoring his face. He leaned on the altar with outstretched his hands. ‘The… Fayth tells us that the life we endure on this world is a trial, for which only the Eleven Gods can pass judgement. If the Indecim are pleased, it is said we return to better stations in life, or that our spirits live in paradise… if…’ He stopped, looking at each face of his crew in turn.

  ‘To Hell wi’ all that.’ Fitz punched the lectern. It echoed across the hall like a thunderclap. ‘And to Hell with the Gods. Oxbridge. Smithy. Dixon. They weren’t religious. You know what they were
? Good men, and good Raincatchers. They deserved better. And where is Councillor Enfield? Where is the man whose job it is to preserve Guild interests, eh? Where are the people, who drink and wash in the water we risk our lives to provide? No disrespect to all o’ you here, but I see more empty spaces than people. These men deserve better. They got no family. Like a lot o’ poor folks’ families, they died during the war or on Amberfire Night. They gave their lives for a kingdom that don’t care about ’em. Not even a word printed in the paper! Three of my men, murdered. And for what?’ His voice resounded throughout the hall.

  Guildmaster Roland stood. ‘Thank you for your kind words, Captain Fitz-’

  ‘I ain’t finished,’ barked Fitz. ‘Because we all deserve better. An’ at the very least, we deserve the truth. And damn the Gods, I mean to find it.’ The man that had been haggard and tired earlier now brimmed with fire. ‘And when I do—when I find out who was involved, they won’t be going to the Watch. There’ll be no trial before the Magisters, or pissing their days away in the Gravehold. That’s too good for ’em. When I find out who murdered my crewmen, I’ll dispense the justice. Damn the Gods, and damn the Council. We answer to ourselves! Fortune find you!’

  ‘Fortune find you!’ the Raincatchers chorused.

  Gallows’ mouth turned sour. Sounds like rebellion. And who will the Council recruit to help stamp it out?

  Fitz marched his crew towards the door. ‘We’ll come back for the ashes,’ Fitz called back. ‘Then give ’em a proper send-off.’ He yanked the door open and-

  And stood still.

  Another man appeared in the doorway. The hall turned quiet as a tomb.

  After an age, Fitz spoke. ‘You got some nerve showing up here.’

  The new arrival wore a flamboyant indigo coat over a pink suit. He stood with his hands on his hips, like he was letting the applause of an adoring crowd wash over him. Light, grey stubble peppered his chin and cheeks, and thin, black spectacles adorned his face. His silver hair was shaved at the sides but slicked back on top like folded metal.

  ‘Gentleman,’ the stranger said with a smirk. ‘Ladies.’

  The Phadrosi woman lurched forward, snarling, but Fitzwilliam held her.