Symphony of the Wind

by Steven McKinnon

  ‘Get out!’ barked Fitz.

  The man surveyed the room, motioning with his hand. ‘I’ve as much right to be here as anyone. Am I not a Raincatcher, after all?’

  ‘You’re a bloody scum traitor!’ yelled one of Fitz’s crew.

  Gallows’ entire body tensed. Fights broke out at services all the time, but usually someone had the decency to be drunk.

  Father Talbot scrambled across the aisle. ‘This is a place of worship!’

  Roland joined him. ‘Um, perhaps you’d better come back later, Captain Vaughan. Tensions and emotions are high, you understand.’

  ‘I merely wish to pay my respects to our dearly departed kin,’ said Vaughan. ‘Is that not what the Ballad calls us? “Kin”?’

  Like a bull, Fitz tore from his ring of people and charged into Vaughan, sending him sprawling to the ground.

  Gallows leaned towards Kirivanti. ‘Do we intervene?’

  She started for the small crowd, Gallows and Damien following.

  ‘I’ll kill ya myself, muck rat,’ spat Fitz, towering above his opponent. He held one of his fists aloft, ready to beat Vaughan’s face into the floor. Roland pulled him back.

  ‘Get your rutting hands off me! This bastard killed ’em, he killed ’em!’

  ‘You don’t know that. Come on, come on, let him up.’

  Vaughan stood, taking time to brush himself down. His eyes glared behind his glasses. ‘I’ll forgive you for that challenge, Captain Fitzwilliam.’ His voice spilled like treacle. ‘But not another.’ Vaughan put his hands behind his back. ‘Now now, Captain. How are we to clear this up when you won’t even listen, hmm? I know you’re still… peeved at losing your water run on the Seven last week, but I assure you, I had nothing to do with this tragedy. Sincerely, my condolences to you and your-’

  ‘You’re a thief and a smuggler!’ The Phadrosi woman’s voice hissed like sharpening knives.

  Vaughan laughed like he was here swapping anecdotes with old friends. ‘Perhaps you have forgotten your own… résumé. I’m not the only Raincatcher to have transported goods for Mr. Zoven, after all—isn’t that right, Fitz?’

  Gallows rolled his eyes. Is there anything that psychopath doesn’t make money from?

  ‘You son of a toothless, pus-filled whore,’ growled the woman.

  Vaughan raised an eyebrow. ‘You are gifted with a poet’s soul, Tiera.’

  ‘I’ll skin you alive-’

  ‘Gods, can’t you all shut up?’ The voice cut through the din. Fitz and the rest turned to see the green-haired teenager, tears lining her face. ‘Three of us are dead! And all you can do is argue?’

  ‘Serena, listen, lass, you’re too-’

  ‘Don’t say I’m too damn young. We’re supposed to be in this together! Can’t we just remember them and deal with blaming people later? Gods.’

  The bald Tarevian man stood. ‘Serena is right. Have some respect.’

  ‘I’ll be damned,’ said Vaughan. ‘Anton Tugarin, speaking sense.’

  ‘Careful, Vaughan. A svinya doesn’t walk among the butchers and tell them they reek.’

  Father Talbot put an arm around the girl, beaming like a proud dad.

  Vaughan stared past Captain Tugarin, tilting his head and smiling. ‘Wise words, Serena. You should listen to this one, Fitz. Well!’ His hands snapped together. ‘I apologise for any tension my presence here has sown.’ He extended a dramatic bow. ‘All I intended was to extend my condolences. Captain Fitzwilliam—we shall talk soon.’

  The bar area of the Raincatchers’ Guild was little more than a smattering of rickety tables on an uneven floor. It was poorly lit, most of the ignium lamps decrepit and broken. Though the room was spacious, the shadows hung from the corners like sheets. Like the Hunters’ Guild, they had their own water station.

  Still, it was better than the Musicians and their insistence on playing Genevieve Couressa tunes on the piano.

  Music stirred memories. It was powerful like that, a single note able to send someone back years, a key unlocking unwelcome emotions you’d worked to seal away. He remembered dancing all night with Sera in The Laguna Lounge—remembered the pianist weaving a flurry of silvery, jingling melodies, Sera twirling on the floor, the ring on her finger glinting…

  Kirivanti nudged him. ‘You considered the Raincatchers, Tyson, is that correct?’

  ‘Uh, briefly. Preferred the glamour of killing rats.’ Gallows possessed a pilot’s license for Class II cargo haulers but he hadn’t flown since the Night of Amberfire. After that, he didn’t much fancy stepping foot inside a Class II again. That, and he’d forged his licence.

  Kirivanti hadn’t touched her glass of apricot wine. It was fragrant and a pale pinkish hue. Phadrosi vintage. Sera’s favourite.

  ‘I’m leaving, I’ve an early start.’ Kirivanti stood, smoothing out the creases of her uniform. ‘Do be careful. The Remembrance has all branches of the Council stretched thin. Added to that this Fitzwilliam’s posturing… The Prime Councillor’s presence at the Remembrance tomorrow will no doubt stoke his fires. Be on alert.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Gallows, sinking more liquor.

  Serena had seen the inside of this room a hundred times, usually with Angelo or Father Talbot after a water run, but tonight everything seemed… Alien. They were all talking about Dixon and the others, swapping stories and laughing. Why didn’t they get it? She was the youngest here and she understood it with perfect, incisive clarity: They’re gone.

  And if Enfield’s right, Culran’s a killer.

  ‘Pssst…’

  It was Drimmon.

  He was not sober.

  ‘Serena… Can I ask you a question?’ His eyes were lined with red.

  ‘Uh, yeah.’

  Drimmon fished a small box from his jacket. ‘This is, um… Well it’s a ring, and…’

  ‘Drimmon… Are you asking me to marry you?’

  His acne-ridden face reddened even deeper. ‘N-no! I-’

  ‘It was a joke.’

  ‘Oh, oh right. Eh… Listen, I can’t ask the rest o’ the crew this kind of thing, but…’ He opened the box. ‘You reckon Ena will like it?’

  The ring was small, and the ‘jewel’ on it… Well, she had to squint to see it.

  ‘Well?’ he pressed.

  Serena had never met Ena before. She had no idea.

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I mean, yeah. She’ll love it.’

  Drimmon beamed. ‘Aye. Aye, she will. Roarke and the rest, they always say I’ll never ask her, say I don’t got the spuds. But I do! Thanks, Serena.’ He downed whatever was in his flask and stumbled off to refill it, reciting his proposal speech.

  ‘That was a nice thing you did.’ An old woman sat down next to Serena. She smelled of tea.

  ‘What was?’

  ‘That young man… Love—it keeps you going, even as you grieve. Do you have a name?’

  ‘Serena,’ she replied. ‘Why?’

  ‘Serena?’ She smiled to herself as though enjoying a private joke.

  ‘What’s so funny about that?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. You work on one of these… rain catcher contraptions, I gather?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She folded her arms, and tried to think of an excuse to leave.

  The woman sat forward, resting her bony elbows on her knees and her chin on her knuckles. She brought to Serena’s mind the image of Aurien tal Varaldo in one of his famous portraits, The Scholar. In the painting, tal Varaldo sat on a stool in a deep reverie, beard unkempt and deep lines scoring his brow. Angelo had told her once that the piece was intended as a joke—that tal Varaldo hated being thought of as a philosopher and thinker, feeling it at odds with his desire to be regarded as a man of action. The story, according to Angelo, was that he posed for The Scholar whilst sitting on his toilet.

  The woman’s mouth opened, but she stopped before her eyes flicked to Serena’s hair. This wasn’t anything new, since she was apparently the only person in the whole bloody kingdom with dar
k green hair. Not any more. Her chest tightened at the memory of Marrin.

  ‘Are you planning on staring at my hair all night?’ she asked when it became too much to bear.

  ‘Sorry! It’s unique. Like emeralds! Or peas.’ The woman leaned back, her weather-worn face still drawn in thought. ‘Once—many years ago—I was on a pilgrimage to the north. Farther north even than Ryndara. Have you been that far north, Serena?’

  ‘No.’ She squirmed in her seat, hands fidgeting.

  The woman nodded and pursed her lips together, as if trying to form the right word. ‘Glaciers as big as mountains. I trekked with my guide for miles in the dark—there was only one hour of sunlight a day, you see—and we came to this clearing among trees so tall you’d swear their tips could touch the stars. I was setting up our tent while he attempted to get a fire started… and I look up to see this… heavenly swirl in the sky. Like an angel’s breath.’ Her eyes widened at the thought. Serena considered getting up and walking away.

  ‘My guide,’ the woman continued, ‘he stares up in sheer wonderment at this light. He gets down on his knees and starts chanting up at the thing, if you can believe it. I didn’t speak his tongue so hadn’t a clue what he was on about. Anyway, it was only an aurora—a simple light in the sky—but he was convinced it was a divine being of some sort. Said it was a gift from the Orinul, that it only appears once every hundred years. His people had a word for it, what was it…? Ah, it escapes me. But I took to calling it The Angel’s Breath.’ She paused, apparently lost in the memory again. ‘According to my guide—Gods forgive me, I can’t remember his name—there was a tribe of nomads—ocean-faring folk who sailed the world in search of the aurora’s earthly twin… Or some such babble. Anyway, I’d swear it’s the same colour as your hair.’

  An ‘ocean tribe’? Like my family? ‘Oh. Well that’s… Cool, I guess.’ Serena stole another sideways glance at Fitz, her palms moistening so much she might have plunged them in engine oil.

  The woman pursed her lips again, before drawing them into a tight, thin smile. ‘Yes, yes, it was “cool”. Irros!’ Her face changed to panicked alarm. She shot up from her chair with an energy that belied her advanced years. ‘Sorry! It’s two in the morning! Best be on my way if I’m to get a solid eight hours! Don’t get to my age without looking after yourself. Serena—it was a genuine pleasure meeting you.’

  ‘Yeah… You too, I guess…’

  ‘Aerulus! I haven’t introduced myself, have I? I’m Myriel An tal Lo, Guildmaster of the Mages. Bit of a generous title seeing as I’m the only one. Serena, take this…’ She scribbled a note down on a crumpled piece of paper. ‘It’s my Guild address… should you have any need or questions about…’ She paused, and Serena noticed the woman’s smile falter a fraction. ‘Well, about anything. I find I have a lot of time on my hands.’

  She handed the note to Serena with a final gaze at her hair.

  Well, that was weird. When Myriel left, Serena stuffed the note into her pocket without looking at it.

  She steeled herself, clenching her fists and squaring her shoulders. Here we go. She stomped up to the captain. ‘Fitz,’ she said. He was still talking with Roland, his face humourless.

  ‘Fitz!’ she repeated.

  ‘Not now, lass.’

  ‘It’s important.’

  ‘And what,’ he snapped, ‘you reckon we’re talking about streetball results?’

  ‘Captain.’ Roland fixed Fitz with a glare.

  The captain bristled. ‘Sorry, lass. Tough day. Can it wait?’

  Serena shifted on her feet. ‘No. Can I talk to you in private?’

  ‘Go,’ urged Roland. ‘This is a time for unity. We can discuss our business tomorrow. And you, Serena—you’re well aware it’s after curfew. If the Watch catches you-’

  She held his gaze. ‘It’s cool, I got permission from Councillor Enfield.’

  ‘That, my dear, is a lie,’ said Roland, walking off.

  ‘Follow me.’ Fitz opened a nearby door that revealed a spiral staircase. Serena followed him down. They came to a cellar, the thick air and cobwebs itching her nose. Fitz flicked the suspended ignium lamp on and pulled over a pair of wooden stools.

  She took a seat.

  Fitz broke the silence: ‘How you holding up?’

  ‘I’m… I don’t know. Sad. Angry. Tired, more’n anything.’

  ‘Aye. I know. It’s never easy, especially when it’s one of yer own.’

  She stared at the ceiling when her eyes burned.

  ‘Death ain’t an easy thing to comprehend,’ Fitz continued. ‘During the war, I saw a lot of it. When you’re fighting and seeing a lot of dying, you learn to tune it out. Even when it’s your mates. It doesn’t hit you ’til later, sometimes much later. Always in the quiet moments, flitting into your head. Images. Words. Smells. You know, every time I’m on the Wind and look down at the desert floating past, my shoulder twinges.’ He pulled the collar of his shirt to the side to reveal an ugly scar beneath his right collarbone. ‘I served on the RSF Lion’s Pride. We was shot down in the Sanctecano jungles. Me an’ Roarke survived, most didn’t. They kept us in pens, and… Anyway. I fought my way out and got this for my troubles. Just a young lad it was that did it—I was lucky it wasn’t one of their kiros. Blind panic flashed in his eyes when he saw what he did, but he couldn’t finish me. Just stood there, staring like he was looking at Belios or somethin’.’

  Serena shifted. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I ripped the spear from his hands and drove it through his heart.’

  Serena winced. ‘Belios’ balls.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Fitz. ‘Don’t normally admit the truth when I tell that story. Normally say I just escaped.’

  ‘So why tell me?’

  Fitz’s lips moved, like he was chewing tobacco. ‘Don’t feel right to lie to you. You ain’t a child, Serena. And of all the people I killed during that war, I remember his face the clearest. Every time I go out on a water run, this scar burns and I’m reminded of killing him all over again. Always in the quiet moments, like praying to the One Father, eating Clara’s canned gruel in my quarters or just looking at the ground. Must have seen that desert well over a thousand times, and every time—without fail—it happens. Funny, that.’

  ‘Is… Is it because you feel guilty?’

  His face screwed. ‘No. I done a lot of stuff to be guilty about. He might’ve been young, maybe even scared shitless. But if I didn’t end him he sure as all hells woulda done me. Seeing death, even when it ain’t our fault, does things to our heads. Maybe it is guilt. Or maybe it’s realising I should’ve died. The important thing is—talk. Don’t bottle it up. And that’s something I was guilty of so you can take my word as gospel, lass. Talk to Angelo. Can’t say I expect him to say much back, but he’s a good lad.’

  Neither of them spoke for a long while. Fitz’s words made a lot of sense.

  But she’d approached Fitz for a reason.

  ‘Councillor Enfield reckons it might have been Culran who did it.’

  Fitz just stared at her. Not the reaction she expected, but then, what did she expect?

  ‘Did what?’ he asked.

  ‘This! Rigged the Spire to blow.’

  Fitz leaned back. ‘Enfield said that, did he?’

  ‘Yeah. I reckon he might be right. I… I saw him. After Roarke caught me out on deck, I went down to the holds.’ Her voice shrank. ‘On my way, I passed him. He was carrying two ignium canisters. They could have been rigged to blow. He couldn’t have been using them to refuel the lamps or-’

  ‘How do you know they weren’t empty?’

  Serena blinked. ‘What?’

  Fitz offered a weak smile from the corner of his mouth. ‘How do you know they weren’t empty?’

  ‘Because…’ She shrugged, hoping that was enough. ‘We store the empty ones in the holds. He was walking away from there.’

  Fitz smiled. Actually smiled this time, broad and beaming. He rubbed a hand over his shaved
head. ‘Serena…’

  ‘What? He killed Dixon!’ She banged the edge of her seat. ‘Listen!’

  ‘I am, lass, I am.’

  ‘Well? What do we do? Do we get the Watch?’

  He kept laughing. ‘Not bloody likely.’

  She rocked to her feet, sending the stool clattering. ‘If he didn’t do it, then why didn’t he come back to the Wind? No-one saw him get hurt. Enfield said he could have been an agent of the Idari.’ She spun around but Fitz leapt from his chair.

  ‘Sit. Here, sit.’ He pulled her stool back up, guiding her towards it.

  ‘I don’t want to! How can you be so calm?’

  ‘I’m a world away from calm, lass, but before you go off pointing fingers, I think you’d better take a breather.’

  Why was he talking to her like she was a kid? What in all hells was going on?

  ‘I’m going to say this as plain as I can: Culran didn’t come back ’cause I abandoned him. I left him in the desert, and I don’t feel good about it—but I’d do it again. Sometimes we lose good men, and we lost more’n one—Culran included.’

  Serena’s brows knitted together. ‘Why did you leave him behind? What about the ballad? Wasn’t he kin?’

  ‘Aye, he was kin. But so are the rest o’ ya. I needed every second and Culran was too dazed to move. I near left Tiera and Roarke behind, too. You gotta make tough calls when you’re a captain, and I made the right one.’

  ‘So neither you or Culran could help Dixon? That’s what you’re saying?’

  ‘If I could’ve, I would’ve. He died in front of me and Culran stayed behind.’

  ‘Why? I don’t get it. Why didn’t Culran come back if he wasn’t responsible?’

  The lines in Fitz’s eyes creased. ‘You, eh… You were a bit… Gods above and below, how do young folk say it? You. And Dixon. You were sweet on him, eh?’

  Serena’s skin burned.

  ‘Don’t look like at me like that,’ Fitz said. ‘Ain’t nothing to be embarrassed about.’

  ‘Gods,’ she whispered, unable to look Fitz in the eye. Then a terrible thought came to her. ‘Did he know?’

  ‘Eh, reckon it’s safe to say half the kingdom knew, aye.’