‘And manufacture more warships like the Schiehallion. She can fly above the Steelpeaks, and if she can do that, she can go above the Poison Veil, out towards the Sanctecano Islands. We won’t even need a navy.’ Gallows hammered the desk. ‘Tiera shooting him wasn’t the culmination of some Idari plot—it was the signal for Thackeray’s plan to get put into motion. He’s responsible for dozens of civilian deaths.’ His voice growled when he spoke next. ‘And Sera. He was the one who enacted the law to arrest everyone of Idari descent. All this blood is on his hands.’
‘After all of this chaos, the public will not hesitate to get behind him. He’ll get his war. Tyson—you are in grave danger, as is everyone who accompanied you to that facility.’
‘I gotta go to the garrison and warn Fallon; you should tell Kirivanti everything.’
‘It’s more complicated,’ said Damien. ‘I was ordered to secure the crew of the Liberty Wind. The ones I could find are imprisoned but their captain is missing, as is one of their work experience students. I was ordered to stop before I could locate their engineer, Harvel Roarke. If Junior Councillor Enfield knows about all of this, then he knows that they’re innocent, and stood by.’
‘He sure as hell knew about the ignogen bomb. We can’t trust anyone.’
‘There’s more.’ Damien’s voice sounded grim. ‘Guildmaster Roland has been relieved of his command of the Raincatchers.’
‘Yeah, I know. That clown Vaughan’s in charge. He’s the one who coerced Tiera.’
‘I see. All part of the Prime Councillor’s plan, then; set up a scapegoat and in return, Vaughan is given command of the Raincatchers. It’s likely he was not informed of the full extent of Thackeray’s plot.’
‘Yeah, if he was, he’d be dead. But why choose Tiera? That thing with her airship and the Spire—she could have died.’
Damien’s eyebrow arched. ‘Perhaps it was just an accident? Or perhaps Tiera was just in the wrong place at the wrong time? If they have mind-altering drugs at their disposal, they could have used anyone—choosing her may be nothing more than coincidence. It could just as easily be Captain Vaughan’s choice to use her as Pyron Thackeray’s.’
‘Yeah, maybe.’ Everyone knows that Farro Zoven runs narcotics—does that include mind-control drugs? But who makes ’em? Vaughan? Someone else? Would Veronica know? ‘In his notes, Mathieson said a Spire control network had been set up in the lab. I reckon someone wanted to destroy the Liberty Wind. Maybe as part of Vaughan’s deal with Thackeray. Maybe someone has a grievance with Tiera in particular. She was a pirate, ran with Helena tal Ventris. Lot of enemies.’
‘In any case, we need proof.’
‘Damn right. Everyone who knows about it is dead, and I ain’t going back to that lab without an army at my back. But what I don’t get is this: Why did anyone go to the trouble of using mystical drugs on anyone? Why bring drug dealers and Raincatchers if you don’t have to? Thackeray’s clearly got corrupt watchmen working for him, they could pin the blame on anyone they wanted. With the Viator at his back, it wouldn’t be difficult to convince the kingdom. And any one of the suicide bombers could’ve picked up a rifle.’
‘The rifle that failed to kill him?’
‘Yeah, well, Tiera thought it was real.’
‘The bombers may not even have known they were part of a bigger conspiracy.’
‘Huh.’ Gallows hadn’t thought of that. They probably thought they were serving the Idari, when in reality they were just pawns used by their enemies. Just like the rest of us.
‘I agree that the Prime Councillor should be brought to justice.’ Damien’s voice jolted Gallows from his thoughts. ‘However, we can’t discount the fact he may be right.’
‘Huh? About what?’
‘The Idari. They could be amassing an army as we speak. It’s been two years since the war ended—I highly doubt they’ve spent that time being idle.’
‘What, you’re saying the end justifies the means?’
‘Not at all—I believe to win at all costs is as bad as losing. However, the time may come when we need those weapons he’s been developing.’
Korvan’s hateful, inhuman face leered at Gallows. ‘Not all of ’em.’
‘Now, as Myriel doubtless told you already, the Black Harp was founded back in our Collegium days. Hah, but before the collegium, I studied music at the Conservatoire du Rein, before I parted ways due to, um, let’s say creative differences. Travel! That’s the life meant for me, so I wound up here and found work as a choirmaster in the Fayth Collegium. Fascinating campus, one of the first buildings, er, built, following the ignicite gold rush. One can practically feel its history seeping from the walls! Not that I am devout, oh no, Aerulus himself was a man of, um, let’s say carnal abandon, and—hah!—well, Myriel had a, a lax view of her holy orders, and the two of us had a shared love of music and the occult and… Oh apologies Serena, what did you ask me again?’
‘If you could spare a glass of water.’ They’d been standing in the doorway for a full ten minutes. Even Flicker was bored of Francois. He buried his beak into the fabric of Serena’s overall. ‘And if you have any, I dunno, seeds or something, that’d be great.’
‘Indeed, indeed… Please, make yourself at home.’
For a secret society founded by rich outcasts, the Black Harp was certainly… Something. Strewn throughout the hexagonal living space were cushions, rugs and blankets. The walls were black, furnished with deep crimson curtains. The place had the smell of citrusy ignium and other things Serena couldn’t place.
Costumes hung over the door: Gowns, suits, feather boas, top hats, canes… They all looked old but Francois kept ’em in good condition. A portrait of one ‘Francois tal LaBontaine’ hung on the far wall, without a frame. Its corners curled. He must have chosen ‘Thrashwood’… For some reason. Gods, when he was young, he was as big as a first-gen airship canopy, the complete opposite of the thin man who opened the door. Had he walked to Dalthea?
A hacking cough accompanied Francois as he reappeared. ‘Here we are, here we are…’ He placed a silver tray onto the floor by Serena. A glass filled only halfway with water sat on the corner. A few slices of bread, olives and seeds were arranged on a plate. ‘Sorry it’s not much, I haven’t a great deal to spare you see. I-’ He coughed into his hand, gently at first but then it grew into full-blown hacking. He yanked a tattered handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers.
‘Are… you okay?’ Serena asked.
‘Quite… Quite…’ Serena glimpsed the blood on the handkerchief before it disappeared into his pocket. ‘Now, you’ll likely want your own space.’ He avoided Serena’s eye as he spoke. His spine curved low and he pointed to a room beyond the living space. ‘Um, there’s a bed in there, wash space in the room by the door you used to come in.’
‘Francois? Are you okay?’
‘And if you require anything, just let me know. Good day.’
‘Uh, sure, yeah. Thank you.’
He backed out of the room, bracing himself against the wall. His coughing fit rumbled like a train.
Serena clasped the tray, almost tipping everything over. The room he indicated could barely be called such, but she was grateful for it.
The food didn’t last long; she sat Flicker next to the seeds and downed the water in one. The olives were far from fresh, but she swallowed them whole to minimise the bitterness.
The squat bed complained when she curled up on it. Staying awake to read Myriel’s book had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now her body was settling the debt. How long had she been awake? A full day? More?
The pillow was thin but it could easily have been a cloud wreathing its way around her head. Just an hour or two. Then I need to think. Just an hour or two.
She closed her eyes, and dreamt of airships.
Sera’s killers would be brought to justice. He’d make sure of it. And if he died trying, well… If there was any truth in what the preachers said, he’d be with her soon.
He shoved his footlocker away, threw clothes to the side. Where the hell is it?
By now, Fallon would know Thackeray was alive. The major had kept a hold of Mathieson’s diaries and notes—they were the only proof that the blood shed on the Night of Amberfire was on the Council’s hands.
‘Where did I put you?’ Gallows murmured. He ransacked his furniture, kicked a light wooden chair out of the way. ‘There you are,’ he said, clutching his sword. He cradled it, his finger brushing against the cold steel of the flat. He fantasised about the look on Cronin’s face when he plunged it into his heart.
It slid into its sheath and Gallows fastened his scabbard around his waist. No longer a member of the Hunters’ Guild, it was illegal for him to carry weapons, but he couldn’t be sure what he’d find when he got to Fallon at the garrison; if Cronin or the Prime Councillor knew about their venture into One Three Seven, Fallon may already be dead—and they could be coming for Gallows next.
With a last swig of water, Gallows made his way onto the baking hot street.
But when the rays of the sun hit him, he saw something which made him stop.
DALTHEA VIATOR—SPECIAL EDITION!
Pyron Thackeray to Defy Critics and Attend Tonight’s Rescheduled Remembrance Concert!
Major Aramon Fallon Arrested For Treason!
City Safe But Skyport Security Bolstered!
How Long Before We Start Listening To War Hero Thackeray?
‘This is an unusual request,’ said Kirivanti, looking for all the world like she hadn’t slept in weeks. ‘And not—strictly speaking—legal. Better!’
Damien marched alongside her as she surveyed the sword drills taking place in the basement training room of the Hunters’ Guild. Dozens of new recruits engaged each other with sparring swords. It seemed the attacks had stirred some patriotic desire among Dalthea’s youths. A quick glance told Damien that there were no newcomers of particular quality, save one or two who possessed a good grasp of the basics. The majority were teenage boys too young for the Watch, lambs come to fight wolves and make a name for themselves. He pitied them, remembering how his own father pushed him to take up the sword.
‘Given that Prime Councillor Thackeray is confirmed to be in attendance,’ he started, ‘and with tensions still running high in the city, I feel the presence of the Hunters’ Guild would be welcome. If we were to extend an offer-’
‘I did extend an offer. Should the Council approve the request by Mister Carney, then you have my blessing.’
‘Mister Carney specified discretion.’
‘Too lenient, Mister Osa, far too lenient!’ the Guildmaster barked. ‘New recruits won’t get an easy time of it on assignments, no reason to show them quarter now.’ Kirivanti stopped and glared at Damien. ‘All contracts need to be approved by a Magister. If you can’t secure that, I’m afraid I cannot sanction this mission.’
Truth be told, Damien had no desire to assist Mister Carney—in spite of Tyson’s findings pertaining to the Watch and Council, the added security afforded to the opera house would doubtless make it safer than anywhere else in the city for Genevieve Couressa—she did not need him there.
Still, Aulton Carney was… Perceptive.
‘And what of Regina Hessian?’ he asked, changing tack. He had told Kirivanti of Gallows’ theory regarding Thackeray and the events of Outpost One Three Seven. She did not seem convinced.
She placed her hands behind her back and appraised the sparring session with narrowed eyes. ‘What about Regina Hessian?’
‘Has anyone enquired about the work we undertook for her?’
‘No. But don’t think I’ve forgotten about my horse.’ The two stood in silence, listening to the clatter of children playing with wooden swords, untamed aggression pouring out from them. The glee in their eyes was disconcerting. How many of them would end up with Watch badges and turning that aggression onto civilians? Anger and power resulted in a dangerous concoction—add perceived justification to that mixture, and the outcome would be far more catastrophic. Measures like Proclamation Six Nine Seven Two would be commonplace.
‘I am willing to be flexible when it comes to my Hunters, Damien, but I will not break the rules—even for you two. I did not come by this commission easily and I will not sacrifice the respect I have garnered to assist with outlandish conspiracy theories or bow to the whims of wealthy celebrities. I’ll give you orders as and when they come in. Until then, you are dismissed.’
‘Guildmaster,’ said Damien. He turned to leave—but as he did so, Kirivanti placed a hand on his arm.
‘That said,’ she began, ‘all guildmasters have been formally invited to attend the concert, and I am permitted to bring a guest.’
A shattering roused Serena from her sleep.
She stood bolt upright, faltered, then straightened again. She raised her fists, ready to lash out at any intruders.
But only the chugging complaint of overhead brass pipes greeted her, shuddering in the ceiling like a golden spider’s legs. Ignium pipes. They looked in better shape than the Liberty Wind’s.
A small clock told her that it was after midday. The fog of sleep still curled around her. Flicker sat on the bedside cabinet, not making a sound.
Something clattered to the floor in the room next to hers. Serena pressed her back against the wall and inched towards the door, stealing a glance when she could.
Francois’s skinny form sat crumpled in a chair, a shattered glass and a silver tray lying on the ground. Several upturned bottles of liquor lay strewn on the floor, all empty.
‘Francois?’ Her voice carried in the silence of the room. ‘You… okay?’
He grunted and belched in response, his gaunt face squashed down. His unfocused eyes—gummed with some substance—opened and closed like an airship hatch in need of oil. ‘Myriel,’ he murmured.
‘Francois?’
The sound of her voice took an age to reach him, but when it did, he reacted like an explosion had rung out beside him. His arms flailed and his bloodshot eyes widened. ‘Who goes there?’
‘It’s me, Serena.’
Before she’d finished speaking, his eyes glazed and fell away from her, lost in some place. A smile played on his lips, nonsense spilling from his mouth.
Among the bottles by his feet, a glass vial poked up, stoppered by a rubber cap. She picked it up between her forefinger and thumb—an sour stench emanated from it. Medicine? Drugs? Myriel wouldn’t have left me with a junkie. Right?
She placed it back on the floor, and sank into an armchair laden with cushions.
What a weird couple of days.
Myriel… Serena had never known anyone like her. Eccentric maybe, but that just made her more endearing.
‘The Black Harp, eh?’ she said, just to break the silence. ‘Wonder what you lot got up to…’ She figured that—being into myths and monsters—Myriel and the Black Harp might have sat around spirit boards, chanting weird incantations and summoning demons—but probably they just drank a lot.
Her fingers drummed on the arm of the chair.
The ignium pipe above her groaned and trembled.
A minute passed.
Then another.
‘Gods above.’ She sighed and rolled onto her feet.
At random, she picked at one of the hundred books lying around. None of them were like Myriel’s; these were about science and chemistry, compounds and mathematical theorems. A dozen pieces of scrap paper lined Francois’s worktops, diagrams and formulae written out in pencil and smudged ink. All in all, they were about as enthralling as one of Sister Ingrid’s lessons.
This was worse than being stuck in the cargo hold on the way to a lightning Spire. At least then she could hang out with Angelo.
She rummaged around some more. Anyone called “Francois Thrashwood” who was involved in a secret society must have some interesting stuff kicking about…
A gown that was probably the height of fashion years ago hung among frilled shirts, suit jackets and o
ther posh-folk clothing. At first she tiptoed through the apartment, but when it became clear it would take nothing short of an earthquake to wake Francois, she stopped treading so carefully.
‘No way!’ The corner of a photograph poked out of a small, hexagonal, rosewood box. ‘Is that…?’ It was! A young Myriel, with a fattened Francois, sitting at a small table in a bar. Other faces accompanied them, all smiling, laughing and cradling cocktail glasses. She flipped it over: In handwritten ink were the words Me, Myriel and the gang, Laguna Lounge. No date was given, but it must have been at least thirty years old. Huh. They all looked so happy. Serena had never known friends—not close friends anyway, not like this. She had never stayed in the same place long enough. Angelo was the exception, and she doubted very much that he’d ever want to go to a cocktail bar. Hells, he’d probably say the same about her.
She placed the photo back and kept investigating the shelves and stacks of paper, keen to mine more golden nuggets of the past. Maybe Francois had something about Sirens…
Her feet crunched on something soft and jagged—paper, the day’s edition of the Viator. The pages had been crumpled and it smelled the same as the eye drop bottle. Is this what he used to smuggle it in? She cast him a look—he hadn’t moved. She straightened the paper out—and there, splashed over the front page, was a black and white picture of the Prime Councillor.
DALTHEA VIATOR—SPECIAL EDITION!
Pyron Thackeray to Defy Critics and Attend Tonight’s Rescheduled Remembrance Concert!
Major Aramon Fallon Arrested For Treason!
City Safe But Skyport Security Bolstered!
How Long Before We Start Listening To War Hero Thackeray?
‘No way…’ Genevieve Couressa’s concert was going ahead!
It was difficult to believe, but there it was, staring back at her. And if Pyron Thackeray was there, did… Did that mean Junior Councillor Enfield would be too?
Symphony of the Wind Page 36