The Year of Our War (18 page)

I had been creeping toward the door, thinking it would be kind to leave the couple to their conversation. Swallow said, “No!” and started laughing. I hastily returned to the bedside.

“What?”

“Forget the claim, Archer.”

“What?”

Swallow paused, glancing at the blue damask canopy, dividing her agony into separate streaks of pain. She was much thinner, from sweating with fever and being unable to eat. In the vast bed, she even appeared dainty, with her millefleurs shawl over a faded print-silk blouse. “I have a new perspective now. I’m not afraid of death anymore. In that battle, and especially after it when I nearly died, I learned something I can’t express. I can’t even play it, and if I can’t express it in music what chance have I in words?”

I suggested that she might at least try.

“I could try, and I might even manage to say something worthwhile, but there’s no point in telling you, because you’re immortal, and you could never conceive—” She broke off, mirthfully. She was managing to laugh at her experience. She laughed for a long time, with a clear happiness. Her eyes danced with happiness as weightless as it was profound. “Immortality’s pointless compared to what I can do.”

“Die?” said Lightning, with a voice like slate.

“Change. It’s important for me not to forget this lesson—I’ll bear it in mind always until it becomes a part of me…All my life I’ve been knocking at the door, calling to be let in. San’s refusal makes him ridiculous. Well, forget it.”

I looked from one to the other—Swallow was far more comfortable than Lightning. If there had been a year-long battle between them, she had won.

“But I still love you.”

Swallow just threw her head back and laughed harder than ever. He stared at her, not knowing what to do, then turned and walked out, slamming the door. I heard doors slamming—bang, bang, bang—all the way down the Long Corridor, which runs the entire length of the front of the Palace.

“Oh dear,” she said. “I think that’s an ending.”

I
n all, Swallow spent fourteen weeks in bed, in coma, in fever and in recovery. She spent a further week practicing hobbling about on two crutches in the confines of the Palace and gardens. She played music and sang, to the limpid lake and empty flowerbeds in which she saw great beauty. Her eyes were bright with tears of wonder; she began trying to put her secret into music. Swallow was right that I didn’t understand her, but I knew that no immortal could make music that magnificent.

At the end of November she took the coach back to Awndyn, unescorted. Unfortunately I missed the festivities of her departure, which Lightning insisted on holding. I didn’t even see her leave, as throughout the celebrations I was locked in the sapphirine room.

I spent the flight home and much of the night when I arrived at the Castle bitterly resenting how I’d been treated in Micawater. I can pick most locks, but the one on the door of the sapphirine room had been crafted by human hand in Hacilith and it was far too difficult to crack.

I had nursed Swallow, the singer who dabbled in warfare. I sent letters to King Staniel via Awian emissaries who were less likely to daunt him. I flew over Insect territory to carry Vireo’s despairing letters from Lowespass Fortress. And all the thanks I received was to be locked up like a criminal.

Mist says that when he joined the Circle he was drunk for a decade, so it’s possible that mainlining scolopendium may be just a phase of adjustment I have to endure, as I now wake every morning realizing I’m two hundred years old and shouldn’t be alive. When I’m hooked even Lightning’s Palace isn’t sacrosanct, and indeed nowhere is special except the warmth of cat, or the Shift hallucinations. I suppose I’m always going to seem like an outsider. When in Scree, I act like an Awian. In Awia, I behave like a Rhydanne, and when I’m in the Palace, I behave badly.

I started using scolopendium when courting Tern—it gave me confidence and energy so I could fly all night to Wrought and vie with her other suitors. Before that, when mortal, I was a dealer. I quickly saw the dirty side of the business and longed to stop trafficking but I couldn’t, by then—Felicitia forced me.

H
ACILITH
1812

I was young when I first encountered The Wheel in Hacilith. Apprentice in Dotterel’s pharmacy, I applied my knowledge from the dispensary to the streets. I had been working all night, for several nights, and was on my way to the market to pick up some crisps for breakfast. I took a paddle tram along the main street of Hacilith; they trundle slower than walking pace. From the front of each battered carriage a twisted cable runs, the length of several streets, ending in a hook. Where the trams terminate, all these cables run together, a greasy black web of tensed wire, at about head height. Boys were employed to shunt empty trams up and down the cobbled courtyards of the terminus. They played tightrope on the cables. They fastened the hooks, polished by the wear of a thousand grimy hands, onto the mechanism that pulled them—huge waterwheels standing in mesh cages and spinning slowly under the turbid assault of the Moren River. Many have lost limbs in the Shackle Sheds, but the trams remained more popular than the dreaded eventuality of having to walk into town.

The tram’s slow movement was relaxing, a steady pull as the cable wound onto a reel. Soon, I fell asleep. The familiar landmarks of the narrow area I knew peeled away, and stranger sights gathered in the tram’s dirty Insect wing windows. We passed the market, most passengers left, and I, oblivious, remained taking up most of the backseat. I often found places in Morenzia to be a little too small, but I had grown used to sleeping on a shelf in the shop’s cellar. A tram’s backseat was luxury in comparison.

A sudden halt jarred me awake. I rolled from the seat and pressed my nose against the window. Air drenched with the stench of oil, a rattle from the front of the tram as it was unhitched, and then a team of boys laid hands to the brackets on its sides and hauled it under a lintel and into darkness. I listened to the chanting: “One, two, three—heave!” as the baroque brass carcass slid along the rails. “One, two, three—heave!” Grubby lads ran up the steps and started looking under seats for lost property to claim. They stopped in front of me, astonished, all crowding round.

“Who’s that?”

“
What’s
that?”

“What’re you doin’ here?”

“You’re not supposed t’be here!”

“Kids that ride to the End of the Line
never leave
!”

“Shut up, Sam.”

I said, “Please let me go now. I will reward any friend who can show me the way to Galt.” They grinned at my accent, and taut words—although proficient I wasn’t familiar enough yet with the language to be sloppy. Smeared faces bobbed like balloons, but they didn’t rush to offer help. Instead, the largest one leaned over, forcing me back into the seat. He had red hair poking through his string vest. I could smell oil and onions on his breath. I could hear his brain clicking as it freewheeled. “I know you,” he said.

Oh no. Please. Not now. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re the one Peterglass is looking for. The Bowyers offered twenty quid for the whereabouts of your den.” The crowd froze at the mention of such a healthy sum. “Fifty quid for your dead body.” They regarded me inquisitively. “A hundred pounds for you to be brought in, live and whole, so you can be tortured.”

Well, at least I was going to get out of the depot in one piece. “No. I am afraid you are wrong. I do not know Peterglass. I have never heard of The Bowyers. You must be looking for someone else.”

“Oh yeah. Hundreds of people look like you round here, cat-eyes.”

“Well then it must be one of them.” I stood up and they grabbed me.

I’ve heard it said that crowds have a fine sense of right and wrong. Crowds made only of children have a fine sense of how many packets of sweets can be bought with a hundred pounds. I was pulled out of the tram, shoved, dragged, and kicked over the cobbles while Hairy Shoulders and the older boys went into a huddle. They were all strong; I couldn’t push between them, I couldn’t see over their sweaty heads. Fists clung to every centimeter of my clothes like weights. In the midst of this gang I was tram-handled out into bright sunlight where they squashed me flat on the ground and sat on my wings.

Hairy Shoulders emerged from the huddle and declared, “We’ll take it to Felicitia. He’ll be madder than an Insect if we sell it without showin’ him.”

“My name is Jant,” I said indignantly from floor level.

He hauled me up by my T-shirt front. “You just confessed.”

All the time, curious boys had been peering out from behind trams, slipping between the greasy wires, skipping over the brass rails as they dashed to join the throng. Untended trams were backing up in every direction; a dangerous squealing came from unhooked wires that pulled tighter and tighter. Hairy Shoulders didn’t want to attract the attention of anyone over twenty, so he ordered most of the children back inside. Some ran to fetch their bicycles; others kept a firm grasp on me. Their leader hefted his finely carved bike onto his shoulder, encircled my upper arm with his other hand and led me, walking, what seemed like kilometers through the streets of Hacilith, junctions and alleys too many to remember, while a phalanx of orphans marched tightly alongside. Hooting kids on wooden bicycles swooped and raced ahead, and paraded along behind like a comet’s tail.

A
bicycle propped against the wall of a gin-and-cordial shop suggested much more wealth. The belt strap that drove its wheels was leather, not canvas, and it looked very well kept. It was upright and ebony. The boys poked their admiring fingers into the ornate carvings—horses, falcons, and snakes. The seat was a wolf’s head. A pink feather boa and satin streamers were tied to the handlebars. The bike was leaning under a sign which read, “Drunk for a penny. Dead drunk for two pence. Floor space for nothing.”

Twin teenage guards in fyrd-surplus chain mail let us into the pub. We all squeezed through, then the crowd dissipated, leaving Hairy Shoulders and me alone. The room was quite small, with six round tables cluttered with debris of card games, smoking and drinking. The people there were all young, mostly in leather and denim, watching quietly. A fan snapped open and a voice behind it oozed, “Vance, darling boy, what have you brought us?”

“I am Jant Shira and—”

Vance twisted my arm. “This is the kid who’s been dealing cat in Galt. Lord Aver-Falconet, as you know Peterglass of The Bowyers has offered money for him. I found him…” The voice trailed off into uncertain defiance. Aver-Falconet? That was the Governor’s family name. I started to wonder why a backstreet kid would take a pseudonym from the family who must hate us so much.

The fan lowered, revealing a little, heavily made-up face. Lipstick mouthed, “Really? A Rhydanne, no less! Isn’t that totally behind the Wall! I can see why you haven’t been caught all this time, unruly child.”

I simply gaped, mind blank and uncomprehending. It was a boy, I could tell that much. But he wore a green gown, and only girls wore dresses. Boys wore trousers. Girls could wear trousers or dresses. But boys never wore dresses. Did that mean he was a girl? Yes? Maybe he was a girl who looked like a boy. Or maybe it was a fancy dress party. I’d read about masquerades, but I thought they were usually more fun than this. Again Hacilith had thrown up something new; every time I regain my poise the city disorients me. Trams, the sea, money. The crowds, crime, hierarchy. I thought I had grown so used to culture shock I could take these novelties in my stride. But he was the most confusing thing I had seen so far. I couldn’t ask my master about this!

“Rhydanne…?”

I half-spread my disproportionate wings. I knew Morenzians were sluggish people; that’s why they needed bikes. I used to go everywhere at a flat sprint, and humans didn’t do that. “Only partly,” I said. “I can run, and I can fly.”

The boy laughed delicately, then the rest of the room laughed too. “Fly? No really? I don’t believe that!”

Let them not believe it. With a little luck they would throw me off the roof.

“Shira,” he mused. “By that name you must have been born out of wedlock. Rhydanne are very strict about that. I guess you’re an orphan.” I nodded. “And not married. Oh dear, oh dear, left on the shelf, my vigorous hybrid. I can see why you chose to come to the City.”

“Last year I ran away from Darkling because a landslide crushed my house,” I informed him. My voice had power even then; so factual it made them glance at each other. “And Eilean Dara within it. She had thrown me out into the storm, so it was her cruelty that saved me. When the storm cleared I flew east until I fell from exhaustion.”

“And now you deal cat?” Smiling redly. “I find it hard to believe. You must have been here for many years to speak Morenzian so well. Sweet darling, you certainly have Peterglass hopping mad, dealing drugs on his patch. Better quality, much cheaper, and much more prolific than he. Why do you sell such pain and suffering under the guise of pleasure?”

“Junkies would buy cat if I were here or not.” And my merchandise was the safest.

Dotterel had explained finance to me and once I had mastered the bizarre concept, I clung to it and pursued the gain of money with obsessive fervor—my new faith, a very reliable faith. Apprentices were not paid, but night by night I was gleaning what I could from the streets and quays. Surprizingly I had a talent for it. I could talk to anyone; they craved what I gave. I hoarded the crinkled notes in a little tin box. I would stop when the box was full. My aim was to have enough money to escape from Hacilith, or be able to set up my own shop, and marry, be accepted and loved. I was working to improve my life, who can blame me? I was dangerous because although I was good with coins, notes and white powder, life in Darkling had taught me bitter survival rather than affection or remorse.

The busty lady on Aver-Falconet’s left took a sip of her gin and rose-hip syrup. “We have to go soon,” she grumbled. “Just kill him.”

“Tut, tut, Layce! Have you lost the scent of cash?”

I declared that I only worked for myself and alone. It was a stupid thing to say. Aver-Falconet rose with a rustle, and gestured to Vance. Vance and his lads rushed over and beat the shit out of me. A blow in the stomach and I doubled over. Back of the neck, chin, and kneecaps. I managed to gouge the cheek of one of them; he kicked me in the balls. I dropped to the sawdust, curled up. Fuzzy black formed round the edge of my sight. I swallowed bile—please god don’t let me be sick in front of all these boys. My lower half vanished in a sea of white flame.