Updraft Page 10

“Maybe not, unless the secret is big enough. Tobiat sure made it sound so, though he can’t remember everything.”

  I shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. Had Tobiat drawn Nat into his madness? Nat had followed readily, filling the space where his pride had been.

  “I want to go during Allmoons,” Nat added.

  “Allmoons? Against Laws? What could possibly go wrong, then? You can’t mean to fly at night?” I asked and threw my arms in the air. Nat’s frown deepened at my tone, but I continued. “Why don’t you ask a Singer when they come to deliver the wingmarks?”

  His face clouded darker.

  He was talking about going to the Spire. Not for a market. Not to trade. To find a way to make the Singers give up a secret. Which the Singers were sworn not to do.

  I shivered as I thought about Singer Wik’s fiat. No, they did not surrender their secrets lightly.

  The hurt in Nat’s eyes took the fire out of me. He had a half year of waiting, of scrambling to get by, before he could make his path in the world. Because the Magisters had switched for Group and he’d been paired with Sidra and Dix.

  “Come on, Kirit. It’ll be like old times.”

  It could have been me with broken wings. But it wasn’t.

  “I need to think about it, Nat,” I said. I didn’t meet his eyes. I looked across the balcony, to where Ezarit stood at the center of a crowd of bettors and traders. She turned to look for me too. Beckoned. I went to her.

  * * *

  Only five wingfighters remained aloft; the rest were in the nets. Macal flew for Mondarath against four Viit fliers. Viit observers were already counting the goods they’d take from Mondarath at the loss. Mondarath bettors shouted at the five men and women gliding in tight circles between the towers. The fliers were cut and bloodied, but still better off than their companions in the nets. Aliati among them, a sharp cut down her arm. She shouted encouragement to her sole teammate: Macal wasn’t giving up.

  One Viit flier’s wing tore on the sharp edge of Magister Macal’s pinion.

  Ezarit shouted at another bet won. She was in her element.

  I pulled a marker from my new purse and held it aloft to see if I could catch a bettor’s eye. “One, on that Mondarath,” I said, imitating Ezarit. A bearded man took the chip from my fingers. Aliati’s team. Macal’s. The trader’s laugh boomed when a Viit flier knocked Macal hard, nearly into the net.

  “You’ll learn,” he said. “You bet early, before they tire.” He clapped his hand against my furled wings, rattling the battens. I backed away. Moved closer to Ezarit. Watched Macal continuing to fight out of the corner of my eye.

  When the match had only one Viit flier left aloft against Macal, she put a hand on my shoulder and pulled me into the group. “My daughter, Kirit,” she said, introducing me to the men and women with whom she’d been betting.

  They wore their tower marks around their necks and in their hair. Not the fashion in our quadrant, where we kept them in purses in pockets. The one who’d taken my marker a moment ago extended his hand, “Doran Grigrit. My wife,” he gestured to the trader by his side, “Inaro.” She inclined her head, and I made a small bow to them. In my mind, I pictured the tower map I’d assembled earlier that day. Southwestern quadrant, where Ezarit went for honey. Far from here indeed.

  “I have arranged,” my mother said, “a most fortuitous apprenticeship for you, Kirit.”

  I heard her words, but there was something strange about them. That wasn’t how you announced your own apprentice. She seemed to be speaking through the long end of a bone horn, her words distant and warped. She kept going, but my mind had stopped listening.

  Not partners, then. Not a team.

  A roaring sound rose in my ears. One of my mother’s best trading skills was the bait and switch. And I realized too late that I might be the bait.

  I forced myself to listen to the terms: “…’s daughter will apprentice with me, and you will work with the Grigrit fliers. You’ll learn much more than I could ever teach you.”

  There was more roaring. She looked at me, held my gaze. She expected me to compose myself, to seem pleased. While she sent me away.

  She’d made this arrangement while she was on her trading run. She hadn’t told me when we were alone. She hadn’t wanted an argument.

  The horns blew for the end of the wingfight. Viit had won, but Macal had made it a close thing. Each tower bound the wounds of the opposing teams’ players, even as the winning tower began to plan how to transport the tithes it would take from the losers.

  All around me, tower markers changed hands, bets were paid, and treasures pulled from robes. The tower was rich with trades. Something about Mondarath made people less cautious. My mother laughed, and the beads in her hair sparkled.

  My new wings felt heavy on my shoulders. I tugged at the lenses around my neck, wishing I could take them off and hand them back. Instead, I smiled as she’d taught me. Don’t show disappointment; that gives the other trader an edge.

  And behind my smile, locked tight, my voice keened silent and broken. Yoked to an apprenticeship I had no say in. Sent away without warning.

  Doran continued talking, oblivious. “Just like fledges. Feed ’em, flip the nest when they’re prepared. Mine know they’re ready.”

  “Kirit is a hard worker,” Ezarit said, proud of her trade. I wondered what she got in return besides Doran’s daughter, but I refused to let it show. I locked my smile and pretended to listen, though much of what I heard was the roaring in my ears. “She’s done very well in flight.”

  He turned to me. “Good! We’ll teach you the rest.”

  I already knew plenty. I’d been watching the best trader in the city. But this was not enough. I prepared my objections, but Doran turned his attention to the group again.

  “Tower children don’t know half what they should until they apprentice. We’ll make sure she learns the right way to trade. And the traditions. My father’s still alive. His songs about when we came out of the clouds, and before, they’ll make your skin crawl.” Doran’s eyes lit up at the thought of it. And he was right; my skin was crawling already.

  Ezarit still played dealmaker. “Doran has the best trade routes in the south.” She jutted her chin, and I saw his quilts were richly embroidered. He was very wealthy, then. “We will make them welcome at Densira tonight, and you will leave tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow. I stared at her, and she rumpled my hair. “We’ll meet in the sky,” she said. “Traders are never far. And I know you’ll be safe with Doran.” For a moment, her face grew serious, and her eyes begged me to agree. Then she became lighthearted again. I did not know what to think.

  Doran laughed and reached for a wineskin that was being passed around. He took a pull and pointed outside with his free hand. “Ah, Singers!”

  I blanched, then remembered these Singers bore wingmarks. Smiled.

  Too late, for Doran saw my look. “You’ll learn respect for Singers too, Kirit. I’ll have no Lawsbreaking in my tower. Singers saved us. They kept us from fighting to death in the clouds. They found the few left alive, taught them Laws. They learned how to raise the towers faster. On their wings, we rose.” Doran actually wiped a tear from his eye, and I nodded, even as I edged backwards.

  For all my studies, I hadn’t realized how different the south was, how traditional. And Ezarit had traded me there, like a weight of tea wrapped in silk.

  The Singers landed, with Councilman Vant right behind. I moved away from Doran and the bettors, towards the gathering wingtesters. One last look at Ezarit, her face relaxed now that she’d done her duty and found me an apprenticeship.

  Doran laughed heartily and clapped her on the shoulder. She had the dignity to raise an eyebrow, and he pulled his hand away.

  The sun was a pale slip on the cloudtop. The Singers’ wings were tinted red with the light. The day neared Bethalial by the old Laws.

  “We congratulate Viit on its win,” the Singer with the silver streak in her hair said. “We will
hurry to get you to your home towers before nightfall.”

  Behind us, the bantering and the post-wingfight win recapping faded as everyone turned to listen to the Singers. The members of my flight clustered forward. Nat kept to the back, in the section of the tower already fallen into shadow.

  The two Singers who bore the wingmarks were the woman with the silver streak in her hair and the older man. Wik was not with them. For that, I heaved a sigh of relief.

  The female Singer held the bag of wingtest markers, a thick-spun silk dyed goldenrod. I could hear the markers click together from here.

  Sidra joined the press towards the Singers. I kept myself back a little, soaking up the feeling of almostness. The moment before I could hold my future in my hands stretched out—the length of a breath, held.

  The wingmark would open the city to me and would free me from the Singer’s plans.

  A tattooed hand dipped into the bag, then handed gold markers out. First to Beliak, then Aliati. Six more fliers tied wingmarks to shoulder straps. Ceetcee, Dikarit.

  Sidra shifted her feet, impatient. She couldn’t be serious. Not after recieving partial chips in Laws and Group.

  Dojha took her mark. Someone cheered in the background. The bag was nearly empty.

  The Singer paused. Her mouth formed a frown, as if she was about to say something distasteful. “The reason for the late awarding of wingmarks was our need to confer with the council. Two fliers performed well in many aspects of the test, but failed in other ways.”

  My heart skipped a beat. Nat. Perhaps they would let him pass after all.

  The Singer continued. “A strong argument has been made in the case of one of these fliers.”

  Then Sidra held a wingmark in her hands. She turned to tie it to her shoulder strap, caught my eye, and smiled.

  I was baffled. How could she earn her wingmark after the disastrous Group flight, not to mention failing Laws? And arguing.

  Ezarit came to stand by my side. Her hand touched my shoulder. “We do not buy our wings,” she whispered. And I understood. I waited to hear what Nat’s fate would be, knowing that Elna would never bribe the council, even if she had the means.

  Ezarit’s hand rested on my arm, and I remembered what she’d just done. Doran Grigrit. I shrugged her away. First I would get my wingmark, then I would try to negotiate my own apprenticeship, without her help. And then I would help Nat.

  But the bag was empty. The Singers unfurled their wings and prepared to leave. Impossible. Where was mine?

  I pulled the test chips from my wing as I hurried towards them, shouting, “Wait!” There in my hands were Laws and City, Solo and Group. I’d passed them all, whole and well. I held them out.

  But the Singers shook their heads. The older Singer smiled. “You are Densira? You broke the Silence. In Solo. After breaking Fortify. Your lack of tradition and discipline failed you, set a bad example for others. Try again next year.”

  All around me the bettors fell silent. No one had thought to put money on that outcome. I heard Doran call for his party. They were leaving. Ezarit scrambled to slow them, to renegotiate.

  Many of us had broken the Silence. Sidra especially. But her father had tipped things in her favor. And the Singers, I realized, had tipped things in theirs.

  I stood, stunned, at the balcony’s edge, as the Singers leapt into the wind. Doran and his wife followed, without a backwards glance.

  Behind me, I saw my mother, wan and staring. She could not fathom what had happened, her plans gone to shards around her. My luck had tainted hers. She took a step back, then another.

  I looked every direction, hoping for a place to hide and sort this out. Soon, Wik would come to speak to Ezarit, and perhaps she would give me up to them instead. I had to get away, if not to hide, then to rage. Where no one in the towers could see me.

  Those from Densira who’d come for the wingfights pulled their faces into careful masks when they saw me. So unlucky. They whispered warnings against my dangerous behavior to each other.

  Beyond them, in the shadows, Nat watched me. Then he turned and slipped from the shade-side of the balcony into the sky. In the commotion, no one else noticed.

  I slid through a break in the crowd, between figures turned to watch the departing Singers, and edged towards the empty part of the balcony. My neighbors let me go. I was unlucky again, and beneath their notice.

  In one quick motion, I opened my wings and flew after Nat. A cold gust pushed me out fast. The tower shrank behind me before I realized he was headed far from the city, into the open air.

  8

  CROSSWIND

  “I’m coming with you,” I shouted across the sky, loud against Mondarath’s fading noise.

  Nat let me catch up with him. “We’ll take the crosswind in,” he replied.

  We were two Lawsbreakers, flying without wingmarks, at Bethalial. Allmoons’ time of quiet. If we were caught, we would be weighed down with even heavier markers than before. But what did that matter, when we were already so burdensome to our families, to our tower?

  “Where are we going?”

  Nat’s feet dangled at awkward, overgrown angles from his wings’ footsling. The wings supported him, but barely. “You’ll need to let me draft on your wings for the turn,” he said. That was not an answer.

  We passed the broken tower, Lith, at the northern edge of the city. The winds here were plainer, less easy to read. They were also less prone to shifts and wind shadows. Few flew the edges of the city. I knew my mother did because the winds were also faster here. But I wondered at Nat. The crosswinds picked up farther south. To catch them on this angle, we’d need to fly a long way into the open sky.

  “Turning where?” I asked. I didn’t care what his answer was. We were in the open, no tower to turn to, no place to land safely.

  My eyes burned from staring hard at the blue, looking for ripples, air currents, skymouths, danger.

  We could turn back. The city meant safety. Still, I wanted to keep flying until we disappeared into the distance, until they lit our banners and set us free.

  “Into the center,” he said. “Soon.”

  For now, all we had was sky ahead and cloud below. No towers, no colorful wings. No skymouths, I hoped.

  Beyond the city, the air felt much colder. We closed on the point where a crosswind usually cut in. Ezarit had said once it was the fastest route to the center, but the most dangerous. In that moment, on that day, we didn’t care.

  I spotted the cloud drift that marked the windstream first, and whistled to Nat. He turned his head to sight an angle off the receding towers, then whistled back. Time to turn. I took the lead, dipping my right wing low and spreading my fingers in their harnesses to stretch the upward curve of my left wing.

  I turned, a blade of fury carving the sky. Behind me, I heard the crack and flap of Nat’s wings fighting to cut the same arc. He teetered, then pulled straight and steady. We aimed for the city.

  I didn’t realize I was crying until my cheeks began to crackle with the cold of the crosswind. The lenses dangled around my neck, unwanted, but necessary. I tucked my arm from my wing and yanked them up over my nose. My cap slipped as the strap dragged on it, but didn’t fall.

  The lenses. I bet Ezarit regretted wasting them now. She didn’t want me by her side. Doran Grigrit didn’t want me. Nor Densira. None would have the Lawsbreaker, the skymouth attractor. None would have Nat Brokenwings either. We were nearly castoffs. Unlucky. If we failed again, we could wind up skulking in the low tiers, scraping filth from trash to get by. Unless we flew our own way.

  Singer Wik was behind this. The Singers had taken everything, even after I’d paid my debt to my tower. The Spire on the horizon caught my eye. In the fading light, the tower was pure and white, surrounded by the city’s waving banners.

  I would run straight into its walls, like a bird. The tower would shake as I fell.

  They would not come for me. I would go to the Spire to find the truth, I’d take them by
surprise. They would give me my wings and my marker, or I would challenge like Ezarit had. At first light, I would demand my rights and have my questions answered. Nat too.

  Nat flew behind me and back a bit. In my reflecting lens, I saw his clenched jaw, his narrowed eyes. He wanted answers too.

  While the city marked its shortest day, grieved its losses, and moved on, we would mark the city. Carve a hole in it. Break tradition.

  We would take what it refused to give.

  I shifted my gaze, refocusing at the approaching view. As the towers began to light Allmoons banners, the central rooftops blossomed with fire along their edges. Dusk advanced; the city came alight, with the Spire pale and steady at its center.

  We aimed our wings, flying direct and angry towards the city’s heart.

  9

  APPROACH

  The current we rode carried us high. We looked down over the central towers as the flickering banners faded to ash.

  We’d broken so many Laws tonight. I wondered at that. And then I did not even care. I wasn’t Ezarit’s obedient girl anymore. Where had that gotten me?

  A scrim of high clouds and the gaining dark gave us some cover. We were shadows tonight, hidden by ritual. The city’s eyes were on its lost. We would be obscured until the moon had fully risen and the banners burned away.

  We dove into Varu’s shadow, then around. No one peered from its balconies. All were on the tower’s highest levels, remembering.

  To fly unseen was frightening. I was used to life lived in the open, where everyone watched. In the crush of neighbors at the Allmoons lightings, I’d never thought of what the rest of the city was like, dark below the canopy of banners lit and burning.

  The Singers, too, were gone from the top of the Spire. Attending their duties around the city, chronicling the lost. I understood the need for the Bethalial now. No one but Singer-born or Singer-sworn may approach the Spire at Allmoons. Well. I was under a Singer fiat, wasn’t I? That was good enough for me.

  The Spire looked as impenetrable as ever, but no gray wings were about to see us on our mad approach.