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  “Could have used him,” Nat grumbled. We gathered our rags, wary of every shadow and skitter.

  The tier had less junk on it by far than Tobiat’s. I dipped my rag in the damp bottom of the bucket and squeezed the cloth nearly dry. Nat did the same. We knelt side by side on the bone floor, scrubbing at crusted spots and stains. When I moved to scrub the central wall, which had pushed far out into the tier, my fingertips and knuckles scraped against the rough bone more than once. I didn’t stop scrubbing.

  No more scavengers or undertower folk troubled us.

  The sun had barely moved by the time we climbed to the next tier. I began to hope we’d make the wingtest after all.

  The Singers offered the test to all the quadrants, in four-tower groups, twice each year. Anyone who’d flown at least twelve seasons, as most who’d passed seventeen Allsuns had, could wingtest. Most who attempted the test passed within three tries, and many attempted it. Without the wingmark, no one would take a young flier as an apprentice, no matter who they were related to. If you couldn’t fly beyond your home quadrant without a Magister, who would want you?

  I tried not to think about who wanted me.

  “Kirit, look.” Nat had reached the tier before me. He pointed at the small bit of scourweed stuck in a gap between bone plates on a bone spur.

  “Yes!” I grabbed the tough nettle and tore it carefully in half. Handed one section to Nat.

  After an hour’s work on the next tier, a shadow passed once, then twice as a flier circled the tower. We hid the scourweed in a crevice and switched back to rags. I expected Sidra again, and braced for more ridicule. Instead, Magister Florian landed on the balcony. He left his wings set. Not here for a social call, then. He skipped the hellos too.

  “You two should consider taking the wingtest next Allsuns.” A half-year away.

  Nat straightened. “Why?”

  I swiped at a dark, sticky spot with my rag.

  “You’re close, but Kirit needs more practice on her turns and on group flight. That last run was not your best, Kirit.” He took a breath, giving me plenty of time to remember how I’d fallen out of the turn and nearly lost my bearings. “And now you’ve spent two days cleaning. You’ll be tired, even if you do finish. I don’t want to see too many from Densira fail.”

  I scrubbed harder at the spot. Perhaps it would disappear.

  “Magister, with respect—” Nat began.

  The Magister held up his hand. “It’s up to you. You’ll be flying from downtower, already at a disadvantage. Your ability to take the lead in Group is important, and you can’t do that well when you’re tired. You can do your best, but it might be better to wait until conditions are optimal. Next Allsuns. For Kirit, especially.”

  I didn’t stop scrubbing. I pictured the trades I’d make as an apprentice. My skill at bargaining. Ezarit’s appreciation when I finessed a particularly tricky detail. “I will see you tomorrow, Magister.”

  He didn’t smile. But Nat did. “We will both see you tomorrow, Magister.”

  Florian turned and jumped, wings spread. He caught an updraft and rose almost effortlessly. I hoped I’d be so lucky tomorrow.

  “Nice work!” Nat punched my arm lightly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was trying to get you to give up, and you wouldn’t let him. I’m sure he doesn’t want to lose face before the other Magisters.” He paused, thinking. “Now you have to pass the test for sure.”

  The weight of his words settled on my shoulders, and deep in my stomach.

  * * *

  By midday, we still had a long way to go on the tier, but we kept encountering curiously clean corners. The scourweed had helped too. And we needed to eat. As I unpacked the dried dirgeon Elna had sent down in a small basket, I saw Tobiat peeking around a corner. I held out a piece of the dirgeon to him. He darted out, then munched loudly.

  “He’s going to follow us home if you feed him,” Nat said.

  “He’s helping. Keeping the scavengers away,” I said. Maybe the scourweed too. I was surprised Nat hadn’t seen it. Besides, I was curious. “What else does he do all day?”

  Tobiat reached into my pocket and drew out the blue-corded bone markers. “Mine.”

  “You gave them to us. For helping, remember?”

  He looked at me sharply and handed them back, to Nat. On a whim, I pointed to the faded bridge that Nat had found on the chips. Tobiat squinted, and he sat back on his heels, elbows on knees. His fingers, slicked with bird grease, combed his skeined hair. “Naton’s,” he said, pointing at the bridge shadow. “Naton’s,” he said again, pointing at Nat.

  Nat dropped his lunch. Tobiat scooted in to retrieve it and gobbled the piece of roasted bird instead of handing it back to Nat.

  “It was his.”

  Tobiat grinned, but didn’t say anything more.

  Nat held up the skein. “They’re not message chips. They’re a plan for something?” he asked, raising both in his hands. His fingers curled around the bone chips, as if Tobiat might snatch them away too.

  “Cages,” Tobiat said before he doubled over with wheezing and hacking. We both backed away. Coughing was dangerous. You didn’t want to stop breathing, not for a minute. Tobiat got hold of himself and whispered, “Cages. Delequerriat.” The strange word rolled off his tongue like water. Then he sat back on his heels and cleared his throat. After a lot of rattling noise, he raised a gob of phlegm and spat it on the floor.

  “Ugh,” Nat said.

  I swiped at the thing with my rag. It was flecked with blood. When I looked up again, Tobiat had skittered out of sight.

  We returned to cleaning, too wrapped up in our own thoughts to talk.

  * * *

  By the time the sun came level with our tier, making everything too bright, we still had one more tier to go. The wingtest was tomorrow. The mystery of the chips could wait.

  “Hurry, Nat.” I scrubbed the scourweed across every surface and tossed garbage.

  Somewhere, right then, Ezarit was saving people. Bringing them medicine or making more trades. By now, towers were making a song of it.

  To serve the city. Dire need. There was no higher privilege, no rarer service. My mother’s bravery was known throughout the city. I pictured myself with my new wings, bringing food to starving towers or fuel to citizens with no heat; I imagined hearing Ezarit’s voice, soft and proud, as the city sang my name. I scrubbed even harder. I would do this.

  We could barely drag ourselves up the ladder to the last tier. “This will take all night,” Nat said, going first.

  He was right. Even if we managed to finish by dawn, we’d be dead on our wings tomorrow for the test. Still, I followed him up. Heard him gasp as he pulled himself over the ledge.

  In the sunset light, the tier sparkled. Clean. Elna stood close to the central wall with Councilman Vant, who looked annoyed. Elna was in a chipper mood.

  “Didn’t think you two would start with this tier and work down,” she said.

  “We didn’t—” Nat began, but I dug an elbow hard into his ribs.

  “We didn’t think the order mattered,” I finished.

  Vant made a harrumph noise while he looked around. Finally, his face brightened. “Haven’t had the lower levels cleaned in some time,” he said. “Good for the health of the tower.” His voice was jolly, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. He couldn’t figure out how we’d done it.

  Neither could I.

  “I’ll be seeing you and your mother soon,” he said with a sour smile as he reached for my hand. He cut the punishment chip from my wrist with a small knife, well worn. Then did the same for Nat.

  We were dismissed.

  Vant unfurled his wings and leapt from the tier. A strong late-afternoon gust lifted him in a rising circle around the tower.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Elna place a wrapped parcel by the wall. She climbed the ladder, and Nat followed. I lingered, hoping to see who she’d thanked with the thick bundle. No one peeked out f
rom the shadows to claim it. Before I climbed the ladder, I took one of my light quilts from my satchel and left it atop Elna’s parcel. I hoped it would keep him warm.

  4

  OLD WINGS

  Elna had filled her table with rich things she couldn’t possibly have bought herself. Was Ezarit near? She would know what had happened.

  I looked behind Nat’s and Elna’s screens. Nat’s whipperling squatted on its perch, several tail feathers dusty and askew.

  “Ezarit sent a courier to the tower, with a package for Vant and the goose for us,” Elna acknowledged. Maalik pecked at his mash, hungry.

  “You sent her a message,” I said. It was not a question.

  Elna raised her eyebrows. “She needed to know. And you need your strength for tomorrow. Though I couldn’t tell her everything.” The Singer’s warning. You will not interfere. If I knew Elna, she’d hinted anyway.

  We ate greedily. Nat’s fingers dove for the goose fat, and mine scooped up a thick, roasted leg. I saw his frown. He’d wanted that too.

  Elna’s plate was empty. “Go on, eat.” She made a shooing gesture with her hands. “You worked hard. You’re testing tomorrow.” I pushed the goose leg to her plate and picked up a wing instead. She tried to say she wasn’t hungry. When I ignored her, she tore into the leg.

  “When I’m apprenticed,” Nat said through a mouthful of goose, “we’ll eat like this every night.”

  Elna chuckled. “And you’ll need new wings each Allsuns, like Councilman Vant.”

  “Won’t. Ever.” Nat reached for the water sack and helped himself. He filled Elna’s cup, then splashed water in mine. “I’ll be the fastest hunter in the sky. Bring down everything I see.”

  “Let’s hope you don’t bring down a friend, then.” Elna ruffled his hair. She cracked the leg bone and sucked the marrow out. Nat did the same with a thigh. I set my wing down. Never crack a wing, not even if you might starve.

  We were the opposite of starving. We sat at the table near the balcony and watched the lights go down in the highertowers. The stars grew bright in the sky, and the moon bellied above the clouds, full enough to turn the city silver.

  “Clear sky,” Elna noted. “Good for tomorrow.” She stepped away from the table and pulled two bundles from behind the sleeping screen. Our wings.

  Nat whooped and spread his out on the floor, then went in the back for a mending kit to shore up a worn seam.

  Elna looked sad as she handed me my wings. “Your mother’s delayed in the south quadrant,” she said. “The tower council brought these down when they delivered the goose.”

  I shrugged off my disappointment and tore into the bundle, thinking of the green and gold swirls. My new wings. But when the bundle came undone, I found my old wings, newly mended. Elna laid a skein of message chips on top. From my mother. She patted my hand and left me with it.

  Kirit, the chips read, I should be back in time for Allmoons. Southwest is complicated. Meantime, do your best. I won’t have you test on new wings after all that happened. You will use your old ones. Liras Viit has mended them well. Be brilliant. You will rise like the sun.

  Nothing more. Old wings, a mother away, and a wingtest for which I was ill-prepared. I should be flying from the towertop on gold and green to meet the test, with Ezarit cheering me on.

  Alone. I would do this alone. Ezarit hadn’t returned. The southwest was more important and demanded much, I knew.

  A thought took my breath away. Would she return before the Singer came back? Perhaps she didn’t want me as apprentice after all. Staying away was an easy way to say so.

  My dusky wings with their patches and stains felt far heavier in my hands than they used to. How could I rise if both my tower and my mother were determined to weigh me down?

  With that, I snapped back to reality. Chin up, shoulders back, Kirit. I would fly the wingtest well enough to keep Wik at bay and take top marks, so that Ezarit would see I was the best apprentice she could choose. And then I could choose to go with her or make my own way.

  “Beautiful stitching,” said Elna, running her fingers over Liras Viit’s patchwork. She patted Nat’s shoulder, then mine. “You could work on your mending skills. Never know when you’ll need them.”

  Nat wrinkled his nose, but continued to shore up his wings. I barely hid my expression; I hated mending. I’d trade for my garments, like Ezarit did. After tomorrow.

  Tomorrow, we’d be questioned on city Laws and history. There would be a solo flight, then a group flight with students from other towers and citizen volunteers. Group was the most important test: flying among strangers without killing anyone. I had to do well on it all. I could not falter, could not let Vant or Wik or anyone keep me from passing my wingtest.

  We’d spent years preparing. Our Magister had drilled us on each element. And tried to dissuade Nat and me from showing up because we’d spent the final days before the test cleaning downtower.

  Worse, I had yet to go into open sky since the migration. The thought, even though the Singers had declared the skymouths gone for now and the skies safe, made my dinner feel like a pannier full of guano.

  Elna gave me a knowing smile. She remembered what it was like. “Stakes are high. Passage on the first try will make you seem lucky. It will balance the tower’s censure.” She was trying to make us feel better. “Even on the second try, there are plenty of professions that will still want a strong flier.”

  But no one wanted you if you were unlucky, or if you happened to attract skymouths to your tower.

  “Sidra said some of the group volunteers are hunters,” Nat added. He was a fine shot. Good with a knife, too.

  “If not the hunters, the guards,” he told me while he double-stitched a seam with silk thread. “Sidra said she’d talk to her father if I wanted to be a guard. I would line my wings with glass and patrol the skies.”

  I barely heard him. As I’d scrubbed the tower, I’d let myself daydream too. My life as a trader. I knew he’d done the same. All that stood between me and that future was one test. Now, holding my old wings, I imagined the roar of air around me as I plummeted and failed. It would be worse than being sent downtower in a basket, because everyone who could spare the time would be watching the wingtest, with lenses. If I fell out of my turn, they would see me.

  Everyone but Ezarit.

  Allmoons was in two days, which wasn’t long. But that would be too late. At least she wouldn’t see me fall.

  If I could just practice my rolls and climbs once more. If my voice was prettier.

  Too dark to fly now. Wingtest started after dawn. Instead, I practiced in the main room. I unfurled my wings, slipped my arms into the straps, stretched my fingers to the harnesses that controlled curvature and, to some extent, lift. The woven harness that held my feet when I flew dragged on the floor with a soft ruck-ruck-ruck. I began twisting this way and that, angling my hands to curve the wings’ tethers, ducking my head to let the air curl around me.

  “You look like you’re dancing,” Nat said. I jumped. He’d been behind the screen, reading.

  “Practicing. You don’t?”

  He shook his head. “Magister said I’m a natural.”

  The lanterns grew dim as the oil in them ran out. Elna came in from the balcony and kissed the tops of our heads. She whispered, “Don’t stay up too late,” and went to bed. Outside, the full moon finally cleared the clouds again, flooding the balcony and the outermost rooms with pearl-gray light. Dark wings chased bugs between distant towers, and the closest towers sparkled under the star-glimmered sky. It was a soft night. Almost as beautiful as an Allmoon.

  Someone in the tower had picked up their dolin and was plucking at the strings. The chords drifted down like raindrops.

  “Come on, Kirit. We know everything we need to know already. We finished the punishment. Watch the stars come out.”

  I growled quietly. Nat wasn’t nervous anymore. Me, I had everything riding on this test. If I did well, the Spire would have no claim
on me. Ezarit would know my worth to her. My luck would be restored. Tomorrow I could begin training to become a trader like my mother. Or I could disappear.

  Nat was right; he was a natural. I’d always had to work at it.

  I knew I’d pass the first part, Laws. I’d memorized all the songs. The test focused on accuracy, so the fact that my voice sounded like scourweed on bone couldn’t hurt me. I hoped. I worried most about Group. Anything could happen then. Sometimes everything did.

  I closed my eyes and spun, feeling my old wings fill with the slight breeze. The battens supported two layers of silk that spread and furled like bats’ wings. The wingframe could lock in position to free the hands, or a skilled flier could use the grips woven into each wing to rake and angle the wingfoils during a glide. I felt the grips with my fingers, the leads of the silkspun ropes that ran to eyebolts drilled at the tips of the wingframe. Singers’ wings used tendon instead of silk. For us, silk had to do.

  I imagined myself diving and turning in a clear blue sky. I imagined leading a group. I had to do well. I had to focus. But instead of the rules for upwind group flight, or the different traditions of various towers in the city, I saw the strange patterns on the bone chips Tobiat gave us. My arms dropped to my sides. My concentration had failed me. No more flying tonight.

  When I opened the shutters, I found Nat sitting on the balcony, looking at the moon through a hole in one of the age-worn bone chips—Naton’s plans. I hesitated, one foot on the threshold, then stepped out.

  Nat turned and peered at me one-eyed through the carved chip.

  “What are they, do you think?” he said.

  The chip made Nat’s brown eye seem flat and enormous, with extra sclera. Like a skymouth’s. I pushed that thought out of my mind. The sky had been clear for days.

  I steadied my voice. “No idea.” Tried to think of things a bridge artifex like Naton would want to make. Something woven or knotted. “Probably not a telescope.”

  He lowered the skein. “Not a good one anyway.”