Updraft (6 page)

My body relaxed as the song wove the air. Elna loved me. The thought was a balm. Then another thought, as I fell into sleep, weighed me down. The next line of The Rise praised the Singers for saving the city.

The wingtest would decide my fate, if I could get there. In two days' time, I would be taken to the Spire by the guardians of the city or I would fly free on my own wings.

*   *   *

In the morning, a shadow drifted past the open balcony doors. I sipped chicory, and Nat worked over a bowl of dried berries. The bone chips sat on the table between us.

Elna passed us on her way to the midtower market. She'd tied a satchel of finished mending to her side. I stuffed the skein of chips into my sleeve before she saw it.

“Tobiat didn't get in your way yesterday?” she asked, gripping the ladder tight with both hands.

Nat shook his head. “He helped a bit.”

She smiled. “I've found him more helpful when I've treated him with respect.”

She began her climb. We watched until her feet disappeared.

Nat took mash to his whipperling. He returned quickly. “Maalik's not here.” He grumbled that if someone wanted to send messages using his bird, they needed to ask him first. Then he began rummaging in Elna's storage baskets for more rags.

“Kirit, look.” Nat had unstacked several baskets by the inside wall. As with everyone's quarters, the center wall supported the tower. It grew first on each tier and thickened with each year until, on the lowest parts of the tower we could reach, only a few meters of space remained in what were once huge rooms. Barely enough space to land on, if you listened to the scavengers.

The baskets contained things Elna wasn't ready to toss. Nat held a scrap of robe, creased like it had been balled up for a decade or more. I spread it out—two handspans of blue silk striped with dove gray, very faded. A piece of a Magister's cloak. “Elna's?”

“Yes.”

“Why did she stop?”

“I think they wouldn't let her teach, after. She never talks about it.” He spun on his heel and headed back into the dark. I heard him rummaging. In my hand, the skein of knotted silk cord and bone chips rattled. Some of the chips were shaped like tears and teeth, all were nearly white, flat, and practically soft to the touch. They'd been handled often. The marks and symbols seemed to have been made using traditional tools: bone scrapers, bone needles, and bone chisels. Only the small holes drilled all the way through had crisp edges, perhaps made with one of the few metal drills that remained in the city. Those were the province of the bridge builders, the artifexes. Like Naton had been.

The discarded robe in the rag bag and the bone chips in my hand made me wonder. I fought the urge. Couldn't risk thinking too hard about the Singers.

But Nat lifted the chips and hefted them. “My father could have made these,” he whispered, although everyone had gone up to the market. The tower was wrapped with ladders and ropes as people hauled their extra from gardens to the tower council's farm stores.

“Don't you think the chips are too old for that?” I shifted from the guest area into the deeper recesses of their quarters. I lifted a lid on a basket, poked a finger through the handwork that Elna took in. Searching for a way to switch the subject.

“The holes in the chips. The shadow of an older carving, not fully ground away. Something's been erased, and replaced.” He jumped as Elna dropped onto the balcony. As she entered, Nat pushed the skein back into my hand and stuffed the scrap of cloak into a basket. I slipped the bone markers into a pocket and prayed they wouldn't clatter too much. Elna had very sharp ears.

“Forgot my sewing kit. You two had better get going,” she scolded. “Three more tiers to clean.”

Ugh. We'd done the worst one yesterday. The next three likely had occupants too, but anything would be more sanitary than Tobiat's. We got moving.

My feet were barely off the ladder when we met an occupant of the day's first tier. A woman rushed from the shadows, her clothes ragged, but less so than Tobiat's. She was so weighed down by the Laws tied to her wrists, they clattered when she moved. I couldn't read them before she ran forward and grabbed Nat's bucket. Pulled. Nat leaned back, trying to keep it from her. The two of them spun closer to the edge.

I tried to push them towards the tower's core, towards safety, by placing both hands on Nat's back and shoving. All of us were wingless. None would survive a fall here.

A whoop and a cry made the woman let go of the bucket. Her wind-scarred eyes widened as Tobiat charged in, waving his hands and bellowing. She dodged his hands, then slunk away.

“Looks like we've made an ally,” I said, catching my breath. Tobiat looked marginally better than the day before. And I remembered what Elna said about respect. “Thank you for your help.”

Tobiat made a face. “Cleaning.”

“Yes, and we have to do it fast,” Nat said. No time to battle scavengers.

Tobiat glared in every direction, a crooked, unwinged guard. The woman had disappeared into the shadows.

Tobiat stepped to the balcony's edge, then jumped.

I screamed and ran for the edge, expecting to see his weathered form plummeting to the clouds. Instead, I saw he'd managed to land on the lower balcony and roll. “Cloudtouched,” I whispered to Nat. “He's gone.”

“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 from 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.