Trent Jamieson - Roil

David held off suggesting that that smell was probably them, after their flight in the storm; the Vergers trailing them, down street and along creaking bridge. He considered opening the window, but thought better of it, preferring to leave the rain outside for a while. So he ignored Cadell and watched his home – the city that he had lived in all his life – slip behind him, becoming a single wavering brightness that, in turn, faded to nothing.

Cadell, despite his misgivings, fell asleep almost at once. David envied him bitterly; he had no such luck. He shut his eyes and that dark space only served up memories he did not want, his father or an eyeless Lassiter, spiders bubbling from his lips. He thought of his Aunt Veronica in Hardacre, she ran a school there. He wondered if she would even recognize him. They’d never been close. She hadn’t even been able to make it down for his mother’s funeral. But then again the cities of Hardacre and Mirrlees were hardly on good terms. She was family, a good woman, and he knew he could start his life again up there. Of course he had to actually reach Hardacre first.

He kept his eyes open and gazed at Cadell. In sleep he seemed older, frailer – though not nearly as old as he claimed. Cadell moaned, rolling away from the window; drool pooled onto the engineer’s shoulder.

David peered a little closer. A single tear, gleaming in the cabin light, followed the line of Cadell’s left cheek.

David looked away, embarrassed. He didn’t understand his own grief, felt shamed by it. Someone else’s tears were worse.

Outside, buildings rushed by in the murk, fragments of metropolises and structures that pre-dated Mirrlees-on-Weep and the Council. Most of them were deserted centuries ago but not all. Lights burned fitfully from narrow windows, figures moved from shadow to shadow.

Old Men, smoking pipes, stood framed in ancient doorways and raised their hands at the passing of the Dolorous Grey. In greeting or as a ward against evil, David could not be sure.

David wondered what their lives were like, here, away from the city. How they could survive? These train-swift fragments were not enough to give him any answer. He knew you could survive pretty much anywhere: the two obvious exceptions being within the Roil and in the far north. And here he was on a train racing to Chapman and the edge of the Roil.

He gave up on sleep, Cadell was right; it was stifling in here. He wondered where Cadell had hidden the Carnival, perhaps he could just… The Old Man snorted in his sleep, and shook his head.

David opened the window a touch, scowling when it did nothing but let in damp hot air.

He picked up the pamphlet.

The illustration printed on it was masterful in its detail work, crowded with Aerokin, balloons and even a kite or two above the famous Field of Flight.

HEED THE CALL.

There has never been a better year to attend Chapman’s aerostatic event. The release of ten thousand BALLOONS, to represent the fallen. The sky a fury of fliers, a fantasy of flotation, the Roil an imposing and majestic backdrop. Security and delight are assured. At prices undeniably reasonable and reasonably undeniable.

FLY ONE, FLY ALL! HEED CHAPMAN’S CALL!

The Mothers of the Sky have approved this event, a portion of the proceeds of which will go to the maintenance of Drift.

The whistle blew ahead. Once, and then again, a shrill and mournful sound.

Heat and sadness.

There was so much noise: the clatter of metal wheels running on metal tracks, the shrillness of whistles and the animal growls of steam.

So much noise, and yet so little.

That thought gave him pause.

Where was everybody?

Surely people should be walking up and down the train. Children exploring, folk gossiping, or even someone snoring. But he had not heard a thing.

Too quiet.

Too hot and too quiet.

The door handle rattled as the train jolted round a bend, as though someone was trying it, turning it, soft and slow, so as to be barely perceptible. A Verger, perhaps.

It rattled again. Violently.

David jumped, looking around for some sort of weapon.

He shook his head. Just a few rough spots on the track, that was all. He was being paranoid.

He took a deep breath and stood up. Then crept towards the door and flung it open. The hall was empty; lights flickered along its length. He poked his head through the doorway; nothing grabbed him.

David carefully observed the aisle from the rear carriage door to the front.

No one.

No movement.

He waited a few breaths, then stepped into the hallway closing the door behind him, after checking that Cadell was asleep – and he was, dead to the world, another tear tracking down his face. David considered waking him and decided against it. He’d be gone a minute or two, no more.

He walked to the cabin next to his and put his ear against the door. Silence. He opened the door slowly. The cabin was vacant.

And the next. And the next after that.

He turned to stare back at his cabin. Just one more door, then he could give up and go back. He swung it open. A porter sat within, dressed in his uniform, looking down at his hands. He blinked, turned towards David, and smiled.

“I can’t remember why I’m here,” the porter said. “It’s a little cool, don’t you think?”

David was about to say that it was anything but cool, then thought the better of it. The porter shivered; looking at him was enough to make David feel cold.

“Have I seen your ticket?” The porter asked.

“Yes,” David said, and hoped that the lie sounded believable.

The porter’s eyes narrowed. “I think I’d better see it again.”

“It’s here somewhere,” David patted his pockets, then remembered Cadell had them. “Um, it’s back with my-”

The porter slapped his hand down on the seat. “It is of utmost importance that the passenger keep his ticket with him at all times,” he said, his voice rising alarmingly in pitch. He frowned. For a second, David caught a glimpse of some sort of shadow leaking from his lips, and then it was gone. The porter raised a hand to his face. Tapped his head. “There’s all sorts of buzzing going on in here.” He made an odd snorting sound that David took some time recognising as laughter. “It’s all right, come in here, with me. Just having a joke.”

“I think I better get my ticket.” And wake up Cadell. David didn’t like what was happening at all.

“I said it’s all right. Sit with me.”

“I better get my ticket, after all there are rules.” He wished his paranoia had extended to waking the Old Man up.

David took a step back.

The porter bounced to his feet and strode towards him.

“I said it’s all right.” Something slipped from between his teeth. It fluttered moth-like, then dropped, the porter tried to snatch it out of the air and missed. “Odd, but it is too cold.” His voice was a whisper. The porter was out the door, blocking David’s path back to Cadell.

Another moth tumbled, dead, to the floor where it sprayed a little dust. The porter bent down, picked it up, and put it back in his mouth. “Much too cold. Now, come here, there’s things I can do. Things I can put in you. Just come to me, eh.”

David did nothing of the sort. He turned on his heel and ran fast as he could, towards the dinning car.

Whatever had gotten into the porter, he did not want in him.

The rain poured down, hot fat droplets driven north by wind and Roil. The engine of the Dolorous Grey raged and roared, blasting heat and noise against the driver’s face. His lips peeled back in a rictus of pure joy. The train had never been pushed so hard or fast. He felt connected, utterly connected with Roil and engine, furnace and fire and speed.