Fran Wilde - Updraft

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.