City of Dreams and Nightmare (4 page)

Magnus was speaking again. “I want to show you something.” He gestured, and the air above the tabletop shimmered. An image began to form within the shimmering, a solid-looking something which resolved itself into a section of the city walls in miniature. “Don’t worry, Kite Guard, this isn’t dangerous. It’s merely a recording, an echo, if you will, of events that have already transpired.” Under any other circumstances Tylus would have bridled at the patronising tone, but he was so fascinated by this wonderful apparition that he barely noticed. A figure stood atop a terrace and Tylus recognised first the uniform of a Kite Guard and then…

“That’s me,” he gasped, unable to believe what he was seeing.

“Indeed.”

Just as it dawned on Tylus where and when this was, the perspective changed, zooming in and moving swiftly past the figure of the Kite Guard, speeding down the walls and focusing on a second figure, one that was falling in an uncontrolled tumble.

The boy.

Even screaming became impossible as the air was wrenched from his lungs. At this moment of greatest mortality Tom’s thoughts turned to Jezmina. He regretted never having tried to kiss her and his heart ached for all the things they would never share.

Then something touched him, hit him, enveloped him.

Netting; a swathe of thick cords that initially rushed past even as the walls had, then slowed and gained definition. Spongy cables that caught him and now bit into his body, burning his arms and legs and back. Still he dropped, but, impossibly, the net
was
slowing his fall, though surely not by enough. Nascent hope was stifled before it could properly form, to be replaced by horror as the net stretched and continued to give beneath him and he was still heading downward, albeit in slow motion compared to previously. He knew that this webbing was going to fail and rip apart at any minute, knew that he was destined to continue straight through, tumbling to his death despite the false promise of a reprieve.

Yet somehow the net held, and bit by bit its stretchable material leached the momentum from his body. Almost without realising, he was moving in the opposite direction, the elastic material pulling itself taut once more, tossing him unceremoniously up into the air, all flailing arms and legs, until he came down again, fully entangled this time, caught like a fish in a trawler man’s drag.

Only then did he become aware of voices – gruff, male voices, jeering and laughing, which caused him to wonder what manner of men these unlooked-for saviours might be and why they had chosen to pluck him out of the sky. Rough hands gripped his limbs, pulling him towards the city walls. He was picked up and dropped, still entangled, to land painfully on the ground – more bruises to add to those already accumulated that night.

“It’s only a scrawny lad,” one voice said in disgust.

“Street-nick by the look of him.”

Tom was only half-listening. His stomach still seemed to be falling and it was all he could do not to throw up.

“What’s the likes of him doing up in the Heights?”

“Who cares? Toss him back!”

This last was greeted by a chorus of approval and Tom realised that fate was cruelly toying with him, that he had been saved only to be slung over the wall again. A host of hulking forms loomed over him.

“No, wait,” he yelled desperately. “I know things!”

That earned him a barrage of laughter.

“’Course you do, lad. Street-nicks are famous for what they know.”

“Arkademics and seers, the lot of them,” another voice chipped in.

“Really, I do.” He started to thrash in desperation, fighting the hands that continued to free him from the netting, unheeding of his resistance. One huge fist closed around his upper arm with a vice-like grip and started to haul him upwards. Somebody else took hold of his feet, before he even thought to kick out in earnest, and he was lifted physically into the air amid howls of laughter, to be dumped on the ground once more, beside the pile of netting.

His own thrashing probably decided matters. His stomach had been through enough. Tom hurriedly rolled to his knees and started to vomit.

The wall of onlookers drew back instinctively. “Thaissing good-for-nothing grubber!”

“I’m not clearing that up.”

“He’s no thaissing Kite Guard,” another voice said impatiently. “Why are we wasting our time? There’ll be no reward for returning the likes of him. Throw ’im back over!”

Tom wiped his mouth and swallowed, tasting sourness. He wondered if he could make a run for it, but there was no way through the seemingly solid mass of legs and bodies. He was trapped.

“Enough!” With that one word, the newcomer quieted the hubbub. “We’re not murderers.”

“We were only fooling around, Red,” a rather subdued voice muttered defensively.

The encircling wall of shapes parted and a single figure stepped forward, the first to become readily distinguishable from the dark mass of shifting forms that surrounded Tom. Hands reached towards him. Instinctively, he shrank away but the hands grasped him with unhurried assurance and pulled him to his feet. Tom found himself staring into a be-whiskered face.

“Hoy!” A sudden shout drew his attention outward once more. He looked up in time to see a long-barrelled weapon discharged. The gun pointed towards what looked to be a pair of ethereal eyes hovering in the air; though Tom only caught a glimpse, so perhaps he was mistaken. Whatever it had been, it immediately distorted into something unrecognisable and was limned with dancing green fire which contracted before vanishing altogether, leaving the night empty and Tom blinking away emerald stars.

Somebody near Tom hawked and spat. “Snooping little sky breckers!”

“Come on.” Tom felt a hand on his back, urging him within the city; the man who had helped him to his feet evidently keen to get away from the walls. Others were already making their way inside.

“What was that?” Tom wanted to know.

“Somebody from the Heights spying on us. They won’t follow once we’re off the walls.”

Tom found himself wondering exactly who was being spied upon: these people or him.

“Who are you?”

“Individually, I’m Red; collectively we’re the Swarbs.”

“Swarbs?”

“The word originally stood for Sanitation Workers and Refuse Burners, work that some of us still do, though now it just stands for us,” the figure replied proudly. Not that Tom was paying that much attention. Memories of the city’s levels verse stirred in the back of his mind.

Through a parkland row where deer still roam,

To the solid streets that the Swarbs call home…

If unreliable recollection served him right, the Swarbs lived on a Row somewhere below the middle of the city, which meant that his stomach-churning fall had carried him more than halfway home.

“We harvest the sky. It’s amazing what folk from the upper Rows just toss over the walls as junk. Might be useless to them, but some of it’s breckin’ good stuff. Occasionally, we even catch people, like you. Well, no, that’s not true; we’ve never landed anyone quite like you in the nets before. So what is a street-nick doing up in the Heights, in any case?”

Tom said nothing.

The big man grunted. “Fair enough. A man’s entitled to his secrets.”

Tom liked that – being called a man; especially by someone who so obviously was. He remained under no illusion though: he might not be in chains but neither had the Swarbs let him go. What was he then, some sort of trophy? A pet? Whatever they saw in him, he knew that he would have to find a way of escaping from this Red and his cronies sooner rather than later.

Tylus watched the small figure of the boy fall, though it seemed to grow no nearer the polished wood of the tabletop. He saw the scavenging Swarbs and their array of nets which girdled this section of the walls like a skirt of webbing, saw the plummeting figure strike one of the nets and keep going. The brawny Swarbs strained with arms locked and muscles bulging, attempting to keep hold of the net and the prize within as the cane framework supporting that particular net shattered and gave way. Tylus realised that he was waiting for them to fail or for the netting to break. It seemed impossible their efforts could succeed, such was the force with which the boy hit. Yet somehow the net held. Before his eyes it began to rebound, until the boy was tossed up into the air again, just a little, to come back down for a far gentler landing.

“He’s alive!” Tylus gasped.

“So it would seem.”

The arkademic continued talking. “The nets are elasticated, clearly. They somehow managed to absorb all that momentum, breaking the fall gently, causing no discernable damage and only imparting enough energy back to the faller to make them bob a little in the net rather than shooting them up high again. Quite remarkable material. One day, I really must find the time to discover how the Swarbs developed it.”

Distracted, Tylus paid the words only cursory attention. The revelation of the boy’s survival lifted his spirits immeasurably and proved far more of a relief than he would ever have expected.

All he could think was
the boy is alive.

His attention returned to the scene being played out in the air before him, too fascinated to question any longer how he was seeing this.

A heated debate appeared to be going on among the Swarbs, and Tylus regretted the lack of sound. He could make a reasonable guess at what was being said, though: “Throw him back; it’s only a worthless street-nick.”

And maybe, “We can’t do that, he’s just a boy. Besides, think of all the effort we put into catching him.”

Eventually those arguing for compassion must have won out, because the net was hauled in rather than being turned out while still beyond the walls.

After being dumped unceremoniously on the ground, the boy, freed of the netting, was promptly sick, much to the evident disgust of many there. The Swarbs started to collect the discarded net. One of them, to the very right of the scene, looked up and seemed to stare straight at Tylus, as if suddenly aware that their actions were being observed. He tugged urgently at the sleeve of the man beside him, a figure only half visible – an arm and part of a torso that appeared to be unattached to anything else due to the limited field of view.

A face and neck then came into view, as the half-seen individual followed the first man’s pointed finger, before just as quickly vanishing.

An instant later, a sharp green light swelled into view, blanketing the scene and causing Tylus to wince at the dazzling brightness.

Even that started to fade and the image disappeared altogether. Once more he could see clear across the tabletop to where Magnus sat calmly watching him.

Tylus was desperate to know what had happened to the street-nick, but he was also acutely aware of the status of the man sitting opposite him, so bit his tongue and waited to be addressed.

“You’ve been told of the heinous crime committed earlier tonight?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. As you see, the murderer has succeeded in escaping both yourself and justice in general. That is not a situation that can be allowed to continue.”

“No, sir.”

The arkademic sighed and shook his head. “The victim was a great man and a dear friend of mine; someone who will be sadly missed by the city and its people. The individual responsible has to be caught and brought to justice. I’m charging you, Kite Officer Tylus, with seeing that this happens. You are relieved of your normal duties with immediate effect and will hunt this murderer down wherever the path may take you.”

Tylus was stunned yet knew this was a task he couldn’t refuse and, besides, it was his fault the lad had escaped. Almost without realising, he was on his feet and standing to attention again, inflamed by a righteous need to see justice done.

“Certainly, sir; you can count on me. I’ll begin by talking to the Swarbs…”

The arkademic was shaking his head. “A noble sentiment, officer, but we both know how well the Swarbs react to representatives of the law, especially Kite Guards. Besides, the lad won’t be there anymore. He’s of no value to them and, although a capricious and contrary lot by nature, the Swarbs are not known to be heartless. They will almost certainly have let him go. I expect by now the lad is safely back in the City Below.

“Here.” He leant forward and held out a folded sheet of paper. “This is my warrant, requiring that any official should place all and any resources you reasonably require at your disposal. I’ll send word ahead to the relevant authorities but, should you encounter any reluctance, show this warrant and none will gainsay you anything you need.”

Tylus took the document, barely able to believe that an instrument of such power should rest in his hand. “Thank you, sir.”

“Now, I believe that concludes our business. Doubtless you’ve had a long and busy night. Rest for what remains of it and in the morning set about your task. Don’t let me down.”

Tylus recognised a dismissal when he heard one. “I won’t, sir!” He saluted, turned smartly around and proceeded to march out.

“Oh, one more thing, Kite Guard Tylus…”

He paused, in the process of opening the door, and looked back. “Sir?”

“That cape; see it’s replaced before you set out. We can’t have you going to the City Below with a torn uniform – sets a bad example.”

“Yes, sir, of course, sir.” Tylus turned and left, hiding a smirk and grateful to have worn the cape after all. It was more than worth a little discomfort. Let Sergeant Goss try and deny him a new kitecape now.

Magnus waited, staring at the play of resurgent flame as the fire found a fresh piece of wood to devour. He listened to the front door close, which would signal Dewar showing the Kite Guard out. Seconds later, the door to the study opened and Dewar stepped inside. So much more than a servant, this was Magnus’s factotum, his man-for-all-tasks. Before Magnus employed him, Dewar had been a simple and very effective assassin, albeit one with a penchant for the sadistic.

The arkademic continued to stare at the fire. “You heard all that?”

“Of course,” the other responded. “That idiot stands as much chance of finding your street-nick as I do of gaining admittance to the Chapel of the Sacred Virgins.”