The Phoenix Thief

SEVEN

THE SNOW SET the Chancellor off like one of the scenthounds meeting an unfamiliar stray. When Kilter was presented to him the next morning, he immediately straightened the parchments he was holding with several brisk taps, set them on the table, and looked up at Kilter and the Riflemen guarding him.

"You are to waste no more time bringing him here every morning, Kolas. Winter is setting in, and our pilot must be ready to fly as soon as possible. Take him directly to the clock tower at first light from now on."

Kolas saluted. "Yes, sir."

The Chancellor gestured to the papers in front of him. "The reports Kolas have given me say you did relatively well yesterday, pilot."

Not knowing what else to do, Kilter nodded. He glanced at Nátala, but ever since coming to the workroom several days ago she had stopped even looking at him. Now, though she sat as stiff as ever, almost held up by her tight-wasted red dress, she kept here eyes on the roll she was crumbling between her fingers on her plate.

"That's not good enough." The Chancellor's deep voice brought Kilter's eyes back to the man's face, and he stood a little straighter. "You nearly crashed into the clock tower twice yesterday, not to mention losing control countless times. You must learn to master your Gearfalcon, and the sooner the better!"

The Chancellor paused, as if expecting Kilter to salute like Kolas did. Kilter balled his hands into fists.

"Do not try my patience, boy. Remember, I have many men at my disposal, and thus far my only reason for keeping you alive to be the pilot of the Gearfalcon is that I don't care if you should die on the venture." The Chancellor swept his coattails aside and sat down, setting his elbows on the arms of his chair to rest his fingertips together before him. "A promise of promotion would easily make a more compliant pilot out of one of my Watchmen. Keep that in mind."

Without even waiting for Kilter to acknowledge his words, he licked his thumb and started leafing through his parchments again. "You are all dismissed, Kolas. Take him away."

For four days Kilter flew with the Girl above the clock tower, as long as there was daylight enough to see by, only pulled down once or twice a day to eat and drink something to keep his strength up, and to have the feeling rubbed back into his legs.

"You must build up endurance," Captain Kolas said the first time they brought down and he fell, numb legs like counterweights. "We can't have you land in the forest just to become a helpless target. There are more than just the Reavers out there, you know – wolves, panines, even territorial tritraks. I don't know much about them, but what I've heard is enough."

Kilter didn't know what any of those words were, but he could tell by the tone of Kolas' voice that they didn't mean anything good. As the feeling returned, buzzing, to his legs as the two Watchmen chaffed them, Kilter noticed Kolas hesitate and then look up from under the black visor of his cap. The Captain glanced at the two Watchmen with orange-trimmed uniforms by the stairs leading up from the Warehouse below, then turned to Kilter.

"You take care of yourself out there over the forest, pilot. There are a lot of hopes beyond the Chancellor's riding the wind with you. We're all so tired of this ruddy War."

War was no longer a fascinating word to Kilter. It meant things like being caught by the Chancellor, the gleam of the Riflemen's bayonets, Dmal's reunion with Commander Fástnik, and the Chancellor's own desire for Kilter to be dead. Dead – that was the word Dmal used for the stiff, bloated bodies of rats and cats that they sometimes found in corners of the streets. That's what the Chancellor wanted to do to Kilter. That's what War meant.