Sky Song: Overture Read Free

ranges of Leffen, but of all the experiences a human being might have in his short life, there was none so grand as seeing the world from an airship’s carriage. At twilight the clouds on the horizon could spread like ink on blue vellum. Or in the day they could gather into great masses that took on an array of animal shapes.
    Soaring at this altitude, I saw Elsace as something so much cleaner. Lakes turned to puddles, cities into toys. The squalor of the slums went invisible and everything smelled fresh like rain. It was one of the reasons I loved the Wastrel. I felt so far away from all that misery down below.

 
    II. A Crying Shame
     
    I was harnessed to the back of the gondola, frozen cold from the wind chill of the gray and dismal morning. I kept switching my spanner between hands as I balled them in and out of fists to rouse my circulation. Fitz was guiding me through a routine engine inspection. The engines were about the only things on the ship maintained at a high standard. Our balloon had the face of a much beloved rag doll, covered in gray stitched patches with sloppy weatherproofing painted across the envelope. Many steel cables between balloon and gondola were frayed and being reinforced by rappelling rope. Our engines held our pride. They were high-speed cloud-munching machines.
    “Everything is handy dandy,” said Fitz, wiping grease off his hands.
    “Good,” I said through chattering teeth.
    “Wind making ice blocks of your bollocks?” Fitz brayed, juggling his spanner with one hand. His flight specs, a steel plate with horizontal slits running across the eyes, gave him the appearance of a deranged cyclops. He was wiry like me, and made a good mate for arm wrestling because he could make anybody look good. Nobody messed with him though, for three reasons: the first, that he was also friends with Baker, the second, that he was our best mechanic and the third, and most crucial, that he could muster the most horrid shriek. The bloke was off his rocker. I personally did my best not to excite him. “I’d bet you miss your fiddle right about now,” he said.
    “Fiddle can wait,” I stuttered, exhaling hot breath over my exposed fingertips. “Already mastered that. Time to learn something new.”
    “Then learn to invest in a pair of thermal trousers, boy.” He smacked my posterior and used his pulley to climb back on board.
    Equipment was a regular expense. The deck being open to the elements meant all of us had to acquire appropriate gear: goggles, flight caps and gloves. My own cap was fashioned of cotton twill. It had rain guard flaps that hung about each side of my face. Flight shirts had to be both utilitarian and elegant. The cuffs were fitted to the forearm, but the sleeves hung loose for better mobility. Laces up the front of the tunic could be drawn tight to the throat or given slack down to the navel, as the weather warranted. We kept three shirts, a black one for labor, a white one for sleeping and a red one for raiding. When it came to flight jackets, crewmen owned only one made of wool-lined leather. Trousers varied, depending on whether a man preferred agility to insulation.
    Upon returning to deck, Fitz and I discovered our captain pacing, his brow clenched in frustration. With each shift in his walk, his hip scarf whipped about like a tail.
    “Clikk!” he shouted, pointing at me. “There you are. I need to see you.” I blinked in disbelief, glancing around deck to see if there was another man named Clikk. When there wasn’t, I stepped forwards and followed my captain into his chambers. He shut the door behind me, locked it and then circled me in a slow, predatory fashion, sizing me up.
    “Yes. It’s just as I thought.”
    “Captain?” I said.
    Dirk took a seat on a luggage trunk, resting his elbows on his knees. “Oh, Clikk, poor, sweet Clikk. There is something that I’ve known about you from the start, but I put up with it because you can manage a sword and you fixed my