space. He realised it then. The two of them were the same. Alone, lost and afraid. This strange, dangerous thing had become his only friend in the world.
“Kite Nayward?”
Kite sank back against the crates and drew his faithful patchcoat around him for warmth.
“Kite Nayward, talk to me.”
Kite closed his eyes. “Tell me about Skyzarke,” he whispered. “Tell me about the stars.”
21
The Enemy of the Foundation
“Knotwood?”
Clay's voice slapped Kite out of his dreamless sleep. He gulped at the gritty air and coughed, his lungs hot and heavy. The chilly, wind-swept deck startled him at first. Where was he? How had he got here? Then yesterday’s events swam back into his mind and with it, the hurt in his chest.
“Bad dreams eh, Knotwood?” Clay was sat on his suitcase, his back to the gunwale, nibbling a unappealing square of dry biscuit.
Kite quickly checked himself. Hood and goggles in place. The bag at his side and the cold lump of the mechanikin safe beneath the canvas where he'd left it. At least his secrets remained intact. “Something like that,” he said.
“I am not surprised. Nasty business back in Dusthaven,” Clay said. “I know how you must feel.”
Kite gnashed his teeth. How could Clay know how he felt? He didn't even know himself.
Clay brushed crumbs from his knees. “The Murkers make it hard for those of us trying to make honest living,” he said. “They're the reason there are Weatheren spies are all over the Old Coast now.”
Kite perked up. He hadn’t expected Clay to be so knowledgeable. “You know much about the Murkers?” he said.
“As much as anyone can, Knotwood,” Clay said, taking off his high-hat and scratching at his slick of unwashed hair. “You've seen what they did in Dusthaven. They hide in the clouds and attack the Foundation airmachines at random.”
“Who are they?” Kite asked.
Clay shrugged. “Skywaymen, air pirates, terrorists. Who knows what they are,” he said. “They call themselves the Enemy of the Foundation. A damn menace the lot of them. Worse than the Weatherens if you ask me.”
“Nothing's worse than Weatherens,” Kite whispered.
Clay didn't appear to hear him. “Only last week the Murkers brought down a Foundation supply freighter in sight of the Dreadwall,” he went on. “A warning to Fairweather. Stay out of the Old Coast. Not that that is ever likely to happen. It'll be full scale war before long, mark my words.”
Kite recalled how the Murker pilots had butchered the Corrector’s soldiers. Only two of them had done all that damage. Did they really have a chance against the Foundation? Maybe beneath the Undercloud but above? No-one could defeat the might of the Fairweather’s Air Fleet.
The pilothouse bell clattered.
“Port ahoy! Port ahoy!” an excitable deckhand cried from the bow.
“Ah, Port Howling,” Clay said. He might as well have spat on the deck for all the affection in his voice. “I would say it's good to be home but then I would lose my reputation as an honest man.”
Kite would never forget his first glimpse of Port Howling. The harbour town clamped on to the crust of the Foreland; a rust-red hive, buzzing with salvage rigs, Nimbus Air Ferries and Gasser bagships. A mud-coloured haze smothered its chimneys and tower-tops and a dark slick stained the cliffs beneath, as if the port was bleeding into the sand below.
Port Howling. The biggest port in the Old Coast. Kite didn’t know if Askians had hidden themselves in its smog-soaked streets but there had to be others out there somewhere. Someone amongst them would know the way to Skyzarke. Until then he could trust no-one.
“Watch yourself here, Knotwood,” Clay said, hugging his case. “Port Howling isn't like Dusthaven.”
Kite slung his bag over his head. “That suits me fine.”
22
Port Howling
Port Howling's Tumble Market was an wild explosion of harsh colour and unfamiliar faces. Under a sky of
“Kite Nayward?”
Kite sank back against the crates and drew his faithful patchcoat around him for warmth.
“Kite Nayward, talk to me.”
Kite closed his eyes. “Tell me about Skyzarke,” he whispered. “Tell me about the stars.”
21
The Enemy of the Foundation
“Knotwood?”
Clay's voice slapped Kite out of his dreamless sleep. He gulped at the gritty air and coughed, his lungs hot and heavy. The chilly, wind-swept deck startled him at first. Where was he? How had he got here? Then yesterday’s events swam back into his mind and with it, the hurt in his chest.
“Bad dreams eh, Knotwood?” Clay was sat on his suitcase, his back to the gunwale, nibbling a unappealing square of dry biscuit.
Kite quickly checked himself. Hood and goggles in place. The bag at his side and the cold lump of the mechanikin safe beneath the canvas where he'd left it. At least his secrets remained intact. “Something like that,” he said.
“I am not surprised. Nasty business back in Dusthaven,” Clay said. “I know how you must feel.”
Kite gnashed his teeth. How could Clay know how he felt? He didn't even know himself.
Clay brushed crumbs from his knees. “The Murkers make it hard for those of us trying to make honest living,” he said. “They're the reason there are Weatheren spies are all over the Old Coast now.”
Kite perked up. He hadn’t expected Clay to be so knowledgeable. “You know much about the Murkers?” he said.
“As much as anyone can, Knotwood,” Clay said, taking off his high-hat and scratching at his slick of unwashed hair. “You've seen what they did in Dusthaven. They hide in the clouds and attack the Foundation airmachines at random.”
“Who are they?” Kite asked.
Clay shrugged. “Skywaymen, air pirates, terrorists. Who knows what they are,” he said. “They call themselves the Enemy of the Foundation. A damn menace the lot of them. Worse than the Weatherens if you ask me.”
“Nothing's worse than Weatherens,” Kite whispered.
Clay didn't appear to hear him. “Only last week the Murkers brought down a Foundation supply freighter in sight of the Dreadwall,” he went on. “A warning to Fairweather. Stay out of the Old Coast. Not that that is ever likely to happen. It'll be full scale war before long, mark my words.”
Kite recalled how the Murker pilots had butchered the Corrector’s soldiers. Only two of them had done all that damage. Did they really have a chance against the Foundation? Maybe beneath the Undercloud but above? No-one could defeat the might of the Fairweather’s Air Fleet.
The pilothouse bell clattered.
“Port ahoy! Port ahoy!” an excitable deckhand cried from the bow.
“Ah, Port Howling,” Clay said. He might as well have spat on the deck for all the affection in his voice. “I would say it's good to be home but then I would lose my reputation as an honest man.”
Kite would never forget his first glimpse of Port Howling. The harbour town clamped on to the crust of the Foreland; a rust-red hive, buzzing with salvage rigs, Nimbus Air Ferries and Gasser bagships. A mud-coloured haze smothered its chimneys and tower-tops and a dark slick stained the cliffs beneath, as if the port was bleeding into the sand below.
Port Howling. The biggest port in the Old Coast. Kite didn’t know if Askians had hidden themselves in its smog-soaked streets but there had to be others out there somewhere. Someone amongst them would know the way to Skyzarke. Until then he could trust no-one.
“Watch yourself here, Knotwood,” Clay said, hugging his case. “Port Howling isn't like Dusthaven.”
Kite slung his bag over his head. “That suits me fine.”
22
Port Howling
Port Howling's Tumble Market was an wild explosion of harsh colour and unfamiliar faces. Under a sky of
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