multi-coloured awnings, billowing in the wind, all kinds haggled, cried, begged and beckoned.
Kite wandered the stalls, keeping his bag close and his eyes low. He passed by black-tooth Ergs patching sails and selling their hempware, watery-skinned Brollyheads flogging oilskins and waterproofs, snout-masked Gassers with their wagons of vent-gas cylinders, Donderoons offering lucky thunderstone charms and dozens more beside. He'd never seen so many people in one place. But none of them were Askian. Not that he expected them to broadcast their presence.
Kite let the flow of the crowd usher him from the Tumble Market and into Port Howling's jostling streets. Mono-wheeled wagons with painted cabs and straw-roofed rickshaws rattled by. One-man dirigibles puttered low over the crowds, their chequerboard envelopes buffeted by the wind. The scale of Kite's task dawned on him. How could he hope to find Askians in a treacherous maze like this?
Looking for some familiar sights Kite spied a scavvy gang. He followed them and found himself in the trade of Spoils Row. The closed-in red-brick streets bustled with merchants and scrap sellers. But Kite felt far from safe. Many of the faces were hard and cruel and there was a knife edge to the trading. Kite kept his buckled bag close and hurried on.
By some foul twist of luck Kite spotted Dice Clay, hawking on the step of a sepia-windowed antique shop called Cuckooland’s Emporium.
“...rare item, Mr.Cuckooland,” Clay was saying. “Most unusual.”
“Get out, Clay you verminous clod!” a parched voice yelled from beyond the door. “If I see your wretched face here again I’ll call the bailiffs myself!”
The door slammed in Clay' face. The dealer lifted his high-hat and slunk into the crowd. Kite almost pitied him.
At the end of Spoils Row Kite scaled a hill of steps cut from the red cliff rock. He counted five levels in all, each with landings cluttered with stalls and carts, selling everything he could want but nothing he could afford. Here too were stone shrines carved from the rock face, with incense-filled altars to long-forgotten gods. Kite eyed them suspiciously before moving on.
Kite recalled a story Ersa once told him. About how the old gods had abandoned men at the dawn of the Storm Age. Men, who always needed something to believe in, put their faith in machines instead. Kite didn't know if that was true or not. But machines made more sense to him than a load of hot air and chanting.
Port Howling's quarters and districts branched off in all directions. Hundreds of streets and thousands of lanes for Kite to explore. Some were warrens, buried deep into the cliff - dark hollows lit by buzzing neon signs that beckoned with painted faces and flashes of pale flesh. Kite blushed and hurried on.
After an exhausting climb Kite eventually reached Sky Trawler’s Terrace, Port Howling’s salvage harbour. Twenty berths stuck out into the wind, each one occupied by a rig. Oil-smoke and grime filled his nostrils. The air clashed and clacked with the familiar trade of scrap metal.
Near the berths Kite found a sheltered spot, overlooking the crammed-in levels below. Nearby billboards fluttered with shreds of labour and wanted posters. Anti-Foundation graffiti had been daubed on nearby brickwork, shouting such propaganda as: Burn Fairweather Burn, The Only Good Weatheren Is A Dead Weatheren and Murkers Rule The Undercloud.
With his back against the wind Kite took a sip from the water bottle. Hungry as he was he needed the food to last so he took a bit of the crackbread and put the rest back in his pocket. Food was the least of his worries. Sooner or later he would have to find a safe place to sleep. The prospect of his first night alone in this alien town filled him with dread.
Kite watched the rigs and the ferries come and go and soon doubts set in his mind. With that kind of reward the Askians would be well hidden. And if he couldn't find them? How would he survive alone? Where
Kite wandered the stalls, keeping his bag close and his eyes low. He passed by black-tooth Ergs patching sails and selling their hempware, watery-skinned Brollyheads flogging oilskins and waterproofs, snout-masked Gassers with their wagons of vent-gas cylinders, Donderoons offering lucky thunderstone charms and dozens more beside. He'd never seen so many people in one place. But none of them were Askian. Not that he expected them to broadcast their presence.
Kite let the flow of the crowd usher him from the Tumble Market and into Port Howling's jostling streets. Mono-wheeled wagons with painted cabs and straw-roofed rickshaws rattled by. One-man dirigibles puttered low over the crowds, their chequerboard envelopes buffeted by the wind. The scale of Kite's task dawned on him. How could he hope to find Askians in a treacherous maze like this?
Looking for some familiar sights Kite spied a scavvy gang. He followed them and found himself in the trade of Spoils Row. The closed-in red-brick streets bustled with merchants and scrap sellers. But Kite felt far from safe. Many of the faces were hard and cruel and there was a knife edge to the trading. Kite kept his buckled bag close and hurried on.
By some foul twist of luck Kite spotted Dice Clay, hawking on the step of a sepia-windowed antique shop called Cuckooland’s Emporium.
“...rare item, Mr.Cuckooland,” Clay was saying. “Most unusual.”
“Get out, Clay you verminous clod!” a parched voice yelled from beyond the door. “If I see your wretched face here again I’ll call the bailiffs myself!”
The door slammed in Clay' face. The dealer lifted his high-hat and slunk into the crowd. Kite almost pitied him.
At the end of Spoils Row Kite scaled a hill of steps cut from the red cliff rock. He counted five levels in all, each with landings cluttered with stalls and carts, selling everything he could want but nothing he could afford. Here too were stone shrines carved from the rock face, with incense-filled altars to long-forgotten gods. Kite eyed them suspiciously before moving on.
Kite recalled a story Ersa once told him. About how the old gods had abandoned men at the dawn of the Storm Age. Men, who always needed something to believe in, put their faith in machines instead. Kite didn't know if that was true or not. But machines made more sense to him than a load of hot air and chanting.
Port Howling's quarters and districts branched off in all directions. Hundreds of streets and thousands of lanes for Kite to explore. Some were warrens, buried deep into the cliff - dark hollows lit by buzzing neon signs that beckoned with painted faces and flashes of pale flesh. Kite blushed and hurried on.
After an exhausting climb Kite eventually reached Sky Trawler’s Terrace, Port Howling’s salvage harbour. Twenty berths stuck out into the wind, each one occupied by a rig. Oil-smoke and grime filled his nostrils. The air clashed and clacked with the familiar trade of scrap metal.
Near the berths Kite found a sheltered spot, overlooking the crammed-in levels below. Nearby billboards fluttered with shreds of labour and wanted posters. Anti-Foundation graffiti had been daubed on nearby brickwork, shouting such propaganda as: Burn Fairweather Burn, The Only Good Weatheren Is A Dead Weatheren and Murkers Rule The Undercloud.
With his back against the wind Kite took a sip from the water bottle. Hungry as he was he needed the food to last so he took a bit of the crackbread and put the rest back in his pocket. Food was the least of his worries. Sooner or later he would have to find a safe place to sleep. The prospect of his first night alone in this alien town filled him with dread.
Kite watched the rigs and the ferries come and go and soon doubts set in his mind. With that kind of reward the Askians would be well hidden. And if he couldn't find them? How would he survive alone? Where
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