The Phoenix Thief

EIGHT

RUN-DOWN AS KILTER WAS after that long day, he was not allowed to sleep upon returning to his room. As he warmed himself by his room's fireplace and ate the food the mustached servant brought him, he thought of how he used to return to Dmal's tower after long days of being out in the cold and rain. The old man wouldn't pry about where he'd been or what he'd done.

"Sit down and warm yourself, little boy," he'd say. "Have some chestnuts, then rest your self a while."

Lonely and hard as those days had been, Kilter would have given every bit of the warm clothing and good food he had now to get them back. The days now churned past as if run by the engines inside the warehouses, keeping up with the rushing pace of the clock tower's hands and the Watchmen's marching boots. He'd always longed to somehow be part of some human machine, to work and live alongside those down in the streets and set his shoulder to the same tasks they did and share their smiles and laughter when the job was done. His own celebrations for completing one of his flying machine models had always been to just to finally let himself sleep.

But now that he was one of those cogs, it wasn't at all what he'd imagined. He'd forgotten how all gears looked exactly the same, and never stopped moving until their operator turned them off.

Finished with what he could make himself swallow of the meat and vegetables, he pushed the plate away from him and sat back in his chair. With one hand he rubbed at his forehead, which was beginning to throb. The other he slipped inside the front of his grey jacket. There, pressed against his chest, was the tiny firearm and the box of bullets Nátala had given him.

Suddenly, from lower in the mansion came the sound of shouting and footsteps. The two Phoenix Squad Watchmen at the door jumped, and of them slipped out into the hallway, the lock sliding shut behind him while the other pulled his firearm from his back and prepared it for action with a single heavy click. Then nobody moved, all intent on listening. The shouting grew louder, and the servant made a tiny mewing noise, his moustache quivering. Kilter's chest throbbed under the weight of the tiny rifle.

All at once, his shadow changed position on the floor before him. No longer cast to his left by the low red glow of the fire, it was instead thrown directly before him, crisp and yet shifting and darting back and forth in shimmering white, blue, and green light. Kilter leapt to his feet, the servant dropped his tray with a clatter, and Sentry yelped, clutching his firearm.

"Fire," Kilter whispered.

His scars vibrated with the memory of pain, the flashing light surrounding him now forcing into his mind the sight of not only burnt walls, now, but burnt Gearfalcons... and burnt people.

He ran to the window, and forgot to breathe.

The fire was in the sky.

Long lines of rippling color – white, pale blue, green, pink, yellow – it cut through clouds and melted them away to reveal the full light-pricked dome of the sky and the perfect white hole into light that was the moon. Kilter had never before noticed exactly how massive the sky was, so dark and smooth and motionless and yet now so full of life, like some huge, dormant creature that had woken for the first time.

Kilter grabbed the window frame, hands shaking, as his legs almost gave way under him. But he couldn't look away. He was crying. He was crying and yet his panting breath fluttered out of him as faint laughter, and he didn't know why.

The fire was dancing – swaying and weaving like Dmal's singing.

Oh, if only he could see this!

The servant and the Squad member ran to join Kilter by the window, and for a moment the three of them stood side by side, staring up at the sky. The servant grinned outright, and the Watchman's firearm dangled from his hand, as forgotten as the knot of worry that had grown tighter in Kilter's chest with each passing day in the upper triad.