Firesong Read online

  FIRESONG

  VASHTI HARDY

  Illustrated by George Ermos

  For Kate and Linas

  In the huge, wide-open, sleeping eye of the mountain

  The bear is the gleam in the pupil

  Ready to awake

  And instantly focus.

  —TED HUGHES, FROM “THE BEAR”

  Contents

  Chapter 1:Ebba Meyer

  Chapter 2:The Catalogue

  Chapter 3:The Auction

  Chapter 4:Enmity in Lontown

  Chapter 5:Vane

  Chapter 6:New Crew

  Chapter 7:Northbound

  Chapter 8:The Hawk Isles

  Chapter 9:Many Moons Ago

  Chapter 10:The Pitch Mine

  Chapter 11:A Looming Shadow

  Chapter 12:The Festival of the Bear

  Chapter 13:The Eye of the Wide

  Chapter 14:Hugo

  Chapter 15:Snae Strond

  Chapter 16:Hyrrholm

  Chapter 17:Seeking the Earth-Bear

  Chapter 18:Roar

  Chapter 19:The Measure of Worth

  Chapter 20:Boom

  Chapter 21:Lava

  Chapter 22:The Return

  Chapter 23:The Rescue

  Chapter 24:The Geographical Society

  Chapter 25:Fires of Lontown

  Chapter 26:Welby House

  Chapter 27:Pursuing the Bear

  Chapter 28:Gaia

  Chapter 29:The Trial

  Chapter 30:The Moths

  Chapter 31:Agents

  Chapter 32:Once Upon a Chime

  Chapter 33:The Alliance of Eight

  Chapter 34:New Beginnings

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER 1

  EBBA MEYER

  MANY DAYS’ WALK from the city of Lontown, out where the busy streets, bustling markets, and dome of the esteemed Geographical Society were a distant glimmer of light, up beyond the thick oak forests, embedded in the nape of the frost-topped mountains, there was an incongruous cluster of gray buildings.

  The structures were unlike the majestic curves and towers of the great Vornatanian city in the distance below, and different from the cozy cottages of Bifflewick or Chesterford; they were composed of stern angles, thick, opaque glass, and wide cementa walls, a material the architect had hoped would take off in the Wide. It was practical, cheap to make, and represented the strength of Lontown well. And it would turn a healthy profit.

  The underground rooms, and most of the upper layer, were empty at the moment, but in several of the east wing labs, a handful of scientists busied themselves with samples and specimens, working from sunrise to twilight, into dusk, and on into the night. Ebba Meyer didn’t want to work there; far too many questions went unanswered and the ethics were problematic, but the pay was good and she had a family to look after. And who was she to stand in the way of progress? Besides, the HAC did make some good points about the threat of misplaced intelligence.

  She walked along the row of sapient creatures in their steel cages. The way they watched unnerved her sometimes: there was certainly heightened intelligence there, but sapients couldn’t talk, so how could you ever really know what was going on behind their eyes? Ebba’s shoulders lifted in a silent chuckle; as if an animal would be able to talk like a human! Of course, those Brightstorm children had said they’d heard wolves talk in their minds . . . But how convenient that only they had been able to hear them. Attention-seeking nobodies, trying to be like the heritage explorer families. Ebba sometimes thought that if she hadn’t been a scientist, she would have been an explorer, but it had never been an option: the Meyers were from the west of Vornatania and not from an esteemed family. It wasn’t how things were done.

  The lab door swung open as a frenetic-looking man hurried into the room. “He’s on his way,” said Thomas Northwood, who was working the shift in the lab with her that evening.

  Ebba glanced at the clock above the cages. “Aren’t you supposed to be on your break? And who’s on their way?”

  “The boss, of course! He’s inspecting Lab One already. He flew in from Lontown, not a word of warning.”

  Ebba beckoned him to help her. “Quick, help me get the sapients their meds; you know he hates it when they stare.”

  They hurried along the enclosures hastily putting the bowls of specially prepared food through the shutters.

  A small terrier whom Ebba liked to call Frank stared at her with big brown eyes. Frank, she knew, was different from the others here; he was normal.

  He had been found in a village north of Lontown and had become a local celebrity on account of the fact that he apparently liked to read the newspaper. Ebba suspected he had been mimicking the actions of humans and hadn’t actually taken anything in, but when word had gone out to report any animals behaving curiously, for a small bag of sovereigns, news of the stray dog had been passed on to them and Ebba had been sent to retrieve him.

  “Here you are, Frank.” Ebba patted the dog on the head.

  “Don’t get attached to them,” said Thomas.

  “I won’t,” said Ebba, although she’d wondered if when they would eventually prove that Frank wasn’t a sapient, she might be allowed to keep him as a pet.

  Frank didn’t want to eat the food. It was bitter and made him forgetful and sleepy. He just wanted to go back to the village and catch up with the Lontown Chronicle crossword. But it was all they were offered, once a day, and he would starve without it, so he lapped it up quickly so as not to taste it. When he’d finished, he looked at the human with his wide-innocent-eye look, knowing it was his best chance of getting out of this place.

  “As if you could read a newspaper with those soppy eyes,” Ebba said as though talking to a baby, tickling him under the chin.

  Footsteps echoed along the corridor. Swiftly, Ebba straightened her lab coat.

  Frank whimpered, then fell asleep.

  Back in Lontown, the deep velvet-blue of midnight covered the slumbering city. The moon showed no bias, dusting the crooked, misshapen buildings of the Slumps and the elegant shapes of Uptown with equal beauty. The air was uncommonly still over the continent, and all was quiet.

  The inhabitants of number four Archangel Street slept peacefully:

  Harriet Culpepper in her office-cum-bedroom, surrounded by neat piles of paper, books, and instruments, her flying goggles on her bedside table.

  In the room at the end of the hall, a glint of silver shone from beneath a pillow: the handle of Felicity Wiggety’s lucky spoon. She muttered softly in her sleep about a new recipe, curls billowing from her nightcap and her large feet protruding from the end of the bed—her greatest asset, she said, on account of how she was certain they could detect anything from a change in the weather to a bad omen.

  Between, in one of the central rooms, Maudie Brightstorm lay beneath a blanket drawn over her like a tent amid a litter of tools and gadgets, one hook of her overalls unclasped from when she’d begun to get ready for bed. But she had been struck with a sudden revelation about designing the valve that would be the answer to a more efficient energy transfer in the sky-ak engine, so she’d fallen asleep slumped over, on top of her notebook, with Valiant the sapient water-bear curled like a furry pillow at her feet, snuffling softly.

  In the room next door, Arthur Brightstorm slept on his back beneath the open window. He liked to breathe the cold air of night because it reminded him of days in flight, when the extraordinary house invention that was number four Archangel Street had transformed itself into a sky-ship and they had spent weeks away on an expedition. Waning moonlight glinted off his iron arm on the bedside table to one side, and on the other, his hand lolled toward the floor, where a book by P. Acquafreeda tit
led Into the Depths lay beneath, splayed on the boards.

  It had taken a while for everyone to fall back into the rhythm of Lontown life after the expedition to Erythea and the loss of the crew’s beloved second-in-command, Welby. But there had been a lot to occupy them all with the conversion of the twins’ former family home, Brightstorm House, into a home for orphaned children that they’d renamed Welby House in his honor. With the heavy emotional toll of the past two expeditions, there hadn’t been any talk of another trip yet. Yes, it was true that Arthur was itching to take flight once more and be back with his hand at the wheel, feeling the wind in his hair and the promise of new horizons, but he didn’t feel it was right to press Harriet on the possibility just yet. Besides, funds would need to be replenished. Above, the pale-feathered hawk Parthena perched sentry on the windowsill, looking out on the Lontown night and keeping watch.

  Arthur’s dream had him back in Brightstorm House with Maudie. They were young, four or five, and his father and mother were there, which was strange because his mother, Violetta, had died when they were born, so he only knew her from the few photographs he’d seen. His father’s russet beard was wild, and he was suntanned and freckled as though he’d been away exploring for a while. Violetta was much like the picture he had of her, with a warm smile and an adventurous glint in her eyes. His parents were singing to them, and it filled Arthur with the kind of warmth that comes from belonging, as though his heart were made of sunshine. The soothing voices melded in harmony so that the depths of his father’s earthy tones and his mother’s shining, light notes were one in a hypnotic melody:

  The beat of the earth is strong, strong,

  Forged from the roars of time.

  Slow, slow. Thrumming high.

  Arthur’s eyelids flickered in his sleep.

  Parthena flew down from the open window. She nudged Arthur’s cheek.

  “Parthena?” he asked dreamily, trying to bury himself back in the arms of his dream. He didn’t want to leave it; it felt so beguiling. His parents sang on:

  It calls, we call, the voices.

  Parthena nudged him again.

  Rubbing his eyes blearily, Arthur looked at Parthena. “Whatever’s the matter with you?” He glanced to the window. “It’s the middle of the night.” Half asleep, Arthur yawned and pushed himself up to peer outside. He knew something about strange characters sneaking around Lontown at night, so he thought it best to check, in case Parthena was alerting him to something. But all was still and silent.

  The beat of the earth is strong, strong.

  The echoes of the song drifted through him. Perhaps she had sensed Arthur’s dream of his parents. Parthena was a sapient animal, uncommonly understanding of human language and feelings, even though she couldn’t communicate back through speech. Before Ernest Brightstorm’s death at South Polaris, Parthena had been the loyal companion and sapient friend to Arthur and Maudie’s father; Ernest and Parthena had discovered each other when he was young, on one of his expeditions into the north, and they’d formed a lifelong bond. Now Parthena stayed close to Arthur, although she sometimes chose to be with Maudie, and was even partial to spending time with Harriet’s sapient cat, Queenie.

  “You still miss him, don’t you?” Arthur said, sitting back on his bed and stroking her silken white feathers. Her eyes seemed to say more; he wished he could hear her mind, like he had understood the thought-wolves speaking to him in the far south. His heart felt suddenly constricted, as memories of his parents, then Welby, entered his mind, followed by Tuyok, the leader of the thought-wolves, who was alive but so very far away.

  Arthur thought about going next door to wake Maudie. They only recently decided to have their own rooms: Maudie’s tools and various inventions overran their old room, and she complained that she would always trip over his piles of books, so they decided it was time. But at moments like this, he missed being able to get her thoughts by calling out in a whisper across the room. The dream had felt so real, almost as though his parents were in his room standing beside him.

  But that was impossible.

  Arthur drifted back to sleep, and although he willed the dream to return, it didn’t.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE CATALOGUE

  WHEN ARTHUR WOKE again, morning was well underway, so he hurried to wash and dress before heading to breakfast. He wanted to tell Maudie about the dream and the song, and how clearly he’d seen their parents, but Harriet and Maudie were already in excited conversation at the table.

  “Ah, there you are. The sleepy bunny awakes!” Felicity ruffled his hair as he sat at the table. She poured tea and placed a platter overflowing with delicious-looking pastries before them. “My nephew Bartie went full nocturnal when he was a teenager. It’s a time of change and no mistaking.”

  Felicity was right. He was broader in his shoulders lately, and his trousers seemed suddenly three inches too short. Maudie glanced up from behind a pile of post and grinned. She was taller too, not far off Harriet now.

  “What are you two talking about?” asked Arthur.

  “We’ve just had an order for twenty sky-aks for the Lontown postal service. That should keep Welby House secure for a while!”

  Harriet pushed a document across the table toward him. “And we’ve received the patent for the water technology.”

  For several years, Harriet’s sky-ship, the Aurora, had been the only clean engine in the continent of Vornatania. The others ran on pitch, a dirty fuel that Lontonians relied on, not only for their explorer and trade sky-ships, which left gray trails in the air behind them, but also for pitch lamps for the streets and homes at night. Harriet said that supplies of pitch had mostly been exhausted in Vornatania and mines now extended to the east and north of the continent, but it wasn’t something the pitch companies liked to publicize because the islands of the north and east were independent and the mining was controversial.

  Arthur glanced at the patent. It was assigned “To the people of Lontown.” “You’ve given the water engine technology to the people?” He was always impressed by Harriet’s tendency to go against the flow of what was expected in Lontown. Many were driven by heritage and wealth, protecting their hoards like honeybees, but Harriet always took a wider view.

  She nodded. “It’s a small way to try to address the imbalances within the city, and a first step to proving to the Erytheans that Lontonians aren’t all about exploitation, and that we can all learn from each other.”

  Although the rest of Lontown was still unaware of the existence of another continent far to the east, there were Erythean agents living all over the Wide, keeping tabs on the rest of the world. Harriet herself had discovered her own Erythean heritage on the last expedition, and if they were to get to a stage of trust with the continents opening up to each other, Harriet was surely the person to set the wheels in motion. Nevertheless, it was a huge sacrifice to give her invention away for free. Arthur knew from the numerous offer letters that Harriet burned in Felicity’s stove before she’d even finished reading them that the technology could have made her many thousands of sovereigns, no doubt.

  But Harriet, being Harriet, simply took back the water engine patent of the people from Arthur and flashed him a confident grin and nod of certainty. Placing the document to the side, Harriet opened another large envelope. Inside was a black booklet tied with gold ribbon stating: Dunstable’s Fine Art and Luxury Antiques. “Curious they should send me this. I don’t believe I ever asked for a catalogue.”

  Felicity poured Arthur a tea, then paused and wiggled her toes. “I’ve a sudden strange fizzling. Something is afoot, I’m certain of it.”

  “There’s an accompanying letter.”

  Not able to decide between Felicity’s special merry-berry pastry and her Erythean-inspired water-wing biscuits, Arthur grabbed both and alternated bites.

  “Arty, stop being such a hog!” Maudie admonished, adding another pastry to her own plate.

  Arthur noticed that Harriet’s eyebrows rose as
she read the catalogue.

  Maudie followed his gaze. “What is it?”

  “It appears a rather significant auction is to take place.”

  Arthur yawned. “Auctions of old paintings sound a little . . .”

  “Boring,” Maudie finished.

  Arthur thought back to how they’d once visited the Geographical Society gallery hoping to see paintings depicting different parts of the Wide, but instead it had been filled with stuffy portraits of members of the most esteemed explorer families dressed in their finery.

  Felicity chuckled. “Now, you two, there are merits in the arts. It’s not all stuffy portraits and sculptures of the likes of Blarthingtons, Hilburys, and, sorry for saying, the Vanes!”

  The twins had discovered they were related to the infamous Vanes on their first expedition with Harriet to South Polaris. It wasn’t welcome news: Eudora Vane, their aunt, had sabotaged their father’s expedition to South Polaris, from which he never returned.

  Harriet frowned. “It’s not going to be just any auction. It’s a sale of rare explorer artifacts. It appears they’ve been gathering notable objects for a while and are billing this as ‘the auction of a lifetime.’” Harriet looked between the twins.

  Curiosity ignited within Arthur. “Explorer artifacts? What sort?”

  “All kinds. The index lists over one hundred lots. They must have had a big campaign to solicit the objects while we were away.”

  Scooting his chair closer to Harriet, Arthur peered at the brochure as she flicked through: Isadore Aldermyster’s two-hundred-year-old water flask; Hector Hilbury’s left hiking boot from when he reached the highest peak in Vornatania (the other was said to be buried at the bottom of a ravine when he almost fell to his death, but he miraculously made it back with one boot); Early Bafflewiffle’s four-hundred-year-old diamond-encrusted compass; the Nithercott original celestial clockwork globe.

  “The Nithercotts must be on hard times if they’ve put that forward; I thought it was held in their family vault.” Harriet frowned. “There are certainly pieces of historical significance and sentimentality here . . .” She frowned in thought. “I can’t help but think they would be best placed at the Geographical Society Museum, where everybody could enjoy them, rather than going to the highest bidder and being stashed in someone’s private cabinets.”