Rhipzali Henthorn quit smuggling about six years and eleven jobs ago, which betrayed a lot about their resolution. It wasn’t desperation, either: they had steady work in a good shop and a place in a happy, clamorous hearthold, both interesting enough to make up for the surroundings, a slow mountainside town existing mostly for coffee trade routes. But then someone would remember their reputation and come asking, and they’d start to waffle again.
This time it was Xara, an old pal from their revolutionary days. She kept her own flyabout, eschewing hearth and clan in favor of the lonely sky. She found Rhipzali amongst the noon throngs outside their favorite cookstall. Her coiled braids had gone full silver since the last time they’d spoken, but she offered the most casual of greetings as if they’d only just parted. They both got chili chicken dumplings and moved to a public terrace. Rhipzali found themself chattering to fill space, about hearth babies and projects and the shop’s excessive population of apprentices. Finally, they surrendered and asked what she’d been up to.
“I’ve got a proposal for you,” Xara replied, her eyes on a street dog sniffing for scraps. “Rumor has it, there’s a chain of uyal shipments through Kivi after the full moon. One of Huzita’s youngsters has been working on the intel, and it would be mighty unfortunate if a couple of crates made their way into braver hands.”
“How much are they moving?”
“Thirty cartloads—” and here Rhipzali gasped despite themself— “maybe a third of it relevant, mixed with rust-honey tithes, maybe some angora.” Xara smiled. “At that point, what’s a few off the back? Not worth restarting the war over.”
“Who else knows?”
“I can tell you who doesn’t — any of the route workers. Word came through to be careful with the tithes, which is why the kid started looking into it, but it’s being run like normal shipments. And Huzita’s circle isn’t sharing.”
Rhipzali started thinking about implications — why would the empire smuggle in its own lands? — and then realized they’d gotten ahead of themself. “Why me?”
Xara paused in licking sauce from her fingers. “You’re in the area, and you’re the best uyal weaver I’ve heard or seen tail of. My craft’s still got twice the lift of most good ones. And the stuff’s useless without someone to explain it.”
“I’m getting too old for this,” Rhipzali said, a decade Xara’s junior. “Every time I end up hanging over some ravine or almost exploding, I do miss the peace of home.”
Xara scoffed. She aimed to die in the sky.
After a moment, Rhipzali relented. “I’m certain it’s unstable, but do you know the source?”
“The honey shipment’s attributed to Clipoverl Pass, so somewhere in the western territories.”
That tended to be a bit more even-tempered — the northeastern sources were the ones to watch for. “And I would be there to stabilize it for some patchcraft?”
“And probably during transport, since it gets tetchy about elevation change.”
It had been a proper while since Rhipzali got their hands on some wild uyal, and they’d never handled more than a crate’s worth, even in the capital foundries. “How many would you take?”
Xara tilted her head. “How many would you advise?”
“Smart.” Rhipzali threw their last bit of dumpling, gone cold, to the lurking dog. “Do you have someone if I say no?”
“I know a few crafters in Florah who I’d gamble on, needs must.”
She had Rhipzali pinned, as always. “I’ll think about it,” they said, and Xara laughed.
“I’m tied up at the Sora docks,” she said, “and we’re leaving tomorrow sunrise.”
The “we” was presumptuous, but Rhipzali let it go. They argued with themself the walk back to the shop, and then when they arrived, they told the team leaders they’d be gone the next half-moon or so on a trade route escort to help with the machinery, a last-minute favor for an old friend.
***
The next morning, in the purple dawn, Rhipzali made their way to the skydocks. Xara — called Skip in the air — had a flyabout, an ideally two-to-four person craft she kept alone. They recognized her tough, rugged ship, younger material replacing half the hull from a long-ago crash, crisp sails dyed light gray. The flyabout drifted on short ties, a soft glow from its high basket-like top. It was a full clamber up the ladder and between the shafts of the curving side, the woody weaving tied open to allow passage. They made it ungracefully, much burdened by supplies, and thudded onto the deck.
Skip was sitting at the back, drinking something steamy in the lantern-light, and inclined her head at their terrible entrance. “Glad to see you, Tinker,” she said. “Stow your things, and we’ll be off.”
Tinker, for they were back aboard a craft with a mission, returned the greeting and headed down another ladder.
The low belowdeck was laid out with beehive cramped precision, nets of provisions carefully balanced, a few hammocks unslung and draped like dried snakeskin down the walls, just enough clear space and thin window slivers to navigate through and around the central uyal contraption. Tinker tied their packs down under a hammock, fumbling in the dimness.
Skip had a drink for them when they reemerged, a standard tea for altitude and motion sickness with an extra floral finish. They chatted a moment, mostly about everyone in Tinker’s hearth protesting their sudden absence, and how Skip had boiled the water. Tinker noticed a squeaky joint in the craft’s rudder-lock and immediately retrieved the tool to fix it.
“Good to have you aboard,” Skip said, and peeked between the wicker at the eastern sky. Then she looked up into the overlapping curves of her sails. “Come on down!”
“What? You’ve got another of those possums?” Tinker asked, and turned in time to watch a human child drop to the deck. They stared at each other a moment: a gangly kid a bit young to be away from home, bronze skin and wind-ruffled hair, in a heavy tunic embroidered with a riot of frogs and bromeliads. They were barefoot and their eyes were pale, contributing to a startled look.
“This is Rhipzali, called Tinker,” Skip said, clearly enjoying her surprise. “Tinker, I’d like you to meet Finch.”
Finch bowed. “Well met.” They’d recently lost a tooth, the sharp point of a young canine in the gap.
“Well met.”
“Can you untie us?” Skip asked, and Finch nodded and rushed to the side. Skip started to adjust the uyal net, and Tinker leaned in.
“Alright, who’s the kid?”
“I owe her mother a favor.”
“That badly? You’re not one for apprentices.”
“She’s quick. I’ve been teaching her Gamaman, if you want to help.”
Tinker reconsidered Finch: not from a clan, then. Her clothes were too nice for Gamam anyway. “What’s the family name?”
Skip shook her head and smiled. “Tinker, my friend. I’m not going to give you that.”
***
Bumper, as Skip called her flyabout, made good time that day, coasting on a steady wind out into the foothills. Skip herself was coasting on the irony inherent in her little crew. Tinker and Finch were making each other cautious, which showed good instincts. Finch had a lot to learn and had taken her previous instructions to heart. Tinker, a notorious heretic, had caught the edge of power about the little one and misread Skip badly. She wouldn’t watch the brats of valley nobles, but no one would say no to a goddess.
After a few hours of near silence, though, Skip resumed Finch’s lessons in Gamaman grammar, interspersed with stories of the terrain passing below. Tinker couldn’t resist elaborating on either. They made it to the outpost early-afternoon and tied down at a platform a dozen paces up a tree, tucked into the canopy to shelter from the wind. After attending to some necessary chores, Skip and Tinker finally sat down with a map to plan out their mission. Finch watched for a while, then wandered off to climb the tree.
At dusk, Skip lit the platform lamps and started her camp stove for a hot meal. Finch returned from the branch fringes with a selection of edible mosses, taught to her a half-moon ago, harvested in politely small amounts. Skip packaged it away in case of starvation and continued with her planned cooking.
Arden climbed up a little later, effusive. She wore Creeperthrush braids and gave an awkward traditional greeting, typical of kids raised valleyside. Tinker responded spitefully quick, and Arden startled at words fast as a waterfall.
Skip had met too many like Arden, passionate young rebels who’d burn to ash if they refused to learn caution. But Huzita had recommended her, and she’d tracked down careful intel about the uyal transports.
Finch, who’d met Arden when she approached to coordinate this plan with Skip, bounced over. Arden patted the little one’s head and gave her an orange. Finch plopped down at the platform’s edge and set to meticulous dissection, piles of different textures. She matched emotions well, but she had abundant attention for nearly any task, directed or self-selected. Finch had told Skip once that days were more endless in the realms beyond, and by those standards she was quite impatient.
“Welcome to the crew,” Skip said. “You’ve got a sky name picked out?”
Arden fidgeted with a braid. “I’ve been Hawk a few times. That works.”
“Veritable flock happening over here,” Tinker said, shaking their head, and Skip laughed. She had hopes for this mission.
***
They spent a few days scouting the stopovers in the Kivi Gorges, staying low during daylight. The area was gorgeous this time of year, lush with the onset of the rains. In the evenings, the mists rose from the fast rivers that carved the gorges and made everything murky, shadows tumultuous and strange.
Tinker got every last detail possible from Hawk, who hadn’t thought where the shipment originated from was that important and couldn’t help much with setting expectations. Most people thought all uyal worked the same. Hawk bothered Tinker, a little, with her brash confidence. She kept offering to fly Skip’s craft, but she had little patience for the texture of the wind or respect for how at its mercy anything skyward was.
Finch bothered Tinker more. Hawk, at least, they could get stories out of, couldn’t get her to stop telling personal anecdotes. Finch responded to nearly any question with wide-eyed, resolute silence, and Skip refused to tell on the little one. Tinker managed to get that she’d been with Skip a little shy of two months — her Gamaman was incredible for two months, but that’s kids for you.
She was too little to be much trouble personally — what could a ten-year-old have done? — but she represented something. And she had very well-made, intricate clothes, good teeth, careful diction, all these markers of privilege and status, and she was climbing in the sails of a smuggler’s flyabout. When she sang to herself, which was often, it was in melodies on the edge of familiar and a chirpy language Tinker had never heard — possibly child’s nonsense, but unnerving all the same.
***
They spent one day in a village at the edge of the gorges, a little place built around a waterfall. Skip wanted to meet with some contact of hers and sent the others off to wander. They climbed worn paths down to a shallow cliffside cave, made into a large shrine. Dozens of local and major gods lined the walls, effigies water-stained and offerings biological as always in the damp shade.
Hawk asked Finch what she knew of the gods and, at the child’s silence, started telling her myths. Tinker had little use or patience for gods, but examined the statues and surrounding stones, where hands rubbed soft or bright rock and bronze.
Finch crouched in front of one of the larger statues, a looping dragon-god with fragile feathered wings and real gold inlay for eyes.
“That’s Zallaq,” Hawk said. “They’re, like, spirit and creativity, cunning, music, mercy, a prayer for inspiration. They show their presence often — last century, they manifested at the last attempted sacrifice in the Court of the Sun and Moon and said no one had any reason to do those in the first place, and that gods were more than fed on fruit and the respect of their names.” She spoke with awed adoration, and Tinker scoffed. The figure’s wooden wings and tail were cracked at the edges.
Finch sat there a while, then took out one of her beloved oranges and placed it on the tray among paper notes, snail shells, coins, and a little horse made of wire. Tinker wondered what she really thought.
***
Most shipments over the Kivi Gorges changed over on one of the many stony hills made island by sheer drops on all sides. The standard freighter route to the capital ran two cloud ferries from the respective mainlands to Tasil’s Top, a large central island with more space for buildings than trees and ground beat flat under decades as a shipyard. It was a standard overnight stop, protected by the isolation and a cursory night watch. They spend a couple nights on a neighboring island, someone keeping notes of periodic movement of lanterns through a spyglass — mostly Hawk, who had young eyes and good handwriting.
They move in late on a misty night, anchoring the flyabout behind a scant patch of treecover on the northeast side and climbing down into the yard along an old walking path. Tinker had wanted to leave Finch behind, but Skip kept the kid at her side and accepted no amendments. Moonlight cut in from a mottled sky, turning the humidity to pale walls in open space. They waited for the patrol to go by, Hawk breathing shallow and fast in the brush, and then moved in. Skip wasn’t as steady as she once was, her weight a little tricky on old joints.
The crates were stacked in three-sided sheds on the valleybound side of the lot — a little over half the shipment in this batch, with tithe sigils stamped on the sides. Tinker felt the tacky paint as they pressed their hand to the wood of a crate on top of the pile. The first one was nothing, nor the second, but at the fourth they spread their fingers and felt the prickles start along their bones. They pulled the girls in close and whispered, “This one’s uyal. Can you feel it?”
Hawk held her hand to the surface for a long stretch and then hazarded a maybe. Finch reached out and yanked back like a static shock. “It’s loud,” she whispered back. “Like bees.”
The uyal crates weighed a smidge more than the empty crates, which were hefty but manageable for most people. However, they were rather bulky. Tinker and Hawk got the first one down and, following the plan, carried it between them around the shed, back up the hill, and through to the craft with Skip trailing to swap in if needed. Finch went ahead, dragging fallen branches and loose stones out of their path in the misty, forest dark. The crate’s contents clicked against the wood at any lurching motion. Tinker wished they’d gotten more strong backs around Hawk’s age on this mission — Huzita was always swamped with them and could’ve sent another few.
Once they got to the flyabout, Skip had a whole pulley system specifically for lifting crates into the basket-bottom of the deck. Tinker cracked the crate a sliver to check, and there it was: bound in copper and obsidian and several layers of sheer azure netting, a knot of raw uyal. The faint sheen seemed like a glow in the dark.
“Seems real,” they said, and felt the first crackle of what could later grow to excitement.
They grabbed five more crates in a slow, painful process. Tinker’s wrists started to sting after too long in proximity to the material, and everything hurt from the carrying. Finch and Skip were in charge of maneuvering crates out from the back of the shed piles and around into the scrub area, and then Tinker and Hawk took them onto the craft. Another patrol went by sometime during crate five, but all the disturbances were to the backsides of the stacks, and on a misty night nothing got a second glance beyond the blindness of their lantern-light.
As Tinker and Hawk set down crate six on the cliff’s edge, Hawk asked if they were going to get anymore. Their target had been five to seven. The stuff was incredibly well packaged, and Tinker wasn’t concerned anymore with storing it together in amounts up to what the shipments were doing. However, Skip wasn’t in this for a huge haul — she’d’ve run a different operation if she was, cleaned out the whole yard with a fleet far beyond an old friend, a green rebel, and an actual child, and probably restarted a war. And Tinker was getting very tired of carrying crates.
“I think this is good,” Tinker said.
Hawk agreed and offered to get the last crate on the flyabout while Tinker retrieved the others. Skip and Finch had managed to stack two crates from the third shed at the start of the path, and it took a while to move them all back undercover. Skip believed very strongly in all of her jobs looking organized.
When they got back to the cliffside, the flyabout was gone.
***
It took a little while for Skip’s confusion to melt into fury, but once it did, she was a storm. Tinker felt rather detached about the whole thing. They’d been betrayed on jobs before, of course, but never quite left on one of the empire’s trade islands after taking a fleet’s worth of uyal. Finch was splitting the difference with a bemused frustration. “She said we were a team,” she mumbled. Tinker wasn’t that concerned with the kid’s feelings. It was Skip’s fault for bringing her.
“Took my fucking ship,” Skip fumed, still whispering in the muggy dark. It wouldn’t do much good once the sun rose and accounting began. They’d even left all manner of footprints. “It’s not even a smart move to leave us — we know her name. Face, at least.”
“Is there any other way off of here?” Tinker asked in Gamaman.
“That’s what the fucking ship is for.”
“Are we going to be in danger?” Finch asked, also in Gamaman.
Skip took a slow, deep breath, and hugged the child. “You won’t be,” she replied, and then switched to Imperial. “If you call for your parents, they’ll come get you, right?”
“Yes,” Finch said. “Even if they’re really busy.”
“How?” Tinker demanded.
Skip ignored them. “It might be time to do that, Finch. Quietly if you can.”
“So it’s that bad.” Finch mimicked Skip’s slow breath. “What if we get back on your ship?”
“How?” Tinker repeated.
Skip also seemed taken aback. “You can do that?”
“Of course.” Now Finch sounded startled by their shock. “I’m not a baby. Okay. Um. Back up, please.”
Skip dragged Tinker back, past a few of the tree trunks canting towards open air. Finch stepped right to the edge, and the wind rose to meet her, shivering in the leaves. When attempting to recall what happened next, Tinker would always regret the darkness and their own incomprehension. In a rush of feathers and cracking bone, the child’s body unfurled and filled in, neck twisting high, massive wings snapping into being to block out the vapor-streaked night. A dragon rampant turned, talons and twin tails scattering stone off the cliff, and thudded down to all fours.
“I think I can carry both of you,” Finch said, still hushed. “I’m sorry; this is as big as I can get. It’s not that windy, so she can’t be far.”
Skip bowed her head. “It would be an honor, little one.” She looked back at Tinker. “Come on.”
Tinker, stunned into silence, did as she said. Finch sat back on her haunches and gathered them both to her chest. Her body was as large as a great bear but much longer, and covered in pale down that made her look even bigger. She smelled like dew and chili seed and a little like the way uyal sounded. Skip and Tinker got arms around her neck, and she grabbed tight with her forelegs, too tight, and dove off the edge.
The flight was short by any standard, but the beat of wings like sails and wind shear took everything except the ache in Tinker’s arms, holding tighter than they’d ever held to anything. They couldn’t pick out their heartbeat from Skip’s from Finch’s, all crushed together, and thought of nothing but falling.
Then Finch’s posture changed, going more upright and bobbing in place. Tinker chanced a look, and she was hovering, wings in powerful figure-eights with the wind playful under her. “There,” she said, and Skip craned to search. “Great!” she called. Tinker finally spotted it, some distance in front and below, the pale shadow of the sails with no lanterns lit for night stealth.
Finch redoubled her grip, digging into Tinker’s hip, and swooped down. Tinker and Skip squeezed too, bracing for impact. Finch dropped to the deck quite gently, still almost capsizing the flyabout, and immediately released her elders. They staggered back. Tinker fell over and lay there, gasping on a beautifully solid surface that rocked back to level as Finch melted back to human-shaped, just a panting girl in an embroidered tunic. Skip swore loudly, and belowdeck (leaving the deck uncrewed like a real amateur) Hawk yelled something.
Tinker pushed up to sitting in time to see Hawk clamber up the ladder, a very startled silhouette.
Hawk started to say something— “How in gods’ graces—” but Skip cut her off.
“You stole my craft,” she said. “We had a mission together, and you left us. And you stole Bumper.”
Finch snarled, a noise far more fitting for the dragon, and the air crackled like wild uyal or a lightning storm.
“Whatever weird purpose you crafted for yourself,” Skip continued, starting to build inertia, “whatever absurd scheme this was, you will pay for it. And Huzita will help me.”
Hawk was speechless.
Skip was on a roll, so Tinker staggered up and moved to the steering so someone would have a hand on it. Sails were set well for the air currents, cruising on out. The uyal crates were only a little battered, in disarray at the prow. Their leg quite hurt, differently than everything else, and their fingers came away wet: their hip was bleeding where Finch had grabbed them.
Skip paused for breath. Hawk stepped forward, mouth moving silently, and then gasped. She touched her throat.
“Nothing to say for yourself?” Skip demanded.
Finch spoke up in Gamaman, flatly. “I think I took her voice.”
“You can do that?” Tinker asked.
Finch hummed noncommittally.
“Well,” Skip said, in Imperial, still set on her target. “Serves you right. The gods don’t like liars. We’ll sort this out when we get back.”
***
They were out of the gorges by the first blush of dawn. Hawk had gone belowdeck, and Finch was full asleep on the hard surface, curled around the main mast. Tinker and Skip, battered and hastily bandaged, shared a chunk of stale travel-bread as the craft drifted back towards the highlands. Tinker, leaning to keep weight off the bad leg, gestured to Finch with the last crust. “Alright, who’s the kid?”
Skip considered, then nodded to herself. “Her mother saved my life twice, by strange coincidence,” she said. “Once before she was the final person sacrificed in the Court of the Sun and Moon, and again about twenty years after. And I think even you could guess who Finch’s other parent is.”
Tinker felt too full of strangeness for anything to settle. They simply drifted on a world where they weren’t dead for treason and the gods mattered, where a little one from another realm slept, just a tired child, on the deck freshly marred by her talons. “How’d I get tangled up in this mess?”
Skip snickered. “Old friend, we both know you can’t refuse an invitation.”