districts and then cordoned it off from the wilderness beyond.
East of the city, the land descended to the near-endless savanna. The wind made the tall grass sink and rise in long waves. On the horizon, a distant rainstorm was brooding over a cord of faint rainbow.
Francesca, still screaming, spun westward and looked out onto the rolling foothills. The wondrous Dam of Canonist Cala began at the city’s northwestern corner and then grew outward to span the deep canyon that formed the city’s western edge. Behind the dam, to the north, lay the reservoir. The dark water began as a wide lake but then ran into six twisting narrows as it snaked into the foothills. Beyond all this, the Auburn Mountains formed a dark skyline.
She and Deirdre flew upward until they rode the wind below a flock of ten or so lofting kites.
Abruptly the chain trailing them snapped taut, halting their climb. The force of the action flung both women upside down and then set them swinging wildly in their harnesses. Above, the jumpchute folded into a massive rectangular canopy.
The sudden halt had stopped the women’s screaming, but now their mouths reopened. The world became a whirling blur as they dangled and spun. Francesca thought she might never stop belting out terror, but Deirdre’s cry turned into triumphant laugher.
Finally they stopped swinging. The wind was strong and a portion of the kite’s canopy occasionally flapped, but otherwise it was surprisingly quiet in the air. “My lady, you said you’re semidivine,” Francesca said, “but you never mentioned you’re sometimes out of your bloody semidivine mind!”
Deirdre looked over with a smile brighter than any magical sentence. “Out of my bloody mind, but bloody alive and free!” She laughed.
Francesca caught her long braid to keep it from flying about. “My lady, that spell might have blasted us into pulp so fine it would pass through cheesecloth.”
Deirdre pointed down. “Look, there on the infirmary’s roof.”
Their course had taken them east; they now flew far above Avel. The wind was coming down off the Auburn Mountains and turning their kite west.
It took Francesca a moment to identify the sanctuary’s infirmary. When she did, she realized there was a small area of it that she could not see. The cloud of blindness seemed to be wandering around the roof. “I see blindness.”
Deirdre shook her head. “You see the Savanna Walker. He’s come to reclaim me for the demon.”
Francesca grabbed Deirdre’s shoulder. “All respect, my lady avatar, but holy loving heaven it is time for you to explain this demon. You think the War of Disjunction is coming?”
The other woman shook her head. “The war’s already begun. A demon named Typhon has crossed the ocean. He’s imprisoned Canonist Cala and compelled me to become his Regent of Spies—a ringleader for his in formants.”
Francesca opened her mouth, but the other woman took her arm. “With the Walker so close, the demon may repossess me any moment now,” Deirdre said quickly. “Listen, most hierophants in Avel think they serve Cala, but they actually serve Typhon. Once the demon realizes I put you into play, he will send all of his agents to bring you back. Don’t return to the sanctuary. You’ll be safe in the city for a day or so before they start to comb through it. You must find a man in hiding and take him a message. He used to be in the North Gate District, hiding among the tree worshipers. They call themselves the Canic people. Do you know who they are?”
“Of course.” The Canics were among Avel’s poorest citizens. Francesca, more than any other cleric, had treated their sick.
Deirdre continued. “The Canics were protecting this man. But we found them one night last year, killed a few of his students. Find him and tell him—”
“But who is he?”
“A rogue wizardling named Nicodemus Weal. He—”
“Nicodemus God-of-gods damned Weal!” Francesca squawked. “The cacographer who might be the anti-Halcyon, the Storm Petrel? The one who murdered the other cacographers in Starhaven ten years ago?”
Deirdre grimaced and her dangling legs jerked. “That’s not what happened.”
Francesca swore. “Damn it, I know I deserved punishment for killing you on my table, but this a bit much. Couldn’t you just pull out my tongue or break all my ribs or something quick?”
“This is no time for jokes.”
“You seriously want me to find the most notorious cacographer since James Berr?”
“James Berr?”
“He was the most infamous cacographer until Nicodemus caused all those deaths in Starhaven.”
“You have to find him.” Deirdre said and then grimaced. Again, her legs twitched. “Tell him the demon knows. Tell him there’s a trap.”
Suddenly Deirdre’s grip went slack and her eyes rolled upward. For a moment, Francesca thought the woman was about to fall into a seizure.
“Trap?” Francesca asked. “What do you mean? What trap?”
Deirdre moaned. “The demon’s trying to possess me again. We must separate before that happens.”
“Why?”
“Because once possessed, I’ll snap your neck like a twig.”
“All right,” Francesca replied flatly, “you’ve convinced me. But how in the burning hells are we supposed to separate while in a kite that neither of us can control?”
Deirdre gestured to the other kites. “One of the hierophants.”
Francesca looked up at the flock of lofting kites, each one a colorful rectangular canopy suspending lines and harnesses. There were perhaps ten kites aloft, but less than half held green-robed hierophants. From here, pilots watched for signs of grass fires or lycanthrope migration. Similarly, four or five pilots would be flying over city walls to help the watchmen spot approaching lycanthropes.
Most of the pilots seemed preoccupied with their rigs, moving hands along the suspension lines. But one red kite emblazoned with a golden sunburst was moving down toward them.
“When you find Nicodemus,” Deirdre said, “don’t touch him, not even for an instant. He’s cursed.”
Francesca looked at the other woman. “Blood and damnation, I don’t even want to see him. Look, if I’m really going to do this, I need to know more about this demon and this trap.”
The other woman pressed a shaking hand to her cheek. “I did some … you might have help from … I don’t know if he survived to … I’m not a spellwright …” Her hand shook more violently. She was having trouble speaking. “Typhon’s trying to possess ….”
Suddenly a loud voice boomed, “Ahoy to the last kite aloft!”
Francesca turned to see that the red kite had flown within thirty feet. Its pilot was a short man wrapped in heavy green robes. His head and face were covered by a hierophant’s turban and veil. As she watched, he pulled down the veil to reveal a handsome face, with light brown skin and a kempt black beard. Even at a distance, Francesca recognized the spellwright and felt her throat tighten.
“Creator,” she whispered, “God-of-gods, your ability to punish me for my failures is proving more awesome every passing moment. Must it be him of all people?”
Beside her, Deirdre looked more composed. Her arms had stopped shaking. She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Ahoy to the air warden! We are in crisis!”
A booming laugh replied. “I can see that. How’d you jump without a hierophant?”
“Warden, I do not jest. I am an officer of Canonist Cala. The sanctuary and infirmary are under attack.”
The red kite swerved closer. “Speak today’s passwords.”