We march across the deserted runway for the lounging pilots. No airplanes out. No mechanics in sight. Faint music drifts from one of the hangars, a girl singing, so it’s probably on the wireless.
The pilots don’t notice our approach. One looks about Arrin’s age, his feet stretched out before him, a black cat resting on his shoulders. It watches us arrive with yellow-moon eyes.
“You fellows the 10th?” I ask brightly in Landori.
They turn, cigarettes smoking in their hands.
I motion at Cyar. “Officer Hajari and I just arrived. We’re wondering where the west barracks are?”
Wind whips through the thirsty grass at our feet. They continue to stare, like I’m speaking Savien.
“Need a compass?” one finally asks.
“Already have one,” I say.
“Then you see that setting sun? Follow it.”
They chuckle behind cards.
After the cramped days at sea, this is too much. “Listen, we—”
“I’m Baron,” a square-jawed pilot interrupts. “You are?”
“Lieutenant Erelis.”
“A little officer, hm?” He stands, analyzing me. “Are you with the unnecessary Safire contingent sent to give us the help we don’t need?”
I glance at my uniform. “No, I’m with the rebel Nahir unit sent to give you more headache.”
Baron steps near, nasty stink of sweat smothering me. “Listen, son, we’ve done well enough on our own without you fellows. Soon this matter will be back under control, then you and your fancy aeroplanes can turn round and head home.”
“I’d be fine with that.”
“Of course you would.” He pauses, thick brows drawing together. “But since they’ve sent you over here anyway, might as well borrow some of your brandy. How much have you got?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Dear God, your General better not have sent only bullets. Tell me you brought the important things too!”
Amusement twists his lips, and I look around at the seated pilots and realize they’re all hiding laughter. One snorts out loud.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I say, unsure what’s going on.
Baron slaps my arm, grinning. “Glad at least two of you fools were brave enough to come over. Sit down. Do you play?”
“Baron, they were looking for the barracks,” says a much younger pilot with brown skin and matching eyes. “Someone should be friendly and show them the way.”
“I’m about to win this round. I’m not leaving until it’s finished.”
The one with the cat around his shoulders stands, and it lands gracefully, slinking beneath the metal chair. “I’m Captain Efan Merlant,” he says to me. “Welcome, Headache.”
Damn, he’s the captain? I salute quickly, as does Cyar, but he waves us off. “We’ll get you settled, Lieutenant. Greycap, you sounded the most concerned. Show them the way.”
The young one, Greycap, jumps up. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t let anyone around here give you more trouble than this,” Merlant tells us. “They’ll answer to me if they do.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say.
He nods, blue eyes looking me over, and I wonder if he knows the sort of headache I really am. The Dakar sort.
But Greycap is waving us across the compound, so we follow after him. He’s our age and enthusiastic, his mouth and feet moving rapidly, cheerfully revealing he’s one of the best pilots here. For some reason, it doesn’t sound like bragging from him. He says he’s called Greycap because they all go by call-signs. No one uses his real name, Nazem La’hile. His family is from Thurn, and his grandfather joined the Landorian forces sixty years ago. They’ve been loyal to the crown ever since. Local Thurnian recruits, he says, used to wear grey caps to distinguish them. Hence his call-sign.
“What are yours?” he asks eagerly.
“Don’t have any yet,” Cyar replies, with equal enthusiasm. He’s already won over.
Greycap appears incredulous for a moment, hopping up the barrack steps. “That better change soon. Otherwise we’ll just have to call you Safire One and Safire Two.” He laughs, like the idea is incredibly funny and we should be laughing, too.
Cyar obliges.
Inside, our new friend points out the recreation room, the small mess, then the showers and latrine. “I hope you’ve been taking those pills from the medic. Otherwise you might end up spending a lot more time in here, on your knees.” He smirks. “Don’t drink the water. You’re not as hardy as me.”
Then he marches us to the tiny room we’ll share. One bunk and a closet. It’s not much bigger than the one on the boat. After he leaves, taking the force of his energy with him, we settle quietly into yet another new room, the wind creaking lazily through wooden frames. I throw my bag on the top bunk, then make sure to check every corner for snakes.
“They like warm places,” Cyar reveals cryptically, a towel around his shoulders as he disappears into the hall with a grin.
I know he’s lying. I think.
I pull out the two letters I wrote while at sea and sit by the window, keeping my feet off the floor, safe from the shadows beneath the bed. I wonder if the governess gave Ali my first letter, and if she’ll give her these. Perhaps it’s all for nothing. Ali’s dark eyes tease my thoughts, luring me to that last moment of our dance. Her mouth close and tempting, begging me to be weak for just a moment. So close.
I thud my head against the dusty window.
I hate regrets.
I look out at the South, at the unfamiliar world waiting for me, and even though I’m used to strange streets and sharp corners, grey places I don’t want to be, now that I’ve tasted Ali and those mountains and the whisper of freedom, all of this leaves me dissatisfied. More than usual.
All I see is wasted years stretching into an unknown horizon.
* * *
Our first dinner’s a tense affair. The mess is divided down the middle, Landorians on one side, Safire on the other, with the officers dining separately. Since Cyar and I don’t actually have our own squadron yet, we’re left with the rest.
In the name of diplomacy, we head for the Landorians.
“This is Safire One and Safire Two,” Greycap announces as we sit.
Baron raises his brow. “That might get confusing in the air.”
“How about Light and Dark?” a wiry blond suggests, giving us a sly glance.
Greycap frowns. “Be respectful, Spider. They’re officers.”
The other pilots chuckle behind mugs of ale. They’re at least five years our senior, if not more. I might need to start telling the Landorians I’m twenty-one. Could probably get away with that, and I’m certain the Safire pilots won’t rat me out. They’re already not supposed to admit my real name under pain of the firing squad.
We eat while conversation bounces around like nonstop flick-rolls. They all idolize Captain Merlant, or Knight, as he’s known in the air. Then they share their signs with us—Runyan, Gallop, Prince—and though I press for information on what it’s like down here, the sort of action they’ve seen, they all dance around the topic and try to get me drunk instead. They start listing the things they miss most back home. Spider roars with laughter as Baron continues to take his crude answers a notch seedier, voices getting louder with every swig of drink. The Safire pilots ten feet away glare, so the Landorian pilots call to them, which they ignore, which only makes the Landorians try harder. Then the door to the mess opens and Merlant steps through.
“What’s this noise about, boys?” he asks his pilots. “I can hear you well across the compound.”
Baron has a sheepish smile. “Talking about home, sir.”
“It’s more than that, Baron. Don’t play me here.”
“Women. Just women.”
“All poetry, I’m sure.”
“What do you miss most about home, sir?”
The Captain picks up Baron’s mug and takes a swallow. He’s distinguished now in his silk neckerchief and dress coat embroidered with the royal crest. Far from the relaxed pilot stretched out earlier. “I miss rainstorms when the sun shines through. For a few moments, everything’s vibrant and alive with colour. Two worlds meeting. Then gone again.” He pauses. “Also my wife. And many other things.”