The river wind carries metal on its tongue.
We run the last roof like a sentence that refuses a period—tile to tile, seam to seam—then drop to a scaffold stitched to a crane spine. Far below, No-Sky Port clatters itself awake: winches clearing their throats, hooks kissing rings, the long hum of cable pulleys drawing lines between towers. The lantern rides my palm heavy-good, night-sure. The Scythe sits small in my other hand, a red crescent kept on a short leash so it doesn't eat me for pride.
"Two watchmen at the junction," Syth whispers. The shard hums key on a shy little three. "Turnstile beyond."
Kirella lifts his thumb to my knuckles under the lantern handle. One—two—three—four. The count falls into my bones the way bread falls into hunger. We move.
The catwalk rattles once and then remembers to be quiet. Two men in foreman coats stand in the web where the rail meets the tower, batons lazy at their hips, eyes bored in the way of people who think they are part of the furniture.
"Don't kill," I say, because reminders are habits that keep you honest.
"Wouldn't dare," Kirella answers, almost a smile.
The first watchman notices the idea of us and starts to bring his baton up. I slide inside his reach, Scythe not a scythe now but a hook, curve catching his hilt—bind and lever, the way Syth taught me with a broomstick and a laugh. The baton dips; my elbow finds his ribs, light and precise. His breath leaves with a whoof like he remembered he left something on the stove. He sits down, very impressed with the floor.
The second swings reflex. Kirella is already there—cloak wraps the wrist, ankle sweep, a rope loop zips around boots with the kind of knot that tells lies about how long it will stay tied. "Five minutes," he murmurs to the knot, polite. It will obey.
Syth taps the brass base of the turnstile with the plate. WAIT prints through the paint like a bruise deciding to be useful. The counter ticks once and then twice and then stops, very proud of itself for doing nothing.
We slip under the ticket awning.
Inside the station, a clerk counts tokens like he loves numbers more than people. A marshal leans on a glass-tipped staff and watches the room as if mischief were a coin he could spend twice. Red glove banners hang from the rafters, neat as threats.
Syth hands over a strip with ink still fresh. "Delivery route," she says. "Brown Apron. Special permission for the kitchen boxes."
The marshal frowns with professional interest. He reaches for the stamp ribbon at the desk. The paper wants to be believed; it just needs a friend.
I brush the slip's lower pleat with the Scythe kiss—just enough to trim a showy fold. The curve is steady; the cut is cleaner than pride. No flash. No flourish. The paper sighs in relief at being less ridiculous.
The clerk nods at the humble pleat and stamps ADMIT like he invented mercy. Behind him, the scent intake breathes a little too loudly. Syth drops a pepper-mint cone into the mouth and upends the cap. The draft reverses; the station devours its own perfume like a man caught talking about himself.
We keep moving because a walk that stops turns into a parade.
The service cab waits on the outer rail, doors polite, windows smudged with boxes' opinions. We choose it because people don't listen to crates. We step in.
There's a trainee in red gloves and a crate man in plain shirt and guilt. The trainee inhales to perform authority. I make his wrist less ambitious with a hook-and-twist; the staff slides out of his hand as if it cannot bear the idea of being proud. Knee tap; he folds. Ira's palm finds the crate man's chest—gentle, impactful—like closing a book you've already read. He sits down on principle.
"Sorry," I tell them, and mean it a little.
Rope. Gag. Syth stamps KEEP under the door hinge so it loves us more than strangers. The cab lurches and then glides, cable thrumming overhead like a low song.
We float out over the river.
The water wears the moon like a coin no one will ever spend right. Far below, barges whisper to each other in rope languages. Ahead, the Needlehouse uncoils from the dark—a barge wide as a square and twice as vain. Black canopies arc over a surgical amphitheater; needle towers prick the sky; a mouth of docks reaches toward us like a hand that wants to be admired. Red glove pennants blink in thin wind. Along the outer deck, audience silhouettes sit in careful rows, faces masked the way lies are: tidy and practiced.
The PA crackles. A voice spills out that was a man's once and is now a trick he tells with his throat. I know that cadence from the cylinder. Myor.
"Composite patient will present in five minutes," the tin voice purrs. "All protocols per MI— intact directive. Red gloves to stations. Choir to posture."
My mouth tastes like iron and pride I didn't order. The lantern's glass warms my palm as if to tell me not to be foolish with myself. Kirella's thumb taps my knuckles—one—two—three—four—and the count steadies the stupid in my blood.
Halfway to the gondol dock, the cab shudders. Something claws along the cable above us—a stitch-chimp, small and wrong, two too-many joints, a ribcage laced with copper. It smells like wet bandage and factory breath. It drops to the roof, skitters, and peels its face to the side to peer in: eye like a bead, mouth sewn into a forever smirk by someone who didn't like mouths.
"I have it," I say.
"Spend small," Kirella answers.
It reaches for the window brace—clever little hand finding the bolt. I stand close to the door frame, Scythe kept short, and give the brace a glancing kiss that is not for the metal at all but for the creature's palm. The edge nicks—it hardly knows it's hurt.
One—two—three—four.
On four, I pull the little cut into obedience. No flourish. No cruelty. A pressure inside the thing lets go. It goes still, a wrong toy unstrung, and lets the wind have it. It falls clean into the night and is swallowed by a river too busy for pity.
"Good," Syth says, praise disguised as routine.
She leans out of the emergency panel and presses a WAIT coin into a sensor plate along the cable. Somewhere ahead, the next cab's counter forgets math and stares into space. We just bought half a minute of no.
The wind tightens. The cable hum drops to a lower note, not complaint, just agenda. The cab slows, slows more, and then stops over the widest part of the Needlehouse—right above the ring stage.
Below, the amphitheater blooms. Lanterns along the rim flame up in controlled petals. Masked people murmur the way water does before deciding to be river. On the stage, a priest-surgeon lifts hands and a gleam of glass threads across his fingers like cobweb dressed for work. A page boy in white holds a slate. He has neat script I hate on sight.
On our cab's far door, a maintenance latch clicks—careful, trying to be polite about forcing us. Two Red Glove techs crouch on a narrow catwalk that kisses the cab's flank, tools in hand, faces behind leather half-masks stamped with a tiny glove in gold thread. One whispers, the other smiles with his eyes.
"Ira." I don't need more than that. He plants his body at the hinge, shoulder into metal, foot braced. His breath is a steady instrument.
I draw a thin ring across the cab floor, toe to heel, a seam for our feet to remember. The lantern purrs yes. The Scythe keeps small, edge calm. I feel the urge to lengthen it—to show off, to frighten, to cut. I don't. The river doesn't care about displays.
Down on the stage, the priest-surgeon sings a soft syllable that tastes like somebody selling somebody to somebody. "MI—," he intones, long and loving as if he owned the letters. The page boy dips his brush to finish the next curve on the slate. The sound climbs my spine and tries to live there.
The techs on the catwalk pry and tug in patient rhythm. They are very good at doors. People who think they are right usually are good at getting into places they weren't invited. The latch gives an inch.
Syth wets her lips. "Three choices," she says under breath. "Jump to the catwalk, cut the cable, or let them in and treat them like guests."
"Fourth," Kirella says, and the corner of his mouth remembers almost-smile. "Teach the door a different love."
Below, drums start, the slow boom of a heart dressed for theater. The priest-surgeon's voice flows sweeter. "MI— intact," he says to the gathered, "as promised." The audience sighs. The page boy raises his brush for the next stroke.
"Count me," I tell the lantern and the man and the ring in that order.
"One—two—three—four," Kirella breathes against my temple, close enough to be shade. The Scythe wants length like a hungry thought. I let it have half a hand, not more. The cost flickers and sits down like a dog told to be good.
Outside, a tool bites the latch. It snaps; the door mouths open a finger's width more, polite teeth.
The cable sings under us—a long, bright note. The river wind lifts the edge of my hair. The priest-surgeon finishes the curve of MI— on his slate with a flourish that thinks it's art.
The door sighs, ready to yield.
I plant my feet on the ring seam, lift the Scythe, and choose nothing yet.
And the chapter holds there—door deciding, cable singing, the amphitheater below beginning its pretty cruelty; Myor's tin voice warm in the wind; Syth's hand on the shard poised for a key; Ira braced, immovable; Kirella's breath on the count; my blade a red crescent held short and sure—while the latch makes one last, eager click.