A Flight of Broken Wings: Aeriel Trilogy #1

Chapter 116

"So, you know about the murder?" Shwaan prompted, his fingers wrapped around a mug of steaming ginger tea. They sat on the steps of a roadside café not far from the riverbank, Biskut devouring biscuits and cookies of every kind ever invented by man while the Aeriel sipped more sedately at his beverage.

"'Course I know 'bout the murder," the boy said indignantly, cookie crumbs flying out of his overstuffed mouth in all directions. "It's all anybody's been talking about these last couple o' days."

"Is that so?" said Shwaan, letting a hint of scepticism seep into his voice. "So you know who he was? The murdered man, I mean. You know why he was killed?"

The boy smirked. "He wasn't no man; that's the one thing I know for sure."

"No?"

"Are you kiddin' me?" he said, in a voice that implied exasperation at stupid foreigners who had no clue about life. "You don't stab a man when you can shoot 'im. And you certainly don't melt his face with acid before dumpin' the body in the river; not unless there was omething' in it as you didn't want the cops to see."

"Not that I doubt your expertise in the fine art of murder, my friend, but I have to say I don't quite follow your reasoning there."

Biskut scowled at Shwaan, popping a chocolate-chip cookie into his mouth to better deal with clueless foreigners. "It was an Aeriel, is what it was. An Aeriel as was killed."

"A Hunt?" asked Shwaan, frowning.

The boy laughed, derisive. "Fat chance. Hunters would'na burn out a dead Aeriel's eyes, would they now? They'd be proud of the kill, flaunt it even. 'Tis the gangs that'd want to make a dead Aeriel look like a dead man."

"A gang Hunted down an Aeriel? Why?"

The boy looked at him pityingly, lifting a can of cola to his lips before continuing. "It wasn't a Hunt. 'Twas a theft."

"A theft?" Shwaan repeated, genuinely mystified. "A theft of what?"

"Whaddaya think? Feathers, of course. They found some sucker of an Aeriel dead in front of the old Kinoh place by the river. Mum always says that house's haunted, what with the witch livin' in it and all. And so they got a sickle and chopped off its wings, poor bastard," he explained with a relish bordering on the morbid.

Aeriels did not, of course, feel nausea, but Shwaan felt he was cutting that biological advantage rather close. He hoped he didn't look as disturbed as he felt. The thought of having your wings chopped off, even in death, was not an agreeable one.

Not that Biskut would have noticed either way, in any case. The young man was by now far too engrossed in his own gory tale to spare much thought for his companion's reaction to it. "And 'course then they had to burn out its eyes, didn't they? Couldn't have a wingless Aeriel lying around. Aeriel feathers are guvmint property. There'd be raids and they'd all go to jail if the cops got wind of it. Or the Hunters. The Hunters are worse. They take it personal, you know, with the underground feather trade, like 'tis their property bein' smuggled off."

"But how could anyone not notice that the victim was an Aeriel? Eyes are hardly the only things that distinguish a man from an Aeriel."

Biskut shrugged. "Well, 'tis not just the eyes. They usually chop off the hair too, and dye it omething' darker. Though I guess they would'na need to do that in Zaini, would they, if they all have hair like you? That's 'bout the right length for an Aeriel, if an Aeriel fancied a braid, and black hair."

Shwaan laughed. In less than an hour of acquaintance, this boy had noticed the one thing about him that could have given him away. The one thing that all the trained Hunters in Ragah had ignored with a blasé indifference that had surprised even him. His hair was exactly the right length for an Aeriel, if the Aeriel fancied a braid, and black hair.

"So this gang," began Shwaan, in an attempt to distract the boy from that line of reasoning. "They found a dead Aeriel in front of the Kinoh House and chopped off his wings for the feathers. Then they burned out his eyes and dyed his hair after cutting it short, to make him look more human. And then what, they dumped this body into the river for the police to find at their own leisure?"

The boy nodded, nibbling slowly on an oblong biscotti. He seemed to have had his fill of desserts for the day.

"Still, that might fool a casual observer. But those are just cosmetic changes. They'd know the victim was an Aeriel the moment they examined the body closely."

Biskut shrugged. "Maybe, but why would they? Ain't no policeman's gonna get his knickers in a twist o'er some dead dude nobody gives a fuck about. The Hunters came nosing 'round for a bit – guess they might've suspected omething'. But then they got called off and the police didna give any fucks. Even if they knew – and I don't think they did – the gangs would just pay 'em off and be done with it. Don't matter so long as the TV people don't get wind of it. The TV people cause all kinds of trouble. And then the cops have to go on raids and make arrests and have all kinds of shitstorms hittin' the streets."

Shwaan stepped into the café and paid the cashier, then caught up with his juvenile quarry in a few quick strides. "Still, I'm curious. What do these gangs plan to do with the hacked off wings of a dead Aeriel?"

He knew about the feather trade, of course. Humans had hoarded Aeriel feathers since the time of Zeifaa, in the same way they hoarded gold and diamonds. Shwaan didn't really understand the mortal obsession with all things shiny, but he was aware of it. After all, his sister had paid the real Ashwin Kwan largely in undamaged Aeriel feathers for the loan of his identity – he supposed the things must go for a pretty price. Especially now that the only remaining source of supply was from Hunted Aeriels, and he didn't suppose their feathers remained in pristine condition after the Hunt was over. Still, it seemed a little much to go through all that trouble just for a collector's item, no matter how fetching.

Biskut, for his part, was looking at him like he was an idiot. "Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, are ya?" the boy grinned.

"I suppose not," Shwaan conceded, smiling sheepishly.

With a longsuffering shake of his shaggy head, Biskut deigned to explain. "Don't you foreigners know anything? The guvmint takes all the feathers you get on Hunts. Now the gangs, they don't like that. So they kill their own Aeriels. Or if they're very very lucky, they'd find one just lying around, waitin' to be picked, like the one outside the Kinoh House. So they make like the dead guy was...well, a guy; so the guvmint won't come lookin' for the wings. And they take the feathers and sell 'em."

"Sell them to whom?"

"To whoever would be stupid enough to pay a fortune for a shiny feather, obviously. You wouldn't believe the kind of money some morons would pay...just to put the thing in a lantern and watch it burn pretty. You know how they light up when you burn 'em, right? The feathers I mean."

Shwaan nodded.

"Yup, that's what they do with 'em. Can you believe it? All that cash, up in smoke for a li'l bit o' firework. Me brother used to run errands for the gangs sometimes, right up until Mum caught 'im and put 'im to rights. God does give all the money to all the idiots in the world, doesn't he though?" With that philosophical pronouncement, Biskut let out a deep breath and came to a halt near the river, his feet buried in the cool sand.

Onthe horizon the sun was setting, bathing the sky a deep pinkish-crimson. Oddly,it reminded Shwaan of his own mother – her crimson-tipped wings flaring as sherained havoc and hellfire down on the hapless mortals. He wondered momentarily,how much her feathers would go for;how brightly they would burn in mortal hands.