The kite took the first glove and nearly got the hand inside it.
Iven saw the shape drop through the morning haze, a long gray fold of wings that did not look like an animal until its claws opened. Rysa’s loader ducked. The claws closed on the leather glove hanging from his belt instead of his wrist, and the kite rose with it, beating once, twice, then catching the warm air above the freight deck.
The loader stared after it. “That was my good glove.”
“Keep the other one,” Rysa said. “It may come back for the set.”
The deck lay on the upper edge of Mercy’s rear saddle, exposed to the wind and to the long slope of armored ground beyond the buildings. Warm air escaped through vents along the rail. The kites rode it in a loose circle, their pale undersides flashing when they turned. Iven counted four, then a fifth farther out. Each had a narrow head and a hooked beak; their wings looked thin enough to tear, yet the first animal had lifted a glove from a moving man without losing height.
Rysa’s cooperative was transferring water filters from the upper stores to Tavin’s waiting cages. The filters were packed in wicker baskets with cloth covers. Three carts had reached the deck before the birds appeared. The fourth stood at the gate with its driver refusing to bring it farther.
“They’ll go after the baskets,” Rysa said. “The oil on the cloth attracts them.”
“Is it food?” Iven asked.
“No. They mistake the smell for the fish packed at the river stations.” She pointed to a stain on the deck. “Their droppings eat through untreated metal. We don’t want them roosting over the guide.”
A second kite dropped toward a basket. Iven caught a glimpse of its hooked beak beneath the rim, then swung his spanner at its wing. He missed. The animal snatched the cloth cover and flew off with it, exposing a stack of ceramic filters to the rain.
Jem grabbed the basket and pulled it beneath the overhang. The filters rattled but did not break.
“We could cover them with something without oil,” he said.
“There’s canvas in the shed,” Rysa replied. “Dessa, can you get it?”
Dessa took two workers through the gate. Iven remained beside the carts with plate brace, bell pulse, and hook cast seated. He had eaten and rested after the previous day’s work. The graft along his left forearm felt full enough that he could commit to a fight without counting every breath, though he still had only three immediate patterns.
One of the kites landed on the railing. Its claws wrapped around the metal. Up close it was larger than he had thought, its body about the size of a dog and its wings stretching wider than a person could reach. A patch of bare skin showed beneath the feathers along its throat. The skin expanded as it made a thin, rattling cry.
Another answered from above.
“Are they nesting here?” Iven asked.
“Not usually.” Rysa looked toward the slope beyond the rail. “There are rocks below the outer deck. A nest may have been shaken loose when Mercy turned.”
The kite on the rail launched itself at the nearest cart. Iven stepped between it and the basket, raised the plate brace, and caught the blow against the compact surface. The animal’s claws scraped across the brace. It twisted in the air and struck again, beak snapping toward his hand.
He sent a short bell pulse into the cart’s iron rim. The sound rang sharply. The kite recoiled, turned, and climbed above the deck.
“That’s two,” the loader said.
“Four left,” Iven replied.
“Five. The one behind you is new.”
Iven turned. A kite had landed on the shed roof behind him. It held the stolen glove beneath one foot and was tearing at the leather with its beak.
“It’s eating it,” the loader said.
“Then it may not be your good glove anymore.”
Dessa returned with the canvas. The crew covered the exposed baskets and tied the cloth beneath the cart beds. For a few minutes the kites remained above them, circling in the rising air. Tavin arrived with Cage Seven’s next schedule and stopped when he saw the birds.
“Why are they still here?” he asked.
“Because the deck is warm and the carts smell like fish,” Rysa said.
“They aren’t fish.”
“Tell them.”
A whistle sounded from the far side of the freight gate. A woman in a weather coat waved a red flag above her head. She had come from the outer walkway, where a narrow metal bridge connected the deck to a small station on Mercy’s armored slope.
“There’s a child at the station,” she called. “The door’s jammed, and the birds are on the roof.”
Rysa went to the gate. “Who is it?”
“Lenn’s daughter. She brought him his lunch. The kites followed her.”
“Is Lenn with her?”
“He went to the lower vent. The girl’s alone.”
Iven looked toward the station. It sat perhaps thirty meters away on a raised shelf, its roof made of corrugated metal weighted with stones. Two kites perched along the ridge. A third hopped beside the door. The bridge between them was open to the air, with a handrail on one side and a low cable on the other. A person crossing it would be visible from every direction.
“Can she get through a window?” he asked.
“There’s one at the back,” the woman said. “It’s painted shut.”
Neri had arrived behind Tavin. She studied the bridge, then the anchor points on the station wall. “We can run a line from the deck to the far bracket. It won’t stop the birds, but it gives someone a way back if the bridge shifts.”
“I’ll go,” Iven said.
Rysa shook her head. “I know the station.”
“You need to get those filters under cover. If the birds tear another basket, the clinic loses them.”
She glanced at the carts. “Dessa can lead the crew.”
Dessa was already moving the nearest basket. “I can.”
Rysa took a hooked pole from the wall. “Then I go with him.”
Iven did not argue. She knew the station and the kites. He knew how to hit something that came within reach. Those were different skills, and both were useful.
They tied a rope to the deck’s fixed post and ran it along the bridge. Neri checked the knot, then clipped a second line to Iven’s belt and handed the free end to Tavin.
“This isn’t for swinging,” she said.
“Disappointing.”
“It’s for keeping you from falling if the bridge shifts. Don’t make me use it.”
Rysa took the hooked pole and a thick canvas sleeve to wrap around her free arm. Iven offered her the plate brace if they had to retreat. She told him to save it for the child.
They stepped onto the bridge. The metal flexed under their weight. Below, Mercy’s armor curved away into a landscape of ridges and pale mineral growth. A narrow channel carried water along one side of the station. The ground beyond moved slowly beneath the vast body, gray scrub sliding past as the Marcher continued its measured route.
Halfway across, a kite lifted from the station roof. Iven heard the rattle in its throat before it dropped. He planted his feet, raised the brace, and turned his shoulder. The bird struck the invisible support, its claws skidding across the surface. Rysa caught one wing with her pole and pushed it away from the bridge. The kite spun, recovered, and climbed.
“Don’t catch the wing too hard,” she said. “It’ll drag the pole and you with it.”
“Were you planning to tell me before or after I tried?”
“Before. You didn’t have the pole.”
At the station door, Iven knocked three times. “Lenn’s daughter?”
A small voice answered. “I’m here.”
“What’s your name?”
“Pera.”
“Can you move away from the door, Pera? We’re going to open it.”
“The handle won’t turn.”
“We’ll speak to it.”
Rysa tested the handle. It turned halfway and stopped. The door had shifted in its frame when a corner support beneath the station bent. Iven could see a gap at the upper hinge and a scrape along the bottom edge.
“It’s carrying the roof’s weight,” he said.
“Can you lift it?”
“A little. We need to keep the corner from dropping while I do.”
Rysa wedged the pole under the frame. Iven placed his left hand against the door’s lower edge and reached for the winch draw in his library, then remembered it was not seated. He stepped behind the station’s corner, where the roof screened him from the circling birds, and reseated winch in place of bell. Then he tied a short rope from the handle to the upper bracket and pulled gradually.
The door rose a finger’s width. Rysa pushed the lower corner inward. The latch cleared, and the door opened.
Pera stood inside with a lunch tin in both hands. She had dark hair tied with two mismatched strips of cloth and a streak of dirt across her forehead.
“Did you bring my father?” she asked.
“Not yet,” Rysa said. “We’re taking you to the deck.”
“He’s working below. He’ll be hungry.”
“We’ll keep the tin.”
A shadow crossed the window. The roof rang under a heavy landing. Pera flinched. Iven stepped inside and checked the rear window. Its frame was painted shut, just as the woman had said, but the glass was intact. He could break it if they needed another exit; the bridge remained the better route if they could keep the birds away.
Rysa wrapped Pera in the spare canvas and tied the lunch tin to her belt. “Stay between us. If I tell you to crouch, crouch.”
“Will they eat me?”
“No one here intends to let that happen.”
It was not a promise that the birds were harmless. It was a promise about what the adults would do.
They opened the door. The nearest kite dropped from the roof. Iven caught it with the plate brace, but another came in low from the left, striking Rysa’s pole and knocking it from her hand. The pole slid toward the edge of the shelf.
Rysa pulled Pera against the wall. “Go!”
Iven hooked the fallen pole with his physical brass cuff hook and dragged it back. The kite landed between him and the bridge, wings spread. Its throat rattled. Two more shapes moved above it.
He had hook, winch, and plate ready. The bell would be useful, but he had no covered time to reseat it. He used what he had.
He cast the hook at the station’s roof bracket, then drew himself sideways with the winch. The movement took him out of the kite’s direct path and brought him beside the pole. He seized it with his right hand and drove its end against the bird’s chest, not to pierce it but to push it away from the doorway. The kite snapped at the pole and stumbled backward.
Rysa took Pera onto the bridge. Tavin drew in the safety line from the far side, keeping it clear of their feet. Iven backed after them, pole held across his body.
The first kite rose. The second came from above and caught the line tied to Iven’s belt. Its claws pulled the rope upward. For a moment he was dragged off balance toward the cable side of the bridge.
He dropped the pole and caught the handrail. The rope tightened around his waist. The bird beat its wings, trying to climb with the line. Iven could not cut the rope without losing his safety connection, and pulling against the kite would bring its claws closer to him.
He used the plate brace as a wedge between the rope and the rail. The line’s angle changed. Tavin took the slack, pulling the rope down against the bridge. The kite’s claws opened as the line slipped through them. It struck the rail, recovered, and flew upward with an angry cry.
“Keep moving!” Tavin called.
Pera had reached the deck with Rysa. Neri pulled her behind the gate and wrapped a second cloth around her shoulders. Iven had the length of the bridge to himself. Three kites circled overhead now, and a fourth waited on the station roof. They had learned that the rope could move him. He needed to make them choose a different target.
He saw the lunch tin hanging from Rysa’s belt. Its lid had come loose, and the smell of cooked meat drifted across the bridge. One kite turned toward it.
“Rysa, the tin!”
She understood. She pulled the tin free and threw it away from Pera, toward an empty section of armored slope beyond the rail. The lid opened in the air. Two kites dove after the food.
The third stayed with Iven. It came straight down, faster than the first attack, its claws aimed for his shoulders. He did not wait behind the brace. He cast the hook at the fixed deck post, drew himself forward with the winch, and dropped beneath the bird’s path. His boots slid on the damp metal. He released the pull before reaching the post, caught the rail, and came up on the deck side of the gate.
The kite struck the bridge behind him. Its claws caught in the safety line. It thrashed, pulling the rope against the low cable. Tavin held the line while Iven moved in. He put the plate brace between the bird’s beak and his hand, then used the spanner to lift its claws one at a time from the rope.
The kite snapped at him twice. On the third attempt it caught the spanner and tore it from his grip. Iven let it go. The tool was less important than his fingers. Rysa threw the canvas over the bird’s wings. Together they freed its feet and pushed it toward the open slope.
It launched itself into the air, carrying the spanner for several strokes before dropping it onto the armor below. The tool struck a ridge and disappeared into a crack.
Iven stared after it.
“Your good spanner?” Tavin asked.
“My adjustable one.”
“Can you get it?”
“Not while they’re still interested.”
Neri closed the gate. Pera sat on a crate with her hands around a cup of water. She had lost her lunch tin but not her father. Rysa sent a worker down the lower vent route to find Lenn and tell him where his daughter was.
The remaining kites followed the food farther down the slope. One returned to the station roof, then left when no one approached the door. Rysa’s crew finished covering the filters and moved the carts beneath the overhang.
Iven leaned against the post and let his breathing settle. He had used three patterns in quick succession, held a brace against repeated impacts, and pulled himself across a moving bridge. His arm was hot, and he could feel the charge he had spent, but his hands still worked and his legs felt steady. He had won the ground and brought the child out. The kites had not needed to die for that to count.
Neri handed him the hooked pole. “You dropped this.”
“I had both hands occupied.”
“You had three hands yesterday.”
“Only until Sera noticed.”
Lenn arrived at a run, his coat open and his hair damp with sweat. Pera stood when she saw him, spilling the water. He caught her before she could apologize. They stayed like that for a long moment while the freight deck continued around them.
When he finally looked up, he saw the missing lunch tin and the torn canvas. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Rysa asked.
“She shouldn’t have come out alone.”
Pera pulled back. “You forgot your lunch.”
“I did.”
“I told you you’d be hungry.”
He laughed once and pressed his forehead against hers. “You were right.”
Iven borrowed a spare wrench from Jem and made a note to retrieve or replace his own adjustable spanner. Losing it was annoying. The alternative would have been considerably worse, though he suspected the spanner would not find that argument comforting.