A Flight of Broken Wings, page 5
part #1 of The Aeriel Chronicles Series
So when rumours of a Zainian noble in Vandram with insider knowledge of the SifCo issue surfaced all over the place and all her sources in the northern parts of the country came alive with whispers and speculations about Aeriel plots and Zainian conspiracies, Casia could not help but feel a certain amount of possessiveness about the story she had spent months trying – albeit without much success – to put together despite all odds.
As the rickshaw came to a lurching halt in front of the garishly decorated façade of the Red Poppy, Casia hopped lightly off the vehicle and handed the driver a hundred dinka note, waving a hand to indicate that he should keep the change. Smiling, he paddled off in the opposite direction, back towards the railway station where he had picked her up.
Casia drew a deep breath and turned to stare intently at the ornate glass doors of the pub. From all the reports she had received so far, she had gathered that her quarry frequented this particular establishment. For all the pictures she had seen of Kwan, in her time researching him for this meeting, she still had no idea what kind of man she was going to face inside the pub, if she managed to find him there at all. There appeared to be surprisingly little about the guy on the internet, and he seemed to disdain social media with an almost missionary zeal, if the lack of even a rudimentary Facebook or Twitter account was anything to go by. It was not so much that she had expected to be inundated with information – Kwan was obviously not high enough on the complicated Zainian hierarchy for that. But she had expected something more than the few grainy photos and the generic three-line bio on the official site of the Zainian establishment that she had actually managed to uncover.
Well, she had never been one to scorn surprises.
For all the uncertainty surrounding the situation she currently found herself in, Casia did know one thing for sure. If anyone was going to break this story, whatever it turned out to be, it would be her. And really, that was all that mattered as she pushed the doors open and strode briskly into the appropriately crimson-lit bowels of the Red Poppy.
Shwaan heard her enter the pub before he saw her. He couldn’t turn around, of course. That would give the whole game away. Her arrival was supposed to be a surprise to Ashwin Kwan. But Shwaan had spent days watching her on TV, listening to her voice and memorising her posture and style from TV sets in various motel rooms and shop-fronts across the country before flying to Ragah to actually see her in real life. He had tailed her for almost a whole day – her and many others – to determine who would be the best suited to his purpose. He had dug up everything he could find on her and then some; he needed to be able to anticipate her actions if she was going to be any use to him in the long run. By now, Shwaan was pretty sure he could predict the exact moment of Casia Washi’s next sneeze, if he wanted to.
So of course he recognised her footsteps when she strolled casually into the pub as if she owned the place, as was her wont with almost any place she graced with her presence. It was a quality he rather admired.
He smiled into his citrus-flavoured cocktail with the little umbrella on top and remained seated, waiting for her to make the first move. Casia had dutifully followed the careful trail of rumours and speculation he had left for her in his wake, tracking him to Himli just as he had expected her to. He could admit to himself that he was impressed. While he had wanted her to find him, he could not afford to have made it too easy, lest it raise suspicions. But she had not disappointed him so far, and he trusted her not to do so now. He took a long sip of the orange beverage in his hand, savouring the various layers of tangy flavours that suffused his tongue and warmed his throat, and waited.
The long, jet-black hair tied into an intricate braid, with a broad purple ribbon woven into it, stood out amidst the multiracial sea of faces crowding the little pub like a rose in a forest of bedstraw. Casia wondered why Kwan chose to wear it in a place like this. It was bound to attract unnecessary attention – some benevolent, some not so much. She shook her head. Well, Zainian aristocrats certainly weren’t known for their practicality, or subtlety for that matter. And it was not as if she had anything to complain about. She would probably not have heard of him quite as quickly as she had, had he chosen to be less ostentatious about his background and status.
From what little she could see of him in the dim crimson light of the pub, the unusual hairstyle appeared to be the most striking thing about him. He had his back to her, so she couldn’t see his face, but he seemed to have the pale complexion of most of his countrymen and was slightly built, no more than five-six, if that. He wore a rather ordinary grey frock-coat – out of fashion in Zaini for a few years at least, but not enough to be vintage – and loose black slacks that were folded at the hems and appeared to be a little too big for him. Apparently, his Lordship had made some concessions for the climate of his host country, and forgone the more conventional and elaborate outfits favoured by his compatriots.
Coming to a decision, Casia steadied herself with a deep breath and walked straight up to the object of her observations.
“Hello, my Lord. May I buy you a drink?” she asked with a winning smile, placing a friendly hand on Kwan’s shoulder and trying to make her voice as congenial and unthreatening as possible.
She ended up buying Ashwin multiple drinks – all of them some eye-watering shade of neon – and snacks, and even a collection of candy-sized chocolate bunnies which for some reason the man seemed singularly taken with. It never hurt to ply a potential source with alcohol while interviewing them, in her experience.
Casia was unconcerned, though. She was billing it all to Jiniya as work-related expense, which it was, because she had spent the last two hours sitting at the bar with her new Zainian friend and listening to the most amazing tales of forthcoming revolutions in arms technology and secret Aeriel conspiracies. These were some of the most extraordinary stories that she had ever heard in her life – and for someone who appeared daily on prime time television, that’s saying something.
If half of what he was saying were true, thought Casia, she had over a month’s worth of top-of-the-chart programming, sitting on a bar stool right in front of her, looking at her through wide, guileless eyes with a bright green cocktail dangling forgotten between his long fingers.
“And so they told me that I had to get the news to the authorities in Vandram as soon as possible, before the Aeriels could actually carry out the theft,” Ashwin was saying, eyes wide and voice hushed with urgency. “But I honestly didn’t know who to go to first because you never know who you can trust with things like these, you know?” he confided conspiratorially.
Casia wondered idly what brain-dead idiot had entrusted this boy with state secrets. Even for Zainians, this was a new low. Not that she was complaining, of course.
“Do you have any proof of your claims?” she asked finally, taking an absent-minded sip of her own beer.
Ashwin nodded vigorously. “Oh yes. It’s all there in my hotel room. All the paperwork, I mean. I don’t really understand most of it,” he smiled self-deprecatingly, taking a careful sip of the bright green concoction in his glass, the latest of his experiments with neon. “But then, I am just a messenger.”
Casia returned his smile with a rather indulgent one of her own. “And a very important role that is, my Lord–”
“Call me Ashwin, please,” the young man pleaded, for perhaps the fourth time that evening. Casia decided to take pity on him. He was clearly in over his head, but it wasn’t really his fault, she supposed. Besides, it could very possibly turn out to be a blessing in disguise, so far as she was concerned.
“Well Ashwin, I’ll tell you what. I can help you get your message across to the most important people in all of Vandram, those whom you can be sure you can trust, for they want only the best for both our countries.” She paused a moment for effect, watching her companion’s lips part in surprise, limpid eyes widening with awe. “The citizens. The common people. There is no one on earth that deserves to know about the perils facing this nation more than the common people living in it!”
“I-I suppose you’re right,” agreed Ashwin haltingly, looking a little overwhelmed. “What do I have to do, Miss Casia?”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that, my friend,” said Casia sweetly, taking the almost-empty cocktail glass off the boy’s hands and throwing some money on the counter to cover their bill. “You just have to come with me to the studio.”
The offices of World News Now, located on the twenty-third floor of a seventy-storey skyscraper in Film City, were, in a nutshell, the definition of chaos. Phones rang and monitors beeped as people shouted over each other and over the constant buzz of a hundred TV screens tuned in to a hundred different programmes. They lined the walls of the gigantic gallery which served as the primary workspace for the organisation.
The sea of humanity standing in small clusters around television or computer screens, arguing about ‘sots’ and ‘bites’ and ‘tictacs’, parted almost unconsciously as Casia strode through the hallway with Shwaan in tow. She nodded intermittently at some of the people working around the room but said little else. Finally, they reached a set of tall glass doors at one end of the main gallery with the words ‘Casia Washi’ printed across one of the panels in big black letters. Casia pushed it open and walked inside, holding the door open for a moment longer to allow Shwaan to pass through.
As the door slid shut behind him, it was as if the rest of the world had fallen away, and they were enveloped in a silence that seemed almost eerie after the noise and clamour of the hallway outside. On the bright side, Shwaan did not need to feign astonishment inside these offices. The place was proving to be genuinely overwhelming.
He turned towards what he assumed was Casia’s desk, and was greeted by a plump, middle aged woman with olive skin and thinning, dark brown curls falling to her shoulders. She sat primly on one of the chairs and stared at him with curiosity in her striking sea-green eyes – a rarity in Vandram. Kanbarian ancestry then; though one wouldn’t have known it from her rather rounded Vandran features. Shwaan looked up at Casia inquisitively, unsure about what he was expected to do next. The latter was leaning against one of the large wooden cabinets that lined the walls, and eyeing the older woman with a triumphant smirk on her lips.
“Hello Jiniya. Let me introduce you to our new friend, Lord Ashwin Kwan from Zaini. Ashwin,” she said, gaze flicking momentarily over to Shwaan. “Meet Jiniya. Our news director and my dearest boss.”
Had he been human, Shwaan thought idly as another blazing studio light flashed directly into his eyes, he would almost certainly have been blinded at some point during the two hours he had been sitting opposite Casia, in what he was excitedly told by one of the interns was the company’s largest studio – the one where Casia hosted most of her shows. As it was, the sheer brightness of the place made him feel rather refreshed. It wasn’t sunlight, of course; far from the real thing. But it was still better than the constantly overcast skies of Ragah in July. It made him feel oddly at home.
They were taking a break from the filming, and one of office boys rushed in to thoughtfully hand him a bottle of chilled water. Although it wasn’t technically possible for him to feel thirsty, Shwaan could almost feel his voice cracking from the strain of talking nonstop for over two hours. By contrast, his companion’s voice remained just as fresh and chirpy as when they had first started filming, and much more so than it was when she was off the camera. He drank slowly, listening with half an ear as Casia finished her phone call – telling whoever was on the other end that she would see them at dinner. He then set the bottle down on the edge of the table and tried to compose himself for the next round.
He had been on earth for almost a month now and he was still regularly surprised by all the new things he saw every day. It was disorienting. It all felt strangely familiar, yet oddly foreign, like a forgotten dream from a different age.
“You understand we’re only taping this because this is your first time in front of a camera. And we didn’t want to put too much pressure on you right away,” Casia said, firmly but not unkindly, as she switched off her phone and settled back into her own chair. “The next time we do this, you’re gonna be on live TV. No more cuts and retakes then.”
“I-I’ll try to do my best, Miss Casia.” Shwaan tried to make his voice as agreeable as possible without sounding too confident. It was a delicate thing.
“That’s good then,” Casia smiled, flicking two fingers at the crew to indicate that they were ready to begin shooting again. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, she turned to the camera, her expression a mask of earnest neutrality, and began: “Welcome back to The Hour of Truth. I’m Casia Washi and we have with us today…”
“He’s gold,” Jiniya said, delicately sipping her tea as she stood on the terrace. She gazed out over the twinkling vista of the capital city, stretching out in all directions below them; the horizon dotted with the silhouettes of faraway architecture. It was a clear night – a rare occurrence at this time of the year – and the stars shone down upon them rather pleasingly, like the lights of the city reflected in the sky. “Young, guileless, earnest and perfectly ready to talk. Not to mention, rather cute.” She spared a quick glance at her companion, smirking. “The viewers will eat him up.”
“Almost too good to be true,” murmured Casia, leaning into the parapet, her arms crossed over the flat top of the wall as she too gazed out over the panorama below.
“He might be yet,” agreed Jiniya. She set her cup down carefully on the concrete fencing, taking care to keep it far away from Casia’s jutting elbow. “At least his paperwork checks out. So far as we can determine without letting it get to the IAW, anyway. Still, it all seems a little…”
“Easy?” suggested Casia. “I’ve been chasing this thing for months, Jiniya. Nothing, in all that time. It was almost as if someone was consciously blocking me, moving things around whenever I got too close. And now this. Honestly, I don’t know whether to be grateful or suspicious.”
“He’s giving us good material,” Jiniya shrugged, not taking her eyes off the dusky city beneath them. Shifting a little, she turned to face Casia. “Listen to me. If it’s true, if it all checks out, the courts will get involved. The IAW will not be happy, nor the Hunter Corps. If half of what that boy’s saying is true, it ought to have come out sooner. Somebody should’ve been working on it. Hell, the army should’ve been deployed to SifCo. Under any other circumstances, it would’ve been, what with Aeriels casing the place; even without this mysterious formula they’re supposedly housing.
“Somebody up high has to be covering this up. Maybe even a group of somebodies, if something this big got pushed under the rug for so long. And when we try to pry open that can of worms, well… We’ll be at the centre of a mighty fucking shitstorm, Casia, and you’ll be the face of it. So think carefully how you want to play this.” She flicked her wrist to hush the oncoming slew of protests from Casia. “Don’t get me wrong, my dear. Our ratings will be through the roof, and I’m all for anything that makes that happen. But there might be…more to this than either of us can see right now. Whatever that is, you should make sure you’re ready for it before we move forward with this story.”
“It’s not just about us anymore,” said Casia, looking suddenly drained and leaning more heavily into the parapet. “They’ll have to do something, once all this gets out. They’ll have to take action, protect SifCo, if only to save face. The Prime Minister can’t just let this hang over his head until something like the Parliament attack happens again. Not so soon after the last one. We might just end up…helping.” She said it like she could barely believe her own words, then buried her face in her hands. “Obviously I’m way too tired to be allowed to talk. ’M going home, Jiniya. See you tomorrow.”
“Goodnight my dear,” said Jiniya, gazing after her star employee as she walked slowly out of the terrace and down the stairs to the elevator. A faint thunderclap sounded in the distance as the sky clouded over above her, obscuring the stars.
Excited murmurs filled the warm, humid, mid-monsoon air as Casia Washi strode into the elaborately decorated grounds of the IAW headquarters, on the auspicious occasion of Emancipation Day. Lord Ashwin Kwan of Zaini walked rather timidly behind her, taking in the sights and sounds of the celebratory premises with wide eyes and parted lips, as if he had never seen anything like it before. But then, Casia had come to realise in the few weeks she had known him that that was pretty much his reaction to life in general.
Ashwin’s appearance seemed to add fuel to the gossipy fire and the muted chattering took on a life of its own. Heads turned as they passed, and a few of the dignitaries even held hand-fans or napkins in front of their faces in a futile attempt at discretion. Casia rolled her eyes even as her hand reached back to grab Ashwin by the arm, dragging the surprised young man off to a shady alcove created by a large Gulmohar tree growing next to the boundary wall. Her head throbbed from a combination of excessive exposure to stupidity and a slight lack of restraint in matters alcoholic during the office party last night.
There was a reason Casia did not like these sorts of gatherings. She fumed internally, looking around rather menacingly at the politicos and dignitaries milling about the premises, whispering behind their silly fans. And to think people accused the media of rumour mongering.
Speaking of which, Casia thought she spied a small group of her fellow reporters approaching them from the other side of the looming IAW building. She recognised a few of the better known faces – Viman Rai from CXN News and Rajesh Sur from Life‘n’Style – while the others were mostly strangers. Only the press cards dangling from their necks identified them as members of the media.
She smirked. She knew what they wanted of course, and thought she was going to enjoy dangling it in front of them as they all scrambled for a piece. Her gaze flicked over to her companion, who turned out to be too busy ogling the palatial main building to pay much attention to what was going on around him.
