Free Rocco's Wings by Rebecca Merry Murdock Page A

Partner on duty. They’re very skilled at taking you through the passages, you only have to ask.’
    Vesta’s face turned red.
    ‘And your senior here.’ The Air Marshal gestured at Basalt. ‘It’s his job to keep you updated on any improvements to Harpia’s Law . Maybe you should put in a complaint.’
    Basalt looked as if he wanted to say something. His mouth was open, but his neck and brow were full of sweat.
    Rocco peeked over at the paper in Feldspar’s hand. It was folded in such a way that he couldn’t read the words.
    Meanwhile the short Air Marshal had produced his own little black book. Starting at the other end of the circle he was writing out his own charges. A trail of crushed instruments lay scattered on the floor behind him.
    One by one the Air Marshals progressed around the circle, asking a few questions and then handing each white robe a scrap of paper. Finally it was Vesta’s turn.
    ‘Where’d you get the gourd?’ asked the tall Air Marshal.
    ‘I found it in the rubbish at the back of Singhurvogel Hall,’ said Vesta. ‘The cooks threw it out.’
    The Air Marshal continued with his list of questions. Rocco stopped watching when he handed Vesta the piece of paper. The drum was crushed and then pushed with the toe of the Air Marshal’s boot into the loose pile in the middle of the floor.
    ‘Ah, mudrock.’
    ‘I’m Rocco.’ He refused to look up, choosing instead to address the boots – both pairs, since both Air Marshals were now standing in front of him.
    ‘You’re lucky you weren’t killed as a bit of entertainment out on the palace steps yesterday.’ The toes of the boots turned, the calm before the storm of ridiculing words that was about to rain down. Rocco stiffened his back.
    The short Air Marshal cleared his throat.
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘I don’t know if we can charge him. He’s not a citizen.’
    The boots clacked away. A moment later, they returned, taking up their former spot in front of Rocco.
    ‘Normally you’d be arrested and held as an interloper.’ It was the tall Air Marshal speaking; Rocco didn’t have to look up. He already knew the voice. ‘But you’re here at the pleasure of Harpia. She can deal with you at the Air Games!’
    A long pause. If they were expecting him to say something, or maybe spit like he had yesterday – he wasn’t going to.
    ‘You’re a mammal. Closer to a dog, or a hyena.’
    Rocco clenched his limbs.
    The boot, the scruffy one belonging to the taller Air Marshal, crushed the ukelat. A sigh, a stifled choke went up, likely from the white robe who had made it.
    ‘Make sure you clean up this mess.’
    The room was silent as the Air Marshals’ boots clapped back into the stairwell. A long moment passed, until finally the door at the top thudded shut.
    The white robe with the gold earrings began to sob. Others began to cry as well. Everyone else began talking at once.
    ‘What are we going to do?’
    ‘Category A! Everyone’s got a Category A!’ said another.
    ‘We’ll have to stand trial at the next full moon. Only another month of being able to fly!’
    ‘We have to do something!’ said Iggy. ‘I’m not losing my wings!’
    Vesta had been walking around examining the scraps of paper.
    ‘They’re all the same,’ she said, looking sideways at Basalt. ‘They mean to turn us all into minionatros.’
    ‘Why doesn’t Belarica come back? Why doesn’t she save us?’ someone shouted.
    So they knew about Belarica, thought Rocco, even though they were all obviously too young to remember her. Basalt might have been born or hatched then, but he wouldn’t have been more than two or three years old at the time of the Great War.
    A crate scraped across the floor. Basalt sat down on top of it.
    Everyone stopped talking.
    ‘I was just at a meeting with Dolerite’s troupe,’ said Basalt. ‘A flock of spy birds, cranes, arrived last night. Belarica has many supporters in Shale as well as among the reds, blues and golds of the