Kaul shouted for silence and heard a dead girl laugh beneath his boots.
Laughter came through the split center root. It was a bright landing call, the sort a young rider made after surviving a first bad crosswind and deciding fear had been funny all along.
No living throat laughed with it.
Beneath him, the root pulled east.
Across the center ring, a tower answered with an old wingmate's warning and dragged west. The bridge between them bowed until windows burst from their frames. People crawled from the nearest homes while the street tried to become a rope.
Kaul turned the chain wheel against both calls.
For years, one low note from the pale adult bell across his breast had settled the city's quarrelling roots. Hook Choir riders would answer from the outer towers. Stored voices filled whatever distance wind and frightened bodies left between them.
His bell opened its mouth now.
His bell did not give him the old note.
