Chasing the Valley (19 page)

‘What?' Teddy says. ‘I reckon I'd be doing them a favour – stop them getting any drunker. I mean, it's practically a public service.'

‘Of course. A thief with a heart of gold.'

‘And silver,' Teddy says. ‘And copper too, if they've got it in their purses.'

My stomach is rumbling at the scent of the food, and it takes all my willpower to keep from scoffing the lot as we move into a nearby alley for our picnic. But we restrain ourselves until we've found a suitable hiding place: a patch of shadows, shielded from view by a pile of broken bricks.

As soon as we're settled, we dig with desperate fingers into the bag. It's been far too long since our last decent meal. The chips are hot and salty on my tongue, and the apples are even better: crunchy skin, gooey flesh, and dripping with honey. I lick my fingers over and over, trying to suck every last skerrick of sweetness from my share.

As we eat, we keep an eye on the square. There's no sign of Hackel: just drunks and merchants and furtive-looking smugglers making trades. At one point, a couple of figures duck into our alleyway to make a deal. We hold our breath and hope they don't smell our food, but they're too busy swapping trinkets to pay attention to the shadows behind them. When I spot a glint of silver in their fingers, I wonder whether it's an alchemy charm that they're trading.

Soon we start to relax a little, placated by the relief of filling our bellies. People in Gunning are too wrapped up in their own dodgy trades to worry about anyone else's business. Teddy starts to joke about burgling the stallholders for another bag of chips, and I actually find myself smiling. We feel safe in this alleyway, in this town of criminals. There's been no sign of hunters, no sign of guards, and we've avoided raising anyone's suspicions. The only peril we've faced is an enthusiastic merchant.

Then a figure steps out of the darkness. A match flares. And Hackel points his fiery fingers straight towards my head.

 

 

 

Clementine shrieks, then claps a hand across
her mouth. Everyone else tenses around me – the air shifts as their muscles freeze. The casual atmosphere of our meal has been blasted away, obliterated by a threat as sudden as an alchemy bomb.

Hackel presses his match to a candlewick. As soon as the candle flares into life, he tosses the match aside and points his finger back at my face.

Lukas makes to move towards me. ‘What are you doing?'

‘Stay there!' snaps Hackel. ‘Stay there or I'll blast her. The reward is for capture or killing; I'll still get seven hundred for her body.'

‘You're supposed to be our guide!' says Clem­entine. ‘We paid you all our savings, we did what you told us to do – you can't just sell us to the authorities.'

‘Why not? This way I get paid by both sides.' Hackel grins. ‘Nothing personal, ladies. Just a business transaction, that's all.'

‘You thieving scumbag –'

‘You're the one travelling with a thief,' says Hackel, nodding towards Teddy. ‘I wouldn't get all high and mighty if I were you, Pembroke. We're all criminals here. If you deal with smugglers, you can't go running to the law.' He gestures for me to stand. ‘Come on, Glynn.'

I don't want to obey, but there isn't much choice – not when he's holding a candle. It would only take him a second to redirect that flame into my face, and I'd burn as readily as the hunter he torched in the forest. So I clamber to my feet and silently order my hands to stop shaking. I won't let this traitor see that I'm afraid.

‘You're not taking her!' says Lukas, rising beside me. ‘You treacherous –'

Hackel laughs. It's a horrible, hacking sound that cuts off Lukas mid-sentence. ‘
I'm
treacherous? Oh, and I suppose you've told your little friends here who you are, Lukas?'

I freeze, caught between fear and confusion. What is he talking about? And how does he even know Lukas's name?

Lukas stiffens. ‘I don't know what –'

Hackel brandishes a fistful of silver. Alchemy charms, pilfered from his victim's corpse in the forest. He flicks his fingers to show one particular charm: a swirl in the shape of a blood drop.

‘Bloodline charm,' he says. ‘Very rare, this one.'

His fingers close back around the charm. With a jolt, I remember the hooded merchant in the market, and his thrust of the penknife into Lukas's hand. Not to
sell
it to Lukas, but to harvest a drop of his blood.

The candle flickers.

‘When I spotted a stranger with my runaways, I decided to satisfy my curiosity. But I must say, I wasn't expecting
this
.' Hackel's lips curl into a smile. ‘I've got no quarrel with you, Lukas. If you want to buy my silence, you know the price. Just give me Danika Glynn, and I'll –'

Maisy emits a sudden hiss and Hackel's candle goes out.

The alley plunges into darkness. At first, I don't know what's happened. There's a mad jumble, confusion, bodies colliding in the shadows and a couple of muffled shrieks. My foot comes down on the greasy chip packet and I slip, falling sideways into the group. Why did the candle go out? What happened? How did Maisy –

Then it hits me. Maisy knows her proclivity. She must have known it for some time: long enough to gain control, to figure out how to use it. And it isn't a little mouse, or a flower, or rain. It's Flame. Maisy's proclivity is
Flame
. Of all the people to have such a ferocious power . . . 

My eyes adjust and suddenly there's no more time to worry about Maisy. Hackel's arms are gripping Clementine's throat, and she squeaks as her air supply is cut off. Hackel might not have a flame at his disposal any more, but he doesn't need it. Not when a single crank of his arms could snap our crewmate's neck.

‘Let her go!' I start forward, but Hackel tightens his grip. Clementine releases a little choke and I freeze. If I take another step, she will die. I can see that much in Hackel's eyes. And there isn't much I can do – not without a weapon. I've got my climbing picks from the Rourton city wall, but they're wrapped up securely in my jacket's inner lining. If I even try to reach for them . . .

Hackel keeps one hand wrapped around Clementine's throat, but raises the other above her shoulder. Then he swivels towards the marketplace, and that horrible smile cracks back across his face.

He snaps his fingers.

There's a shout from the market, and we all spin around. Fire leaps up between the stalls, and I know instantly that something is very wrong. This is not the spark of a cooking fire – it's the roar of bursting flame. People are screaming, the music of the radio cuts off, and fragments of stalls burst sideways as though a bomb has exploded.

‘What's going on?' I gasp.

Hackel laughs. ‘People shouldn't store so much alcohol near their cooking fires.'

‘
You
did this? Why?'

He shrugs. ‘I like a bit of chaos. Gives me a better chance to smuggle you out of here, Glynn, without anyone trying to steal my prize.'

Maisy is clenching her fists, clearly trying to snuff out the fire, but nothing much happens. A cry of frustration escapes her lips, and Hackel laughs.

‘You haven't had your proclivity long, have you, Pembroke?' he says. ‘Well, I have. I'm a much more experienced friend of the flames than you are, and they'll listen to me before a little pipsqueak like you.'

He tightens his grip around Clementine's neck and she makes a horrible noise. I don't know if she can't breathe or if it's just the sound of terror.

‘Let her go!' I say. ‘I'll come with you, all right, just . . .'

‘You swear?' Hackel tightens his grip again.

‘Yes, all right! I swear.'

‘Good,' says Hackel, glancing around the rest of my crew. ‘Because that fire is under my control, and right now it's contained to the market. But if anyone tries to stop us, the fire is going to explode and a lot of people are going to burn. Got it?'

The others nod, looking pale.

Hackel slams Clementine back into the wall and grabs me, dragging me out towards the end of the alley. I twist back to see a couple of the others about to follow, but I shake my head. ‘No, don't!'

A small, selfish part of me wishes that they won't listen – that they'll intervene and save me. But what would that achieve? Hackel could burn them all. No, it's better that they let him take me. Perhaps I can break away later, before he hands me over to the hunters . . . 

Lukas runs towards us, raising a fistful of silver charms. ‘Let her go, you smuggler scum, or I'll –'

‘You'll what? Set your father's army on me?'

I twist aside, trying to catch Lukas's eyes. But he looks away from me and flinches when I ask, ‘Lukas, what's he talking about?'

‘Nothing, Danika. He's a liar. Don't listen to him!'

‘Interesting you should say that,' says Hackel. ‘I was always taught it takes a liar to know one.'

‘You can't –'

‘Oh yes,' Hackel grins. ‘I can.' He turns back to me with a glint in his eyes. ‘I'd like to introduce you to Prince Lukas Morrigan, son of the king.'

My heart stops.

Hackel pauses, letting this sink in, before he adds, ‘And he was the pride of the royal air force, I believe, until your flare shot his biplane out of the sky.'

 

 

 

Shock. There's no other word for it. I can't
think, can't feel. Everything is numb and cold, even among the smoke from Hackel's fire. Lukas is a prince. Lukas is a
prince
. Everything he has told me is a lie. He is a Morrigan, a member of the family who killed my parents. Who killed my brother.

And he is the pilot of a bombing plane.

‘You –' I choke out, but there's suddenly a crash of heat and fire from the square.

I fall to the ground, knocked down by a
whump!
of energy. It's like being whacked by a sledge­hammer; everything throbs as my body crashes onto the stone below. Hackel has clearly lost control of the market fire. It erupts in a tumult of alcohol and cooking fuel, too wild and engorged for his proclivity to govern.

Hackel grabs for me, but a figure looms out of the shadows and smashes a chunk of broken brick into his head. Hackel falls, spurting blood from his forehead, and his skull makes a nasty cracking sound upon the street. His eyes do not reopen.

‘Come on!' says Teddy, throwing aside his brick, and I barely register what's happening before he drags me to my feet. Clementine and Maisy join us and we run. We pelt towards the square, towards the fire, leaving Hackel's body behind. The fire is spreading now – leaping between barrels of alcohol, shooting up like firecrackers – and I whip my head around, frantic. ‘Where's Lukas?'

Teddy shakes his head. ‘Who cares? He's a
royal
, Danika!'

And I know it's true, but I can't help taking one last glance around for the boy with the bright green eyes. He's gone. He has fled into the smoke, disappeared forever. Now that his lie has been exposed, Lukas can't face us. He must be too afraid, too cowardly to face up to our fury. My fury.

A horrible snarl escapes my throat. I've never felt so furious, so betrayed. If I got my hands on Lukas Morrigan right now I might attack him. But there's no chance of that, in the smoke and flames of Gunning's burning marketplace. So I flee with the others and join the throng that heads downhill towards the outskirts of town.

People pour out of buildings, screaming and hauling their children. One old man drags a keg of wine behind him, and I want to stop and shout at him that alcohol is flammable. But he's lost in the crowd, just another panicked face in the night.

Some people run towards the market, thrusting out their hands. They must be people with Flame
proclivities, running off to control the fire. I feel a moment of admiration for their courage, but there isn't much I can do to help. I don't even know what my proclivity is yet, so I'm about as useful as the knee-high children that scurry through the crowd.

‘What do we do?' says Clementine, her face concealed by a mass of sweaty blonde hair.

Teddy hesitates. ‘We blend in. We pretend we're just normal travellers, caught up in this mess. No one will pay us much attention now, not with this going on.'

Soon our faces are covered with soot. The crowd surges down the major streets of Gunning until we reach the southern wall. But people don't pass through the gate; instead, they simply mill around in terror. I notice a group of richies about twenty metres away, dressed in shining party clothes. Some look furious, others terrified, but they don't seem to be talking to each other much. It's like they're strangers, brought together for the sake of a party . . . They must be the richies that Lukas mentioned, the tourists holding a gambling event in the Gunning hotel.

Then I see the reason for the holdup. Guards.

This is the first time I've seen guards in Gunning; they must have spent their evening in the bar or something, because they sure weren't guarding the town earlier. Now they're checking people as they pass through the gates. They seem to be letting the rich partygoers through, and occasionally a family of locals that they obviously recognise, but no one else. Anyone suspicious is pushed back into the crowd and imprisoned within Gunning's walls.

The guards are weeding out suspects, I realise. That fire was too strong for a mere accident. By the time it's extinguished, the locals will want someone to blame. If we're trapped inside this town, looking like strange travellers, we will be questioned. No doubt about it. And when the guards see my face . . . 

‘The clothes!' I say. ‘Come on, I've got an idea.'

We hurry down a nearby alleyway, beyond the view of the panicking masses. I rifle through our packs, searching for the bag of Clementine's sparkly evening clothes.

‘What are you after?' says Teddy.

‘Remember what Lukas said? There were a bunch of richies having a party in the hotel tonight – I think that's them over there! If we dress in some nicer clothes, maybe we can pretend we're in their group.'

‘What's the point in that?'

I pull out a glittery purple headpiece. ‘Well, for a start, they won't expect a biplane shooter to show up wearing this.'

‘Or a refugee crew to be dressed in silk blouses,' adds Clementine, plunging into the bag with sudden enthusiasm.

‘Hate to break it to you,' Teddy says, ‘but I don't reckon I could pull off a ball gown.'

‘Here,' says Clementine. She thrusts a bundle of fabric into Teddy's arms. ‘This should be all right for a boy.'

It's a light trench coat, and the only sign of glitter is a turtle-shaped brooch on the collar. Teddy unpins it, buttons the coat over his chest and offers a cocky grin. He could do with a tie and a neater haircut, but in the middle of this chaos he
might
just pass for a flustered richie.

I slip into a long satin skirt covered with ruffles and bows. Its only saving grace is that it puffs over my trousers, saving me from the need to undress entirely. Clementine selects a silky violet dress and Maisy locates a jade-coloured blazer. The green shine reminds me suddenly of Lukas's eyes, and betrayal hits me again like a slap.

‘I'll go in front,' says Teddy.

‘Why?'

He grins. ‘I'm pretty good at bluffing.'

There's no use arguing with that. We follow him closely, clutching each other's sleeves to keep from being separated in the crowd. I'm worried that our packs might give us away – why would a bunch of richies carry travellers' packs away from a party? But other people have saved stranger possessions from the flames – patchwork quilts, a child's rocking horse and even a double bass – so our packs seem relatively normal in the throng.

The crowd surges and we're shoved forward, crushed in a sea of bodies and shrieks. Everything tastes of smoke and sweat, and soon my face is squashed into a local woman's massive head of curls. I spit a few strands of hair from my lips and try not to inhale the stink of urine as I trip against a little boy. He's trying to cover a wet patch on his pyjamas and I can't help feeling sorry for him; he must have been startled out of bed by the fire. Children are screaming in all directions, their wails distorted eerily through the smoke.

The air gets hotter and thicker as we approach the gate. Guards bearing rifles block most of the gate and the crowd is being squeezed through like toothpaste from a tube. We're only a few metres away from freedom, then even closer, and finally we're face to face with the guards themselves.

‘Hey, fellas,' says Teddy, with an artfully per­formed drunken grin. ‘Talk about a party, eh?'

The guards exchange glances.

‘We're together,' Teddy adds, gesturing at me and the twins. ‘We were at the hotel – this town has really good beer, you know . . .'

The nearest guard raises an eyebrow at my sparkly headpiece. I duck my head a little, pretending to be in tears from shock – or maybe just intoxication – when really I'm hoping he won't recognise my face.

‘All right, hurry up,' he says, and waves us on.

As we pass through the gates, the crowd surges again and a funnel of bodies spits us out into the night. The hillside is covered with people – richies, locals, crying children – but I keep a firm grip on Maisy's shoulder. The last thing we need is to lose each other.

‘What now?' whispers Clementine.

I shake my head. There's no hope of running off into the fields – not yet, anyway. There are guards on a turret above the wall now; they're keeping their rifles trained on the crowd. The situation grows more chaotic by the minute. The real richies remind me of rats in an alleyway, squeaking their heads off as they scurry through the dark. Then I feel guilty for making the comparison, because rats are actually quite smart. They'd be better at surviving than this lot, anyway.

‘They can't keep us here forever,' Teddy points out. ‘Once the fire's out, I reckon they'll let us go.'

‘Go where, though?' Clementine says. ‘We were relying on Hackel to guide us . . . what are we sup­posed to do now?'

She's right. Even if we escape this crowd, we're in serious trouble. We've got no food, no plan, no guide. We don't even have a map, apart from the cryptic second verse of the star-shine song.

There's a blast of steam from the hillside below. It's followed by a sharp whistle, so loud that several nearby richies scream.

‘The train!' I say.

The others' eyes widen, but Clementine shakes her head. ‘The guards won't let anyone leave Gunning, will they?'

But as we watch, richie partygoers push towards the train. They brandish fistfuls of coins, shouting over each other to purchase tickets. The guards don't move to stop them; clearly, these people aren't suspects in the fire. They're just stupid drunks, here for the booze and the gambling, and the guards won't bother to stop them from fleeing town. If anything, getting rid of these richies will make their investigation easier. Tomorrow morning they can rough up the town's scruffers – and probably shoot a few scapegoats – without any hungover tourists getting in the way.

‘Come on!' Clementine says, but the rest of us don't need telling. We're already pushing into the surge, baying for tickets like the rest of the crowd. From here, I can make out the train's name, painted in gleaming gold upon her side:
Bird of the North.

A railway employee is selling tickets from a basket, grinning like he's won the lottery. No wonder he's happy; in all this confusion, he'll probably pocket half the proceeds. His bosses won't have a clue how many richies piled aboard their train.

Clementine squeezes through the shouting masses just long enough to purchase four tickets. Then she's back by our sides, clutching the tickets in sweaty palms as though they're made of gold. To us, of course, they're worth even more. Those little scraps of paper might save our lives.

We make it to the platform and stumble inside a carriage. The walls are lined with dark velvet, ready to appeal to richie passengers. There are small compartments along the corridor, obviously designed for couples, but we all squeeze into one of them and slam the door. There are so many passengers crammed onto this train that our choice to share a compartment should look reasonable rather than suspicious.

It's lucky we're all so thin after our days of hunger, because otherwise we'd have trouble fitting inside. Teddy takes one seat, Clementine and Maisy squish onto the other, and I'm left to perch atop our packs in the middle. Soon there's another whistle and the thud of slamming doors.

Then we're off, blasting with a jolt into the night.