Chasing the Valley (12 page)

 

 

In the late afternoon, when we're sagging
upon our foxaries and dreaming up a new syrup-porridge-cake combination for dinner, Teddy jerks upright as though someone's thrown him into a frying pan.

‘What is it?' says Radnor.

At the same time, our foxaries freeze. Momentum sends me hurtling forward into Maisy, who falls across our animal's neck with a cry. Fur and muscles bristle beneath me. We all fall silent. The foxaries whip their heads around to our right, staring up at a skyline blocked by rock formations.

‘They can smell something,' whispers Teddy. ‘I reckon we'd better hide.'

We dismount and lead our foxaries towards a nearby overhang. It's a pretty pathetic hiding place, but at least it's safer than the riverbank. I fumble for the magnets, toss them into the neatest circle I can manage, and cast my illusion of empty air. The illusion quavers a bit – my circle isn't precise enough, so the power isn't bouncing between magnets properly – but it holds. For now, at least.

‘Shhh,' whispers Teddy, as one of the foxaries begins to growl. He rubs it behind the ears and the noise fades.

There is a crunch to our left. I whip my head around to see a group of people approaching. They wear the emerald garb of palace employees, with knives and pistols dangling from their belts. Hunters. Their leader is a woman in her late twenties, with hair that curves in a sleek brunette bob around her cheekbones. She wears a dark stain on her lips and her fingernails look as long as claws.

The hunters travel along the riverbank, obviously on the lookout for prey. Are they looking for us specifically or just doing a random sweep for refugees and smugglers? Either way, they are only metres from our hiding place. My illusion quavers a little – I can see a ripple in the air between the magnets – but it still holds. I'm suddenly grateful for the lifeless rocks we've been travelling through, and their inability to hold our footprints.

Some of the hunters walk normally, but a couple travel through their proclivities. One man drifts above the rocks, floating. He keeps fading, then flickering back into visibility: a tumbling leaf on the breeze. His proclivity must be Wind. Another man floats on his back down the river, watching the sky. He almost collides with a boulder in the middle of the stream, but quickly dissolves into torrents that gush around the sides of the rock. Water.

It's lucky that none of their proclivities is Beast
,
because I doubt my illusion could stop them sensing a trio of foxaries at this close range.

‘Anything?' says the woman coldly.

The Water
hunter thrusts his head up from the river and gives it a shake. ‘Nothing, Your Highness.'

‘Your Highness?' mouths Teddy.

I shake my head, stunned. Is this woman a member of the royal family? It's illegal to print images of the royals, since King Morrigan's paranoid about secrecy and assassination attempts, so I wouldn't recognise one of his relatives if I saw one. But the king famously expects his younger kinsmen to serve their country for several years: military command, perhaps, or alchemy. It's supposed to set an example to the rest of us, proving the ultimate might of the king. If even our noblest aristocrats serve his causes, then what right do the rest of us have to complain?

If this woman is a Morrigan, she must have decided that her royal skill is hunting. That means she
chose
to serve as a hunter – not a commander, or a strategist on the council. That means she's good at this.

And that isn't good news for us.

‘I've got nothing either, Your Highness,' says the Wind
hunter, and I'm suddenly glad that we hid beneath this overhang. The boulders shield us from the breeze, enough to interrupt this man's ability to sense us.

‘Perhaps I was mistaken and they took the main road after all,' says the woman.

None of the other hunters reply. They throw each other nervous glances, as though afraid to speak out of turn.

The woman turns to a short hunter with a huge scar across his cheek. ‘What do you think, Argus?'

The hunter hesitates, then nods. ‘Yeah, maybe they did.'

There's an intake of breath from a few of the other hunters and I know that Argus has made a terrible mistake. The woman pulls a matchbox from her pocket and strikes a stick into life. I barely have time to realise her proclivity must be Flame, before she sends a massive gush of fire towards Argus. He twists aside just in time to save his face, but howls as the fireball scorches his shoulder.

‘Do not question my plans again,' spits the woman. ‘I
told
you that the brats would follow the river, not the road. I don't make mistakes, Argus!'

Argus is still screaming. The sound echoes across the Marbles, slapping against rocks and bouncing back to my eardrums. I want to clench my eyes shut, to look away, but even then I can smell the stink of burnt flesh.

‘S . . . s . . . sorry,' he gasps, collapsed upon the rocks. ‘I'm s . . . sorry, Your High . . . Your Highness.'

The woman stands over him, frowns, then waves a hand. ‘I'll forgive you this time, Argus, because you are a valuable hunter. But you'd better repay me for my mercy.'

Argus manages a shaky nod. ‘I'll kill 'em . . . I'll find . . . I'll find those br-brats and –'

‘Yes, yes, you'll kill them. Very good,' says the woman. Then she gestures at the river. ‘You may wash your shoulder if you wish, but do not take too long. We shall not be waiting for you.'

The hunting group continues up the river, beyond our hiding place and out of sight. As they pass, I notice one man wearing a chain of snakes around his neck. He croons at them as he walks, as if he's whispering poems into a lover's ear. I guess his proclivity is Reptile. It's a fairly rare proclivity and would be useless for most people, since it's much harder to find affordable reptiles than air or fire or birds. But if you're a richie – or even better, a palace hunter – it's probably a brilliant ability to have on your side. Snakes, lizards, poisonous crocodiles from the south . . . I wonder what other toxic creatures are concealed beneath his clothes.

When his companions are gone, Argus staggers into the water. He moans and whimpers as he soaks his shoulder, rolling and splashing around like a half-slaughtered sheep in the market. I'm worried that my illusion might fail or the foxaries might growl. But Argus seems too tangled in his own pain to pay much attention to nearby rock formations. When he finally leaves, face streaked with snot and tears, we all exhale.

‘I can't believe she just –' says Clementine.

‘Believe it,' says Radnor. ‘That's what the palace people do. They kill without a second thought.'

I think of Hackel, on our own side, burning that hunter's face off. The king's hunters are brutal, yes, but maybe we are too.

‘Who was that woman, anyway?' I say. ‘And why would she want to become a hunter, of all things? I can't imagine the king's relatives traipsing around the Marbles for fun.'

‘The royals are usually given safe roles,' says Maisy, nodding, ‘far away from the firing lines. It's just a way to occupy their time and give them some experience at –'

‘Ordering people's murders,' finishes Radnor.

‘Have you read much about the current royal family?' I ask. I haven't kept up with politics in the years since my own family died. When you're scrimping and starving on the streets, the royal bloodline isn't exactly an urgent area of study.

‘I'm not sure,' says Maisy. ‘I think King Morrigan has a niece, about that woman's age. A duchess of some sort. Maybe that's her?'

‘Well, whoever she was, she's bad news for us,' says Teddy. ‘I reckon that hunting group's been sent after our crew – just us. Because we shot down that plane.'

‘You mean, because Danika
shot down that plane,' says Clementine. For a minute, I expect her to start harping on again about how I'm a danger to the crew, but she just bites her lips and looks at the sky.

We decide to stay where we are and set up camp for the night. It seems safest to let the hunters get as far ahead as possible and this ledge provides as decent a shelter as anywhere else. Sunset is only a couple of hours away and after days of hard riding, Radnor decides we've earned a break.

I rearrange the magnets to create a safer circle, while the others unpack our sleeping sacks and food. We eat an early dinner, then sit around awkwardly trying to make conversation. I wish Clementine had brought a pack of cards or something, as stupid as that would have seemed to me a few days ago.

It's funny: I should be treating my crew members like a family, but I have almost nothing to say to them. None of us has anything in common. Maisy and Clementine are too rich, too spoilt, to share any of my life experiences. Teddy is a thief and a liar, and Radnor is . . . well . . . I'm not sure. He's determined to be a good leader, but he doesn't seem to have much experience at it. He's the only one of us who knows Hackel's plan, who can lead us safely to the Valley. And he's the one who created this crew.

Even so, I feel like I know nothing about him. What does he want? Why did he decide to form this crew, to risk his life – and ours, too – on this mad dream of escape? If he's already got his proclivity, I bet it's something like Shadow
or Night. Those proclivities are shameful in Rourton, signs that someone can't be trusted, and
Radnor has stayed pretty secretive about himself so far.

Then again, hasn't everyone?

I glance at the twins. I still don't understand why they've come on this journey, but I think I'm getting an idea of their personalities, at least. Clementine's proclivity is probably Gold
or Gems
or something – pretty and sparkly, but useless for survival. I'm not so sure about Maisy. I've never heard of someone having Books
as their proclivity. But I can picture her as a little rainstorm, pitter-pattering shyly on someone's roof. Maybe her proclivity is Rain
.

Teddy is Beast
,
of course, and Hackel is Flame: by far the most common proclivity
.
If Hackel lived permanently in Rourton, he'd probably work in the factory forges. As a smuggler, though, he can utilise fire for more brutal purposes.

That just leaves me. I can still feel the itch on the back of my neck, the sign that my proclivity is starting to develop. It's pointless to guess what it might be – I've been guessing and dreaming my whole life, just like every other kid, but it's never what you expect. People say that illusion skills don't have anything to do with your proclivity, but I don't know. I hope mine has something to do with the air. I've always dreamed of flying, travelling with the breeze. Knowing my luck, then, it'll probably be Mud
.

No one feels like talking, so we decide to turn in for the night. I'm still exhausted from my lack of sleep, so Radnor insists I'm not allowed to take the first watch. It's Maisy's turn and she promises to wake me for the second shift.

‘Sure you're up for this, Danika?' says Radnor.

It's so tempting to say ‘no', to curl up in my sleep­ing sack and get an entire night of rest. But something troubles me about that kite, like an itch I can't scratch, and the thought of missing a chance to see it worries me more than another day of weariness.

‘I'm sure,' I say, trying to sound as bubbly as possible. Actually, I probably sound more deranged than anything at this point, but the others just nod and settle down for bed. I guess that I've proven I can function without much sleep and that I'm a decent guard. Nothing's gone wrong during my countless shifts. Not yet, anyway.

When Maisy wakes me, it's past midnight. I can tell by the chill in the air, the clarified blackness that marks the early hours of morning.
The dying hours
, we say in Rourton. It's the time when the hunger gets you, when the cold bites hardest and scruffer kids die on the streets.

‘You should've woken me hours ago,' I whisper.

Maisy shakes her head. ‘You needed sleep more than I do.'

‘Thanks,' I say.

Maisy's face is obscured by darkness, but I think she smiles.

I take my place on the guard rock. It's cold and hard, ready to freeze my bum off, but at least the chill should keep me alert. It's tempting to drag my sleeping sack over here, just as a shield against the night wind, but comfort means drowsiness. So I stay cold, hug my knees and watch the night.

As the hours pass, my head begins to droop. I force myself to my feet and pace a little, shaking life back into my body. There are pins and needles in my knee, and it almost feels disconnected from the rest of me. As I jiggle it quietly, careful not to wake the others, a flash of movement catches my eye from above.

It's the kite.

And tonight it's closer. It's only a hundred metres from our campsite, somewhere on the opposite side of the river. Boulders hide its owner. From here, all I can see is string and shadow upon the sky.