Chasing the Valley (8 page)

 

 

We travel for most of the day. My legs cramp, my
shoulder aches and my wounded knee throbs. I wrap the knee in some spare fabric from the pack behind me: a pale blue skirt, which shimmers prettily when we pass beneath sunlit gaps in the canopy. At least, until my blood soaks through and turns the fabric crimson-brown.

‘That was one of my favourite skirts,' hisses Clementine, when she spots my choice of bandage.

I want to point out that opportunities for sparkly skirt-wearing don't look too promising in the near future, but remember the need to get along with these people. They're my crew now, too.

‘Sorry,' I say.

Clementine's mouth is open, ready to snipe at me again, but my apology catches her unawares. She closes her lips, gives a tight nod and looks away. I'm not sure whether this means I'm forgiven or whether I'm just not worth her time. Either way, it's better than fighting.

As we ease into the afternoon, my stomach begins to complain. Up until now, fear and adrenaline have kept it full enough. But after hours of riding and no signs of pursuit, I'm too tired for adrenaline. I feel like a washcloth with all the water squeezed out. I'm not alone, either, because Radnor keeps sucking on his bottom lip and – every few minutes – Teddy's stomach offers a grumbly soundtrack for the ride.

‘What food do we have left?' says Radnor.

I look at him, surprised. He has always seemed so in control of this mission: the very image of a determined crew leader. Surely he would have planned the food supplies back in Rourton?

‘Leaves,' says Teddy helpfully. ‘
Lots
of leaves. I reckon we could set up a decent scam selling leaf soup, if there were any richies around to buy it.'

‘No, seriously,' says Radnor. ‘I want a rundown of our current supplies.'

‘Most of the food was on Maisy's foxary,' says Clementine.

Maisy. So that's the name of the quiet twin. I remember seeing her fall off her foxary during the struggle at the city gate – obviously one of the others picked her up, but her foxary is gone. And of all the foxaries, we've lost the one that carried the food. The knowledge sends a cold shudder into the base of my spine. I know what this means. We all do. There's even a jump-rope rhyme about it in Rourton: one of the grim little ditties that scruffer kids sing to keep distracted on cold nights.

‘And if a crew does not keep fed,'
I recite quietly,
‘you know that crew will soon be dead.'

‘That's not the version I learned,' says Teddy.

‘Oh yeah? What's your version, then?'

Teddy holds up a hand in a grand gesture, as though he's an opera singer about to perform.
‘And if a crew does not keep fed, they'd better nick some richie's bread!'

I snort. ‘Even
you
couldn't find anyone to pickpocket out here.'

‘Hey, who knows? Maybe ravens and earthworms have a secret economy going. There's always someone around to nick stuff off, if you know what you're doing.'

I try to imagine Teddy pickpocketing an earthworm, then give up.

‘Why'd you put all the food onto one foxary, anyway?' says Teddy, turning to Radnor. ‘I would've thought it was safer to spread it around.' He pauses. ‘Not that I'm advocating safety regulations. You wanted to walk on the wild side, right?'

Radnor shakes his head. ‘This trip is dangerous enough. I'm not about to add more risk for fun.'

‘So why'd you put all the food on Maisy's foxary, then?'

‘I didn't,' says Radnor, looking annoyed. ‘That was Hackel's idea. He's being paid to lead us to safety – he's supposed to be an expert at this.'

Realisation hits me like a slap. Radnor may have started this crew, and he may be its official leader, but he's not the one calling the shots. Hackel is the true organiser. And he isn't just an ordinary hired basher.

‘Are you saying Hackel's a –?' I begin.

Radnor nods. ‘Yeah, he's a smuggler. He's made his living smuggling black-market stuff across the country – rare metals, mostly, and stolen goods – but he says he's taken people too. Refugee crews, just like us.'

‘He was certainly expensive to hire,' says Clementine. ‘And he
insisted
that we use foxaries as our disguise. Do you have any idea how much it cost to buy those foxaries and load them secretly with supplies?'

‘A lot?' I guess.

Clementine nods. ‘More than you'd see in a thousand lifetimes, scruffer. Maisy and I poured our life's savings into this trip. That smuggler had better not get himself killed or we'll have paid him for nothing!'

‘So it's Hackel's plan to follow the river?' I say.

Radnor nods. ‘It's the route he uses for his black-market transport, for smuggling stuff across the country. He promised it's safer than the road.'

‘Just like he promised us it would be better to pack each foxary with a different type of sup­plies,' says Clementine, looking distrustful. ‘And
that
didn't end well, did it?'

‘Could've been worse,' says Teddy. ‘I mean, we could've lost the foxary that was carrying this sparkly blue skirt, and that'd be a real tragedy.'

‘It's not funny, Nort,' snaps Clementine.

‘I'm not trying to be funny. If a hunter catches us, we could get away by chucking fancy waistcoats in his face.' Teddy turns to grin at me. ‘What do you reckon, Danika?'

‘Well, it'd have the element of surprise,' I say.

By the time we find an adequate campsite, the lower half of my body feels ready to drop off. The constant tensing of the foxary's muscles, the throbbing of my knee, and the jostle of movement at the base of my spine are all enough to send me slipping down into the leaf litter with a moan.

Radnor chooses a secluded clearing hidden within a thick patch of forest. We're near the edge of a creek, which churns and gurgles with the promise of fresh water. There have been no sounds of pursuit and the foxaries seem relaxed, so I'm guessing this clearing is as safe a campsite as we're going to get.

For about twenty minutes, no one really moves. We slouch against tree trunks, resting our heads against the bark and exhaling weariness through each flare of our nostrils. It's heading into evening now – the sky above our clearing looks grey – and the air is colder than ever. Each day brings winter closer and this isn't a good time of year to be trekking across Taladia. But there's no use moaning now. We're out here in the cold, and all we can do is grit our teeth and
survive.
That's the real trick to a successful refugee crew. There's no magic answer. All you can do is survive, and then survive again, day after day, until you reach the Magnetic Valley.

‘Do you think it's like the song?' I murmur.

I'm so tired that I don't even realise I've spoken aloud until Teddy Nort answers. ‘What are you on about?'

‘You know, that song about the Valley,' I say.
‘Oh mighty yo, how the star-shine must go, chasing those distant deserts of green . . . 
Do you think the Valley's really like that?'

‘Well, I don't reckon there'll be much more star-shine there than we've got in Taladia,' says Teddy. ‘Hope not, anyway. It's hard enough to sleep without a whole load of light pollution.'

I smile in response, but can't help taking note of the last sentence. The great Teddy Nort has just admitted he has trouble sleeping. I doubt it's guilt about pickpocketing that keeps him awake . . . but what else could it be?

‘All right, crew,' says Radnor. ‘We'd better set up camp while we've still got light.'

We divvy up the chores in a vaguely equal fashion. Radnor will unpack the sleeping sacks, Clementine will start a campfire and Teddy will take care of the foxaries. I head down to the creek to gather water with the twin called Maisy. She's painfully shy, too timid to speak unless you ask her a question. Even then, she barely allows her voice to rise above a whisper. In my head, I nickname her ‘Mousy'.

‘So,' I say, as we fill an assortment of jars, ‘why'd you and Clementine decide to run away?'

Maisy doesn't answer. She fiddles self-consciously with a strand of hair that isn't quite long enough to stay tucked behind her ear. She reminds me of a little ghost, a wisp of a girl who belongs in a pretty dress shop or a library. Not out here, in the rough and mud of the forest.

‘I'm not gonna bite, you know,' I say.

She looks up. ‘I know.'

‘I'm guessing you haven't met many scruffers before,' I say, ‘but we're not all thugs and criminals. I mean, it's not like I'm gonna beat you up if I don't like the answer.'

Maisy's jar shatters on the rocks.

She looks horrified. ‘Sorry! I mean . . . I . . .'

Before I can respond, Maisy scurries off back towards the campfire. I pick up my water jars, then realise I'd better clean up the broken one first. No point leaving the hunters with a pile of glass to mark our trail. I scrape up the larger shards, then scoop a few fistfuls of creek water to wash away the shiny dust that remains.

‘Hey, Danika,' says a voice.

I jump and almost break the remaining jars. Then I realise that it's just Teddy, waving me back towards the campsite. ‘What's wrong?'

‘Radnor wants you.'

I gather the jars and follow him back through the trees. I can't imagine what Radnor wants with me – is he angry that I've upset Maisy? Perhaps she ran back to the campsite in tears and dobbed on me for interrogating her. The idea sends a cold twist into my belly. I'm lucky to be travelling with this crew at all; if I screw it up now, I'm dead. There's no way I'll make it to the Valley on my own.

But as it turns out, Radnor isn't mad at me. He's clutching a rough hessian sack, which must have been stuffed inside one of the larger packs. ‘Danika,' he says, ‘do you think you can use these?'

I take the sack cautiously and peer inside. I have no idea what to expect – hopefully not a ravenous litter of foxary pups – but it turns out to be dull metal plates.

I pull out a plate, frown, then turn to Teddy. ‘You nicked someone's family silver?'

He holds up his hands in protest. ‘Hey, would I do a thing like that?'

‘Yes,' I say, in unison with Clementine.

‘Well, I've got nothing to do with this stuff – it's not worth much, I reckon. All dingy and cheap. I don't even reckon that's silver.'

‘What is it, then?' I turn the plate over, examining it more carefully. As far as I can tell, it's just a tarnished disc. It wouldn't look out of place in a richie's dinnerware cabinet. But it seems too heavy for its size, a disproportionate bulk of cold metal.

‘It's a magnet,' says Radnor.

I almost drop it. ‘A magnet? Like the rocks in the Magnetic Valley?'

He nods.

I stare in shock at the disc in my hand. Magnets have been illegal for over a century, ever since the palace started seriously investing in alchemic machinery. ‘I didn't think there were any magnets left in Taladia.'

‘That's what the palace wants you to think,' says Radnor, ‘but this is an old set that survived the purge. They belong to Hackel. He uses them for smuggling.'

‘How'd he get hold of them?' says Teddy, an eager glint in his eye. ‘I thought I did a good job robbing the High Street jewellers, but imagine who you'd have to rob to get a set of magnets!'

‘I don't know where he got them,' says Radnor. ‘Another smuggler, probably. What matters is we've got them now, and I think they might save us from the hunters.'

I stare at the sack. ‘What's this got to do with me?'

‘Isn't it obvious?' sniffs Clementine.

‘Not unless you want me to play discus, no.'

‘You can use them to amplify your illusion powers,' says Radnor. ‘The magnets should trap your magic, you see. If we set them up around our camp, and the magnetic energy bounces your power between each plate . . .'

I bite my lip. ‘I told you I'm not very good yet. I started growing illusionist powers just a few months ago; my illusions last only seconds.'

‘Should be enough, though,' says Radnor. ‘You just need to start the effect, and trap it in the magnetic circle. So long as no one moves the plates, they'll just ricochet the illusion between them.'

‘Worth a shot, I guess,' I say.

I try to look confident, but I've never tried anything like this before. Mixing magnets and magic is dangerous. That's why the king doesn't dare invade the Magnetic Valley. According to stories, the landscape is too unpredictable; it could amplify his troops' powers . . . or backfire and destroy them. I wouldn't want to fly a plane with alchemy bombs above the Valley. You might explode into a riot of burning flowers, or melt your plane's wings into waterfalls.