Ottilie Colter and the Narroway Hunt

by Rhiannon Williams

‘You listen close, you sneaking little weasel. If you open your stinking, swamp-licking mouth and tell anyone your secret I will hunt you down, boil your bones, and sell your skin as a rug.’

  Ottilie wriggled out of his grip and shoved him away. ‘Of course I’m not going to tell anyone, you lunatic!’

  He looked her up and down, breathing hard. ‘It’s good luck your little body is so boyish.’

  Ottilie drew her dagger and pointed it at his stretched, lumpy throat. ‘Stop looking at me like that.’

  ‘You just mind what I’ve said, Ottilie Colter.’

  Mr Sloch turned, headed for the door, and froze. It was ajar – he hadn’t shut it properly. He took a step towards it, but before he could reach it, it swung open – and Leo stood in the doorway.

  Ottilie’s breath grew very short. She felt her hand shake on the hilt of the dagger. What had he heard? What would he do to her?

  Leo took hold of Mr Sloch, who was several feet taller than he was, and threw him bodily out the door, slamming it shut behind him. Ottilie stared, panic locking her limbs in place. Judging by his expression, Leo had heard something, maybe the whole exchange. Either way, it was crystal clear – he knew.

  ‘Is it true?’ he said, his voice shaking with rage. He looked like he wanted to punch something. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Ott Colter.’

  ‘Ott Colter,’ he repeated with a snarl. ‘You’re not though, are you?’

  ‘Gully’s my brother. I’m from the Swamp Hollows.’

  ‘But you’re not his brother.’

  Ottilie froze. She didn’t know what to do. Could she keep lying? After what Leo had heard, it seemed mad to continue. Her lies could so easily be proven false.

  ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m his sister.’

  Leo’s face flushed scarlet. He looked on the verge of exploding.

  ‘My name is Ottilie Colter.’

  ‘You stupid little girl!’ He picked up her bow and threw it against the wall. It fell to the ground with a clattering scrape.

  Ottilie felt her eyes flash. ‘I’m your age,’ she said steadily.

  ‘What?’ said Leo, angrier still.

  ‘You called me a stupid little girl. I’m your age.’

  He glared at her. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I followed the pickers after Gully got taken. I stole the list and pretended to be a boy. I just wanted to get him back.’

  ‘And then what? You liked it here so you just thought you’d stay?’

  ‘I didn’t have much of a choice. I didn’t know what I was getting into.’

  ‘You’re damn right you didn’t! Who do you think you are, coming here? Learning to hunt, training with me!’

  Rage churned like hot lava in her stomach. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’ she demanded. ‘Why shouldn’t a girl hunt monsters?’

  ‘I’m not even going to answer that! And it doesn’t matter anyway. You lied, Ott – Ottilie!’

  ‘I lied? These people kidnap children! They snatch them from their homes! They kidnapped you and you forgave them. Don’t pretend it’s the lie that bothers you. It’s because I’m a girl.’

  ‘Of course it’s because you’re a girl!’ he snarled. ‘I should have known, you pathetic, useless, weak little witch.’

  Fury seemed to muffle her hearing. As if from a distance, she heard herself growl, ‘I’m not! I’m not any of those things!’

  ‘Ha! Your performance tonight proves me right on all counts!’

  ‘It does not!’

  Leo began pacing. Ottilie took several sharp breaths, determined to calm herself. She realised he was limping and glanced at the wound on his thigh. Dark patches of blood were seeping through his trousers.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she said quietly.

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Leo?’

  He glared at her from across the room. ‘What do you think I’m going to do, you stupid girl?’

  ‘Don’t tell them.’ Her voice was low and quiet. She would not plead. She refused to plead.

  ‘Of course I’m going to tell them.’

  ‘If you do, they might take me away from Gully.’

  ‘They might do worse than that.’

  She knew it was true, and the thought made her unsteady on her feet. ‘Don’t tell them. You’re just mad because I ruined your hunt and Igor Thrike’s beating you. If you tell them, you’ll regret it!’

  For a moment Leo looked as if he was going to laugh, or possibly hit her. She could almost see the thoughts ticking over in his mind. Mentioning Igor Thrike had definitely been a mistake.

  ‘I won’t regret it,’ he growled. ‘You can count on that.’

  He stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Ottilie stared at the door. Thoughts drifting away, she wondered why he had come to see her – maybe to berate her about the barrogaul, maybe to apologise for being short with her, maybe to check on her wounded arm. Now she would never know. She felt lost and oddly empty.

  There was movement in the corridor. Ottilie whipped around. Who was it? Mr Sloch, again? Leo? The latch lifted with a scrape. Ottilie gripped her dagger with a shaking hand.

  ‘Ottilie?’

  Ottilie’s breath caught in her throat. She almost sobbed. ‘Skip?’

  Skip slid into the room, closing the door soundlessly behind her. Ottilie didn’t even have time to ask why she had come. The moment Skip’s eyes met hers, she dissolved into tears.

  Skip guided Ottilie to the bed, where she collapsed in a heap of sweaty clothes and tears. Skip stroked her hair and patted her back, calmly waiting for the sobs to subside.

  After several heaving breaths, Ottilie found her voice. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I saw Leo in the corridor. He came out of here looking like he’d just committed murder. I waited until he was gone and then came to see what happened.’

  Ottilie took a shuddering breath and told her the story. When she finished, Skip looked grave.

  ‘What do you think they’ll do to me?’ she whispered.

  Skip shook her head. ‘Do you think he’ll tell?’

  Ottilie nodded.

  ‘You could run. You could handle yourself out there now.’

  Skip was right, but one thing hadn’t changed: Gully. ‘I won’t leave Gully here alone.’

  ‘They were bound to find out sooner or later. You wouldn’t have lasted another year still passing for a boy. What were you planning to do when you started growing breasts?’

  Ottilie let out a watery cough of laughter. ‘I didn’t like thinking that far ahead. Strap them down, I guess.’

  Skip snorted and brushed a tear from Ottilie’s cheek. ‘That would never have worked.’

  ‘It doesn’t much matter now,’ said Ottilie with a hearty sniff.

  ‘You haven’t hurt anyone, Ottilie. Hold on to that. They can’t punish you too harshly.’ Skip was a good actor, but Ottilie knew deep down she didn’t believe that for a second.

  They came before dawn. Skip, who had waited with her, slipped into the washroom when she heard their approach. Ottilie’s wrists were clapped in iron manacles and she was ordered not to make a fuss. That would have been a great deal easier if they let her walk freely rather than half-dragging her sideways with a length of clanking chain. The disturbance caused a wave of opening doors along the hall, a sea of curious faces peeking through the gaps. Scoot was on a nightshift and, to her relief, Gully’s door stayed firmly closed. He always did sleep like the dead.

  A terrible thought struck her. Obviously, Gully had known all along that she was a girl. Would he be punished for lying? What would they do to him? Maybe she should have warned him – but she had been in such a state, she hadn’t thought of it, hadn’t wanted him to be there – to involve him – but of course, he was already involved.

  Wrangler Voilies was leading the group, with Wrangler Morse to his left. A stooping, one-eyed wrangler by the name of Furdles had hold of her chain. She glared at the back
of Wrangler Voilies’ head. Wrangler Voilies loved Gully. Everyone loved Gully. Surely Gully would escape punishment – he was only protecting his sister. But then again, she had only been protecting him, and they were undoubtedly going to punish her.

  ‘It’s the burrows for you tonight, my dear,’ said Wrangler Voilies, turning to catch her glare. ‘It won’t do you any good to look at me like that, you thieving little fibber.’

  ‘What have I stolen?’

  Wrangler Voilies chortled, his eyes cold. ‘Our teachings, little girl. Our food, shelter and general hospitality. Our goodwill.’

  ‘I stole your goodwill?’

  ‘Stole it,’ muttered Wrangler Furdles.

  Rage curdled her stomach. Their words made her ill. She opened her mouth to argue but Wrangler Voilies cut her off. ‘Another word and we’ll gag you, young miss. You’re already in more trouble than you could imagine. Don’t dig yourself deeper. You’ll keep that mouth shut if you know what’s good for you … and your brother.’

  Those were the magic words. Ottilie closed her mouth tight and let them drag her in silence all the way to the burrows.

  The burrows, it turned out, were in the pit below the arena where they had undergone their fledgling trials. It was arranged like a jail, with individual cells built into the walls. There were two large cages beneath the doors to the arena, with a series of wide copper pipes connected to the cells surrounding them. That was how they had controlled the release of the jivvies.

  It was a dank, horrible place. There was a green tinge to the walls and the air smelled of damp and mould. Worst of all, the burrows were not empty; at least four cells were occupied. They kept dredretches down there for training purposes.

  Ottilie spotted a giffersnak. Like great eyeless crocodiles, giffersnaks had wide webbing between their bodies and front legs, which allowed them to glide from treetop to treetop, ready to leap down and snap up an unwary huntsman below.

  She could see an oxie, its antlers glowing, and three flares, swirling in endless circles in their prison. The last occupied cell contained a dredretch she had not encountered: an enormous crustacean, with twelve legs and shiny red pincers the colour of freshly spilled blood.

  Wrangler Furdles dragged her into the cell opposite the oxie and attached her chain to a hook in the wall.

  ‘Take off her ring,’ said Wrangler Voilies.

  Wrangler Furdles started scratching at her thumb, trying to remove the ring.

  ‘Tudor, there are flares in here,’ said Wrangler Morse.

  The ring slid from her thumb and instantly Ottilie fell ill. The blood drained from her face to her toes. She broke out in a cold sweat. Heart pounding in her ears, she struggled to breathe.

  ‘Tudor!’

  ‘Pathetic,’ said Wrangler Voilies. ‘How many warding lessons have you had? And you are reduced to this in seconds. We should have known.’

  ‘It’ll kill her. The flar–’

  ‘Yes, Reuben! I’m just proving a point.’ Wrangler Voilies snatched the ring from Wrangler Furdles and shoved it back onto Ottilie’s thumb.

  Grabbing hold of her wrist and twisting it violently around, Wrangler Voilies shoved her thumb so close to her face it nearly poked her eye out. ‘This, my dear, is thievery.’ He threw her wrist down, bending it out of shape.

  Ottilie did not cry out. She barely flinched. She would not give him the satisfaction.

  26

  The Directorate

  ‘Ott.’

  Ottilie lifted her head from her knees. Her neck was as stiff as an old stump and she could feel bruises forming where her spine pressed into the cell wall.

  A girl was creeping towards her, one hand supporting a small tray with a plate, a cup and a candle, and the other partially covering her eyes. Ottilie crawled forwards and pressed her face right up against the bars. She shivered as her cheek made contact with the ice-cold iron. Her visitor’s dark hair hung in two smooth braids. It took a moment for Ottilie to recognise her, and another to remember her name.

  ‘Alba? Is that you?’

  A flare shrilled in response to her voice and the oxie rammed its antlers against the bars.

  Alba Kit jumped, almost losing her grip on the tray. She peeked out from under her hand, her gaze flickering towards the oxie’s glowing antlers. Emitting a breathy squeak, she skittered sideways and snapped her hand back over her eyes.

  ‘Don’t look at them, just look at me,’ said Ottilie, her voice gentle and her eyes half-closed as she recovered from the headache brought on by the whistling flare.

  Alba lifted her hand again and shuffled forwards. Her eyes were wide and bright with fear. ‘Hello,’ she whispered.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Alba nodded quickly. ‘I just hate them.’ She could barely get the words out.

  ‘There’s not a whole lot to love.’

  Alba squatted down in front of Ottilie’s cell and passed the cup of water through the bars, the bronze ring on her thumb glinting in the candlelight. Ottilie downed the icy water in three gulps.

  ‘I’m not supposed to be here, but Mum sent me. She said they probably wouldn’t be feeding you.’

  Ottilie felt a flicker of warmth in her chest. Alba’s mother was looking after her. Thinking of her.

  Alba passed Ottilie a chunk of bread stuffed with cheese.

  ‘Thank you, but you should go. If they catch you –’

  ‘They won’t. I know a secret way, and I won’t stay long. How are you?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Ottilie. It was a reflex. She ripped into the bread, spraying crumbs across her lap.

  ‘Do you know …’ said Alba, her words barely voiced. ‘I wondered about you, that day I met you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Ottilie.

  ‘I thought you seemed different. I just didn’t know how.’

  ‘Are you mad at me? That I lied?’

  Alba frowned. ‘No, of course not. I know what it’s like …’

  Ottilie found herself smiling, her cheeks stuffed with half-chewed bread. ‘What? Are you a boy pretending to be a girl too?’ she said, struggling to speak with her mouth full.

  ‘No. I’m a Laklander.’

  Ottilie choked.

  ‘Well, about as close to a pure Laklander as you can get these days. My great-grandparents were Laklanders.’

  ‘But you’re … you don’t look …’

  Ottilie had never met anyone who claimed to be a Laklander, but she had a particular image in her mind. From what she had heard, Laklanders were supposed to be short. Alba was an average height. Ottilie was far shorter. Mr Parch insisted that was a myth anyway. He said Usklerians liked to remember the Laklanders as smaller than themselves.

  The most renowned Laklander trait was fair hair – hair like water, a colour so pale it showed a bluish tinge. It was a shade only seen in the far west. As Ottilie understood it, it wasn’t that all Laklanders were blond, but that that particular icy hue didn’t occur anywhere else in the world. Alba’s hair was a dense brown, thick and straight. She was the last person Ottilie would ever have assumed to have Laklander roots.

  ‘My father’s father was from north Triptiquery and my mother’s mother was from the far east. So it’s easy to hide. But, you know … you don’t tell anyone.’

  ‘You don’t?’ Ottilie felt strange. She had always thought of Laklanders as … well … they were painted as violent outcasts, vengeful ruffians. But Alba and her mother were so normal – so nice.

  ‘I suppose it’s not really the same,’ said Alba.

  Ottilie considered it. She was an imposter recruit, concealing her true identity, unwelcome in the Narroway, just as Alba was secretly descended from an ancient enemy, and unwelcome in the Usklers. However different the circumstances, both girls were hiding who they really were.

  ‘Do you know the story?’ asked Alba.

  ‘Of the Usklers and the Laklands? Only what I’ve read in a book.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well – j
ust that there was never peace, until the last war when the Laklands were destroyed. And the Laklanders that survived it, and came to the Usklers to live …’ she paused, thinking of a way to say it politely, ‘caused trouble … burned things down … hurt people …’

  ‘Some of them,’ said Alba. ‘Others, like most of my family, just came peacefully, because we can’t live there anymore. The thing is, you can’t trust the books, because they were all written by Usklerian scholars. My mum told me a story that her mother told her, about the royal fami–’

  Alba froze.

  Somewhere nearby they heard the creaking of a heavy door. Scooping up the items she had brought, and snuffing out the candle with her finger, Alba whispered, ‘I’ve got to go, but Ott, I wanted to tell you, I’ve been reading, trying to find out about the rule of innocence you mentioned in the library … I can’t find anything, but I’ll keep looking. I think it’s very suspicious.’

  Ottilie nodded frantically. ‘Go. Go!’ she hissed.

  Giving the dredretches a wide berth, Alba slipped into the darkness. Mere moments later, Wrangler Furdles scuttled in, muttering to himself. Lantern light spilled into her cell and Ottilie snapped her eyes shut, pretending to sleep. She didn’t know what he was checking for. That she was still breathing? That she hadn’t escaped?

  He left as quickly as he’d come, and Ottilie was alone again. At least now she had something other than her impending doom to occupy her thoughts. So Alba could not find any evidence of the rule of innocence. Alba, who had read every book in the library. What was this strange lie? Why did the king recruit young boys to beat back the foulest threat to his lands when he had real armies at his disposal?

  Ottilie was unsure of the hour, but when they finally dragged her upstairs she caught a brief glimpse of the mid-afternoon sun. She was escorted to a circular room in one of the towers. Captain Lyre and the other two Fiory directors were there, along with the directors from Arko and Richter. They were seated in a wide semi-circle facing Ottilie, who stood alone in the centre of the room. On a raised stage there were three thrones, and on them sat the cardinal conductor of each station.

  The cardinal conductor of Fiory, Conductor Edderfed, had a scrappy white beard and flyaway hair atop his head, which he had carefully combed to cover an expansive bald patch. He had a large nose and kind, crinkled eyes. Ottilie found him rather unintimidating – until he spoke.