Secret Guardians

by Lian Tanner

  And underneath the voice of the tunnels there were other voices. Wild cries. Heartbroken songs. Children weeping for their mothers and fathers in a dozen different languages.

  One of Grandpa’s favourite rules was, Never let the enemy see your fear.

  Duckling had been trying to forget Grandpa’s rules, because they were mostly about cheating people and coming out on top. But she needed this one.

  As the shadows moved in on her, she whispered, ‘You don’t scare me, I’ve fought the Harshman.’ When the tunnels murmured their warnings, she sneered and marked each corner with a big black ‘D’ and an arrow.

  And when the weeping and the heartbroken songs tried to crawl into her heart, she said firmly, ‘I’m sorry you’re so sad, but there’s nothing I can do about it. My job is to get Otte and Pummel out of here. No one else.’

  Three corners later, the cat and the chicken slid out from behind one of the wooden props.

  ‘Frow Cat!’ cried Duckling. ‘Dora!’ She fell to her knees and threw her arms around the two battered creatures.

  The cat tolerated her for the briefest of moments. Then she wriggled out of Duckling’s arms, looked disdainfully at the lantern and said, ‘Prooowl?’

  ‘Sort of,’ said Duckling. It seemed ridiculous now, that she’d hoped for another way out. They were so far underground that there couldn’t possibly be a back door. And if there was, someone else would have found it.

  So all she said was, ‘I’m exploring.’

  The cat took several steps away from her, saying, ‘Follooow.’

  ‘I was going to go this way,’ said Duckling, pointing to a tunnel that ran to the left.

  ‘Follooow,’ said the cat, and she set off along the right-hand tunnel with the chicken strutting beside her.

  For all her bravado, Duckling didn’t want to be left alone again. She snatched up the lantern and hurried after them, saying, ‘How did you two get into the mine? How long have you been here?’

  The cat didn’t answer. The chicken gave a delighted cry and darted after a beetle. When she came back, the cat cuffed her, and the chicken squawked. But then the two of them set off again, leading Duckling down tunnel after tunnel, until the props grew old and rickety, and the walls crept closer and closer.

  Duckling marked each corner carefully. ‘This must be the oldest part of the mine,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t reckon anyone’s been here for years.’

  ‘Todaay,’ said the cat, and she tapped the ground with her paw.

  Duckling lowered the lantern and saw scuff marks. ‘Are they footprints?’ she asked. ‘Is there another salt face near here? Is that where those other children work, the ones who come back at mealtimes?’

  The cat sat down and began to clean her ears. But the chicken marched up and down the tunnel, studying the walls as if she was looking for something to eat. At one point she stopped and stared at nothing in particular. Then she looked at Duckling, first through one eye, then the other.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Duckling, feeling a bit silly. It was one thing talking to the cat, who could answer if she felt like it. It was another thing entirely talking to Otte’s chicken, who was just a chicken.

  All the same, she walked up and down that narrow tunnel herself, holding the lantern high and holding it low, looking for some sign of recently worked salt. But she couldn’t find it.

  ‘Why did you bring me here, Frow Cat?’ she asked.

  The cat finished cleaning her ears and began on her hind legs. The chicken went back to staring at that same spot.

  Duckling walked up and down the tunnel again, searching even more carefully.

  This time, she thought she saw something, right where the chicken was staring. But she was past it and moving away before she could get a proper look.

  The chicken made an odd sound, as if eating beetles had given her indigestion.

  Duckling turned back. But the same thing happened. She was walking towards a particularly shadowy spot, when she found herself turning away and going straight past.

  She knew trickery when she saw it. She marked the wall with charcoal, then she turned around and set off again. But instead of aiming for that interesting-looking shadow, she pretended to study the roof of the tunnel. ‘That’s the best roof I’ve seen yet,’ she said as she walked. ‘Whoever dug out that roof knew what they were doing. I wonder if—’

  She broke off suddenly, and glanced to her left. And there, set low in the wall and hidden among the shadows, was the entrance to another tunnel. It was there – and then it was not, and Duckling’s feet were carrying her away from it.

  ‘That’s not trickery,’ she said to the cat. ‘That’s witchery.’

  The cat murmured agreement. The chicken clucked with such satisfaction that Duckling checked to see if she’d laid an egg.

  She hadn’t.

  ‘So where does this tunnel go?’ asked Duckling. ‘And why is it hidden? It must be important, mustn’t it? For someone to put witchery on it?’

  ‘Don’t knooow,’ said the cat.

  ‘If the raashk was working, I’m sure we’d be able to get into it. Maybe Pummel and I should try anyway. I could ask him …’

  Except Pummel wasn’t listening to her. He didn’t trust her.

  Duckling felt sick. The only real friendship she’d ever had, and she couldn’t fix it.

  ‘I’ve been trying so hard to be truthful,’ she said to the cat. ‘I told Pummel that I didn’t trust Sooli, instead of keeping it to myself, but that just made things worse. I don’t know what he’ll think if I tell him about this.’

  She sank down on her haunches. The person she really wanted to talk to was Grandpa. He might be a treacherous old rogue, but at least he listened to her.

  Above her, the rock seemed heavier than ever. The walls of the tunnel felt closer. The tallow lantern flickered as if it was about to die and leave Duckling in utter darkness.

  ‘Maybe I should forget about Pummel and Otte,’ she whispered, ‘and find my own way out. Maybe I should just worry about Grandpa, because he’s family, and ignore everyone else.’

  The cat narrowed her eyes. The chicken bent her head and scratched at her comb.

  Duckling sighed. ‘You’re right, Frow Cat, I can’t do that anymore. I’ve got to look after Otte. And Pummel too, even if he doesn’t want me to.’

  She stood up and used her sleeve to rub out the marks she’d made on the wall. ‘Don’t want anyone to know I’ve been here. Especially whoever put that witchery in place. Who do you reckon it was, Frow Cat? How can I find out?’

  But the cat and chicken were already setting off back the way they had come. Duckling followed, stopping at every corner to scrub at the black marks until they were gone.

  By the time she reached the night cave, she had made up her mind what to do. She looked around for the chicken and the cat, but they had vanished as quietly as they had arrived.

  Duckling crept into the night cave and put the lantern back on its hook. Then she lay down next to Otte and fell asleep with the piece of charcoal still clutched in her hand.

  The Harshman had lost the scent of the Heir.

  It had been growing fainter for the last day or so, but it had always been there when he sought it.

  Now it was not.

  The Harshman growled, and every blade of grass within spitting distance curled up and died of cold. A family of rabbits froze in their burrow. A butterfly that was halfway out of its cocoon dived back inside, trembling.

  In the darkness above the Harshman’s head, the hawk swooped and soared, waiting for him to move on. But he could not move on. Not until he knew where to go.

  He glared at the surrounding countryside, hating it more than ever. When he was Margrave, he would have soldiers stationed everywhere, so that no one could do anything without him knowing.

  But that did not solve his current problem.

  ‘Where … Is … The … Boy?’ he roared.

  No one answered.

  The Harshman
’s rage grew. If there had been any peasants nearby, he would have killed them on the instant. But this was a particularly deserted part of the road and there were no peasants. Only ghosts. And he could not kill ghosts.

  So he started eating them instead.

  Even for the Harshman, it was a strange thing to eat a ghost. Each one left a cold trail down his gullet, and when it hit his stomach – which was now almost exactly like a stomach – something astonishing happened.

  The ghost’s memories crowded into his mind.

  The Harshman picked his teeth with his ragged fingernails, and sorted through those memories. And there, mixed up with nonsensical things like family and love and friendship, he found the Heir and his companions.

  They did not look the same as they had in the Stronghold. But the Harshman could see past their pitiful disguises to the people underneath.

  With a grunt of satisfaction, he set off again.

  Duckling was so tired the next morning that she could hardly bear to wake up.

  But she had to wake up. She had to protect Otte, keep an eye on Sooli, and have another go at persuading Perkin to tell her where Grandpa was. She had to work out how she could get into the secret tunnel, and find some way to hold her growing fears at bay so she didn’t turn into a blubbering, useless heap. And on top of all that, she had to cut enough salt to get fed.

  It sounded impossible. But she must try.

  I’ll start by telling Pummel about the secret tunnel.

  She was going to tell him before breakfast, but Rusty and Boz came down to refill the tallow lanterns, and everything was in confusion as the children tried to keep away from their cudgels and whips.

  In the end, Duckling didn’t get the chance to speak to Pummel until the guards had gone again, and the children were at the salt face.

  Pummel was working near Otte and Spinner, and every now and again he emptied his bucket into theirs. To Duckling’s surprise, several other children were doing the same, for those who were smaller or weaker than themselves.

  He’s got them working together, thought Duckling. I never thought he could do it.

  She checked to make sure that Sooli wasn’t within earshot, then she whispered, ‘Pummel, I found a secret tunnel last night, right up in the old part of the mine. Frow Cat showed it to me.’

  Pummel’s eyes widened. ‘Frow Cat’s here? So it’s her they’re all talking about? Not a ghost cat?’

  ‘She led me to the tunnel,’ said Duckling. ‘Whatever’s there must be important because it’s hidden by witchery, and I had to pretend I wasn’t looking for it before I could get anywhere near it. Even then I only got a quick look before my feet took me away again.’

  Pummel nodded slowly. ‘It sounds important.’

  ‘So will you come back there with me tonight? Between us we might be able to get closer.’ She pulled a face. ‘Or then again, we mightn’t. I wish the raashk was working.’

  Pummel looked sideways at her. ‘You think I should be able to make it work, don’t you?’

  ‘No,’ said Duckling. ‘Of course I don’t.’

  ‘It’s because I don’t know the right songs.’

  ‘That’s what Sooli told us,’ Duckling said carefully.

  But not carefully enough. Pummel’s face closed and he said, ‘She’s got no reason to lie.’

  ‘I didn’t say she was lying. She might be wrong, that’s all.’

  ‘No,’ said Pummel, ‘you think she’s lying.’ And he went back to hacking at the salt.

  Duckling sighed, and told herself that she’d try again later. But she didn’t get the chance. As soon as Sooli came near them, Pummel lowered his pick and asked her straight out, ‘Is there a tunnel in the old part of the mine, hidden by witchery?’

  Duckling groaned silently. But what was done was done, so she added, ‘I found it last night and couldn’t get near it.’

  Sooli chipped a bit of salt into her bucket and said, without looking at them, ‘Perhaps there is something there.’

  ‘What sort of something?’ asked Duckling.

  ‘It is private.’

  ‘I didn’t think anything was private in this place,’ said Duckling. ‘Especially something like a secret tunnel. Seems to me that—’

  Sooli interrupted her, saying with great force, ‘I do not wish to speak of it, but you give me no choice. There are Saaf rituals that you do not know about, especially when someone is taken by the Black Wind. Yes, there is a tunnel. We must bury our friends somewhere, must we not?’

  Her voice rose in anger. ‘Five hundred years ago, we Saaf were people of great power. This was our land, and we lived freely in it. Five hundred years ago, when we wanted to travel from place to place, we held our tents up to the sky, the Bayam called the Grandfather Wind and we flew like birds! But now we live in poverty and fear, all because of your people. Is it not enough that we are torn from our homes and enslaved in this terrible place? You must allow us some secrets. Or must we give you our deaths as well as our lives?’

  And with that, she stormed away.

  Pummel called after her, ‘Wait, we didn’t mean—’

  But by then, Sooli was gone.

  For a moment there was complete silence. All the picks had stopped. The whispers, the whimpers, the sobbing had died away.

  Then, gradually, they started up again.

  Duckling whistled through her teeth. ‘That was interesting. Did you notice how she didn’t actually say—’

  ‘What I noticed,’ snapped Pummel, ‘was that we hurt someone who’s been trying to help us. Why can’t you trust her? Why can’t you trust anyone?’

  Duckling was so tired and miserable that she snapped right back at him, ‘Why do you trust everyone?’

  ‘Because I listen to them, which you don’t. You think you hear all this stuff that isn’t really there.’

  Otte looked up and said, ‘Please do not argue.’

  But they took no notice. Duckling said, ‘You’re the one who doesn’t listen. You think she’s answering you, but she’s not. You’ve got to be suspicious, Pummel, or people will walk right over you. I thought you’d learned that in the Strong-hold.’

  ‘What I learned in the Strong-hold,’ snarled Pummel, ‘was that you can’t be trusted!’

  Then he turned his back on Duckling and didn’t say another word to her for three days.

  It is working, thought Sooli. My great-grandmother’s murderers are fighting among themselves. Soon the raashk and the Wind’s Blessing will be mine.

  Although, if she was being completely honest with herself (and she must try to be, because she was Bayam), Duckling and Pummel still did not seem like killers. If Sooli had met them under any other circumstances, she might even have liked them.

  She wondered, for just a breath or two, if she was doing the right thing. What if they were telling the truth? What if Great-Grandmother had given them the raashk and the Wind’s Blessing?

  But then she would have taught them the secrets, and they would not have had to come to me with their questions. They would know what to do!

  She remembered her great-grandmother’s wrinkled face, and grief struck her all over again.

  ‘I am trying, Great-Grandmother,’ she whispered. ‘I am doing my best to be a proper Bayam.’

  With that, she hardened her heart once more against the newcomers. She had promised herself that she would get the slave children out of the mine and set them free. She had promised the raashk and the Wind’s Blessing that she would reunite them with her own power.

  And she could see only one way to do it.

  The chicken was growing frantic. Danger was coming closer and closer, and although she crept into Wilygirl’s dreams every night, the child would not listen to her.

  I must approach this another way, thought the chicken.

  But before she could work out what that way might be, a movement on the other side of the tunnel caught her eye.

  Earwig! thought her chicken self.

  No, said he
r other self, and she tried to concentrate on old secrets, and on old enemies who had risen from the dead.

  Earwig, insisted her chicken self. Crunchy!

  No, her other self repeated. I have work to do.

  She had tried to sing the old songs the way they should be sung. She had tried to say the names the way they should be said. But nothing had worked, not as she needed it to work. She was helpless, and danger was coming.

  Her chicken eye drifted to the earwig again.

  Crunchy …

  It was impossible to resist. She did her best, but her chicken legs carried her across the tunnel to a small pile of scorched wood.

  Earwig!

  More earwig!

  Her beak darted out. She snatched up one plump little body after another, clucking with delight. Her strong claws scratched at the wood.

  MORE earwig!

  But then something snagged at her mind. With a huge effort, she managed to drag her attention back to where it should be.

  The scorched wood …

  She could not say the names. But perhaps she could write them.

  With one last wistful glance at the remaining earwigs, she picked up a piece of blackened wood in her beak, and began to search for a flat bit of wall.

  Duckling hated not talking to Pummel, but she wasn’t ready to apologise, not when he was in the wrong. He didn’t apologise either, so she couldn’t tell him about her strange, urgent dreams. Or about the awful feeling she had that they were running out of time, and that if they didn’t get out soon, they wouldn’t get out at all.

  She had no faith in Sooli’s promises, but her own efforts weren’t getting her anywhere. She couldn’t persuade Perkin or the other guards to tell her anything, not without coin. She’d tried watching them, to see if a sudden attack might take them by surprise, but they were as wary as cats, and their whips and cudgels were always at the ready.

  As for the secret tunnel, Duckling had tried twice to get closer to the entrance, and failed both times.

  Third time lucky, she told herself, and she set off for the old part of the mine once again.