Chasing the Valley

by Skye Melki-Wegner

  Someone nudges me. I turn to see Clementine’s quiet twin tilting her head as though to ask permission to pass.

  ‘May I have a look?’ she says, so shyly that I barely make out her words.

  ‘Go ahead,’ I say, and make space for her to squeeze between the trees.

  She bends down to examine the plane, a frown upon her face. For a second I think she doesn’t believe me – that she’s about to search the cabin for the pilot’s body. But instead she peers beneath a broken wing.

  ‘Six bombs,’ she says.

  ‘What?’

  She straightens up and looks at Clementine. ‘There are still six alchemy bombs, ready to launch. That’s the maximum these biplanes can carry, isn’t it?’

  We all nod. Even in years when the bombs don’t fall, we’re regularly treated to displays of biplanes soaring overhead. They’re a constant threat to ensure we behave, so we make damn sure to learn as much about them as possible. Everyone knows these biplanes carry six bombs each: no more.

  ‘So,’ I say, ‘this pilot was part of the bombing crew. He had a full load of alchemy bombs. But he didn’t drop them on the city, and he waited around afterwards for . . . what?’

  Radnor gazes at the smoking metal. ‘Must’ve had a special mission. Maybe he was going to bomb the survivors, to take us out when we thought it was safe again.’

  Silence. I feel a little sick. In the aftermath of the bombing, so many people were out on the streets. If this plane was waiting to launch a second strike . . .

  ‘You might have saved a lot of lives, Danika,’ says Teddy. ‘Hey, we should throw a plane-smashing party! Can you believe it, what you’ve just done? You’ve taken out one of the king’s own biplanes.’ He grins. ‘Anyone got a bottle of wine?’

  The impact of his words hits me hard in the throat. ‘Oh no.’

  ‘What’s wrong? Don’t you see, this is awesome!’ Teddy raises his fist in a pump of triumph. ‘This must be the best blow that anyone’s struck against the palace in decades.’

  I shake my head, trying to hide the fear that’s just taken seed in my gut. ‘And don’t you think the palace has noticed?’

  Teddy’s grin fades and he drops his fist. ‘Oh.’

  ‘We might’ve struck a blow against the palace,’ I say, ‘but we’ve also blown ourselves to the top of the palace’s kill list.’

  ‘Every hunter in the land is going to be gunning for us,’ says Radnor tightly, glancing between the wreckage and my face. ‘You’re gonna be the most hunted person in Taladia.’

  ‘Imagine the price they’ll put on your head,’ says Clementine. ‘They’ll plaster your face across the papers, on wanted posters . . . The scruffer who shot a biplane from the sky! Whoever catches you will win a fortune.’

  ‘Trust a richie to think about money,’ mutters Teddy.

  ‘It was an accident!’ I say. ‘I didn’t even know the plane was there.’

  ‘You think the king will care?’ says Radnor.

  Clementine throws up her hands. ‘Well, you can’t come with us! This trip is already dangerous enough, thank you very much.’

  ‘Danika saved our lives!’ says Teddy. ‘Anyway, we already had hunters after us. What difference will a few more make?’ He gives a cocky grin. ‘We can get away from a few overfed palace buffoons.’

  ‘A few overfed buffoons?’ says Clementine. ‘I’m glad you think this is so amusing, but I refuse to treat this journey like a game. If we stay with this scruffer girl, Nort, we are all going to die.’

  ‘Bit melodramatic, don’t you reckon?’ Teddy says.

  I gaze down at the remains of the plane. It still doesn’t feel real. How could I, a runty little scruffer kid from Rourton, destroy a palace biplane? Clementine is right. I’ll have half the kingdom after me, all eager to set an example of the fate that awaits traitors. As long as I stay here, I’m a danger to the crew.

  ‘I’ll go,’ I say. ‘I won’t be responsible for the rest of you getting caught.’

  ‘They’re gonna kill us if they find us, anyway,’ says Teddy. ‘I reckon your illusion skills are the best hope we’ve got.’

  ‘If they’re busy chasing me, maybe they’ll leave the rest of you alone. This could be your chance to get out of the forest, to find the river . . .’

  ‘Forget it, Danika,’ says Teddy. ‘They’ll be after all of us now. You set off the flare to help us escape, remember? They probably reckon we planned it all together.’ He brightens. ‘Hey, do you reckon the papers will run my old mugshot from the jewellery store heist? I reckon I look pretty dashing in that one.’

  Clementine shakes her head. ‘They won’t be able to identify us. It was dark, and –’

  ‘The city wall is lined with picture spells,’ says Radnor. ‘They’ll have images of all our faces by now.’

  A breeze eddies across the ruins of the plane, twisting smoke into the air. We all know what Radnor means. Rourton is a hive of rats: of whispers and rumours and dealings in the dark. The guards need only flash my picture around the dodgier end of town, and I can think of a dozen scruffers who’d sell my name for a fistful of coins. It won’t be hard to identify the richie twins, either, and as for the infamous Teddy Nort . . .

  We can never go back. If we set one foot back in Rourton now, we might as well sign our own death warrants. The realisation tightens in my stomach like a fist.

  ‘You should get going,’ I manage. ‘The smoke’s going to draw the hunters this way.’

  Radnor nods. ‘Come on, everyone.’

  ‘Her too?’ says Clementine sharply, tossing her head in my direction.

  ‘No, I’ll stay here,’ I say. ‘I mean, I’ll head off in another direction, and maybe –’

  Radnor shakes his head. ‘No, you’re part of the crew now, Danika. I want an illusionist on my side. Anyway, this is my crew and I make the rules. We don’t leave anyone behind, and we don’t betray each other – no matter what.’ He gives Clementine a stern glare. ‘If we can’t trust each other, we’re not going to survive.’

  Clementine doesn’t look convinced, but she nods. I hesitate before I do the same. Then I swing up onto Teddy’s foxary and tighten my grip on its fur.

  This is going to be a long ride.

  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 sell
ing 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 bel
ly. 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.’