He snaps his fingers.
There’s a shout from the market, and we all spin around. Fire leaps up between the stalls, and I know instantly that something is very wrong. This is not the spark of a cooking fire – it’s the roar of bursting flame. People are screaming, the music of the radio cuts off, and fragments of stalls burst sideways as though a bomb has exploded.
‘What’s going on?’ I gasp.
Hackel laughs. ‘People shouldn’t store so much alcohol near their cooking fires.’
‘You did this? Why?’
He shrugs. ‘I like a bit of chaos. Gives me a better chance to smuggle you out of here, Glynn, without anyone trying to steal my prize.’
Maisy is clenching her fists, clearly trying to snuff out the fire, but nothing much happens. A cry of frustration escapes her lips, and Hackel laughs.
‘You haven’t had your proclivity long, have you, Pembroke?’ he says. ‘Well, I have. I’m a much more experienced friend of the flames than you are, and they’ll listen to me before a little pipsqueak like you.’
He tightens his grip around Clementine’s neck and she makes a horrible noise. I don’t know if she can’t breathe or if it’s just the sound of terror.
‘Let her go!’ I say. ‘I’ll come with you, all right, just . . .’
‘You swear?’ Hackel tightens his grip again.
‘Yes, all right! I swear.’
‘Good,’ says Hackel, glancing around the rest of my crew. ‘Because that fire is under my control, and right now it’s contained to the market. But if anyone tries to stop us, the fire is going to explode and a lot of people are going to burn. Got it?’
The others nod, looking pale.
Hackel slams Clementine back into the wall and grabs me, dragging me out towards the end of the alley. I twist back to see a couple of the others about to follow, but I shake my head. ‘No, don’t!’
A small, selfish part of me wishes that they won’t listen – that they’ll intervene and save me. But what would that achieve? Hackel could burn them all. No, it’s better that they let him take me. Perhaps I can break away later, before he hands me over to the hunters . . .
Lukas runs towards us, raising a fistful of silver charms. ‘Let her go, you smuggler scum, or I’ll –’
‘You’ll what? Set your father’s army on me?’
I twist aside, trying to catch Lukas’s eyes. But he looks away from me and flinches when I ask, ‘Lukas, what’s he talking about?’
‘Nothing, Danika. He’s a liar. Don’t listen to him!’
‘Interesting you should say that,’ says Hackel. ‘I was always taught it takes a liar to know one.’
‘You can’t –’
‘Oh yes,’ Hackel grins. ‘I can.’ He turns back to me with a glint in his eyes. ‘I’d like to introduce you to Prince Lukas Morrigan, son of the king.’
My heart stops.
Hackel pauses, letting this sink in, before he adds, ‘And he was the pride of the royal air force, I believe, until your flare shot his biplane out of the sky.’
Shock. There’s no other word for it. I can’t think, can’t feel. Everything is numb and cold, even among the smoke from Hackel’s fire. Lukas is a prince. Lukas is a prince. Everything he has told me is a lie. He is a Morrigan, a member of the family who killed my parents. Who killed my brother.
And he is the pilot of a bombing plane.
‘You –’ I choke out, but there’s suddenly a crash of heat and fire from the square.
I fall to the ground, knocked down by a whump! of energy. It’s like being whacked by a sledgehammer; everything throbs as my body crashes onto the stone below. Hackel has clearly lost control of the market fire. It erupts in a tumult of alcohol and cooking fuel, too wild and engorged for his proclivity to govern.
Hackel grabs for me, but a figure looms out of the shadows and smashes a chunk of broken brick into his head. Hackel falls, spurting blood from his forehead, and his skull makes a nasty cracking sound upon the street. His eyes do not reopen.
‘Come on!’ says Teddy, throwing aside his brick, and I barely register what’s happening before he drags me to my feet. Clementine and Maisy join us and we run. We pelt towards the square, towards the fire, leaving Hackel’s body behind. The fire is spreading now – leaping between barrels of alcohol, shooting up like firecrackers – and I whip my head around, frantic. ‘Where’s Lukas?’
Teddy shakes his head. ‘Who cares? He’s a royal, Danika!’
And I know it’s true, but I can’t help taking one last glance around for the boy with the bright green eyes. He’s gone. He has fled into the smoke, disappeared forever. Now that his lie has been exposed, Lukas can’t face us. He must be too afraid, too cowardly to face up to our fury. My fury.
A horrible snarl escapes my throat. I’ve never felt so furious, so betrayed. If I got my hands on Lukas Morrigan right now I might attack him. But there’s no chance of that, in the smoke and flames of Gunning’s burning marketplace. So I flee with the others and join the throng that heads downhill towards the outskirts of town.
People pour out of buildings, screaming and hauling their children. One old man drags a keg of wine behind him, and I want to stop and shout at him that alcohol is flammable. But he’s lost in the crowd, just another panicked face in the night.
Some people run towards the market, thrusting out their hands. They must be people with Flame proclivities, running off to control the fire. I feel a moment of admiration for their courage, but there isn’t much I can do to help. I don’t even know what my proclivity is yet, so I’m about as useful as the knee-high children that scurry through the crowd.
‘What do we do?’ says Clementine, her face concealed by a mass of sweaty blonde hair.
Teddy hesitates. ‘We blend in. We pretend we’re just normal travellers, caught up in this mess. No one will pay us much attention now, not with this going on.’
Soon our faces are covered with soot. The crowd surges down the major streets of Gunning until we reach the southern wall. But people don’t pass through the gate; instead, they simply mill around in terror. I notice a group of richies about twenty metres away, dressed in shining party clothes. Some look furious, others terrified, but they don’t seem to be talking to each other much. It’s like they’re strangers, brought together for the sake of a party . . . They must be the richies that Lukas mentioned, the tourists holding a gambling event in the Gunning hotel.
Then I see the reason for the holdup. Guards.
This is the first time I’ve seen guards in Gunning; they must have spent their evening in the bar or something, because they sure weren’t guarding the town earlier. Now they’re checking people as they pass through the gates. They seem to be letting the rich partygoers through, and occasionally a family of locals that they obviously recognise, but no one else. Anyone suspicious is pushed back into the crowd and imprisoned within Gunning’s walls.
The guards are weeding out suspects, I realise. That fire was too strong for a mere accident. By the time it’s extinguished, the locals will want someone to blame. If we’re trapped inside this town, looking like strange travellers, we will be questioned. No doubt about it. And when the guards see my face . . .
‘The clothes!’ I say. ‘Come on, I’ve got an idea.’
We hurry down a nearby alleyway, beyond the view of the panicking masses. I rifle through our packs, searching for the bag of Clementine’s sparkly evening clothes.
‘What are you after?’ says Teddy.
‘Remember what Lukas said? There were a bunch of richies having a party in the hotel tonight – I think that’s them over there! If we dress in some nicer clothes, maybe we can pretend we’re in their group.’
‘What’s the point in that?’
I pull out a glittery purple headpiece. ‘Well, for a start, they won’t expect a biplane shooter to show up wear
ing this.’
‘Or a refugee crew to be dressed in silk blouses,’ adds Clementine, plunging into the bag with sudden enthusiasm.
‘Hate to break it to you,’ Teddy says, ‘but I don’t reckon I could pull off a ball gown.’
‘Here,’ says Clementine. She thrusts a bundle of fabric into Teddy’s arms. ‘This should be all right for a boy.’
It’s a light trench coat, and the only sign of glitter is a turtle-shaped brooch on the collar. Teddy unpins it, buttons the coat over his chest and offers a cocky grin. He could do with a tie and a neater haircut, but in the middle of this chaos he might just pass for a flustered richie.
I slip into a long satin skirt covered with ruffles and bows. Its only saving grace is that it puffs over my trousers, saving me from the need to undress entirely. Clementine selects a silky violet dress and Maisy locates a jade-coloured blazer. The green shine reminds me suddenly of Lukas’s eyes, and betrayal hits me again like a slap.
‘I’ll go in front,’ says Teddy.
‘Why?’
He grins. ‘I’m pretty good at bluffing.’
There’s no use arguing with that. We follow him closely, clutching each other’s sleeves to keep from being separated in the crowd. I’m worried that our packs might give us away – why would a bunch of richies carry travellers’ packs away from a party? But other people have saved stranger possessions from the flames – patchwork quilts, a child’s rocking horse and even a double bass – so our packs seem relatively normal in the throng.
The crowd surges and we’re shoved forward, crushed in a sea of bodies and shrieks. Everything tastes of smoke and sweat, and soon my face is squashed into a local woman’s massive head of curls. I spit a few strands of hair from my lips and try not to inhale the stink of urine as I trip against a little boy. He’s trying to cover a wet patch on his pyjamas and I can’t help feeling sorry for him; he must have been startled out of bed by the fire. Children are screaming in all directions, their wails distorted eerily through the smoke.
The air gets hotter and thicker as we approach the gate. Guards bearing rifles block most of the gate and the crowd is being squeezed through like toothpaste from a tube. We’re only a few metres away from freedom, then even closer, and finally we’re face to face with the guards themselves.
‘Hey, fellas,’ says Teddy, with an artfully performed drunken grin. ‘Talk about a party, eh?’
The guards exchange glances.
‘We’re together,’ Teddy adds, gesturing at me and the twins. ‘We were at the hotel – this town has really good beer, you know . . .’
The nearest guard raises an eyebrow at my sparkly headpiece. I duck my head a little, pretending to be in tears from shock – or maybe just intoxication – when really I’m hoping he won’t recognise my face.
‘All right, hurry up,’ he says, and waves us on.
As we pass through the gates, the crowd surges again and a funnel of bodies spits us out into the night. The hillside is covered with people – richies, locals, crying children – but I keep a firm grip on Maisy’s shoulder. The last thing we need is to lose each other.
‘What now?’ whispers Clementine.
I shake my head. There’s no hope of running off into the fields – not yet, anyway. There are guards on a turret above the wall now; they’re keeping their rifles trained on the crowd. The situation grows more chaotic by the minute. The real richies remind me of rats in an alleyway, squeaking their heads off as they scurry through the dark. Then I feel guilty for making the comparison, because rats are actually quite smart. They’d be better at surviving than this lot, anyway.
‘They can’t keep us here forever,’ Teddy points out. ‘Once the fire’s out, I reckon they’ll let us go.’
‘Go where, though?’ Clementine says. ‘We were relying on Hackel to guide us . . . what are we supposed to do now?’
She’s right. Even if we escape this crowd, we’re in serious trouble. We’ve got no food, no plan, no guide. We don’t even have a map, apart from the cryptic second verse of the star-shine song.
There’s a blast of steam from the hillside below. It’s followed by a sharp whistle, so loud that several nearby richies scream.
‘The train!’ I say.
The others’ eyes widen, but Clementine shakes her head. ‘The guards won’t let anyone leave Gunning, will they?’
But as we watch, richie partygoers push towards the train. They brandish fistfuls of coins, shouting over each other to purchase tickets. The guards don’t move to stop them; clearly, these people aren’t suspects in the fire. They’re just stupid drunks, here for the booze and the gambling, and the guards won’t bother to stop them from fleeing town. If anything, getting rid of these richies will make their investigation easier. Tomorrow morning they can rough up the town’s scruffers – and probably shoot a few scapegoats – without any hungover tourists getting in the way.
‘Come on!’ Clementine says, but the rest of us don’t need telling. We’re already pushing into the surge, baying for tickets like the rest of the crowd. From here, I can make out the train’s name, painted in gleaming gold upon her side: Bird of the North.
A railway employee is selling tickets from a basket, grinning like he’s won the lottery. No wonder he’s happy; in all this confusion, he’ll probably pocket half the proceeds. His bosses won’t have a clue how many richies piled aboard their train.
Clementine squeezes through the shouting masses just long enough to purchase four tickets. Then she’s back by our sides, clutching the tickets in sweaty palms as though they’re made of gold. To us, of course, they’re worth even more. Those little scraps of paper might save our lives.
We make it to the platform and stumble inside a carriage. The walls are lined with dark velvet, ready to appeal to richie passengers. There are small compartments along the corridor, obviously designed for couples, but we all squeeze into one of them and slam the door. There are so many passengers crammed onto this train that our choice to share a compartment should look reasonable rather than suspicious.
It’s lucky we’re all so thin after our days of hunger, because otherwise we’d have trouble fitting inside. Teddy takes one seat, Clementine and Maisy squish onto the other, and I’m left to perch atop our packs in the middle. Soon there’s another whistle and the thud of slamming doors.
Then we’re off, blasting with a jolt into the night.
‘Lucky they extended the train line to Gunning,’ I say.
None of the others respond. The shock is wearing off now, fading into sheer exhaustion. But if I let myself succumb, if I give into the silence, there will be no distraction from what happened tonight. I will have to face up to it – all of it. The wanted posters, Hackel’s betrayal, the fire . . . and Lukas Morrigan, son of the king.
For all I know, Lukas could be dead by now. Maybe he burned in the fire. Wasn’t that what I wanted, for all the Morrigans to burn like my family? But all I can see is his green eyes, his smile, the calculated betrayal as he pulls his kite down from the stars.
It makes an awful kind of sense now. Why Lukas appeared in the forest, only a day’s travel from the crashed biplane. Why the plane’s captain was missing from the wreck. Why he carried so many priceless alchemic objects, why he knew so much about Sharr Morrigan, who must be his cousin . . . The thought makes me feel nauseated, so I pummel my forehead with my knuckles and try to restart the conversation.
‘I wonder why they extended the train line,’ I say. ‘Maisy, didn’t you say this part of the line didn’t exist when your encyclopedia was printed?’
Maisy nods. ‘And the book’s only a few years old. They must have extended the line very recently.’
‘I thought most of the tax funds were being spent on the war effort . . . you wouldn’t have thought they’d waste all that cash on a train line to Gunning, of all places.’
‘I
reckon the bureaucrats were just keen for a party at the Gunning Hotel,’ says Teddy. ‘Wouldn’t put it past ’em.’
‘It’s strange,’ says Maisy. ‘The railway never came this far north because it was too hard to cross the mountains. They tried tunnelling through, decades ago, but the earth was too unstable. And they can’t just run a track over the mountaintops – not with the height of those peaks, and the risk of snowfall and falling trees . . .’ She frowns. ‘I wonder how they’ve done it.’
‘And why they’ve done it,’ I add.
We fall into silence, staring out the compartment window. It’s dark outside, so mostly we just see our own reflections, but occasionally a farmhouse or village will provide enough light to pierce the glass.
Maisy’s question is answered after several hours of travel, when we reach the top of a craggy hill. The country around here is ridiculously uneven – it’s obvious from the train’s movements that we’re heading towards the mountains. Just as we’re cresting the top of the hill, there’s a violent jolt in our carriage.
I jerk upright, startled out of my misery. The others are suddenly alert and wide-eyed. Their knuckles whiten on the edges of their seats. There’s another jerk, then a whistle. Something yanks from above, as though the train is a fish on a hook.
‘What’s going on?’
‘I don’t know!’
The carriage lifts. Machinery grinds, the whistle blasts, and then our carriage clunks up to meet the sky. I stagger upright and heave our window open. A blast of freezing air floods the compartment, but I stick my head outside.
A vast concrete pylon sprouts from the top of the hill, illuminated by the train’s headlight. Dozens more punctuate the route ahead, painting a line of pylons up into the encroaching mountains. They are joined by a thick network of stone and cables, arranged like an upside-down lacework. The cables spark with silver and alchemy. Our train has been jerked up away from the ground and now we dangle from the cables, ready to be winched towards the mountains.
Chasing the Valley Page 16
