‘Some creep grabbed Maisy, so Clementine grabbed him back,’ I say. ‘And if we don’t hurry, we’ll be neck-deep in guards.’
Teddy just nods, grabs my arm and says, ‘This way.’
‘Did you find a way off the train?’
‘Sort of.’
There’s no time for further questioning. We squeeze down the corridors of six more carriages, stopping only to grab our packs from our compartment. Every time I cross a swinging metal platform, the wind slaps my face with a reminder of the weather we’ll face down below. Staying on this train now means certain death, but escaping it – here, in the middle of the mountains – will probably mean the same.
‘There’s one good thing, at least,’ Teddy mutters, pressing a hand against the wall to steady himself. ‘Feel that angle?’
I frown, confused for a moment. Then I feel it. The train is tilting slightly downwards now, angling its weight towards the front carriages. It’s as though the train has stopped its upward climb into the mountains, and is now winching its way down the other side . . .
‘We’re over the peaks?’ I say.
‘That’s what I’m hoping,’ Teddy says. ‘If we’ve gotta get off this train in the mountains, better to do it on the downhill slope.’
The last carriage is larger than the others, and there’s no safety rail to help us clamber inside. For a second, terror seizes my throat and I think I’m going to fall. But I can’t afford to be weak now; not when Maisy is shaking and Clementine is still clenching her fists with rage. This crew needs every level-headed member it can get.
The carriage, as it turns out, is not designed for passengers. Half the floor is filled with cargo: leather trundle cases and barrels of supplies. The other half is caged off, separated by a mesh of metal that sparks whenever the carriage jolts.
‘What’s back there?’ I ask.
Teddy shakes his head. ‘Dunno, but I’d bet ten silvers it’s nothing good.’
I remember our conversation about the recently extended train line, about why King Morrigan would waste so much tax revenue to give richies a holiday in Gunning. Maybe this is the real reason for the sky rail: this unknown cargo in the back of the train.
I step closer, keen to peer through the mesh, but a gasp from Clementine brings me to reality. She points back through the tiny window on the carriage door. The glass is blurry, obscured by fog, but a faint shadow moves outside. Did someone see us slip into this cargo carriage?
‘Hide!’
If we had time, we could burrow into a pile of cargo, then rearrange the racks to hide ourselves. But our pursuer will be here in seconds, and there is no time to move a thing. We throw ourselves into the darkest corner we can find, behind a well-balanced stack of kitchen supplies. My face is crushed against a sack of flour, and I strain my muscles to pull back my weight. If I lean too heavily against this bag, it might tip forward and . . .
The carriage door flies open.
A pair of guards burst inside on a flurry of icy wind: one man, one woman. They hold pistols ahead of them, aiming nervously into the dark recesses of the carriage. At first I think it’s ridiculous for professional guards to seem so afraid of us. We’re just a bunch of half-starved teenagers. But they’re looking for a girl who held a knife to someone’s eye and threatened to slice it out, aren’t they? And they’re probably on edge already, considering the crazed influx of passengers after the fire. They might even be afraid the Gunning arsonist snuck aboard this train . . .
‘Show yourself!’ says the nearest guard. He’s a middle-aged man with a bit of a belly, but still fit enough for the muscles to shift visibly when he adjusts his grip on his gun. ‘Come out now, or we’ll shoot.’
I try to control the sound of my breathing. I don’t need to hold my breath completely, luckily, because the sway and rattle of the train is enough to conceal it. If he comes any closer, though, we’ll be in trouble.
I sense a movement behind me, as though someone is sliding a hand into fabric. It’s Maisy, reaching into the side pocket of our largest pack. She keeps her gaze upon the guards and feels around with her fingertips, wide-eyed and trembling against my shoulder. Then she withdraws her hand and holds out a pair of magnetic plates.
The guards are searching the cargo now, shining lights into every nook and cranny they spot. In twenty seconds they’ll be upon us, shining that beam into our startled faces. I don’t think two magnets will be enough, but the others must be too hard to reach because Maisy doesn’t reach into the pocket again. She slides the first magnet onto the floor, pinning it beneath the edge of a sack of potatoes. Then she thrusts the other into a crack between two biscuit tins, and turns to look at me.
I try to build my illusion. I picture our corner, dark and empty, with nothing but dust and potato sacks. I struggle to push the illusion outward, to paint the image between those magnets like strands of spider web. There’s a yank behind my gut and then it’s done: an unnatural shimmer upon the air.
A second later, the guard is here. He shines his light towards our corner, then gives a snarl of frustration. This is the last corner for them to check in the carriage; if we’re not here, they’ll have to go back and search the rest of the train.
The train crosses a pylon hook, and the carriage lurches. The shelf holding the biscuit tins jerks sideways. Only a centimetre at most, but it’s enough to disrupt the flow between the magnets and cause a momentary hitch in the sheen of my illusion. The flaw only lasts a second – a jerk, a shimmer in the air. But the guard’s eyes widen and he leans in closer, fingers on the trigger.
I hold my breath. I can feel the others do the same; Maisy digs painfully into my shoulder, and one of Teddy’s knees is pushing against my gut. I’m still tensing my muscles, straining to hold back my own weight – and the others’ now, too – from tipping aside the sack of flour.
‘Hey!’ The female guard gestures at the wire mesh partitioning the carriage. ‘Reckon someone could hide back there?’
The guard above us pauses, then pulls away to follow his companion’s gaze. ‘Don’t think so. What’s back there, anyway?’
‘No idea. Boss said it was above my pay grade. Hers too, matter of fact.’
The man laughs. ‘That’d be right. Anyway, how the hell could someone get through that? It’s all lit up with alchemy juice.’
As he speaks, silver sparks across the mesh.
‘Let’s get out of here. I reckon the girl’s nicked off to a compartment.’
They yank open the carriage door and barrel into the cold outside. The door slams and we wait several seconds before daring to move. Then I release my breath in a low gush. It sets off a domino chain of relieved exhalations from the others.
‘I reckoned we were goners,’ says Teddy, cracking a shaky grin. ‘Good job on the illusion, Danika.’
‘It was Maisy’s idea,’ I say.
I turn to Maisy, suddenly remembering her terror when the man grabbed her. She is no longer trembling, but she looks at the floor to avoid my gaze. I open my mouth to ask if she’s all right, but Clementine cuts me off. ‘What’s the plan, Teddy?’
‘Huh?’
‘I thought you had an idea for getting off this train. And it had better not involve jumping, because from this height –’
‘Nah, not jumping,’ says Teddy. ‘I was looking out the window at those pylons, right? They’ve put it where it’s hard for passengers to see, but I stuck my neck out and I reckon they’ve got something buckled down the other side of the poles.’
‘You don’t mean –’
Teddy nods. ‘Ladders. They must have ’em, right? They need a way for maintenance crews to get up and down, to fix the cables . . . or if they need alchemists to update the spells on the cables . . .’
‘Wouldn’t they just choose workers with Air proclivities, so they could ride the wind?’
‘They would
n’t be able to carry much up with them, though. All their tools’d be too heavy, I reckon. They need ladders.’
‘We’d better hurry,’ I say, gathering up the magnets. ‘Those aren’t the only guards on this train – there could be another pair along any minute now.’
We stuff our packs with food: a sack of flour, potatoes, a tin of cocoa powder and even fresh oranges. Maisy finds a leather knapsack and empties it out, spilling fancy stationery and bringing our tally of packs back up to four. She adds a box of mixed spice and herbs, then we pile in oats and dried fruits. I grab a few wineskins we can use to carry water. The last addition is a hefty bag of candied nuts.
‘We’ll need the energy,’ says Teddy. ‘Anyway, I reckon my tastebuds have earned a reward after all that cold porridge.’
When I think of the snow, and how freezing nights will increase our hunger, I crack open a biscuit tin and cram its contents into my pockets. I hack open the nearest few cases and rifle through their contents until I find warmer clothing. The others realise what I’m doing and mimic my actions, until we’re all dressed in thick winter travelling coats and gloves.
‘Ready?’ says Clementine.
I nod. If we had time, I would rummage through the other containers for supplies – blankets, perhaps, or a medical kit. But we don’t have time to waste searching, and can’t afford to carry baggage that might not contain anything useful. ‘Let’s go.’
‘The train stops to recharge every fifteen minutes,’ reminds Teddy. ‘As soon as it stops, we’d better move quick – we’ll only get twenty seconds to get out of its way.’
We strap the packs on securely before we open the door, and a lash of winter wind hits us. The cold is so sharp that it hurts my face, but it’s remarkable how the travelling clothes protect the rest of my body. I’m glad that richies are so intent on buying high quality garments.
Clementine slams the door shut. ‘Let’s wait until the train slows down.’
We all nod in agreement. Better to wait here than brave the cold. But still, I don’t want to imagine what will happen if we move too slowly. If the train begins to move again before we’re safely away, we’ll be crushed: smeared like insects against the pylon, or knocked aside to fall through the fog below. Either way, our deaths will not be pretty.
As soon as the train hints at slowing, we fling open the door. There isn’t room for all of us on the platform. I let the twins sidle out first, while Teddy and I wait in the carriage doorway. The train takes a century to stop. Theoretically, I know it’s only a minute, but the freezing wind and my fear of the guards is enough to make each second drag.
Then it happens. We jerk to a halt and I stumble and almost fall backwards into the baggage cart. But there’s no time to readjust, because our twenty seconds are already ticking away.
‘Go!’ says Teddy.
Clementine reaches for the pylon. She lurches out into the fog and for a terrible instant I think she is falling. But then she steadies herself and clambers around and out of sight. I let out a shaky breath; she’s found the ladder.
Maisy follows. She’s fast and light, but in my head I’m already counting down the seconds. The wind soaks my gloves with an icy damp, and I don’t know if I’ll even be able to grip the ladder when my turn comes. Fourteen, thirteen, twelve seconds to go . . .
Teddy waits for a precious three seconds until he leaps. I know it’s not his fault; he can’t move until the others are out of the way. But I’m still shouting at him to ‘Go, go, go!’ by the time he hurls his body at the pylon.
And suddenly it’s my turn. I throw myself off the platform. My gloves slip, but I manage to grab a handhold on the side of the pylon. I take a terrified huff of air and stiffen my muscles. Teddy hasn’t moved far enough down the ladder yet; if I swing around now, we’re going to collide.
There are five seconds left, then four, three, two . . .
I swing around to the back of the pole, into the space Teddy has vacated, with a second to spare. The top of the pylon jerks above us, spitting light along the silver cables. And then the train is gone, shooting off with a blast of fuel and alchemy.
‘Is everyone all right?’ shouts Clementine, somewhere down in the fog. I can’t see her – in fact, I can’t even see my own feet, let alone anyone further down the ladder.
‘Yes! We all made it,’ I say.
‘All right,’ Clementine says, ‘I’m going down.’
I count to ten before I begin my own descent. Hopefully that’s enough time for the others to cover some ground. I’m afraid I might step on Teddy’s fingers, or kick him in the head. That could be enough to make him fall. The back of my neck is itching again, worse than ever, and I find myself pondering the odds of spontaneously developing an Air proclivity if I slip off the ladder. It doesn’t help that I’m favouring one arm, keeping weight off the shoulder that I dislocated in Rourton. The injury is largely healed but I’m afraid of jerking it out of place again.
Our descent is slow. This mountain wind seems harsher than even the rapids in the river, and doubly cold. Everything is white, as though I’m climbing through a cloud. In a way, I suppose I am. It’s a risky thing to imagine, because the whole world begins to feel like a dream. My only link to reality is the cold rungs of the ladder right in front of my eyes. There is nothing up, nothing down, nothing to my sides. Just white.
Maybe it’s disorientation, or maybe the air up here is too thin, but – for whatever reason – I want to let go. I want to float away into the clouds like a bird. I have to shake my head, grit my teeth and remind myself that this is real. This is not a dream. If I let go of this ladder, I will die.
My toes turn numb with cold after several minutes of climbing. After a while, I can’t even feel the itch in the back of my neck. If I didn’t know better, I might welcome the numbness as a relief from the pain. But I’ve survived enough winters to know the perils of frostbite. I don’t want to end up like the girl I shared a doorway with once, who peeled off her boots and left her toes inside.
As we descend, the fog begins to clear. The morning sun grows strong enough to burn the mist, and I start to see Teddy’s figure below. Then I make out Maisy, and finally Clementine. I’m no longer lost in a sea of white. We clamber down one leg of the pylon, which props up the main pole, forcing us to climb at a diagonal. The ladder falls into a brownish mess of trees below.
Finally, we reach the bottom. I collapse into half-frozen sludge and undergrowth. The others already lie nearby. Their chests rise and fall in steady huffs, gasping clouds into the frost. And I just lie there, relishing the cold of mud beneath my spine. It’s solid. The world is solid again. I’m no longer in danger of floating away.
As my senses return to normal, I realise the undergrowth is coated with mucky snow. We are up in the mountains, not down in the fields, and the cold here could kill us on a whim. If we hope to survive this trek, we must always be prepared to defend ourselves – not just against hunters, but against the climate.
There is no real shelter here: just the railway cables, swallowed by cloud above our heads. And once the guards figure out how we escaped, the first place searched will be the base of these pylons.
I force myself onto my knees. ‘Come on. We’ve got to move.’
Clementine moans and the others just ignore me. I want desperately to join them, to close my eyes and pretend that none of this is happening. But one of us has to get the crew moving. Radnor is dead. Hackel tried to sell us to the hunters. So if no one else wants the job, it looks like I’m stuck taking charge.
‘Come on,’ I say again. ‘You can rest soon, I promise.’
No response.
‘We’ve just got to find a safe spot, that’s all, and then we’ll set up camp and –’
Teddy runs a hand through his hair. ‘Yeah, all right, Danika. No need to ramble on about it. We’re coming.’
I help pull t
he others to their feet. We sling the packs back on and stagger forward into the snow. Our only luck is the bristly undergrowth, which stops us leaving any obvious footprints.
Hours fade together in an endless haze of white and brown. Snow and trees. The only variety is occasional wildlife: birds above the canopy, and a startled rabbit in the undergrowth. Clementine mutters that we should have caught it for supper, but none of us has the slightest clue how to hunt. We’re city born and bred, and the only food I’ve hunted for was found in a restaurant rubbish bin. Besides, I don’t think I could bring myself to kill the rabbit. Not when it’s out here, like us, just fighting to survive. I know how it feels to be hunted.
The sun treks across the sky, melting away the rest of the fog. As the horizon clears, I’m relieved to see that Teddy’s earlier guess was correct. We’ve already passed over the highest peaks, and we’re heading down through the southern slopes. Even so, the air is cold enough to sting. I don’t want to imagine what would have happened if we’d ditched the train an hour earlier. Up in the bite of the highest peaks, lashed by wind and frostbite, we would already be dead.
In early afternoon, Maisy points out one of the mountaintops. When she speaks, her voice is oddly tight. ‘I think that’s Midnight Crest.’
At first I think the peak’s completely bare: just rock and snow, silhouetted against the sky. Then I squint, and realise what I’m really staring at. Ruins. The ruins of a fortress, perhaps – perched like a broken bird on the summit.
‘I didn’t realise we were so close,’ Maisy says quietly. ‘It’s from the time of the earliest Morrigan kings, hundreds of years ago.’
‘Why would anyone want to live up there?’ Clementine says.
‘It wasn’t for living. It was death row for traitors. They were bound inside magnetic cells, and left to slowly die in the cold.’
I stare up at the ruins. There isn’t much left now: just broken stone and blackened wood, half-buried in snow. But my imagination fills in the details. I picture walls of oak arching high over stone. Metal bars. Frostbitten fingers. Frozen breath and faltering heartbeats.
Chasing the Valley Page 18
