I think of Lukas’s words, so many days ago. ‘The way he feels about that country . . . He doesn’t just want to conquer it. It’s something more. Something deeper.’
Flames crackle in the fire-pit. I stare into them, and try to work up the courage to speak. I rub my hands back and forth, slow and nervous.
Finally, I turn to Quirin. ‘Sir, do you know what’s happening with the catacombs?’
Quirin freezes, a lump of fish halfway to his lips. He lowers his hand, then fixes his gaze upon Silver. ‘What have you been telling them?’
‘Just the truth,’ Silver says. ‘They rode that bellyacher, Quirin – same as the rest of us. I’d judge they’ve a right to know what caused it.’
‘We owe your people a debt, sir,’ I say. ‘I thought maybe we could repay it by heading over to see if we can do anything, if we can somehow –’
Quirin makes a sound of disbelief. ‘You must think I’m stupid, girl. Last night you proved that you and your friends can’t even empty a bilge.’ He spits onto the rocks beside him. ‘I told you, Silver: just another gang of failed vigilantes, trying to get us to fight their wars for them.’
‘But –’
Quirin cuts me off. ‘Our people don’t concern themselves with kings. If this king of yours wants to invade the Valley, that’s your problem. Not ours.’ He looks at Silver. ‘If these brats are going to discharge their debt to you, give them a job that might actually make us some money.’
He pulls a little silver tube from his pocket. I think it’s a weapon – a strangely shaped pistol, perhaps – and I jerk back in alarm. Then I realise it’s just a flute.
‘What’s he doing?’
‘He’s a smuggler,’ Silver says. ‘Music is what we do. He’ll play in honour of those taken by the storm.’
I hesitate. I’ve never thought of smugglers as musicians before – but now that I think of it, why else would they hide their secrets in song?
Quirin presses the flute to his lips, and blows a few test notes. I don’t know what to expect – a jaunty folk song, perhaps, or some kind of ditty. But I’m wrong. The song is beautiful. Quiet notes spill from the end of his pipe, then roll up gently into the night. Despite myself, I close my eyes and listen. The notes melt together, echoing across the lagoon.
‘Gee,’ Teddy whispers. ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’
I glance at him, struck by his wistful tone. Tonight, with the crackle of a camp fire and star-shine above, it’s not hard to see why a smuggler’s life might tempt him. I haven’t heard music like this in such a long time. Not since my father brought home his precious radio. Those nights when my mother dressed us in our finest clothes, and we danced like royalty across our bare apartment floor . . .
But this time there is no static, nor stumbling or laughter as I trip around the room. There’s just the music, soft and haunting.
Quirin begins to sing. ‘Oh mighty yo, how the star-shine must go . . .’
My eyes snap open. This is our song – the smuggler’s song that led us across Taladia – but I’ve never heard it like this before. Quirin doesn’t choose the jaunty tune of a scruffer’s folk song. His arrangement is quiet. Yearning. Almost like a funeral song: ‘. . . to those deserts of green and beyond.’
He finishes the second verse, and I lift my hands in preparation to clap. But to my surprise, Quirin doesn’t look up. He blows a few soft notes on his flute, then opens his mouth. And this time, new words spill from his lips – another verse, a collection of lines I’ve never heard before.
Oh Valley’s vein,
How we swim through your pain,
From the prisoner’s pit to the sky.
With mine hand on the left,
I shall not spill my breath
From a tomb to a desert I rise.
Silence. I stare at my friends, slightly stunned. When it becomes clear that Quirin has finished, we break into hesitant applause.
‘What was that about?’ I ask Silver, as chatter resumes around the fire. ‘The third verse, I mean.’
‘Story of the prisoner.’
‘The prisoner?’
‘A smuggler legend,’ Silver says, shrugging. ‘Greatest smuggler of all, they say – a man who sold the king’s own battle plans to his enemies. Turned a tidy profit, too. The king locked him up in Midnight Crest, but he broke free and burned that prison to the ground.
‘So when they caught him, they locked him in the bowels of the earth. Down in the Pit, in the heart of the catacombs. He was supposed to die down there when the water came through.’ Silver pauses. ‘Meant to be symbolic, see? The king’s greatest enemy, killed by the king’s greatest triumph.’
‘But he escaped?’
‘Course he did,’ Silver says. ‘Our people ain’t afraid of kings.’
We sit in silence for a while. I still don’t know what to feel about Silver. Those hands shaped the first alchemy bomb. That mind selected the lethal combination that would someday kill my family. And yet . . . those fingers also wove the bone charm. The rose charm. The silver star.
I finish my potatoes and wipe the remaining grease upon the rocks. When I look up, I realise that Quirin is watching me. He rolls the flute between his fingers, letting it wink in the firelight. ‘See that scarf you’re wearing, girl?’
My fingers fly to my neck. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Why do you wear it?’
‘Because of the taboo,’ I say. ‘Because it’s disgraceful to –’
‘Yes, but why?’ Quirin says.
I frown. He might as well ask why it’s disgraceful to run about naked. ‘Because we’re not mature enough to use our proclivities. That’s the law. We have to hide our powers, wait until we’re old enough to –’
‘But why not just teach you to control your powers?’ Quirin says. ‘Why not help you to learn and grow and refine it while you’re young?’
I glance at my crewmates, uncertain. ‘Because that’s how society runs, sir. It’s always been like that.’
‘Oh? You think it’s like that everywhere? Have you seen so much of the world that you know how all societies run?’
‘I . . . Well, no, but –’
‘I have.’ Quirin’s voice is low, but vehement. ‘I’ve seen other societies. I’ve seen other lands. And I can tell you now, girl, that the taboo is not a universal law.’
He leans across, his face shadowed oddly in the firelight. ‘It’s a law of the king. A law of the Morrigans.’
‘Why?’
Quirin raises an eyebrow. ‘You’re the one who wants to fight the king. You’re the one who thinks you can stop him. Why don’t you tell me?’
No one speaks.
‘Know your enemy, girl,’ Quirin says. ‘If you’re arrogant enough to fight him, you should find out what you’re fighting.’
He settles back, a look of contempt on his face. ‘Look at you.’ He gestures at my crew. ‘Look at all of you. All fired up. All ready to fight him. All so . . . young.’
I wet my lips. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The Morrigans aren’t fools. The young are the most likely to rebel. That’s what they do. Every generation goes through it.’ He pauses. ‘So imagine you’re a king. You have thousands of young subjects, their powers blossoming, their hearts alight with teenage rebellion. Would you encourage those youths to use their powers? Would you teach them how to fight against you?’
‘No,’ I admit.
‘Know what I’d do?’ Quirin gives a cold smile. ‘I’d teach them that their power is disgraceful. That their magical development is something to be ashamed of. Something to hide. I’d teach their own peers to shame them if they dared to flaunt their strength.
‘And as soon as they were adults, I’d ship them off to war. Make them fight for their lives. Give them five long years of blood and death and horror. And when they came back – broken, traumat
ised, fragile – do you think they’d still have the strength to rise against me?’
Silence.
‘You say you want to fight the Morrigans,’ Quirin says. ‘But you have no idea what you’re fighting. You have no idea how far their control reaches. And even now, you wear their influence around your throat.’
‘But sir, I –’
‘No use fighting kings,’ Quirin says. ‘What you’ve got to do is understand them. Use them. Work around them.’ He pulls out a coin and holds it up to the firelight. ‘Learn the way they do things – and use that knowledge to turn a profit.’
Quirin flicks his coin into the air and catches it. Then, with a mocking smile, he slips it back into his pocket.
I stare at him, my mouth dry. I think of the smugglers hidden in the borderlands. Ever moving, ever on the run. Sending scouts across Taladia to hawk their wares: spice and silver, beasts and weapons.
And it occurs to me, for the first time, that King Morrigan could stamp them out if he really wanted. He could bombard the borderlands with alchemy bombs, or set up guards on their trading routes. But instead, he turns a blind eye. He allows them to exist – like the gamblers of Gunning, or foxary riders – because they’re not a threat to him. They’re just a valve. A way for society to let off steam.
And with a terrible lurch, I realise what Quirin is telling me. The smugglers will never help us stop the king, because they don’t want the king to lose.
I sit there, my skin tingling, as Quirin picks out another tune. This one is lighter – more like the folk song I originally expected. As he plays, his son charges into the water, laughing and splashing in imitation of a fish.
‘Look, Papa – look at me swim!’
I watch him. Even after last night, the boy moves free as the wind. Perhaps that’s what his proclivity will be: the wind, the breeze, the open sky. I can imagine him flying. His heart seems light enough to fly. He doesn’t yet know how brutal the world can be. I never thought that I would envy a smuggler child, but I can’t help wishing –
And then I see it. A shape in the water behind him: the merest glimpse of a human head.
‘Look out!’ I’m on my feet in an instant. The music stops. The others clamber up a moment behind me, confused and alarmed.
‘What is it?’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘There!’ I point into the water. ‘There, I just saw someone . . .’
I trail off. There is nothing there. Just the quiet lull of green, the gentle lap of water. The boy stops splashing and his face collapses into a frown.
I realise that everyone is staring at me. ‘I saw someone.’
‘Danika,’ Teddy says, ‘are you sure?’
I want to nod. But I’m not sure, not any more. It was just a moment, really . . . a shadow on the green. ‘I think so.’
Silver lets out an irritated sigh. ‘Ain’t smart to let your fears run away with you.’
I glare at her, before turning back to the water. I’m not afraid. Well, I suppose I am, but that’s not the point. One of Sharr’s hunters could be out there, lurking in the lagoon. If it’s the man with the Water proclivity, he could have faded away into ripples. He could still be there and we wouldn’t even know it.
‘I don’t see anything,’ Clementine says.
I know she means to be reassuring, but something about her richie accent suddenly rubs me the wrong way. In my ears, the words sound condescending. I fight the urge to snap at her, and take a deep breath.
‘I’m going for a walk.’
I step out across the island. I don’t look back, but I know they’re all watching me – is it with pity, or contempt? Quirin already thinks we’re a liability; have I made things worse by jumping at shadows? Even after all we’ve been through, I doubt the smugglers will just let us go – not until we’ve repaid our debt . . .
It takes a couple of minutes to cross the island. I tread carefully across the rocks, clamber over boulders, then wriggle through a crack.
Finally, I find myself on the far side of the Jaw. There’s a natural cove here; the bay curves around in a tight crescent moon. I perch atop the highest boulder I can find, and gaze out across Green Lagoon.
Then I tear the scarf from my throat.
If the weather had any sense of occasion, my scarf would fly into the dark on a majestic billow of wind. Instead, it flops at my feet, a heap of old fabric. A heap of old lies.
I grind my boot into it, furious. Then I kick it over the edge and watch it tumble into shadow below. One, two, three seconds – and finally, it’s gone. Just another shred of shadow in the night.
I take a while to regain my breath. My muscles relax, my fists unclench. Below, the water lies still, sheltered by the curve of the bay. Stars reflect across it, distorted only by the merest of ripples. As I watch them, my breathing grows slower. I recognise the Pistol, the constellation that guided us so early in our trek. It feels like years ago.
My gaze wanders up from reflected stars to real ones. A sudden yearning fills my stomach. I want to see Lukas’s kite upon those stars: the flutter of fabric that first led me through the night towards him. No, forget about the kite – I want to see him. He’s out there somewhere, staring at that same night sky.
I touch the bracelet at my wrist. Lukas’s star charm hangs cold against my skin. I rub it between thumb and finger, as Silver did last night, and let my fingertips roam across its surface. I wonder how many times Lukas held this charm when he lay alone in the dark. I wonder how many nights he felt unable to sleep and squeezed this lump of metal in his fist.
After a while, the breeze picks up. I look out towards the bay, and watch the water lap. It’s gentle, nothing like the storm surge of last night.
Then I see him. A figure melts out of the water. A ripple, then a wave . . . and he rears up into human form. He steps onto the shore. He wears a cloak, and his face is obscured by the dark, but it’s the body of a teenage boy.
I can’t see his face, but I know it’s him. It has to be him.
Lukas.
I’m up and running in a moment, stumbling down the rocks towards the shore. My lungs are tight and my throat feels like granite. I don’t know whether to shriek or just hurl myself towards him.
And just as I hit the water, he’s gone.
I stand, stunned. Water laps around my ankles and suddenly the cold of it brings me to my senses. It can’t have been Lukas. Whoever this boy was, he faded from the lagoon like his body were part of it. His proclivity was Water, not Bird. My moment of hope gives way to chill. A hunter. One of Sharr’s hunters has found us . . .
A hand grabs my shoulder.
I fight down a scream and wrench myself around. As soon as I turn, I recognise Silver’s wrinkled face. She pulls me aside, squinting over my shoulder into the dark. ‘Did you see him?’
I nod, trying to calm my heartbeat. If Silver saw him too, then I’m not just imagining things. ‘Yes,’ I say quickly. ‘I think it’s the same person I saw before in the water. He’s following us.’
The old woman nods. ‘That’s our shadow.’
‘Our what?’
‘Fool who’s been following our clan about. Wants our help to fight the king.’ She shakes her head. ‘If the boy thinks stalking our boats will convince us to help him, he’s clearly a few vials short of a charm-mix.’
We stare across the lagoon. I keep a close eye on the patch of water where the figure vanished, but there is nothing to betray his presence. The boy could be halfway across the lagoon by now. Or he could still be there, watching us, just another ripple in the dark.
‘What are you doing here?’ Silver says.
‘Just wanted some time to think.’
Silver gives me a shrewd look. ‘Don’t get ideas in your head about running away. You gave me your word, my friend, and you’ve still got a debt to pay.’
>
‘I wasn’t thinking about running away,’ I say, which is true of this evening at least. ‘How could I? Maisy isn’t healed enough to run anywhere.’
Silver snorts. ‘So if she were healed, you’d dash off and leave us? Well, at least you’re honest.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You didn’t need to. I can read people – it’s how I make a living. Trades. Deals. Betrayals.’ Silver’s teeth glint in the shadows. ‘You don’t want to waste time with a gang of smugglers. You have bigger fish to fry.’
I look at her. ‘My friend is out there somewhere. I have to find him. And the king ’
Silver gives a chuckle, but doesn’t really sound amused. ‘What about the king? Do you plan to invite him over for tea and potatoes?’
‘Our crew wants to start a new life,’ I say, ‘in the land beyond the Valley. If he’s going to use these catacombs to invade, if he’s going to destroy that land like he destroyed Taladia . . .’
‘Then your plans are looking somewhat messy, aren’t they?’ Silver says. ‘I’m afraid, my friend, that’s how life tends to go.’
‘We can’t just sit here and do nothing,’ I say. ‘We wrecked his plans once already, didn’t we? We should go and see if we can do anything to –’
Silver gives me a pitying look. ‘You’re welcome to gallivant off and get blown to pieces, my friend, but you’ll have to repay your debt to my people before you do it.’
‘His soldiers are restoring the catacombs now,’ I say. ‘He’s about to start a war. Hundreds of people are going to die, maybe thousands. He might even lower the conscription age. We don’t have time to waste on some stupid smuggling job.’
Silver shrugs. ‘Quirin has a solid history in trading weapons. Another war might be good for business.’
‘You think your people will survive this?’ I snap. ‘King Morrigan will send his troops through the borderlands. Your smuggling routes’ll be disrupted. For all you know, they could set off a bunch more storms and trash this whole area. And the king will gain more power, and –’
The old woman sighs. ‘Oh, here we go again with the king. You do have an odd fixation on the royal family, don’t you?’ Before I can stop her, she seizes my wrist. ‘These charms, for instance. The last time I saw them, they belonged to Prince Lukas Morrigan.’
Borderlands Page 16
