Borderlands

by Skye Melki-Wegner

  ‘So what? We told you – he was part of our crew.’

  ‘That doesn’t explain why he would give these charms to you. You, my friend, and you alone.’ Silver points at the silver star. ‘This one, here – this isn’t even a charm. No alchemy within it. Its only value, so far as I know, is sentimental.’ She looks up at me. ‘Of course, I’m sure it meant a great deal to the prince. I’m curious, my friend, as to how it ended up dangling from the wrist of a scruffer girl. Very curious.’

  I try to pull away, but Silver’s grip on my wrist tightens. ‘Lukas cared for you, didn’t he?’

  ‘I don’t see how it’s any of your business.’

  ‘And yet he left you.’ Silver runs her thumb across the star. ‘You must know why. He must have given you a reason.’

  ‘It had something to do with his family,’ I say. ‘I think he’s trying to stop what his father’s up to.’

  I expect Silver to snort, or mock me again for my obsession with the king. But her face is serious now and there’s worry in her eyes. ‘Do you remember his exact words?’

  ‘He wrote me a letter.’

  ‘Let me read it.’

  I hesitate. ‘Why should I –?’

  ‘Because I served that family for years,’ Silver says. ‘Because I know the Morrigans better than you, no matter what you may think from a few weeks on the road with their son. And because, believe it or not, I’d rather not see that boy dead at his father’s hands.’

  For a long moment, we just stare at each other. Then I reach into my coat pocket. My fingers come away coated in mush: the drowned remains of Lukas’s letter.

  We stare at the mess of sodden paper.

  ‘That’s it?’ Silver says.

  I feel sick. ‘It must have happened when the bunkroom flooded, I didn’t think . . .’ I shake my head. ‘I can’t remember exactly what he said. Just something about how he had to sort something out – something dangerous. And a few days before that, he looked through an eagle’s eyes . . . I think he saw something else near the Valley. Something he kept secret.’

  Silver stares into the distance, towards the mountains. The only way to spot them in the darkness is the lack of stars. ‘You believe he’s gone to stop his father’s army?’

  I pause, then nod. ‘Yeah. I think so.’

  ‘He’ll be killed.’

  Silver’s words aren’t callous. They’re stilted, like she’s struggling to rein in some long-forgotten emotion. Even so, the sentence stings.

  ‘Not if we find him,’ I say. ‘Not if we help him in time.’

  Silver shakes her head. ‘You heard what Quirin said at dinner.’ She bends, slowly, to select a heavy rock from the shoreline. She weighs it in her hand, still gazing outward. For a bizarre moment I think she’s about to skim it like a stone on the lagoon. ‘Very well, my friend. It’s time for you to repay your debt.’

  And she smashes the rock against my head.

  I wake to darkness. The world around me rocks: a gentle creak from side to side. I feel groggy – like I’ve inhaled too many fumes behind the Alehouse bar – but the air smells more like mould than beer. A boat, I realise. I’m in the depths of a boat. When I move my head, pain yowls like an alley-cat across my skull. And when I move my hands, ropes jerk them back against the wall.

  Ropes? That’s not normal.

  And in a rush, it comes flooding back. Silver’s words. Her concern about Lukas. The rock she smashed against my skull . . .

  ‘Ugh,’ someone says.

  I swivel my neck, ignoring the newfound rush of pain and nausea. It’s pointless, since it’s as dark as a bucket of ink. But I think I recognise the voice. ‘Teddy? Is that you?’

  ‘If it’s not, someone’s done a really good job of impersonating me.’ Teddy pulls against his ropes with an audible grunt. ‘Got me fooled, at least.’

  ‘Are the others here?’

  With a few prods and groans, we discover the twins. They’re tied up too, of course, although some­one’s had the decency to wrap a blanket around Maisy’s shoulders. Apparently Silver doesn’t want us dead – at least, not yet.

  ‘Are we on the Nightsong?’ I say.

  ‘Nah,’ Teddy says. ‘This boat’s moving. Can’t you feel it? I reckon it’s the Firebird.’

  I nod, feeling the sway and rock of the world around me. Then I realise Teddy can’t see my nod through the dark. ‘Yeah, I feel it. So we’re on a working boat, then. A moving boat. And we’re going . . .?’

  ‘Silver sold us out,’ Clementine says. ‘She realised we must be worth something to the king, since we’d run off with the prince. She told Quirin that she was going to trade us for reward money.’

  ‘She what?’

  ‘Yep,’ Teddy says. ‘You should’ve seen it, Danika – talk about nerve. She turns up back on the beach, dragging you along unconscious. Next thing we know she’s telling Quirin that she’s decided we can all repay our debts as something to trade. And before we can even open our mouths to argue about it, we’re getting knocked out left, right and centre. Then I wake up here, in this luxury bedroom suite.’ He gives an exaggerated sniff of the mildewed air. ‘Ah, what a stunning bouquet.’

  ‘Quirin just went along with this?’ I say, stunned. ‘And Laverna too? After everything we went through together in the storm, they were happy to just sell us out?’

  ‘They’re smugglers,’ Clementine says.

  ‘Yeah, I know. It’s just . . .’ I feel my insides constrict. ‘I was starting to think maybe Silver was different.’

  No one responds. The Firebird rocks gently. I wonder whether we’re still on the lagoon, or whether we’re heading out into the river system. Perhaps it’s morning by now. After weeks of finding our own way, of navigating the wilderness, this is a breathtaking loss of control.

  ‘You know,’ says Teddy, after a while, ‘I was really considering it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Joining the smugglers.’ He pauses. ‘Figured it’d be like old times, you know? Fooling the guards, making my own rules. Guess I was the fool, hey?’

  His tone is flippant, but I detect a faint sting of emotion behind the words.

  ‘Teddy, you couldn’t have known,’ I say quickly. ‘You couldn’t have known Silver would –’

  ‘Oh, come off it. I knew what they were like.’ His voice rises. ‘It’s like people say – no honour among thieves.’

  I falter, unsure how to respond. Teddy likes to wear the mask of a joker, veiling emotion in quips. I want to tell him that he does have honour, he’s better than the smugglers. That our crew would be long dead without him. But I’ve never been good at deep conversations, and my own sense of betrayal is still too raw.

  ‘Look, we have to get out of here,’ I say. ‘Maisy, you could burn through these ropes and –’

  ‘I haven’t got any fire,’ Maisy says quietly. ‘I need a flame to start with. Something to manipulate.’

  ‘All right,’ I say. ‘All right, so we’ll think of something else.’

  I release a low breath. If I give myself to the Night, I could make it out of these ropes. But given my track record, I’d almost certainly lose myself. I’d rather be roped up in a bunkroom with a chance of escape than fade away like some wisp of lost soul. Anyway, I don’t even know if it’s still night-time. This could be the normal gloom of an unlit cabin below deck.

  ‘I can’t use my proclivity yet,’ I say. ‘Whenever I try, I almost lose myself. And Silver knows it. She had to bring me back from the brink last time.’

  ‘Great,’ Teddy says. ‘So that just leaves Clem­entine, who doesn’t know her proclivity yet, and me, who’s about as much use as a dog trainer.’ He brightens. ‘Hey, aren’t there supposed to be rats on ships? Maybe I could convince some to gnaw through our ropes.’

  ‘This is a boat, not a ship,’ Clementine says.

>   ‘I used to have a friend we called Rat,’ Teddy says wistfully. ‘Back in Rourton, I mean. Front teeth the size of doorknobs. We all gave him grief for it, but he would’ve come in handy now.’

  Above our heads, the trapdoor swings open. There’s a blast of sunlight from the cabin above, quickly obscured by Silver’s body as she clambers down into the bunkroom. We fall silent.

  ‘All right, my friends,’ she says. ‘We’re out of the lagoon and onto the river network. I’m giving it another few minutes, just to be safe, and then I’ll untie you.’

  I stare at her. ‘Untie us?’

  ‘You’d rather stay locked down here?’

  ‘No, but . . . You knocked me out! You told Quirin you were taking us to trade for reward money, like prisoners or –’

  ‘I told Quirin what he needed to hear,’ Silver says. ‘He would never have let us go if he knew our real purpose. As he said at dinner, our people do not concern ourselves with kings.’ She pauses for emphasis. ‘Not even to save the lives of foolish princes.’

  There’s a fizzle, then a spark, as she lights the bunkroom lantern. It swings gently across the room, illuminating my friends’ strained faces. Silver bends over us one by one to slit the ropes at our wrists and ankles.

  When she reaches me, I don’t meet her eyes. I’d finally begun to trust her – to think perhaps she cared about more than money. Perhaps she cares about Lukas Morrigan: the little boy she’d once known. But it’s hard to forget how easily she smashed a rock into my skull.

  Now, my head throbs with a dull, repetitive drumbeat. Even if knocking me out was just part of an act, it still hurt. Silver could have trusted me to go along with her scheme. Instead, she treated me like a child who would interfere with her plans.

  Of course, Silver is a smuggler. I should have known not to trust her after what happened with Hackel. Even if she’s on our side, she has some funny ideas about how to treat people – and how to use them for her own goals.

  As the lantern flares, I notice that the twins and Teddy have also removed their neck-scarves. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one affected by Quirin’s speech. I suck in a deep breath, unsure how to react. My own neck feels oddly exposed. Uncomfortable. My fingers itch to pull my collar up higher, hiding the Night marks on my spine. But I remember Quirin’s mockery – and his scornful declaration that I wore the king’s control around my throat.

  I swallow hard, and push my discomfort aside.

  We traipse up into the Firebird’s cabin. The space is small and thick with dust in the morning light. A whiff of mildew lingers by the curtains.

  ‘Guess this boat doesn’t get used much?’ Teddy says.

  Silver rests a hand on the wheel. ‘It once belonged to another smuggler clan, but they all died on a job. The fools tried to smuggle alchemy bombs through an active frontline.’ She shakes her head. ‘We were lucky – Quirin knew where they hid their loot. We ate their food, seized their supplies, and took the Firebird for emergencies.’

  I glance around the cabin, a little uncomfort­able. This is the boat of a dead clan, a dead captain. I wonder how many memories lurk within its walls.

  As we float downstream, the canopy rises on either side of us, dappling light across the Firebird’s deck. Silver frowns, as though assessing some obstacle I can’t even see, and adds a vial of smoke to a funnel.

  ‘How come you learned to be an alchemist?’ I say as the smoke pipes its way around the machinery.

  ‘I had to learn some kind of skill,’ Silver says. ‘Alchemy was the one I seemed best at.’ She nods towards the charms at my wrist. ‘And I wanted to know how to make alchemy charms. Many wealthy people in my home city wore them, and I was curious.’

  ‘And they’re worth a lot of money,’ I add. ‘Bet you could sell them for a fortune.’

  Silver nods slowly. ‘But expense does not attach itself to an item for no reason. Alchemy charms are . . . difficult . . . to create.’

  Clementine frowns. ‘I thought there was just alchemy juice locked up in the metal.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Silver says. ‘If you wish to give living magic to metal, you must give it life.’

  She wrenches the wheel sideways, guiding our boat around a boulder in the middle of the river. The manoeuvre takes a large grunt of power, and the cogs on the machinery wall start churning like mad. As I watch, the last of the alchemy smoke dissipates from its piping system.

  ‘Give it life?’ I say. ‘What do you mean?’

  Silver gives a low chuckle, but she sounds more sad than amused. ‘To create an alchemy charm, someone must die. In their last throes of life, they may choose to pass a fragment of their dying proclivity into the metal.’

  ‘What? But –’

  ‘And that, my friend, is why alchemy charms are so expensive.’

  I stare at her, horrified. ‘You killed people to make these charms?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Silver says. ‘Some alchemists do, although it’s technically against the code of our profession. Me? I had contacts in the hospitals. When a patient was dying, they would send for me. And if the patient agreed to spend his last moments with me, helping me to create a new charm . . . well, then, I ensured his family was compensated.’

  I hold up my wrist to examine my mother’s bracelet. The silver star charm has no magic powers – no alchemy juice inside its shell. Just sentimental value. But the rose charm holds real power: the power to keep foxaries at bay.

  ‘This one,’ I say, touching it. ‘How did you make it?’

  Silver frowns, as though trying to remember. ‘An old man,’ she says eventually. ‘His mind was mostly gone by the end, but his family needed the money. I distilled a little of his Beast proclivity into the metal.’

  I try to think of other alchemy charms I’ve used. ‘What about the padlock charm – the one Lukas had?’

  ‘A young woman, I believe,’ Silver says. ‘Her proclivity was Metal. She died slowly in childbirth, but wanted to provide for her baby. At the last minute, she gave me a little of her power.’

  ‘And you turn that into a specific charm?’

  Silver nods. ‘I can’t drop an entire proclivity into the metal. Proclivities are for people – living flesh, living minds. But the metal has a memory too, of sorts, if you mould it with the right sorts of alchemy juices. Enough to take a smidgeon of power – just one little trick . . .’

  ‘Like repelling foxaries,’ I say. ‘Or unlocking things.’ I eye the bone charm by her throat. ‘Or healing things.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Silver says. ‘That one came from a Blood proclivity – very rare indeed. Worth more than all my other charms combined.’ She rifles through her necklace to produce a silver lead, a feather and a horse shoe. ‘Some of them aren’t finished, see? These ones . . . I’ve imbued ’em with alchemy juice, but no proclivities yet. Got to wait for the right person to die.’

  There’s an odd silence. I rub the rose charm between my fingers, unsure what to think of it all. I always knew alchemy charms were worth a fortune, of course – but never the reason. I thought it was just the value of the silver, not the value of someone’s death.

  I picture an old man in a hospital bed, dying slowly as his mind turned to rot. His proclivity was Beast. I wonder if he was like Teddy: a liar, a pickpocket, a charmer with a buffoon’s grin. Or perhaps he was quiet, subdued. A courtier at the palace, or even a nobleman. Perhaps he walked about in polished shoes and fancy waistcoats, with a following of cats and sewer rats.

  ‘And the star charm?’ I say. ‘You never added any magic to it.’

  Silver opens her mouth, then closes it again. ‘Some things,’ she says eventually, ‘are better left unfinished.’

  As the day wears on, we roll downriver. To keep ourselves busy, we help to clean up the Firebird. It feels strange to be cleaning again, after last night’s false imprisonment. Actually, it feels strange to
be cleaning, full stop. I didn’t notice on the Nightsong yesterday, since that was an emergency fix-up after the storm. But on the Firebird, it’s normal, domestic work. Dusting, sweeping, clearing cobwebs.

  It’s got a purpose, though. According to Silver, it will take another full day’s travel to reach the Valley – even if she chooses the fastest rivers – and we’d rather not inhale random spiders and dust-mites for the entire trip.

  Unfortunately, it also gives me a chance to dwell on things. Lukas’s disappearance. The hunters, the storm, our mysterious pursuer in the water. I don’t want to think about it – any of it. But I can’t stop thinking about it. Memories churn through my mind, again and again, as I scrub the walls with rags and water.

  It’s Maisy, of all people, who finally opens her mouth. She’s been even quieter than usual this morning, and I assume she’s still in pain from her injury. But when she speaks, her words are clear. ‘Do you ever regret it?’

  We all look up at her, surprised that she of all people has begun a conversation.

  ‘Regret what?’ Clementine says after a moment’s pause.

  Maisy looks down at her scrubbing rag. She opens and closes her fingers a few times, then says quietly, ‘Leaving Rourton.’

  I stop cleaning, and realise that the others have also fallen still. We stare at each other, unsure what to say. Teddy looks down. The question is eerily similar to Clementine’s remarks on the Nightsong. But while Clementine’s doubts concerned our chosen destination, she never questioned the need to flee in the first place. Clementine would give up anything to protect her sister. Sometimes, when she’s in one of her bossy moods, it’s easy to forget that.

  By contrast, Maisy seems doubtful of their choice to leave at all.

  ‘I mean, an awful lot has happened,’ she says ­nervously. ‘I just thought, maybe if we hadn’t . . .’

  ‘Never,’ Clementine says. She cups her sister’s cheek, and pulls Maisy’s face around gently to meet her own gaze. ‘Never, Maisy. There are plenty of things I regret in my life, but that’s not one of them.’