Secret Guardians

by Lian Tanner

  In fact, no one in the entire city of Berren believed in it. Fish could rain from the sky, trees could sprout overnight from a dozen chimneys, a person could step into an odd little spiral of pebbles and vanish on the spot, and all anyone would say was, ‘Trickery. Sabotage.’

  But Grandpa had a knack for finding out the story behind the story, and he believed it was some sort of curse. Apparently, a long-ago Margrave had offended the Saffies, the people who were native to Neuhalt. In payback for that offense, a Saffy wise-woman had cursed the Strong-hold, so that no one could leave. And after that she’d disappeared, taking the secret of the curse with her.

  Duckling thought the not-believing-in-witchery thing was probably part of the curse. But that didn’t mean she had any patience with it.

  ‘Come on, Otte,’ she said, ‘what about the Harshman? What about Frow Cat? What about Pummel here, taking us into that nasty old rock? That was definitely witchery, and so was the business you did with bandages and stuff.’

  Pummel said, ‘That’s how you always knew what to have ready in the Strong-hold, isn’t it? When I was hurt, you had exactly the right things waiting for me.’

  Otte looked trapped. But all he would say was, ‘How far do you think it is to the salt mines?’

  Duckling glanced at Pummel over the younger boy’s head, and shrugged. If Otte wouldn’t talk about it, there wasn’t much they could do. ‘I’ve got no idea,’ she said. ‘We’ll just have to keep walking till we get there.’

  It took the children three days to get to the salt mines, falling further and further behind the cart all the way. They didn’t go hungry; the people they met were kind to three orphans seeking justice.

  But Pummel still wished they’d gone to the farm. Or that Ma was with them. Or that he had coin in his pockets so they could buy food instead of tricking people out of it.

  Every time Duckling told a lie, he winced. Every time she pretended to be small and pitiful and honest, he remembered her betrayal.

  She says she’s changed. But how do I know if she’s telling the truth?

  He tried not to think too much about Old Lady Skint and her men. He had no idea how three children could rescue Arms-mistress Krieg and Lord Rump. He suspected that Duckling and Otte didn’t know either.

  ‘We’re not even sure that this is where they went,’ he said, as the road wound higher and higher into the mountains.

  ‘There is nowhere else they could have gone,’ said Otte. His mice clung to his shoulder, with their noses to the wind. ‘There has not been a crossroads for a long while.’

  Over the last few days, it was the Heir of Neuhalt who had suffered most. Even with cushions on them, the rough crutches bruised his arms and left blisters on his hands. Sometimes Pummel piggybacked him, and sometimes Duckling did, and sometimes they swung him along between them. But Otte would not turn back, no matter how often Pummel tried to persuade him.

  Duckling shaded her eyes. ‘Look, there’s the railway that man told us about.’

  With a sigh, Pummel kept walking. On his left was a steep drop, with a railway line running precariously along the edge. On his right was a shallow ditch and a grey, rocky hill.

  If we’d gone to the farm, he thought, everything’d be green at this time of year.

  Except for the cows, of course.

  Pummel would have given just about anything to see a couple of friendly cows. To be able to press his cheek against their warm, solid bodies and hear the comforting gurgle of their stomachs.

  ‘I really think—’ he began.

  ‘Shhh!’ whispered Duckling, as Otte’s mice leaped for cover.

  A second later, Pummel heard the rumble of cartwheels coming down the road towards them.

  The ditch was too shallow to hide them, and the hill too bare, which meant they had no choice but to go over the drop. Duckling and Pummel grabbed Otte and carried him onto the railway line. Pummel looked down and gulped.

  ‘I can climb,’ insisted Otte. And he wriggled out of their grasp, slung his potions bag around his neck and slid over the edge.

  ‘Be careful,’ said Pummel. But by then, the Heir was already a foot below him, hanging onto the railway sleepers and trying not to fall to his death.

  Duckling and Pummel tucked the crutches into the narrow gap beneath the rail, then clambered down after Otte, grabbing at clumps of grass on the way. Otte pointed to a large slab of rock and whispered, ‘We can hide beneath that.’

  Above them, the wheels were growing louder. Pummel thought he heard Old Lady Skint’s coarse laugh, and a shout of disagreement from either Mince or Ugly.

  He climbed faster. Otte and Duckling had reached the rock now, and were crawling underneath it. As Pummel crept in beside them, he dislodged a stone, and it made such a racket as it tumbled down the hillside that he expected to be discovered before he could draw another breath.

  But no one shouted. No one looked over the edge with their pistols drawn.

  Instead, somewhere above them, Old Lady Skint said, ‘Ember might be tough, but she won’t last long.’ Her voice was thick, as if someone had recently broken her nose. ‘Neither of ’em will; no one lasts in the salt mines. Which is just as well for us, shipmates. That’s a market that’ll never dry up.’

  One of her men said something about payment.

  ‘That’s for me to know,’ replied Old Lady Skint. ‘But I reckon we can afford a bit of a celebration. We’ll go back to the—’

  The wheels of the cart clattered over a rock, and Pummel missed the rest of it.

  The children waited until they could no longer hear the slavers. Then they hauled themselves back up the bank and over the railway line, collecting Otte’s crutches on the way.

  In the scramble to hide, Duckling had lost one of her shoes, and Pummel had whacked his elbow against a rock and had pins and needles up and down his arm.

  They sat by the edge of the road, catching their breath. Duckling took off her remaining shoe, examined it miserably and tossed it over the railway line. Then she stood up and said, ‘We won’t rescue anyone sitting here. Come on.’

  Otte grabbed his crutches and hauled himself upright, with his mice peeping out of his collar.

  Pummel climbed to his feet, saying, ‘How far is it now?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Duckling. ‘A good way still, I reckon. I wish we had some of that sausage left.’

  On they went. They didn’t talk much; none of them had the energy for it. Every now and again, Pummel tried to make some sort of plan. But how could he make a plan for something he’d never seen? He knew there was a salt mine, but that was all he knew.

  The road grew steeper. The clumps of grass disappeared, leaving the landscape starker than ever. The ditch widened, and every part of it was cluttered with fallen rocks, old wooden wheelbarrows and chunks of rusty iron.

  The children must have been walking for a couple of hours when a sudden flurry of wind swirled past them. Duckling stopped. ‘Did you smell that?’

  ‘What?’ asked Pummel and Otte together.

  Duckling looked around, sniffing the air. ‘I’m not sure. I thought—’

  But even as she spoke, there was a shout from the ditch. And two men sprang out from behind a rock, brandishing pistols.

  The Harshman and his hawk had scoured every part of the city – the streets, the banks, the shops, the inns, the houses, the stables, the marketplaces and the offices – leaving a trail of ice and sleeping people behind them.

  But they had not found the Heir.

  So the Harshman returned to the Strong-hold. He did not go inside – it had been a battle to escape and he did not wish to repeat it. No, he stood outside the gates, with his almost-nose twitching, trying to find one particular scent.

  Sniff sniff sniff. Sniff sniff sniff.

  All around him, the gate guards lay sprawled on the cobblestones, their eyes closed, their grey coats flapping in the wind. Their helmets rolled in icy circles, with the spikes scraping noisily against the ground
, but they did not wake.

  It took the Harshman longer than he had expected, but he eventually found the scent he was looking for. It was faint, but recognisable.

  As he and his hawk followed it down the hill, the wind tried to force them back. But they were strong now, and nothing could stop them.

  Sniff sniff sniff, went the Harshman. Sniff sniff sniff. All the way down the hill, through the city and out the other side.

  There, the Harshman paused. ‘The … Heir … Thinks … He … Has … Escaped,’ he growled to his hawk. ‘But … He … Cannot … Hide … From … Me.’

  And he set off again, heading south.

  One of the men wrapped his arm around Otte’s neck. The other stuck his pistol in Duckling’s ear and snarled at Pummel, ‘You’d better not make trouble, boy. I can easily toss the lass over the edge.’

  Duckling could smell the men clearly now. Beer and stale sweat, that was what the gust of wind had brought her. It had only been the slightest whiff, hardly enough to notice. But she was Lord Rump’s granddaughter; she was supposed to notice everything. She was supposed to be ready for everything.

  The man who was threatening her untied a rope from his waist and looped it first around her neck, then around Pummel’s.

  The other man took a whip from his boot. ‘Move,’ he said, poking them with it. ‘Me and Boz’ve arranged a little reception committee up at the mine. Scones and cream. Cuppa tea and a brass band.’ He laughed hoarsely at his own joke. Then he kicked the crutches into the ditch and slung Otte over his shoulder.

  In a timid voice, Duckling said, ‘Please, Herro, I don’t know who you think we are, but you must be mistook. My brothers and I are searching for our ma, that’s all. She’s been sick ever since she had the baby, and we’re awful worried about—’

  ‘Save yer breath,’ sneered Boz. ‘Old Lady Skint warned us about you. A born liar, she said. Don’t trust ’er an inch, she said. Don’t believe a word that comes out of ’er mouth.’

  Duckling thought she saw Pummel wince, but there was no time to wonder why. She switched tactics and said, with complete honesty, ‘I might’ve been a liar once, Herro, but I’m trying to change.’

  The other man cackled with delight. ‘Look at the face on ’er, Boz. Don’t she look as if you could trust ’er with yer life’s savings?’

  ‘If I ’ad savings,’ said Boz, ‘I wouldn’t be ’ere.’

  ‘Course you wouldn’t. But the lass—’

  ‘I wouldn’t trust ’er with an old kerchief.’ Boz jerked on the rope so that Duckling’s face was dragged closer to his. ‘People like you don’t change, girl,’ he snarled. ‘So don’t give us any more of that rubbish. Now move. Me and Rusty’ve got a job to do.’ And he shoved her so hard that she nearly fell to her knees.

  The walk up to the mine was hard, but Duckling didn’t complain. She was watching Boz and Rusty, and the road ahead and the road behind, searching for anything she could take advantage of.

  But she could see nothing useful except the railway line.

  If there’s a rail, there might be trains. And if there are trains, there might be people who’d help us.

  The thought had barely crossed her mind when she heard the shriek of a whistle in the distance. Pummel twitched. Otte, still slung over Rusty’s shoulder, raised his head, then quickly dropped it again.

  Duckling sagged, as if she was utterly defeated. But secretly she gathered herself, ready to shout for help.

  The two men didn’t seem to hear the whistle. Boz was complaining about the hours they worked and how poorly they were paid, and Rusty was trying to joke him out of his bad temper.

  Duckling wondered what they would do when she started shouting. Would they drag her into the ditch? Would they beat her? Would they toss her over the edge?

  Boz flicked the rope. ‘Come on, don’t dawdle.’

  The train whistled again, and now Duckling could hear the clack clack of its wheels and the rattle rattle rattle of the carriages. She peeped over her shoulder. It looked like a passenger train – yes, there were people peering out the windows, staring at the children as they approached. And with a hiss of steam, the train was slowing down!

  She took a deep breath, and as the first carriage came level with them, she screamed, ‘Help! Help! We’ve been kidnapped! Heeeelp!’

  Pummel shouted more or less the same words. Otte howled. Between the three of them they made a terrible noise, which added up to one great cry for assistance.

  Rusty cracked his whip over Duckling’s head. ‘Be quiet, you villainous brats,’ he bellowed. ‘Shut yer miserable little mouths.’

  But Duckling, Pummel and Otte wouldn’t shut their mouths. ‘Heeeeelp!’ they screamed. ‘Heeeeeeeeelp!’

  Rusty cracked the whip again. All his jokes had vanished and the expression on his face was terrifying. But it was worth it, because the people on the train were hanging out the windows, pointing in horror. Surely they would do something. Surely they would tell someone what was happening.

  All three children ran out of breath at the same time. Duckling put her hands on her knees, waiting for the slash of the whip across her back. Beside her, Pummel was panting. Otte clung to Rusty’s shoulder, looking as if he was building up to another cry for help.

  But in that moment of silence, Duckling heard a voice from the train. It sounded as if it was coming through a loudspeaker. ‘Herroen and Frowen, this is exactly how slaves were brought to the mine in days gone by. They would have screamed for mercy, just as our actors did—’

  ‘Actors?’ said Duckling.

  ‘They would have begged to be saved from their terrible fate. And terrible it was, as you will see when we reach the mine. A big hand for our actors, Herroen and Frowen, before we go!’

  And to Duckling’s dismay, everyone on the train began to clap and shout, ‘Bravo! Well done!’

  ‘We’ll see them again up at the mine,’ cried the man.

  And with that, the train gave a cheery whistle, a chuff of steam, and picked up speed.

  ‘No!’ shouted Duckling. ‘We’re not actors! We’ve been kidnapped!’

  The passengers waved. The train disappeared into the distance.

  The entrance to the salt mine was a white stone building with a white stone tower rising above it. At the top of the tower was an enormous bell, and a flagpole with the flag of Neuhalt fluttering in the breeze.

  Boz and Rusty hustled the children up to the front door, where a third man was waiting for them. ‘So they turned up,’ he said. ‘Just like Old Lady Skint thought they might. Best send a message after ’er.’

  Boz scowled suspiciously. ‘Why does she want to know about ’em?’

  ‘Because she ain’t been paid for ’em,’ said the third man. ‘We paid ’er for the old dame and the other one, but we ain’t gunna give good coin for three snotties who might turn up, are we? We can’t get work out of might. Send the message, Boz. We do good business with ’er, and it don’t ’urt to keep ’er ’appy.’

  ‘It ain’t my job to keep Old Lady Skint ’appy,’ said Boz. ‘And I don’t like the way she orders us around.’ He wiped his nose on the back of his hand. ‘Maybe I’ll send a message, and maybe I won’t. But if I do, it’ll be in me own good time.’

  And he shoved Duckling and Pummel forward into the building. Rusty followed with Otte on his shoulder.

  There was a mechanical elevator just inside the door, with an iron cage around it. As they passed, it sank out of sight, but Duckling heard the man with the loudspeaker say, ‘They’re very convincing, our actors. You wait till you see them down below—’

  She was trying very hard not to panic. She had to keep reminding herself that Grandpa was here somewhere, and that no one could match him when it came to getting out of difficult situations.

  Boz pointed past the mechanical elevator to a set of stairs. ‘Down yez go,’ he growled.

  ‘Try not to fall and break yer necks,’ added Rusty. ‘You won’t bounce, and you’re no good to us
dead.’ He laughed, and elbowed Boz so hard that Otte nearly fell off his shoulder.

  At first the stairs were well made, with polished bannisters and watergas lamps on the walls to light the way. But after the first landing, the bannisters grew rough and full of splinters, and the watergas lamps gave way to tallow lanterns, which left a layer of black grease on the ceiling and inside Duckling’s nose.

  By her count, they went down twelve long flights or more. She knew when they were coming to the end, because the watergas and the polish reappeared. She could see more light from below too, and hear the hum of voices and a tap tap tap sound that echoed up the stairwell.

  And then they were stepping off the stairs and out into the most enormous cavern that Duckling had ever seen. The ceiling was so high it took her breath away. The tops of the walls were streaked with a score of different colours; the bottoms were carved into grand scenes and heroic statues. The whole thing was lit by a score of gas chandeliers, hanging from long cords.

  The people from the train were watching a small group of men and women chipping away at one of the walls with picks. The guide said loudly, ‘These days, most of the work is done mechanically, but we keep a few people here for demonstration purposes, as you can see. Once, they would have been slaves, half-starved and beaten. But now they are better fed than I. Lamb chops on Sunday, pea soup on Monday, and strudel whenever they want. Am I right, Frow Barber?’

  One of the women chipping at the wall looked over her shoulder and laughed. ‘You know you are, Herro Stuss. Best job I’ve ever had.’

  ‘Give them a big hand!’ cried the guide, and all the visitors clapped.

  The guide turned around and spotted the children. ‘But now our actors have arrived. Let us go and see what things were like in the bad old days.’

  As the visitors poured across the floor of the cave towards Duckling and her friends, Pummel shouted, ‘We’re not actors. These men kidnapped us and brought us here!’