by Lian Tanner
She was halfway there when she found the writing. At least, she thought it was writing. It was so low on the tunnel wall that she had to kneel down to get a proper look at it.
She held the lantern closer. Someone had been making marks with charcoal – strange, wobbly marks that wandered across the wall in a fitful fashion, as if whoever had made them had been distracted over and over again.
Duckling traced the marks with her fingers, wondering if they meant something.
‘Probably not,’ she said to herself. And she stood up.
At least, she tried to stand up. She was still on one knee when she heard a rushing sound, and a strong wind came barrelling through the tunnel like a train. It knocked Duckling over, spun her round thrice, and vanished.
Duckling lay where she had landed, open-mouthed. A wind? All the way down here? Where had it come from? Where was it going? And if it wanted something, why couldn’t it tell her sensibly, instead of spinning her around like a windmill?
She was scrambling to her feet when the wind came back. It didn’t blast her this time. Instead, it dropped a small bundle of reeds right in front of her, and whooshed away.
Duckling couldn’t help herself; she shouted after it, ‘Why can’t you bring me something useful, like a handful of gloats to bribe the guards?’
Behind her, a voice said, ‘Who are you talking to?’
It was Sooli.
Duckling’s every instinct told her to lie. No matter what Pummel said, she knew that Sooli wasn’t telling the truth. And besides, what was the use of being honest when Pummel distrusted her as much as ever? She’d tried to be like him, and she’d failed.
‘I was talking to myself,’ she said. She rubbed her forehead and grimaced. ‘This place is making me a bit strange. Do you ever get the feeling the walls are closing in on you? Do you ever want to shout, just for the sake of it?’
‘No,’ said Sooli.
Duckling put on a haggard, admiring face. ‘You’re so disciplined.’
‘Yes,’ said Sooli, and she began to turn away. But then she spotted the reeds and she froze. ‘Where did they come from?’
‘I had them in my pocket,’ said Duckling. ‘I brought them with me to remind me of the world outside.’
She bent down and picked up the reeds. Wound them around each other. Found herself saying, ‘Maybe I’ll make something out of them.’
The Saaf girl flinched, just the tiniest bit. So Duckling kept talking. ‘A little basket, maybe, to help carry the salt.’
A flicker of relief crossed the other girl’s face, and she said, ‘You should give them to me.’
‘Nope,’ said Duckling. ‘They’re mine.’ And she walked away.
She could feel Sooli staring after her, but she didn’t look back. Where did that wind come from? she wondered. Who wrote on the wall?
And what’s so important about a bunch of reeds?
Pummel had never felt so useless. If he’d been in trouble on the farm, he would’ve known exactly what to do. Even in the Strong-hold there had been possibilities.
But here there was nothing. Not even sunlight, which he missed with every part of his being.
‘I dream about it,’ he said to Sooli. ‘I dream about a field full of cows, with the sun shining on the spring grass. Except it’s just out of reach and I don’t know how to get there. I don’t even know where to start.’
He ran his hands through his filthy hair and sighed. ‘Duckling might be untrustworthy, but at least she’s got ideas. At least she’s trying. It’s stupid not talking to each other. I’m going to find her and—’
‘Wait!’ said Sooli. She glanced around and lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘I have news.’
For the first time in days, a twig of hope blossomed in Pummel’s heart. ‘What is it?’
‘First you must promise me something. The lives of every child in this mine depend on one thing, and the guards must not learn about it.’
‘I wouldn’t tell them!’
Sooli smiled. ‘I know you would not. But your friend, Duckling …’ Her voice trailed off. Then she said, ‘There is a story handed down from child to child about two boys who were brought to this mine many years ago. I do not know where they were from, but the other children trusted them. The older boy was determined to escape, and he promised that when he found a way out, he would come back for his friend and everyone else. He would free them all.’
She paused and wiped her hand across her face. ‘Over the next few days he spoke many times to the guards; he befriended them. No one knows what he offered them, but one day he was freed and the other children were left behind.’
Pummel cleared his throat. ‘Did he come back for them?’
‘No.’
‘What happened to his friend?’
‘He died.’
Pummel felt sick. ‘Duckling would never—’
‘She befriends the guards. And she creeps around at night when she thinks I am asleep.’
‘She’s just looking for a way out,’ said Pummel.
‘I do not trust her. You must promise that you will not say anything to her about this news. You understand, I cannot take the risk.’
Pummel thought of sunlight. He thought of cows. He thought of saving Otte. He swallowed. ‘I won’t tell her.’
Sooli whispered in his ear, ‘I have found the song that will mend the raashk.’
Pummel felt as if a single ray of sunlight had shone down through all those layers of rock and struck him in the heart. When he got his breath back he said, ‘You’re sure it’s the right one?’
Sooli nodded. ‘I have to make certain preparations, so it will be a little while yet. But then we will be free.’
‘I have to tell Duckling,’ said Pummel.
‘You cannot. You promised.’
‘But we’re going to get out of here! She should know.’
‘I did not think you were the sort of boy who would break a promise.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Then you must not tell her. She would betray us.’
Pummel wanted to say, ‘She wouldn’t. I know she wouldn’t.’ But he didn’t know any such thing.
So after some hard thought, he said, ‘All right, I won’t tell her. But when we escape, we’ll take her with us.’
Sooli didn’t answer. Pummel looked at her. ‘We will take her with us. Won’t we?’
‘It would be cruel to leave anyone in this terrible place.’ Sooli smiled at him. ‘You must not worry.’
The bell went then, so Pummel picked up his bucket and called to Otte, who was working alongside Spinner as usual. Both boys looked up. Spinner’s face was drawn with pain; his leg was getting worse instead of better.
‘Come on,’ said Pummel. ‘I’m going to the shaft.’
‘I do not have enough salt,’ said Otte.
‘Here,’ said Pummel, and he tipped some of his salt into Otte’s bucket, and some into Spinner’s. ‘Now let’s go.’
All the way to the shaft, a single thought filled Pummel’s mind. We’re going to escape. He felt like dancing through the tunnels instead of trudging. He tried to contain it, but every time they came to a lantern, Otte looked up at him curiously.
The rest of the children dumped their salt, keeping well away from Boz and his cudgel, and hurried back to work. Pummel idled after them, thinking about sunshine, and the farm, and Ma.
It was a while before he realised he could no longer hear the clinking of Otte’s potion jars.
He was in a particularly dark part of the tunnel, and at first he thought he was imagining things. ‘Otte?’ he said. ‘Are you there?’
There was no answer.
‘Spinner?’
No answer from him either.
Pummel dropped his bucket and hurried back towards the shaft.
They’re just talking, he told himself. They forgot to keep up.
But his happiness had vanished, and the sick feeling in his stomach was back.
There was no sig
n of either of the boys, not in the first tunnel and not in the second. Pummel stopped seven different children to ask if they had seen Spinner or Otte.
They all said no.
By then, he was beginning to panic. They’ve wandered off somewhere. They’ve fallen down one of the old shafts. They’ve hurt themselves.
And then he found Spinner, tucked in a corner, crying.
Pummel threw himself down next to the boy, saying, ‘Where’s Otte?’
At the same time, someone behind him called out, ‘Pummel? What’s the matter?’
It was Duckling.
‘Have you seen Otte?’ demanded Pummel.
‘No,’ said Duckling. ‘He was with you.’
Pummel swung back to Spinner. ‘Where is he?’
The boy sniffed. Another tear ran down his face.
‘He was with you at the shaft. I saw him.’ Pummel was trying to speak calmly, but it came out as a shout. ‘Where is he? What’s happened?’
Spinner hiccupped. Duckling looked bewildered and frightened. But she squatted down in front of the Faroonish boy, patted his hand and asked very quietly, ‘Do you know where Otte is?’
‘Y-yes.’
‘You’d better tell us,’ said Duckling.
‘He – he—’ Spinner gulped. Then, in three terrible words, the truth tumbled out. ‘Boz took him!’
One moment Otte was emptying his small bucket into the large one, as he had done a score of times before. The next, Boz had seized him, tossed him on top of the pile of salt and tugged on the rope.
The bucket jolted and began to rise up into the darkness. Otte tried to wriggle away, but Boz growled, ‘Keep still or I’ll knock yer block off.’
So although Otte did not know why he had been snatched, or where he was being taken, he kept still. Boz reminded him of some of the grafs and grafines he had known in the Strong-hold – the violent, angry ones who thought he was a waste of space. He had learned that the only safe way to deal with such people was to make himself as small and quiet as possible, until they forgot about him.
But halfway up the shaft, in total darkness, the bucket groaned to a halt and a gust of sour, beery breath washed over Otte.
‘What I want to know is,’ growled Boz, ‘what’s so important about a useless little runt like you?’
Otte pressed himself against the side of the bucket and said nothing.
‘Well? We’re not goin’ nowhere until you tell me.’
‘I – I do not know,’ stammered Otte. ‘I – I am not important at all.’
A huge hand gripped his hair. ‘Now you listen to me, snotty. Somethin’s goin’ on, and I want to know what it is. I sent a message to Old Lady Skint, tellin’ her we’ve caught you and yer friends. Next thing I know, she and ’er crew come tearin’ back as fast as they can.’
The hand tightened, until Otte felt as if his hair was being torn out by its roots. ‘She’s gotta collect payment for the new snotty slaves, I can understand that. And she takes coin for the other two, all right. But she don’t want coin for you. She wants you. Why?’
And now at last Otte knew why he was here in the bucket. Old Lady Skint wanted him for his witchery. (And yes, it was witchery. He could no longer deny it.)
But he would not tell Boz that. A desperate idea had struck him, an idea that needed someone of power and influence. Someone like Old Lady Skint.
Otte did not know how much control the slaver captain had over what happened in the mines. But it must be considerable. Boz did not like following her orders, but he followed them all the same.
So Otte told him a half-truth. ‘She wants me because I am a healer. She wants me to mend her crew when they are wounded.’
Boz grunted, dissatisfied. But the bucket began to rise again, and with it rose Otte’s hopes. He was going to bargain. And he had to get the bargain right.
At last the bucket rattled twice and came to a jarring halt. Otte heard a familiar voice. ‘Ooh, look, shipmates. Our favourite snotty.’
And someone grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, lifted him out of the bucket and dumped him on the ground in front of Old Lady Skint.
She reminded him of the grafs and grafines too, with their casual cruelty. But he could not be small and quiet now. He must make himself as big as possible.
‘I wish to bargain with you,’ he said, sitting up very straight. ‘I have something you will value.’
Old Lady Skint shook with laughter. ‘Listen to ’er,’ she bellowed, holding her sides. ‘Boldest liddle thing I’ve met in ages.’
Her voice sent a trickle of pebbles tumbling down the nearest rock wall, and Boz growled, ‘Not so loud. The mine don’t like it.’
Old Lady Skint’s mouth snapped shut and she was suddenly serious again. ‘The question is,’ she said, leaning so close to Otte that he could see the black pores in her nose, ‘what’s this bargain she wants?’
Otte sneered. ‘I am he, not she. And I will not tell you anything in front of these people. Take me somewhere private, where we can discuss the matter.’
Old Lady Skint glared at him long and hard. Then she picked him up, sat him on her shoulder like a parrot and strode off down the passage, with Otte clinging to her collar to stop himself falling. He could feel his mice bumping around inside his sleeve, and offered them a silent apology.
They went back into the brightly lit part of the mine – the visitor part – then up in the mechanical elevator. Otte had never been in anything mechanical (except the bucket), and he had to grit his teeth so as not to flinch whenever the elevator made a strange noise. The last thing he wanted was for the slaver captain to know how frightened he was.
When they reached ground level, Old Lady Skint took Otte through an office and into a room with a table in the middle, beds around the walls, and a small, high window.
Otte’s eyes were drawn immediately to that tiny square of blue sky, but he had no time to dwell on it. Old Lady Skint tossed him onto one of the beds, saying, ‘Make it good, boy.’
Otte hauled himself upright, hanging onto the head of the bed. ‘I have witchery that can help your crew. I can mend them when they are hurt.’
‘That’s why I came back for you,’ said Old Lady Skint. ‘Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.’
‘If you will agree to my bargain, I will go with you willingly,’ said Otte.
‘I don’t need you willing,’ said the slaver captain. ‘From what I’ve seen, your witchery works whether you want it to or not.’
Otte nodded. ‘That is true. But I know other things besides witchery. I can protect your crew from purple fever and scurvy. I can cure warts. I can—’
Old Lady Skint cut him off. ‘So what’s my side of the bargain, eh? What do you want in exchange for gettin’ rid of Ugly’s warts?’
Otte drew himself up to his full height, which brought his eyes almost level with Old Lady Skint’s belt. Two of the beetles that crawled across her chest were trying to escape, climbing over each other in their desperation. But the silken threads held them tight.
‘You have power here,’ said Otte. ‘The guards listen to you; I have seen it.’ He swallowed. ‘I want you to order them to free the slave children. Let them go home before they die of sickness and hunger.’
In reply, Old Lady Skint’s mouth opened and the most terrible sound came out. Otte thought she was angry with him, and he braced himself.
Then he realised she was laughing. She slapped her sides and the beetles flew in all directions, their legs scrabbling at the air.
‘Ho ho ho!’ roared the old woman. ‘Free the slaves? In exchange for gettin’ rid of a few warts? I never ’eard anythin’ so funny. This even beats the time One-eye fell overboard and was et by a shark.’ And she turned to go, still laughing.
Otte had known that she would not accept that particular bargain. But the grafs and grafines of the Strong-hold liked to think of him as an idiot, and he suspected that Old Lady Skint was the same.
So he had kept the best bit up his s
leeve. ‘There are things you do not know about me. Important things.’
The slaver captain turned back and rapped her knuckles on top of his head. ‘What could be important about a quarter-grown snotty like yerself? Except that you’re a boy dressed as a girl.’
‘I am from the Strong-hold,’ said Otte.
Old Lady Skint laughed again. ‘Pull the other one. No one gets out of the Strong-hold, not even a weaselly little runt like you.’
‘I got out,’ said Otte. ‘With the help of my friends. And witchery.’
For the first time, Old Lady Skint looked curious. ‘How?’
‘How we did it is not the point. What I wished to tell you is this: I am the Heir’s Friend.’
‘What’s that when it’s at ’ome?’
‘The Young Margrave and I were raised together. He is my best friend and I am his. If you hold me prisoner, you can ask him for anything and he will give it to you.’
One of Old Lady Skint’s eyebrows rose. She grabbed a chair from the table, turned it around and sat astride it with her arms on the back. ‘Anythin’? Anythin’ at all?’
It was only then that Otte saw the flaw in his plan. He had known Old Lady Skint was greedy, but he had not taken into account just how greedy she might be.
He quickly said, ‘No, I did not mean anything. But there are jewels in the Strong-hold, and he would give them to you. So do we have an agreement? Will you tell the guards to let the children go?’
Before the old woman could answer him, there was a heavy knock, and Fiddle stuck his head around the door. ‘Cap’n, there’s news.’ He hurried into the room and bent his head to whisper in Old Lady Skint’s ear.
Otte had thought it was impossible for her eyebrow to go any higher. But now it rose up and up until it almost disappeared into her bristling grey hair.
‘When?’ she asked.
‘Not sure,’ said Fiddle. ‘They tried to keep it quiet, but word got out.’
‘Well, well,’ said the slaver captain, shaking her head in amazement. She stood up. ‘Well, well, well.’ And once again, she turned to leave.
Otte called after her. ‘What about our agreement?’
Old Lady Skint turned back slowly, chewing her lip with blackened teeth. ‘Agreement? Is that what it was? I thought you was offerin’ yerself as our prisoner, nothin’ more. I agree to that all right.’