Secret Guardians

by Lian Tanner

  The heat scorched Pummel’s cheeks. The bright flames blinded him, and he stumbled back against the rock wall. Had something exploded? Had one of the props that held up the roof of the tunnel caught fire?

  The light faded and he opened his eyes in time to see Sooli run past him, back the way they had come. Pummel almost went after her. But then he saw Duckling, standing in the lantern light right where the flames had been.

  Unburned.

  Unharmed.

  His hands trembled. His heart felt as if it might erupt. Duckling had called fire. He had heard her shout, and then the flames had come.

  ‘You lied to me,’ he said in a hoarse voice. ‘You told me you’d lost your witchery, and you haven’t. You lied about everything.’

  ‘No, wait,’ said Duckling.

  But Pummel didn’t want to hear anything she had to say. He turned his back on her and went after Sooli, with the cat still trotting beside him.

  He was halfway to the night cave before he discovered that the raashk was missing.

  Sooli was trying to make sense of what had just happened.

  Duckling had summoned a Fire Wind.

  But that was not possible.

  Even Great-Grandmother could not summon a Fire Wind, though she tried many times. It is something that was lost; something that only the great Bayams of Long Ago could do.

  And yet Sooli had seen it. She had felt it.

  Her mind reeled. Perhaps she was wrong after all. Perhaps her great-grandmother had given away the raashk and the Wind’s Blessing.

  But why would she do such a thing?

  And why had Duckling lied about it not working? And if she had such amazing power, why had she and Pummel not yet escaped from the mine? How had they even been captured in the first place?

  It did not make sense, no matter which way Sooli looked at it.

  She rubbed the back of her hand, which still felt scorched, and searched for another explanation. There had been a fire, she was not denying that. But it need not have been any sort of magic. There were vapours in some parts of the mine that flared up in an instant if they were touched by a naked flame.

  ‘Duckling has a tinderbox, that is all,’ Sooli whispered in her own language. ‘She probably stole it, just as she stole the Wind’s Blessing. It was not amazing, what I saw. It was a distraction, nothing more.’

  Sooli could not afford distractions. The raashk was in her possession at last, and she had a decision to make.

  She had hoped that, if she struck Duckling suddenly and unexpectedly, the Wind’s Blessing would break free and fly to her. To her dismay, that had not happened.

  By rights, she should stay in the mine and try again. The Wind’s Blessing wanted to be with her. It longed to be with her – and that knowledge lay heavily upon Sooli.

  But so did the lives of sixty-three children.

  If she stayed, more of them would die. She would hold their hands and see the life fade from their eyes. She would know that she could have saved them …

  She heard a sound and realised that Pummel was standing in front of her.

  ‘The raashk is gone,’ he said, in a ragged voice. ‘It was in my pocket, and now it’s not.’

  With an effort, Sooli dragged her wits back into line. ‘I sensed it being taken,’ she said. ‘That is why I went after Duckling.’

  Pummel screwed up his eyes as if he had a headache. ‘You think she took it? But why? She can’t use it. She tried once, in the Strong-hold, and it didn’t work for her. Why would she do such a thing?’

  He looked so hurt and miserable that Sooli suddenly found herself wanting to tell him the truth.

  She might have said something, even though she knew it would bring disaster. (He is a thief and a murderer.) But before she could speak, Pummel shook his head and hurried back along the tunnel.

  With that, Sooli made her decision. A Bayam’s duty, above all else, was to protect her people – and for now, Sooli’s people were the slave children of the salt mine.

  Perhaps, after she had saved them, she would come back to the mine and try once more for the Wind’s Blessing. But in this moment, she would focus on freedom. Freedom for all the children – except the two murderous thieves, who did not deserve it.

  And she walked away, clutching the raashk and trying to ignore the uncertainties that lingered in the back of her mind.

  Pummel found Duckling standing where he had left her, with the lantern turned a little higher and Otte’s chicken in her arms.

  The first thing she said was, ‘Pummel, I didn’t lie. I don’t know how I—’

  He spoke over the top of her. ‘Why did you steal it? You can’t use it, you know you can’t.’

  ‘Use what?’ asked Duckling.

  ‘I’m not a fool,’ said Pummel. ‘Just because I can’t feel it anymore—’

  Duckling was as quick on the uptake as ever. ‘You’ve lost the raashk? And you think I took it?’ She laughed in disbelief, then realised he was serious and glared at him. ‘What else can you blame me for, Pummel? Did I raise the Harshman? Are all the slaves here because of me? Why don’t you start using your wits for a change?’

  And with that, she turned her back on him.

  Pummel wanted to shout at her, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. So he walked away, saying, ‘Come on, Frow Cat. We know who our friends are.’

  He thought the cat would follow him. But she didn’t. She stayed with Duckling and the chicken. And when Pummel glanced over his shoulder, the three of them were glowering after him, as if the whole thing was his fault.

  Otte lay on the bed with a pillow under his head and three woollen blankets to keep him warm, and wished he was back in the night cave. He wished he had not failed so badly at bargaining. He wished he was with his friends.

  A white mouse crept out of his sleeve and scurried up to his shoulder. A second mouse nibbled his ear. A third and a fourth climbed onto his forehead and began to clean their paws.

  ‘Yes, I know you are my friends too,’ whispered Otte. ‘But you cannot help me now. And I cannot help you. You are going to be ship’s mice, whether you like it or not.’

  There was a sound outside the room, and the mice dived under the blankets. As the door opened, Otte lay very still and pretended he was asleep. If Old Lady Skint had come to mock him, he would not give her the pleasure.

  But the footsteps that crossed the room were not the firm tread of the slaver captain. They sounded as if someone was trying unsuccessfully to be quiet.

  Tiptoe … THUMP … tiptoe … THUMP … tiptoe … THUMP.

  Otte sat up. ‘Fiddle? Is that you?’

  The footsteps stopped. A hoarse voice said, ‘How’d you know?’

  ‘I guessed,’ said Otte.

  The side of the bed sagged under Fiddle’s weight. ‘Brought you somethin’,’ he whispered.

  Otte heard the scratch of a tinderbox, and the watergas lamp beside the bed flared. A hairy hand descended in front of him, holding a piece of wood with a leather cup on one end and a myriad of leather straps.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  Fiddle’s scarred face loomed over him like a slab of cheese. ‘Why, ’tis a wooden leg! I carved it, in case we ever met up again.’

  Those surprising words jolted Otte out of his misery. With a wooden leg, he would be able to walk again. He might even be able to escape! ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That was kind of you.’

  Fiddle’s eyes widened and he reared back in dismay. ‘No! No, never say such a thing! If the cap’n thought I was bein’ kind, she’d get rid of me. A little accident overboard, gone to the fishies. No, it definitely weren’t kind.’

  This was something Otte understood. Most of the grafs and grafines in the Strong-hold were the same, seeing kindness as a weakness instead of a strength.

  ‘Sorry, Fiddle,’ he said. ‘It was not kindness, but strategy. You do not want a shipmate who cannot walk; it might bring danger to the crew.’

  Fiddle nodded vigorously. ‘Th
at’s it. No kindness in that, is there? Now, do you know ’ow to put it on?’

  ‘I am not sure—’

  ‘I ’ad trouble meself the first few times,’ said Fiddle. ‘Here, I’ll show you. Give us yer leg.’ He inspected Otte’s stump approvingly. ‘Whoever sewed that up did a very nice job. Can’t even see the tooth marks, where the shark bit you. Hang on, you’ll need a sock to stop the cup rubbin’, and a liddle bit of sheepskin too. Just as well I come prepared. Now, we buckle this bit round yer stump … and this bit around yer waist. You’re only a liddle fella, so that should be enough to ’old it. You want to try standin’ up?’

  Otte nodded. The whole thing felt like a dream – the ferocious kindness of the slaver, the sheepskin, the sock, the wooden leg.

  Fiddle heaved him off the bed and set him upright, which made it more like a dream than ever. Otte wobbled one way, then the other. Without crutches or someone to lean on, it felt wrong to be standing up. It felt dangerous. It felt – amazing.

  Despite everything, a smile welled up inside him and splashed across his face. He took a step and nearly fell over. But he caught his balance and tried again. This time it was easier.

  Fiddle looked anxious. ‘It’s good?’

  ‘It is good!’

  ‘You can wear it tomorrow when we go to the barky.’

  Otte’s smile froze. ‘The barky?’

  ‘The ship. We’re ’eadin’ off first thing in the mornin’. Cap’n’s got big things in mind now the Margravine’s dead.’

  Otte blinked – and began to tip sideways. Fiddle caught him before he fell. ‘You gotta take it slowly,’ he said, setting the boy back on the bed. ‘It’ll be a while before you can dance.’

  ‘The Margravine?’ whispered Otte. ‘She is – dead?’

  ‘Murdered,’ said Fiddle with great relish. ‘That was the news I brung to the cap’n earlier.’

  He looked more closely at Otte’s face and quickly added, ‘A terrible thing. Terrible. Is it true that you come from the Strong-hold? Then I s’pose you knew ’er.’

  Otte cleared his throat twice, and managed to say, ‘I saw her – sometimes. From a distance. I did not know her – well.’

  ‘That’s all right then,’ said Fiddle. He patted Otte gingerly on the head. ‘Now you get some sleep. Big day for the Heir’s Friend.’ He paused, thinking hard. ‘Though I don’t s’pose you are Heir’s Friend anymore, are you. You’d be the new Margrave’s friend.’

  He shook his head in amazement. ‘And to think I made a leg for you. I’d write and tell me old ma about it, if I could write.’

  And with that, he left the room.

  Otte felt as if the world had turned upside down. The Margravine of Neuhalt was dead. Murdered.

  No, he thought. My mother is dead.

  As shocked as he was, he did not say the words out loud. Old Lady Skint must never learn his true identity. He had already made a serious mistake telling her that he was the Heir’s Friend. If she discovered that he was really the new Margrave, she would demand far more than a few jewels. And Brun would pay and pay.

  Of all the people in the Strong-hold, Brun was the only one Otte missed. He did not miss his mother because he had never really known her. It was Arms-mistress Krieg who had raised him and cared for him and taught him to be honourable. Now if she had been murdered …

  Otte shuddered. Arms-mistress Krieg was still down in the mine somewhere, along with Lord Rump. For all he knew, she might have been murdered by now.

  ‘No,’ he told himself firmly. ‘Krieg will still be fighting. She will not give up. Ever.’

  That made him feel a little better. It also made him realise that he must not give up.

  Balancing carefully on his new leg, he searched the room until he found a scrap of paper. He set it on the floor beside the little jar of mushroom ink and the twig pen from his potions bag.

  Then he lifted the blankets and whispered, ‘I need a volunteer. Someone very brave who will carry a message for me.’

  Duckling was so tired that her eyes kept closing, but she forced them open again and walked up and down the tunnels with the chicken in her arms and the cat strolling beside her.

  ‘I called fire,’ she whispered, and she tried to remember every detail of her dream so she could do it again.

  ‘I had a feather in my hair. And I said, Lodosh.’

  She looked up quickly in case she had summoned flames a second time. But there was nothing.

  ‘I think I have to hum as well,’ she whispered.

  The cat purred. The chicken stretched out her wing, and a black feather fell to the floor.

  Duckling picked it up and stuck it in her hair, the way she had done in her dream. ‘Kaleem,’ she whispered. ‘Potoq. Seleeg.’

  They were the strangest words she’d ever heard, but they vibrated inside her like a drumbeat. KalEEM. PotOQ. SelEEG. LOdosh. KalEEM. PotOQ. SelEEG—

  As soon as she was sure she could repeat each word with exactly the right emphasis, she put the chicken down and stretched her arms. ‘Now we should be able to get out of here. And find Otte.’

  The chicken wandered away. ‘Don’t go far,’ called Duckling. ‘With any luck, we’ll be leaving soon.’ And she hummed the shiny little tune that summoned her breeze.

  Nothing happened. No breeze. No wind of any sort, though the cat watched in an interested fashion.

  Don’t fail me now, thought Duckling.

  But although she hummed and hummed, the breeze wouldn’t come.

  She thought back over her dream again. She had put a feather in her hair, that was part of it. And then …

  ‘A windmill!’

  She went down on her hands and knees in the dirt and hunted around for another feather. She couldn’t find one, so she dug some splinters of wood from one of the old props, and tied them together with a few strands of her hair.

  But when she blew on them, they didn’t move.

  Then she remembered the reeds.

  She snatched them from her pocket, twisted them into rough blades and tied them together with a hole in the middle. Then she put the smoothest splinter of wood through the hole.

  It didn’t look like any windmill she’d ever seen, but when she blew on the blades, they turned jerkily.

  The cat started purring again. Duckling hummed the shiny little tune … and the breeze came dancing around her.

  ‘About time,’ said Duckling. ‘Where’ve you been?’

  The breeze tickled her nose. The cat sneezed.

  ‘I need the quickest way out of the mine,’ Duckling said to the breeze. ‘Some way we won’t get stopped by the guards. Can you help?’

  She tried to remember what sunlight looked like; tried to hold a picture of it in her mind. ‘Go find,’ she said.

  The breeze licked her fingers once, twice, and whisked away. Duckling took a deep breath and let it out again.

  All she could do now was wait.

  The chicken strutted along the tunnel, her head bobbing anxiously. Wilygirl had at last grasped something of importance, but it was not enough. The chicken needed more, and she needed it quickly, especially now that Healerboy had been taken. If she—

  A mouse dashed across the tunnel.

  The chicken was getting better at resisting earwigs. But when she saw those tiny whiskers and those four tiny (but delicious) paws, her instincts took over.

  Mouse! she thought. And she dashed after it.

  To her delight, it ran away. And since chasing a mouse was almost as much fun as eating a mouse, she gave a loud squawk and ran faster.

  The mouse dodged around a corner, its legs moving so quickly that the chicken could hardly see them. She tipped her head to one side. She stretched her wings back. She ran and she ran and she ran, with no thought in her mind except food.

  Which was a pity, because the salt mine was a dangerous place for a chicken. There were too many hungry children around, and none of them cared that the chicken was really someone else. For days, she had been wary
of humans, not going near anyone except Wilygirl, in case they tried to eat her.

  But now she lost all caution. She dashed around the corner and there was the mouse, trying to hide behind a rock. The chicken dived on it and snapped it up in her beak. She was about to bang it against the rock to kill it when she realised that it was a white mouse, and that it had something wrapped around its tummy.

  Breakfast, thought her chicken mind.

  A piece of paper, thought her other self.

  It was a mighty struggle, trying not to gobble down that mouse, along with the mysterious paper. All her chicken self could think of was the little warm wriggling body, and how nice it would be to eat a whole mouse.

  But her other self, her secret self, wanted to know what was on that bit of paper.

  She thought of snatching the paper away, dropping it somewhere safe and grabbing the mouse again. That way, she could eat the mouse and investigate the paper.

  But if that tasty little creature was white, and carrying a message, it must belong to Healerboy. And she must not eat his mice.

  With a sigh, she put the mouse down. It was a bit stunned, so it didn’t run away, but sat there cleaning its paws. Which gave the chicken time to snatch the paper out from under the string and nudge it open with her beak.

  But before she could read it, she was snatched up in turn.

  ‘Got you!’ said a voice in the language of Saaf. ‘You will feed the youngest children, the weakest ones. You will be their first meal of freedom.’

  And two hands wrapped around the chicken’s neck and began to squeeze.

  Pummel heard the squawk of horror and knew straight away what it was. He began to run. He had lost Otte, he had lost Duckling and the cat and the raashk, and he was beginning to feel as if he was losing himself.

  He didn’t want to lose the chicken as well.

  He skinned his elbow twice before he reached the source of the noise. But there at last was Dora, a frantic bundle of black feathers struggling to get away from Sooli, who was trying to wring the bird’s neck.

  Pummel dashed forward, shouting, ‘No!’ And before Sooli could stop him, he had torn the chicken from her arms.