Secret Guardians

by Lian Tanner

  She tried to grab it back. ‘It is not yours, I saw it first!’

  Pummel held the terrified bird out of her reach. ‘She’s Otte’s chicken. His pet. Her name’s Dora. You can’t eat her.’

  There was a moment when things could have gone either way. Then Sooli narrowed her eyes and said, ‘I did not know it was Otte’s chicken. A certain person told me I could eat it if I could catch it.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ demanded Pummel.

  ‘A certain person who was your friend once.’

  ‘You mean Duckling said you could eat Otte’s chicken?’

  ‘I do not wish to say her name.’

  ‘I thought you were shunning her.’

  ‘I spoke to her before the shunning.’

  That was too much for Pummel. He wished Sooli would just say what she meant, straight out.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I don’t care what a certain person said. You mustn’t eat—’

  He broke off, as one of the Saaf boys came trotting towards them. The boy stopped when he saw Pummel and the chicken, and licked his lips. Then he crept up to Sooli and whispered in her ear.

  She nodded and said in Neuhaltese, ‘I was on my way. I will come.’

  The boy hurried off again. Pummel said, ‘On your way where?’

  Sooli made a sad face. ‘When one of the Saaf is taken by the Black Wind, there must be a funeral. I am called. I must go.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Pummel. ‘The Black Wind? You mean someone has died? Just now?’ He tried to remember which of the children had looked particularly sick that morning. ‘Who?’

  Sooli looked even sadder. ‘When someone has been taken by the Black Wind, the Saaf do not say their name. Please respect our customs.’ And she hurried after the boy.

  The chicken made a relieved sound. Her feathers settled against her body. Her claws wrapped around Pummel’s finger, and she winked up at him with one bright eye.

  Then she wriggled as if she wanted to get down.

  ‘I’m not sure you’ll be safe,’ said Pummel.

  But Dora kept wriggling, so in the end he put her on the ground. She immediately picked something up in her beak.

  Pummel shoved his hands into his pockets and said to her, ‘So what do I do now? Try and get the raashk back from Duckling? I still don’t understand why she took it.’

  The chicken clucked at him.

  ‘You’ve found something to eat?’ Pummel said absently. ‘Good on you.’ He kicked the wall of the tunnel. ‘I just wish Duckling would talk to me, instead of sneaking around stealing things. I wish I could trust her the way I trust Sooli—’

  He stopped. There was something he’d missed; something important. What was it?

  He thought back over the last few minutes. He couldn’t blame Sooli for wanting to eat the chicken, especially if Duckling had told her that it was all right.

  ‘Except Duckling wouldn’t say that,’ whispered Pummel. ‘She might be treacherous, but she’s never cruel. And she likes you, Dora.’

  The chicken clucked again, but Pummel was too distracted to take any notice. Had Sooli lied to him?

  No. She had never actually said that Duckling had given her permission. But she’d made Pummel think it all the same.

  She’d never actually said she was going to a funeral either …

  Ever since they’d left the Strong-hold, Pummel had been watching Duckling for signs of treachery. In fact, he’d watched her so closely that there’d been no room for watching anyone else.

  ‘What if I’ve been watching the wrong person?’ He looked around for the chicken, but she must’ve gone off on business of her own, because she was no longer beside him.

  Pummel chewed his knuckles, wondering what Duckling would do if she was here.

  The answer was obvious. She wouldn’t wait for someone to prove they could be trusted. She’d follow them. She’d spy on them. She’d find out for herself.

  Pummel licked his salty lips and tried to put aside everything he thought he knew. Then he set off down the tunnel after Sooli.

  The Harshman had come to the salt mines at last, led there by the memories of seventy-five screaming ghosts.

  He remembered the mines. At least, he remembered them from when they were no more than a couple of holes in the side of a mountain, and a useful place to get rid of Saffy prisoners.

  They looked different now, and for once the difference pleased him. He liked the seriousness of the buildings, and the height of the tower. When he was Margrave, he would throw a few slaves off that tower, to keep the rest of them in line. Perhaps he would throw off some soldiers too. Just for – what was that word again? Fun. Yes, just for fun.

  He could have walked in the front door and sent everyone in the mine to sleep. But it pleased him to pull the cold back into his bones a little, and enter secretly, through rock and earth.

  It was nighttime, and the top levels of the mine were deserted, apart from a few miserable ghosts. When they saw the Harshman they screeched and fled.

  The Harshman raised his head. Sniff sniff sniff. Sniff sniff sniff sniff.

  Yes, there was the scent again! The Heir of Neuhalt had been here, in this precise place. But he was not here now.

  ‘Deeper,’ said the Harshman. ‘I … Must … Go … Deeper.’

  Duckling’s breeze came back at the same time as the chicken. The breeze brought the steady rhythm of picks chipping away at something that didn’t sound at all like salt.

  The chicken pecked Duckling’s bare foot.

  ‘Stop it,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to listen.’

  The breeze tickled her chin and swept the chipping sounds past her ear again. ‘I’m sure it’s not salt,’ muttered Duckling. ‘And what other reason could there be for digging in this awful place?’

  ‘Ouuuut,’ said the cat.

  Duckling nodded. ‘What’s the bet it’s that tunnel with the witchery on it? I never did trust Sooli’s story about burials.’ She blew on the windmill to make sure the breeze was listening. ‘Is it nearly finished? Can you take us there? Right now?’

  The chicken pecked harder, and this time her beak found Duckling’s bruised toe.

  ‘Ow!’ said Duckling. ‘Stop it, I’m trying to get us out of here. I’m going after Otte. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

  ‘Buk buk buk!’ replied the chicken, with such a worried air that Duckling dragged her mind away from the breeze and said, ‘What’s the matter?’

  With immense care, the chicken placed a grubby piece of paper on the ground. Duckling picked the paper up and held it close to her lantern, thinking that one of the guards must’ve dropped it. But then she saw what was written on it:

  Margravine dead. Old Lady Skint taking me to ship tomorrow!

  ‘It’s from Otte!’ whispered Duckling.

  The chicken hopped from foot to foot and flapped her wings.

  ‘But when did he write it? How long ago? Maybe it’s tomorrow already. Maybe he’s already gone!’

  She didn’t dare think about the other part of the message, the bit about the Margravine. Because if his mother was dead, Otte was now the—

  ‘It doesn’t matter who he is,’ she said to the cat. ‘He’s a friend, that’s what counts. We’ve got to get him out of Old Lady Skint’s clutches.’

  ‘Ouuut,’ agreed the cat.

  Duckling turned back to the breeze, which was still hovering around her. She was about to say, ‘Take us to the place where they’re digging,’ when she remembered Pummel and all the other children. She remembered the wild cries and the heartbroken songs. She remembered the pitiful words carved into the salt.

  ‘They’re not my responsibility,’ she said to the cat. ‘They shunned me. All of them, including Pummel. I don’t owe them a thing.’

  Frow Cat didn’t even blink, but her thoughts were so loud that Duckling almost blushed.

  ‘Grandpa wouldn’t worry about them,’ she said. ‘Grandpa’d be out of here like a shot. He wouldn’t look back. That’s
how he’s survived for so long. Anyone who looks back is a fool, that’s what he reckons.’

  Still the cat gazed at her. So did the chicken. Duckling thought she heard those heartbroken songs filling the tunnel, but the cat’s ears didn’t even twitch.

  The songs must be inside me, thought Duckling, with a shiver. They got stuck in my head.

  Except they didn’t feel as if they were in her head. They felt as if they were behind her ribs somewhere. Near her heart …

  She sighed, picked up the lantern and set off, with the cat and the chicken, to find Pummel and the other children.

  Lord Rump glared at the coin in his hand. He had tried everything he could think of to escape from the mine, and now he had come to the end of his resources. All he had left was this, a single copper misery.

  It would not get him another piece of steak. It would not get him a potato. It definitely would not get him out of this gods-forsaken place.

  ‘Which means I have one last option,’ he whispered. ‘I must sell the only thing of value I possess; information. But Krieg must not suspect what I am doing, or I will be dead before I know it.’

  He waited until the early morning bell rang through the tunnels, then hastened to the shaft. He and Snout were old friends now, and they greeted each other with delight.

  At least, Rump sounded delighted. Snout just held out his hand.

  As everyone else dug their spoons into the awful slop that served as breakfast, Rump fell to his knees. ‘I cannot take this anymore,’ he wailed. ‘I am an important man. I am used to being treated with care and attention. Have mercy on me, Herro!’

  Snout smirked. Arms-mistress Krieg shot Rump a look of utter disgust and strode away without a backward glance.

  Excellent, thought Rump. And he wailed louder. ‘I have run out of coin! Oh woe! Oh sorrow! There was never a man more badly done by than I!’

  As soon as breakfast was finished, the other prisoners went to their work. Snout tugged on the rope that hung beside him and the bucket began to rise.

  Rump clambered to his feet. ‘Wait! I have something for you.’ He took the copper misery from his pocket, but kept his hand wrapped around it so the guard could not see its colour.

  Snout tugged on the rope again and the bucket creaked to a halt, just above Rump’s head. ‘Thought you’d run out of coin.’

  ‘My dear man, of course I have not run out,’ said Rump. ‘What you just saw was a brilliant display of acting, nothing more. But I do not require steak, not today. What I need is information, and I will pay you well for it. You know I will not cheat you.’

  ‘I know no such thing,’ muttered Snout. But he gave a double tug on the rope, and the bucket creaked down to floor level again.

  ‘Now,’ said Rump. He had thought about this carefully, trying to work out how much he could discover before the guard demanded payment. ‘Give me news of Old Lady Skint. Do you know where she has gone?’

  ‘Why, she’s up above,’ said Snout. ‘Come back to collect payment, though the roads are dangerous right now.’ He sniffed. ‘I s’pose she was safe enough, despite what ’appened to the Margravine. There’s not many can get the better of Old Lady Skint.’

  The next question was already on Rump’s lips, but he put it aside and grasped at something Snout had said. ‘Ah yes, the Margravine. That was a surprise, was it not?’

  He had no idea what he was talking about. But he wasn’t going to let the guard see that.

  Snout shook his head in astonishment. ‘You ’eard about the assassination right down ’ere?’

  Rump felt as if he had been hit by a lightning bolt. Assassination? The Margravine had been killed? Suddenly, what he knew was a thousand times more valuable. No, ten thousand times!

  He cleared his throat. ‘The second thing I require—’

  ‘You’ve ’ad your information,’ said Snout. ‘I’m not givin’ you nothin’ for free. Hand over the coin.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Rump. ‘I already knew about the Margravine. And I could have guessed Old Lady Skint’s whereabouts if I had wished.’ He went on quickly, before the guard could argue. ‘If you want to earn your coin, you will take a message for me. To Old Lady Skint herself.’

  Snout harrumphed several times, as if he knew he was being cheated. Then he leaned over the edge of the bucket and said, ‘All right, I’ll take yer message. But I want the coin first.’

  Rump opened his fist and held out the copper misery.

  Snout’s face turned red, then purple. His mouth opened and shut. He began to shout, ‘You cheated me, you maggot! Why, you probably didn’t even know about the assass—’

  Rump could move very fast when he needed to. He leaped forward and slapped his hand over the man’s mouth.

  ‘This is a serious and delicate matter,’ he whispered. ‘The fate of the whole country may rest on the message you carry, but only if you carry it secretly. There are people here—’ He looked over his shoulder and pretended to shudder. ‘There are people here who would slit your throat if they knew you were helping me with this.’

  It sounded wonderfully dramatic, and it did the job. When Rump took his hand away, Snout tried to look as if he was still reluctant. But he took the misery and slipped it into his pocket.

  ‘So what’s the message?’ he demanded.

  ‘Just this,’ said Rump. ‘I have information that will make Old Lady Skint rich beyond her wildest dreams; information that will make her grateful to me for the rest of her life. But I will only hand it over if I am freed from here.’

  If Pummel had never carried the raashk, he wouldn’t have realised there was anything wrong with the mine’s ghosts. But he had carried it, and even though it was no longer in his hand or tucked into his boot, it had marked him in some way.

  So he knew when the air in the tunnels began to tremble and fizz. He smelt the fear that seeped towards him like a killing frost.

  He felt the ghosts. Running. Frantic.

  ‘What are you scared of?’ he whispered.

  But if the ghosts answered, he didn’t hear them.

  He’d been keeping up with Sooli as best he could, while trying very hard to stay hidden. She’d taken a lantern from the wall, and so had Pummel, though he turned it as low as he could and held it behind him so Sooli wouldn’t see the light. As he followed her, he tried to think like Duckling, as wary as a hare. He tried to walk like the cat, on silent paws.

  And all the time, he doubted himself. Of course Sooli had been telling the truth about the funeral. As for the roundabout way she’d said it, that was just how she spoke. He didn’t know why he was still following her; it must be nearly breakfast-time and he was going to miss out on food as well as sleep. He should turn back right now.

  But he didn’t. He kept going, though the wooden props he passed were held together by little more than memory, and the rock around him groaned, and the ghosts careened down the tunnels in desperate flight.

  Sooli seemed to see the ghosts too. She looked from side to side and increased her pace. She rubbed the back of her neck. Pummel thought he saw her shiver.

  And then she stopped, and Pummel pressed himself against the wall of the tunnel so he wouldn’t be seen. Ahead of him, someone called out softly in a language he didn’t understand.

  One of the older Saaf boys stepped out of nowhere.

  Pummel caught his breath. Where had the boy come from? There was no tunnel, no corner, no turning. He had just … appeared.

  Sooli raised the lantern so that the light fell on her face. She looked worried; she gestured at the passing ghosts and said something in Saaf. Then she opened her hand and held up the raashk.

  Pummel began to tremble. At first he thought it was shock, but then he realised it was anger. He wanted to march straight up to Sooli and demand an answer. He wanted to do things the way he’d always done them. He wanted to believe that people would speak truthfully and that some sort of honour lay at the heart of everything.

  But Duckling would stay hidde
n. She’d wait and see.

  So Pummel waited. And he saw.

  Or rather, he didn’t see. Because one moment Sooli and the boy were standing there – and then they were gone.

  Pummel didn’t think they’d used the raashk to walk into the rock. He didn’t think they’d gone anywhere near the rock.

  They’d just vanished.

  Duckling was right all along, he thought. There’s a secret tunnel, protected by witchery. And I don’t believe it’s got anything to do with burials.

  He had no idea if he could get into the tunnel. Perhaps he could, in the same way that he could feel the ghosts, even though the raashk had been stolen from him. Perhaps it was an escape tunnel, and it would take him out to the bright sky and the sun and the spring grass.

  Almost without thinking, he began to walk towards it.

  But what if the witchery let him in, and wouldn’t let him out again? Duckling was still in the mine somewhere, and he couldn’t leave her behind. He had wronged her once – he wouldn’t do it a second time.

  And so, knowing that he might be turning away from his only chance of escape, he headed back the way he had come, to search for Duckling.

  Sooli had started the escape tunnel soon after she was captured, three moons ago.

  The ghosts had told her where to dig. Sometimes they would talk to her and sometimes they would not, but when they did, they told her where to start, and where the tunnel must go.

  At first, she had only shared her secret with the Saaf children. Back then, she had not cared about anyone else.

  But it had been impossible to ignore the others for long.

  The little Nor girl who had been snatched from the arms of her murdered father.

  The twin boys from Faroona who spoke only to each other.

  The girl from the Beastie Isles, who spat at the guards whenever she saw them, no matter how often they whipped her.

  By the end of Sooli’s first three weeks in the mine, she was determined to save them all.

  It was mostly the older children who had dug the tunnel. Each morning, one of the Saaf girls would lead them through the do-not-see that Sooli had put on the entrance, and they would spend the day hacking at rock and earth until they were so tired they could hardly stand.