Wanted (Flick Carter Book 1)

by Arnot, Tim

  ‘These are for the Kingsmen,’ he said. ‘And be on your best behaviour, you don’t want to find yourself arrested, and I can’t afford to be short staffed.’

  ‘Yes, Dad.’ Flick rolled her eyes as she took the plates and climbed the stairs towards the back bar. The noise receded as she entered a large room laid out with tables and chairs. It was empty apart from the two Kingsmen. They sat at a table by a large window overlooking the courtyard, deep in conversation over a pile of papers. When the men did not appear to notice her approach, she coughed politely.

  They stopped and looked up, saw the plates and started gathering up their papers. ‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ one of them said, ‘we were a little… preoccupied.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ replied Flick, setting down the plates in front of the two guests. ‘Hope you enjoy it.’

  The two men unfurled their napkins and tucked them in to the tops of their tunics. Flick turned to go.

  ‘Just one moment, miss…’ This was the other one.

  ‘Felicity, sir. Felicity Carter.’ She waited to see what he wanted.

  He pointed to his plate with his knife. ‘And this is?’

  ‘Venison, sir. And greens and spuds.’ The man waited, as if expecting more. Flick went on. ‘Roe deer, sir. Caught it myself, about a week ago. Well, me and a couple of lads. Greens and spuds come from the market, sir.’

  ‘And what did you bring it down with, my dear?’ This was the first Kingsman again.

  ‘Bow and arrow, sir. Made the arrows myself.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘What, with? Steel? Iron? Where do you get it?’

  Flick was wary, sensing that he was testing her. ‘No sir, flint. Can’t afford iron or steel. I’ve got a corner of Dad’s workshop where I make them,’ she said.

  ‘Remarkable initiative,’ the man said, nodding.

  ‘I can fetch some and show you if you’re interested?’ said Flick.

  ‘Yes, I should like that,’ he said. ‘One more thing, my dear, how old are you?’

  ‘Sixteen, sir,’ Flick replied.

  ‘And still unwed, I see,’ he said.

  Flick heard the disapproving tone in his voice but said nothing, trying hard to maintain a blank expression.

  ‘Remarkable,’ he said, and turned to his dinner.

  The following morning, Flick and Rosie had got the horse harnessed up to the one-time motor vehicle, all ready to go by the time the two Kingsmen emerged from the inn with their bags. Flick opened the boot of the vehicle and the two men placed their luggage inside. She then rushed to open the passenger side door, while Rosie held open the other. The first man got in. He still had the same scowl on his face that he’d arrived with the night before. The second started to climb aboard and then stopped. He turned to her.

  ‘Felicity, wasn’t it?’ he asked.

  Flick nodded.

  ‘Such a pretty name,’ he said, smiling. Something about that smile made Flick uneasy. ‘Last evening, my dear,’ he continued, ‘you said that we might see some of your arrows and your flint making workshop.’

  Flick nodded cautiously. ‘Yes…’

  ‘Might I trouble you for a very quick look?’

  ‘Of course, this way sir,’ said Flick, waving towards her father’s old forge at the back of the yard. She didn’t want them hanging around any longer than was necessary, so hopefully they’d just take a quick look and be gone. The man whispered a few words to his companion before following her into the workshop. Several bows and quivers of arrows hung from hooks on the wall, and there were baskets of fresh sticks and chalky flints.

  ‘Looks like you’re equipped to supply an army!’ the man commented dryly.

  Flick gulped. Her palms felt sweaty. Was he after something? There had been a lot of strangers around the town lately, and now these Kingsmen, so maybe something was going on that she didn’t know about. ‘I sell them in town sometimes. It helps to make ends meet,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sure,’ said the man, noncommittally, pulling an arrow from its quiver and turning it over in his hands.

  ‘That’s one of my hunting arrows,’ she said. ‘It’s a standard hunting tip, but I can do others, smaller or bigger. Careful with it now, it’s very sharp.’

  The man gave her a quizzical look, then ran his thumb cautiously across the edge. He nodded.

  Flick explained how she cut up goose feathers for the fletchings, and the different threads and glues she used, and how different colours meant that each hunter could identify their own arrow and know who had made the kill and, more importantly, who got the meat. All the time the man nodded and smiled.

  ‘And you’re sure you only have stone… tips?’ the man asked. There was a slight edge in his voice that suggested the wrong answer could have unfortunate consequences. ‘Only I can’t help but notice the forge.’

  Flick swallowed. ‘That’s Dad’s forge. He used to be a farrier, before mum died. But now…’ she hesitated. ‘Look, there’s just him and me running the inn, with some help from a girl in town. Dad can fire up the forge if there’s a horse dropped a shoe or something, but really that’s it. I don’t know anything about any armies, so if that’s what you’re looking for, you’re barking up the wrong tree, begging your pardon.’ She glared at him, heart pounding, thinking that was probably a very stupid thing to have just said.

  The man raised an eyebrow, but before he could say anything, the other Kingsman called out, ‘Cheng, fascinating as I’m sure you find these… rustic trades, we really must be going.’

  ‘Of course,’ Cheng replied, turning to leave. Then he paused and turned back to Flick. ‘Do you have one that I could possibly take with me?’ he asked.

  Flick went to a drawer in the workbench at the back of the room and rummaged through it. She picked out an arrow head and handed it to him. ‘That’ll be a quid please.’

  Cheng raised an eyebrow. ‘Young lady, you do realise I’m a Kingsman, in the service of the crown, on official business?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Flick replied, her hand still held out. ‘It’s still a quid. Business is business.’

  Cheng rolled his eyes, but reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black bag. He tipped the contents into his other hand and picked out a coin which he handed to Flick. She took it, looked carefully at both sides and bit it before putting it in her own pocket.

  ‘You think I would pass false coin?’ Cheng asked.

  ‘Can’t be too careful, sir,’ Flick replied.

  ‘Knowing I’d have to arrest myself, try myself, and probably even execute myself?’ he added.

  Flick shrugged. Most crimes carried the death penalty, although often it didn’t come to that.

  ‘Or arrest you for daring even to suggest that a servant of the crown could be corrupted.’

  Flick swallowed. Maybe she had gone too far.

  Cheng shook his head. ‘But of course I understand you’re just being cautious.’ He gave her a long hard stare before grinning a cold, mirthless smile. ‘Thank you, young lady, that has been most enlightening. Now I must bid you farewell and continue my journey.’ He smiled and bowed briefly before turning and climbing into his seat. The reins shook and the horse and its carriage departed through the archway.

  3

  The Mangled Wreck

  SHEA SCREAMED. HE was lying on his side in long grass, the smell of it filled his nostrils. He hurt. God did he hurt, but he was alive. The memory came back to him; the sky-kart plummeting, aiming for the meadow, but hitting the trees, being thrown clear, tumbling. He needed to get back, grab the radio and call for help. He tried to get up, but the pain struck him like a body blow. Intense, mind bending.

  After some minutes the pain seemed to ease slightly and his head started to clear. He tried to move again, slowly and more carefully this time, gritting his teeth as he did so. His body hurt so much and he broke out into a sweat, but his arms seemed to work, and he managed to raise himself up gradually to a sitting position. Then everything spun and he collapsed b
ack to the ground, flinging his arms out and grabbing tufts of grass, clinging on for dear life. Gradually the dizziness subsided and the world stopped spinning. He relaxed his grip and looked up. Now, moving even more slowly this time, he pushed himself back up.

  He spotted the mangled wreckage of the sky-kart several metres away. Thank God he didn’t have his buckle fastened; if he hadn’t been thrown clear he’d be dead for sure. He had come down near the edge of a meadow, at the base of a long ridge of hills. Carved into the side of the ridge was the massive stylised figure of a horse, white from the underlying chalk. Behind him, the field ended in a large expanse of woodland.

  Shea shifted his weight, and pain stabbed through him again. Blinking back the tears, he tried crawling towards the line of trees, slowly, slowly. If there were any houses or people, that's where they'd be, and help was what he needed now, never mind who they were. Each time he pushed himself along a bit he winced with pain, every push taking longer and moving him a shorter distance than the last, until he stopped moving altogether and the world became dark.

  4

  The Chalk

  ‘YOU’RE SURE THEY didn’t have any?’ Flick asked.

  Maggie nodded. ‘The shop was as empty as I’ve ever seen it,’ she said. ‘It’s been getting worse for weeks. There’s been no bread to be had for the last three days, and if you hadn’t brought that venison home the other day, I don’t know what we should have done.’

  Maggie Watson had been Flick’s best friend since their first day at school together, and at the last Choosing, she’d been taken on as cook and housekeeper at the inn too.

  ‘But the wagons coming in to town are as full as ever?’ Flick said.

  Maggie nodded.

  ‘So what’s happening to it all?’

  ‘I think it’s been going up to Mayor Griffin’s place. There’s something fishy going on there, I’m sure of it,’ Maggie said.

  Flick paused from doing the dishes. ‘Really, what makes you say that?’

  ‘All the strange men around town for a start. Where do they come from? Where do they live?’

  ‘So you think they are all staying up at the mansion?’ Flick asked.

  ‘Well, it fits. And it would explain the sudden food shortages,’ Maggie said.

  ‘They can’t all be the mayor’s estate workers surely. I mean he doesn’t need that many. Does he?’

  Maggie shrugged. ‘You’re the one that’s been seeing his son Joe. Hasn’t he said anything?’

  Flick shook her head. ‘I think “seeing” is a bit optimistic. I’m pretty sure he’s not interested in me. At least, if he is, he doesn’t show it. But I’ll ask him what’s going on the next time I see him.’

  Flick dried her hands.

  ‘Tell you what,’ she said after a moment, ‘I want to go up to the ridge for some flints; I didn’t realise how low I was until those Kingsmen wanted a look this morning. I can take my bow and see what I can bring back.’

  ‘Did you see that coach they had?’ Maggie asked, her eyes lighting up, ‘Wasn’t it amazing?’

  Flick nodded. ‘A relic from the Dark Times. We don’t see many of those about.’

  ‘Do you think it was? That would make it, what, a hundred and fifty years old?’

  ‘At least,’ Flick said. ‘It must be incredibly valuable.’

  ‘My gran says they’ve got all sorts of things from before The Collapse, and that they just keep them hidden away to stop people like us from having them,’ Maggie said. ‘She says her gran told her about things that they used to have that we can’t even imagine now. Machines that could fly, machines that let you talk to people the other side of the world just like you were in the same room, electricity that came out of the walls. Gran’s gran had an old book, with pictures…’

  Flick cut her off. ‘There’s lots of things that we don’t know from the Dark Times–that’s why they’re called the Dark Times after all. We just know they ended in The Collapse, and well, here we are.’

  ‘But the book came from before the Dark Times, when they still had real books on paper…’

  ‘And have you seen this book?’

  Maggie shrugged. ‘It must have gone to someone else in the family, if it still even exists. It would have been really old when my great gran had it.’

  Flick thought for a moment, then brightened. ‘Will you be all right holding the fort for a few hours while I’m gone? Rosie’s out with her friend Alice, Adam’s… who knows where, but Dad’s here.’

  Maggie nodded, ‘Sure, I’ve got dinner to be getting on with–while we’ve still got food to cook, that is.’

  Flick grinned. She pushed open the door to the front bar and called out, ‘I’m going up the ridge, Dad. I’ll be back before it’s dark!’

  There was a grunt from somewhere out front.

  ‘Be careful up there,’ Maggie said, an edge of concern in her voice. ‘No one goes out that way, and if you get stuck down that pit, it’ll be tomorrow before we can send Adam to pull you out.’

  ‘I’m always careful,’ Flick said, ‘and anyway I’ll be back long before curfew.’

  She waved as she slipped out through the back door. Her bike was old and had seen better days, perhaps even better centuries. She’d been given it by her father as a fifteenth birthday present, just as her father had once been given it by his father. Over the years it had been patched up and mended. The mudguards were long gone, but other bits had been replaced: a new saddle here, a wheel there, even the frame had been replaced at one time. But it was still the same old bike, even though not one bit about it was original. Flick’s own contribution to the bike was the addition of a carrier plate and panniers over the back wheel, and a clip for her bow on the crossbar.

  She made sure the panniers and her bow were attached, and grabbed a quiver of arrows before setting off through the town.

  Faringdon had been fortified some years after The Collapse. The derelict houses and factories around the outskirts had been demolished, leaving just the inner core, and the piles of rubble had been banked up to form a defensive rampart. The four roads in or out of the town–north, south, east and west had to pass through large wooden gates, each of which was guarded day and night by a pair of Town Watchmen.

  ‘See you in the pub tonight Fred?’ she called as she cycled through the open southern gate.

  ‘Where else would I be?’ a voice called back.

  ‘Save us a coney if you catch any!’ called another voice.

  Flick waved, but didn’t stop or look back. It seemed that Maggie wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the food shortages.

  It took the best part of an hour to cycle the half dozen miles up to the ridge. The road south was little used and in places had overgrown so that it was not much more than a narrow track. Only horses and pushbikes–and very few of those–came this way. At the top, Flick parked her bike close to the edge of a large pit.

  The pit had been dug when people realised that things were not suddenly going to get better, and if they wanted new tools, they had to make them out of whatever they could find. The local flint was good for making sharp blades, and very quickly the available supply on the surface was used up.

  So enterprising people had dug a mine.

  That was a long time ago. Famine and disease had decimated what remained of the population, and the mine–never much more than a deep pit–had been abandoned since before Flick was born.

  Flick climbed down the wooden ladder into the pit. It was dark at the bottom, and she rummaged for one of the makeshift wooden torches that she kept in an alcove. She wrapped some oil-soaked rags over the end and got to work making a small fire by striking a piece of flint against a curved steel band that she kept tucked in her belt. Once the spark caught, she transferred it carefully onto some tinder and blew gently until the glow became a flame. Carefully she let the flame caress the oily rags until they caught and her makeshift torch burst into light.

  She looked around and saw the low entrance into a pass
ageway cut into the chalk. The torch was burning brightly now, and she ducked down into the passage, taking care not to hit her head on the low roof. After a few metres, the cave curved around to the right and the last trace of daylight was gone. The roof was getting lower and she had to drop to her hands and knees, pushing the torch along the chalk rubble on the floor.

  She held her breath. Was there something moving at the back of the cave? No, it was just a shadow from a protruding rock, caught in the flickering torchlight. She waved the torch around just to be sure.

  ‘Jumpy,’ she muttered to herself.

  Then she saw it, a seam of flint, a good ten centimetres thick about halfway up the cave wall.

  Pay-dirt.

  She wriggled herself into a sitting position, and pulled the bone-handled stone axe from her belt. She was proud of this axe, it was the first tool she’d made by herself, even if it wasn’t her best work. Once she was comfortable she started chipping away at the chalk.

  She worked quickly, putting the rubble into a leather covered basket that she would drag to a small spoil heap whenever it was full. Soon she had a nice pile of flints, and was about to call it quits when something caught her eye. This was a big one.

  She picked up the torch to have a good look. It seemed to be well embedded. She tugged on it.

  Nothing happened.

  That was too simple. She started chipping away at the surrounding chalk, stopping every minute or so to try and wiggle it loose.

  Finally it moved. Just a few millimetres at first, and not in the right direction, but she pulled at it and wiggled it, and gradually it moved a bit more.

  ‘Come on, out you come…’ she muttered, giving it a really hard tug.

  And out it came. Flick fell backwards as the giant flint broke free and fell to the earth with a thud, bringing the cave wall with it.

  It was dark. Flick lay on her back, feeling the weight of rubble on top of her. Panic gripped her chest with icy claws, radiating out to a cold dampness on her skin. Blood pounded though her ears with a rapid thump thump, thump thump.