Chasing the Valley

by Skye Melki-Wegner

  I frown. ‘Meet up? But how will you find –’

  ‘Piece of cake.’ Teddy pauses. ‘Well, not literally a piece of cake, but tell you what, I could sure do with a chocolate cake right now.’

  He looks so hopeful, as if expecting a cake to fall out of the sky, that I can’t help smiling.

  ‘What?’ he says. ‘For all you know, my proclivity could be Bakery Treats.’

  ‘I don’t think bakery treats are part of the natural balance.’

  ‘Why not? It’d be a better proclivity than Dirt, anyway.’ He gestures for me to follow him through the thicket. ‘Come on, we’d better hurry if we want to meet the others.’

  ‘You were serious, then, about finding them?’

  ‘Does this look like the face of a liar?’

  Yes, I think instantly. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, Teddy, this is a big patch of forest. How are you planning to find four people in the middle of it?’

  ‘Same way I found you, Danika Glynn.’

  ‘What?’

  Teddy pulls aside a clump of branches, revealing a clearing. In the centre, atop a pile of boulders, lies the furry bulk of a foxary. Teddy gives a little bow and inclines his hand. ‘After you, my fair lady.’

  I stare at the beast. I’ve never seen a foxary so clearly. Occasionally one shows up in Rourton’s marketplace, but in a thickly barred cage that makes it almost impossible to get a decent view. Up close, the creature is magnificent. It’s the size of a large pony, with claws that could carve my head like a melon. The jaws are huge, lined with teeth that become visible when its lips twist up to breathe.

  ‘This is Borrash,’ says Teddy. ‘He’s a foxary.’

  ‘I’d noticed.’

  The creature lies at ease, sprawling on the rocks beneath a patch of open sky. Its fur sticks up oddly, as though statically charged, and it makes weird little grumbling noises. Even from a few metres away, though, the stench of its body crawls down my throat. It smells oddly familiar: like the musky dirt of an alley cat, or a hostel that’s been infested by rats.

  There are no knives, no bridle, no chains nearby. For a second I think it’s snarling at us – about to pounce, maybe. Then I realise it isn’t snarling; it’s purring. It’s sunning itself on the rocks, soaking up the sunlight like an enormous hairy lizard.

  ‘All right, Danika?’ says Teddy.

  I nod, determined not to look afraid. ‘How are you controlling it?’

  He grins. ‘That’s my little secret.’

  I glance between the boy and the foxary, trying to figure Teddy out. He’s too young to reveal his proclivity markings or speak of his proclivity to non-family, but maybe his power has already developed. It’s the only explanation I can think of. His proclivity must be Beast, just like my father’s. He doesn’t need a bridle or knives, because his magic communicates with this creature naturally. They’re probably even friendly, understanding each other’s needs and wishes in a symbiotic bond.

  Well, that’s how the proclivity relationship is supposed to work. Since this is Teddy Nort we’re talking about, he’s probably planning to fleece the thing of all its energy and steal the fur off its back for a jacket.

  ‘This is how you found me?’ I say.

  Teddy looks pleased with himself. ‘Foxaries have a pretty good sense of smell. I saw what you did with the flare – how you saved us – and I knew you’d head into the woods. So I stuck old Borrash here onto your scent trail and here we are.’

  I wrinkle my nose. ‘My scent trail?’

  Teddy fishes something from his pocket, holds out his fist and unfurls his palm. He’s holding my handkerchief: the scrap of fabric I lost during the bombings. ‘Yeah, easy. I just got Borrash to sniff this and off we went.’

  Too late, I remember Teddy’s reputation as a pickpocket. ‘You thieving little –’

  He holds up a finger. ‘Nuh-uh. I’m not guilty this time. You dropped it and I found it when you were gone.’

  ‘If I’d dropped it in the tunnels, it’d be covered in sewage.’

  Teddy laughs and passes me the handkerchief. ‘All right, Danika, I plead guilty. I nicked it. Just testing you.’

  I should be furious. How are we supposed to survive if we can’t trust each other? But for some reason, it’s hard to stay angry with Teddy Nort. Maybe it’s the silly expression on his face or the fact that I’m not too attached to my handkerchief, but his act of thievery seems harmless.

  ‘You’re not gonna chop my head off with that pointy thing hidden in your sleeve, are you?’ he says.

  I sigh, indicating my forgiveness. ‘Let’s just get moving, before any hunters show up.’

  We head towards the foxary. As we walk, I can’t help reflecting that if he’d stolen something more valuable – such as my mother’s bracelet – this would have ended quite differently. I wear the bracelet up high above my elbow, making it difficult to spot beneath my sleeve, but still . . . if anyone could manage to nick it, it would be Teddy Nort.

  I frown at Teddy, and watch as he waves one of Clementine’s glittery hair ribbons beneath the foxary’s nose. Did he know that my handkerchief was worthless, that he could steal it without upsetting me? He’s spent a lifetime sussing out pickpocket victims and deciding how much he can safely steal. I bet he’s good at reading people, and he’s not as stupid as he likes to pretend. Maybe he was reading me in the sewers, deciding what he could steal without dropping himself into my bad books.

  But Radnor rejected me from the refugee crew. If Teddy thought he’d never see me again, why would he care about my reaction to his pickpocketing? Why not steal my bracelet instead of a stinky old handkerchief?

  ‘Coming, Danika?’ says Teddy.

  I mentally shake myself, refocusing on the situation at hand. He’s already sitting atop the foxary’s back, waiting for me to join him. The creature is snuffling forward, ready to hunt down Clementine’s scent.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Sure, I’m coming.’

  I place a hand on the foxary’s back. Its fur isn’t soft; it’s hard and bristly, like a toothbrush. As I swing my body into position, keeping my weight off my healing shoulder, I feel its muscles tense to accommodate my weight. The fur prickles through my trousers, sticking little spikes into the underside of my thighs.

  Teddy twists his neck around and grins. ‘Not worried about riding this old fleabag, are you?’

  ‘Nope.’ I shake my head. ‘I’m not worried.’

  And it’s true, in a way. I’m not worried about this foxary any more, not when it’s being ridden by someone with a Beast proclivity. The only risks here are claws and teeth: weapons that I can see coming, threats I can duck and avoid.

  What worries me more is another type of threat. Words, lies, manipulation. And I’m worried that the boy in front of me, with his cheerful grin and slippery fingers, might wield these weapons a lot more effectively than claws.

  We ride for most of the morning, letting the foxary guide our jumbled route through the trees. The sensation of muscle and bone moving beneath me feels odd, and I’m not sure where to put my hands. I don’t want to yank out any fur, but I’m sure as hell not holding Teddy Nort for support. So I plant my palms on the creature’s sides and try to lean with its movements. At least my shoulder feels less painful, so I know I popped it back into place successfully.

  The foxary careens left or right with a swish of the breeze, as though each whiff of distant scent brings directions to his nose. Teddy seems able to predict these sudden turns; his body bends aside to accommodate the twists of fur and muscle beneath us. Unfortunately, I’m not so naturally in tune with the creature’s movements. With every change of direction, I feel as if I’m about to slip off into the undergrowth.

  ‘Comfortable?’ says Teddy.

  ‘Yeah, not too bad,’ I say. ‘You should install some cup holders, like the richies have in their carr
iages.’

  ‘Shame we haven’t got any cups,’ says Teddy. ‘Or anything to drink. Or anything to eat, come to think of it.’

  I remember the hessian bag that I stole from the guard turret. During the chaos I shoved it into one of my coat pockets, and I doubt its contents survived their dunking in the ditch. But my stomach is starting to rumble and even the soggy remains of a guard’s sandwich seems appetising. ‘Hang on, I might have something . . .’

  The bag is stiff and frosty from the ditch water. I use one hand to balance myself on the foxary’s back, while the other cracks the bag away from the pocket’s lining. With a combination of teeth and my free hand, I open the drawstring and peer inside.

  ‘Anything?’ says Teddy.

  ‘A few slices of apple, cheese and something . . . I can’t quite see . . .’ I jostle the half-frozen cheese aside, hoping to discover a chocolate cake, just to amuse Teddy. But what I find is even better. ‘Oh, yes!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Honey-spice nuts,’ I say, relishing every syllable.

  I’ve tasted these nuts once before, when I found a discarded food hamper in a richie gift shop’s rubbish bin. The food was only slightly stale and – apart from some mouldy crackers – perfectly safe to eat. Alongside the honey-spice nuts, there was crumbling shortbread, a fancy wooden eggcup with a chocolate egg and a tiny pot of strawberry jam that lasted me months. Every morning, I would allow myself a lick of sweetness upon the tip of my pinkie finger.

  ‘How the hell did you afford honey-spice nuts?’ says Teddy.

  ‘I didn’t buy them,’ I say. ‘I stole this stuff from the turret last night, when I set off the flare.’

  Teddy laughs. ‘Maybe I should recruit you as an apprentice burglar.’

  The foxary seems to be heading in a fairly straight line, so I risk removing my other hand from its body. Using my knees and calves to balance, I divide the food into two shares and pass half to Teddy.

  ‘You’d better make it last,’ I say, trying to ignore my rumbling stomach as I tip my own share back into my pocket.

  But my words are too late; Teddy has already tossed his handful of nuts into his mouth. With a couple of satisfied crunches, he lets out an ‘mmmmm’ of appreciation and swallows the lot.

  ‘Hey, we might not get food again until –’

  ‘Calm down, Danika,’ says Teddy. ‘You think we’re gonna set out into the wilderness without supplies?’

  ‘Well, no, but –’

  ‘The others have loads of food strapped to their foxaries. I bet those richie girls brought caviar and truffle cakes. When we catch up to them, it’ll be better than the time I broke into that High Street bakery.’

  This comment sends an odd twinge into my chest. I want to point out that we might not find the others, or that they might not be alive to be found. But Teddy seems so confident, so happily certain that everything will turn out fine, it’s hard not to get swept up in his enthusiasm.

  ‘All right,’ I say. ‘But I’m not part of your crew, remember?’

  ‘You are now,’ says Teddy. ‘I reckon as soon as Radnor knew you were an illusionist, he secretly wanted to recruit you – but he was stuck with that rule about five crew members. He just needed a better excuse to recruit you and now you’ve given him one.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, now we owe you our lives.’ Teddy pauses. ‘That flare was a pretty decent show, by the way, although a couple of coloured fireworks would’ve livened things up.’

  I snort. ‘I’ll keep that in mind for next time.’

  For the next twenty minutes or so, I fight the urge to scoff my food. I’ve spent so long saving every morsel for when it’s most needed that I can’t bear to squander all my food in one meal. But as morning burns away the fog from the trees, my belly’s grumbling shifts into an uncomfortable gnawing. It tugs at my insides until I finally admit defeat. I choose an apple slice from my pocket and suck on the cold flesh, trying to make it last.

  ‘So,’ I say eventually, ‘why are you leaving Rourton?’

  ‘I thought a trip sounded like fun,’ says Teddy.

  ‘No, seriously. Everyone knows about the great Teddy Nort – that you’re the best at escap­ing the guards, at covering up your crimes . . . You seem to have a pretty charmed life. I don’t see why you’d risk it all to join Radnor’s crew.’

  ‘Maybe I was just bored.’

  I consider this for a moment, then dismiss it. Even if he’s reckless, Teddy isn’t stupid.

  ‘A lot of people believe that joining a crew is suicide,’ I say. ‘Most people who try to escape Taladia end up dead.’

  Teddy doesn’t answer. I think back to the conversation in the sewers, words that echoed through the tunnel while bombs crashed down above our heads . . .

  ‘Radnor said you were on the run, that you begged him for a spot on the crew,’ I say. ‘But the guards are always after you. What the hell did you do that’s bad enough to –’

  Our foxary stops walking.

  This isn’t a slow, meandering halt. It’s sharp and abrupt, and sends my forehead into the back of Teddy’s shoulders. His muscles tense and I know instantly that something’s wrong. I peel myself back up and twist around to view the trees. There’s no sign of anyone nearby, but the foxary’s muscles are so tightly strung that I feel them retract beneath me. It feels like sitting on a loaded slingshot, the string stretched back, just waiting for the shooter to let fly. ‘What’s going –’

  Bang!

  The bullet whizzes past my shoulder. Before I even know what’s happening, there’s a violent jolt beneath me and we’re off, smashing through the trees. I’m almost thrown off the foxary’s back, but fear makes me squeeze my arms and calves so tightly that I could rival a barnacle for gripping power.

  ‘Hold on!’ shouts Teddy, just as another bullet squeals through the foliage.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just do it, Danika! We’re about to –’

  The rush of speed steals his words away. It doesn’t matter, though, because I realise what’s happening as the foxary’s muscles retract into another squeeze beneath me. The creature runs like a spring, sucking up all its strength and then exploding forward with a crash. I duck my head low, struggling to avoid the whip of branches as we careen between tree trunks.

  ‘It’s a hunter!’ I say. ‘There’s no way a city guard could –’

  ‘I know! Can you see how many there are?’

  Until now, it hasn’t occurred to me that we might have multiple pursuers. I twist my neck around, squinting through the mess of brown and green and blustery air. There’s a flash of green – the royal uniform of King Morrigan’s hunters – but it vanishes quickly between the trees.

  ‘Left!’ shouts Teddy.

  His warning has barely registered when the foxary throws itself sideways, ducking to the left of a massive tree trunk. It’s a close call and we just avoid smashing into the bulk of wood. My right leg crashes against the side and agony shoots up through my knee. I let out a cry. Every instinct tells me to grab my leg, to squeeze the wound and numb the pain, but letting go now would mean death. I clamp my eyes shut instead and silently order myself: Ignore the pain, Danika. It’s not hurting, it’s just a race. It’s just a race, and if you let it hurt you’re going to lose . . .

  I force my eyes open and twist back around, fighting for a better view of the hunter. He must be riding a foxary of his own, or some other beast with enormous speed – how else could he keep up with us?

  Then I feel the gush of wind rise up behind us and I realise. This man is not riding an animal. He rides the wind itself, meshing and floating and flickering along its power currents. His proclivity is Air, perhaps, or Wind – either way, it’s given him enough speed and power to keep pace with a foxary. This man is no amateur, no unpractised recruit. He’s a professional killer. And he’
s going to blast our bodies into mulch on the forest floor.

  We twist through the trees; the foxary’s muscles clench and release like a piano accordion. I fall forward onto Teddy’s back a few times, smashing my face against the hard bone of his spine, but with a gasp and a wrench of my own muscles I manage to regain my balance. Everything is a blur – brown, green, trees, wind, leaves – and all I can think is that I’m going to die. Any second now, we’ll smear ourselves across a tree-trunk, or a bullet will blast through my head in a spray of blood and darkness . . .

  We burst into a clearing.

  Screams. People scatter, foxaries snarl and I just glimpse the remains of a campsite as we smash through the middle of it.

  The hunter gushes out of the wind behind us, solidifying in an empty space in the middle of the clearing. He smiles, raises his pistol and begins to curl his finger around the trigger. I watch every click of his knuckles, every bend and strain of the tendons in his finger . . . His fingertip touches the curve of metal, the knuckles stiffen . . .

  Then someone runs through the wreckage towards us and the hunter explodes into flame.

  At first, I think I must be dead. My brain can’t register what my eyes are seeing – the flaming body can’t be real. The hunter must have pulled the trigger. Maybe this is what dead people see: delusions, unexplained fires, screams that echo like claws across their skulls . . .

  The hunter’s scream dies. His body falls.

  My knee burns with pain, my head throbs and each breath barks up my throat with a ragged scratch. This isn’t a delusion. There’s nothing hazy or dreamlike about it. It’s raw, it’s brutal and every second hurts.

  I turn slightly, surveying the ruins of the clearing, and realise that we’ve found the rest of Radnor’s crew. Two foxaries are chained to a tree behind the crumpled remains of the crew’s campsite. The blonde richie twins, Clementine and her sister, gape in shock at the destruction. Radnor himself wears a bloody bandage across his forehead. But my eyes are drawn to the bulky figure before us, hands outstretched, still ready to lunge at the smouldering corpse of the hunter on the ground. His features are obscured by smoke from a burning stick in his hands.