Chasing the Valley

by Skye Melki-Wegner

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Because it’s much more important to drop alchemy bombs on Rourton than to keep a lid on a town full of criminals.’

  ‘Well, people here aren’t a threat, are they?’ says Teddy. ‘They’re happy making money their own way, and the current system suits them just fine. I reckon it’s the normal people, in places like Rourton, that are dangerous to the king.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they’re the ones desperate enough to do something stupid.’

  ‘Like what, run away with a refugee crew?’ says Clementine.

  ‘Yeah, exactly,’ Teddy says. ‘Or start a revolution.’

  A revolution? I try to picture my parents or my brother rising up against the palace. I can’t see it. They were no threat to King Morrigan – they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Collateral damage in the palace’s fight to remind us who has control. And suddenly I hate the royal family, with loathing stronger than I’ve felt in years.

  When you’re struggling for survival, it’s easy to forget who put you there. I’ve focused on filling my belly, not wasting my energy on fury. But just for a moment, I feel like I did in the early days. I think of the bombs falling, my family dying. I think of star-shine blooming above the rubble. Of scruffers starving in the streets, and soldiers dying in distant wars.

  Of Radnor’s body slipping over that waterfall.

  And suddenly I wish someone would drop an alchemy bomb on the royals’ palace, and teach the stinking Morrigans what it feels like to lose someone.

  ‘Look!’ whispers Maisy. ‘Danika, it’s you!’

  I follow her gaze. Sure enough, a dozen posters hang from a nearby wall: ‘Wanted Fugitive.’ There is a picture of me in the centre of the design: a still taken from the wall’s picture spell recording. I’m crouched in the turret of a guard tower, lighting the fuse of my stolen flare.

  Or, in the eyes of the palace, preparing to take a biplane out of the sky.

  I sidle closer and strain to read the smaller text beneath my picture.

  On behalf of His Majesty, King Francis Morrigan of Taladia, we announce the offering of a reward of ONE THOUSAND GOLD COINS for the capture or SEVEN HUNDRED GOLD COINS for the killing of this fugitive. Sources upon the streets of Rourton confirm the fugitive’s identity as DANIKA GLYNN of NO FIXED ADDRESS.

  This fugitive is wanted for the MURDER of a brave and innocent airman who fought on behalf of King and Country to make Taladia a safer place to live.

  ‘Yeah, a safer place to get bombed,’ says Teddy.

  I smile, but really I feel sick. Just how much trouble I’m in is hitting home now. Even my old acquaintances in Rourton have sold me out; no doubt old Walter from the Alehouse would have accepted a princely sum for revealing my name. I have no one to truly trust, and I can never go back to Rourton. Nowhere in Taladia is safe for me now. I must reach the Valley, or I will die.

  We move along the wall of posters, glancing at other criminals’ names. Soon I find the rest of my crew: Teddy Nort (‘a dastardly pickpocket and well-known thief ’), Clementine and Maisy Pembroke (‘daughters of a prominent businessman, led astray by the cruel wiles of criminals’) and finally Radnor. They haven’t dug up much information about Radnor. He’s just ‘a boy of No Fixed Address’. Even so, the picture of him fleeing Rourton is enough to make my stomach clench. He looks so young. So alive. Dark hair, dark eyes. His expression wild, his mouth open in a cry. What is he saying? Is he calling the others onward, urging them through the gate into the wilderness beyond?

  The wilderness that would claim him?

  The others’ posters are much less prominent than mine, and their rewards are only a hundred gold coins apiece. Teddy looks a little insulted.

  ‘I’m the real criminal here,’ he protests. ‘I reckon I’m worth eight hundred at least.’ He pauses. ‘Nine, if they knew about the mayor’s diamond ring.’

  Clementine gasps. ‘That was you?’

  ‘Of course it was,’ says Teddy. ‘Who else in Rourton could pull off a heist like that?’ He brightens. ‘But hey, at least they reckon I’ve got cruel wiles, right?’

  ‘I wonder why your rewards aren’t more,’ I say, glancing between the posters. ‘They know we’re travelling together.’

  ‘The rest of us are just a refugee crew,’ says Maisy. ‘There are so many refugees on the run; the palace can’t afford to set a precedent by offering huge rewards for us.’

  ‘You’re a murderous plane shooter, Danika,’ says Clementine, as if I need reminding. ‘Of course they have to offer a more serious reward for you.’

  A night wind trips along the street, and we all shiver. It ruffles the posters a little, and my own face flutters in the shadows. For a moment I consider hiding: sneaking back out through the city gates, leaving the others to find Hackel. But what if my crewmates don’t return? What if they decide I’m a liability and this is their chance to ditch me? Or what if they’re caught, or killed, and I’m left crouching in some farmer’s field with no idea they’re even in danger? The hours ticking away, my fingers turning numb, tension tightening around my spine until –

  No. I can’t let them out of my sight.

  ‘Now can we find somewhere to sleep?’ Clementine says. ‘We shouldn’t hang around these posters, anyway.’

  ‘Good point,’ I say.

  There is silence as we all wait for someone else to decide our next move. It still feels strange to travel without Radnor, who always had instructions ready on his lips. I clench my eyes shut for a moment, fighting to clear away the image of his face. This isn’t the time to be distracted.

  ‘Where are we supposed to meet Hackel?’ says Lukas.

  ‘Radnor said to meet him at the market, didn’t he?’ Clementine says. ‘At twelve, I think.’

  ‘Twelve noon or twelve midnight?’ I say.

  ‘Either, I guess.’

  ‘But what about curfew?’

  Clementine glances around. ‘Maybe they don’t have one here. It doesn’t seem like people are in a hurry to get home.’

  She’s right. It doesn’t take much ear-straining to hear the thrum of movement around the city: voices in the streets, a distant whirl of music. If there’s a curfew here, the locals are in no hurry to obey it.

  ‘Come to think of it,’ Teddy says, ‘I reckon Rourton’s only had its curfew for a couple of decades. My grandpa was always banging on about life in the old days, when the markets ran all night.’

  ‘It was the conscription riots,’ Maisy says quietly. ‘When King Morrigan inherited the throne and brought in army conscription, people rioted all night in Rourton. That’s when they brought in the curfew.’

  ‘But not in Gunning?’ Teddy straightens up, a devious glint in his eye. ‘I reckon I could get used to this place.’

  We head off cautiously through the town, sticking to shadows and alleyways. I feel almost at home as we stalk behind rubbish bins and sneak across people’s yards. This is where I belong: urban streets, with solid stone beneath my boots.

  It doesn’t take long to find the market. My ears pick up its location before my eyes do. There’s a clamour of voices, a sizzle of frying oil and the buzz of music through someone’s radio. They’ve turned the volume up too loud – perhaps to attract customers to their stall – and the singer’s wails are so distorted that her love song sounds like a goat being slaughtered. There’s a smell, too: the whiff of hot food and smoke.

  ‘Onions!’ Teddy pats his stomach. ‘Fried onions and garlic . . . and mashed potatoes! Can you smell it, Maisy?’

  Maisy looks startled to be addressed specifically, but she gives a shy little nod. I’m still not sure what to make of her. When it comes to book smarts, she’s happy to share her knowledge, but other forms of social interaction just leave her silent. Maybe she’s used to being overshadowed by her twin. It’s not as if Clementine is afraid to
speak her mind.

  We turn a corner and step into the world of Gunning’s night market. It seems to writhe with colour and movement – stallholders shout out specials for hot food, drunks stagger around getting sloshed on cheap beer and everything is illuminated by alchemical streetlights.

  A clunky old radio sits in the centre of the marketplace, cranking out music for the drunkards to dance to. As they stagger in circles – occasionally tripping over an unconscious friend – I can’t help remembering my own family’s radio dances. Those cold winter nights, when I dressed in my best clothes and paraded around the apartment like a princess . . .

  Teddy looks around, grinning. ‘Seriously, this place is brilliant. Imagine how easy it’d be to nick that bloke’s wallet.’ He points at a nervous-looking richie near one of the stalls, who’s trying to buy a potato cake with a whole gold coin.

  ‘What an idiot,’ says Teddy, as the man fumbles for smaller change. ‘I’ll bet you twenty silvers he’s been fleeced by midnight.’

  ‘You haven’t got twenty silvers,’ I remind him.

  Teddy flexes his fingers. ‘Not yet.’

  I grab his arm. ‘We’re in enough trouble without you nicking people’s wallets. We shouldn’t draw any more attention to ourselves.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ Teddy scowls. ‘But it’d be so easy . . .’

  ‘I’ve got money,’ says Clementine. ‘So don’t you dare steal anything.’

  We rummage through the packs until Clementine locates her emergency funds, wrapped up in one of her sparkly blouses.

  ‘I hid some money in all of the packs, just in case we lost one,’ she explains, and I actually feel a little impressed. It’s more logic than I’d expect from a girl who brings sequinned clothing on a refugee trek.

  Lukas hurries off to buy us some food. I watch as hawkers swarm to sell him trinkets, shouting and shoving wares into his hands. One hooded man is so insistent that Lukas’s thumb is left bleeding from the thrust of an ornamental penknife.

  ‘No, no – I don’t want it!’ he says.

  The merchant lets out a string of curses, and slinks away into the crowd. I throw an anxious look at the twins, but they shake their heads. We can’t risk venturing out from the shadows – not with those wanted posters across the city.

  Lukas returns with a paper bag of greasy chips, and a carton of baked apples with cinnamon and honey. I examine his wounded thumb in concern, but luckily the cut is shallow.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he assures me. ‘Just a bit hectic out there.’ He turns to face the rest of the crew. ‘There’s a richie party going on at the town’s main hotel. All the stallholders are talking about it.’

  ‘What are a bunch of richies doing in a town like this?’

  ‘Gambling, mostly, I think. It looks like Gunning’s become a popular “relaxation” town since they’ve extended the train line.’

  ‘You mean they’re travelling here for enjoyment?’ I frown. ‘Back home, we weren’t allowed to travel without a trading licence. Not even richies.’

  Lukas shrugs. ‘The rules vary between cities, I think. Depends how much trouble you’ve caused the king.’

  Trouble? My frown deepens. I’ve never thought of Rourton as particularly rebellious. But then I remember the whispers of late: unhappy gossip about King Morrigan’s wars. I think of Maisy’s revelation about our conscription riots, and the introduction of the curfew . . .

  ‘It would have been nice to have night parties back home,’ Clementine says. ‘A chance to get out of the house.’

  Teddy grins. ‘Imagine all those drunk richies wobbling around the streets, coin purses hanging out of their pockets . . .’

  Clementine gives him a pointed look.

  ‘What?’ Teddy says. ‘I reckon I’d be doing them a favour – stop them getting any drunker. I mean, it’s practically a public service.’

  ‘Of course. A thief with a heart of gold.’

  ‘And silver,’ Teddy says. ‘And copper too, if they’ve got it in their purses.’

  My stomach is rumbling at the scent of the food, and it takes all my willpower to keep from scoffing the lot as we move into a nearby alley for our picnic. But we restrain ourselves until we’ve found a suitable hiding place: a patch of shadows, shielded from view by a pile of broken bricks.

  As soon as we’re settled, we dig with desperate fingers into the bag. It’s been far too long since our last decent meal. The chips are hot and salty on my tongue, and the apples are even better: crunchy skin, gooey flesh, and dripping with honey. I lick my fingers over and over, trying to suck every last skerrick of sweetness from my share.

  As we eat, we keep an eye on the square. There’s no sign of Hackel: just drunks and merchants and furtive-looking smugglers making trades. At one point, a couple of figures duck into our alleyway to make a deal. We hold our breath and hope they don’t smell our food, but they’re too busy swapping trinkets to pay attention to the shadows behind them. When I spot a glint of silver in their fingers, I wonder whether it’s an alchemy charm that they’re trading.

  Soon we start to relax a little, placated by the relief of filling our bellies. People in Gunning are too wrapped up in their own dodgy trades to worry about anyone else’s business. Teddy starts to joke about burgling the stallholders for another bag of chips, and I actually find myself smiling. We feel safe in this alleyway, in this town of criminals. There’s been no sign of hunters, no sign of guards, and we’ve avoided raising anyone’s suspicions. The only peril we’ve faced is an enthusiastic merchant.

  Then a figure steps out of the darkness. A match flares. And Hackel points his fiery fingers straight towards my head.

  Clementine shrieks, then claps a hand across her mouth. Everyone else tenses around me – the air shifts as their muscles freeze. The casual atmosphere of our meal has been blasted away, obliterated by a threat as sudden as an alchemy bomb.

  Hackel presses his match to a candlewick. As soon as the candle flares into life, he tosses the match aside and points his finger back at my face.

  Lukas makes to move towards me. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Stay there!’ snaps Hackel. ‘Stay there or I’ll blast her. The reward is for capture or killing; I’ll still get seven hundred for her body.’

  ‘You’re supposed to be our guide!’ says Clem­entine. ‘We paid you all our savings, we did what you told us to do – you can’t just sell us to the authorities.’

  ‘Why not? This way I get paid by both sides.’ Hackel grins. ‘Nothing personal, ladies. Just a business transaction, that’s all.’

  ‘You thieving scumbag –’

  ‘You’re the one travelling with a thief,’ says Hackel, nodding towards Teddy. ‘I wouldn’t get all high and mighty if I were you, Pembroke. We’re all criminals here. If you deal with smugglers, you can’t go running to the law.’ He gestures for me to stand. ‘Come on, Glynn.’

  I don’t want to obey, but there isn’t much choice – not when he’s holding a candle. It would only take him a second to redirect that flame into my face, and I’d burn as readily as the hunter he torched in the forest. So I clamber to my feet and silently order my hands to stop shaking. I won’t let this traitor see that I’m afraid.

  ‘You’re not taking her!’ says Lukas, rising beside me. ‘You treacherous –’

  Hackel laughs. It’s a horrible, hacking sound that cuts off Lukas mid-sentence. ‘I’m treacherous? Oh, and I suppose you’ve told your little friends here who you are, Lukas?’

  I freeze, caught between fear and confusion. What is he talking about? And how does he even know Lukas’s name?

  Lukas stiffens. ‘I don’t know what –’

  Hackel brandishes a fistful of silver. Alchemy charms, pilfered from his victim’s corpse in the forest. He flicks his fingers to show one particular charm: a swirl in the shape of a blood drop.


  ‘Bloodline charm,’ he says. ‘Very rare, this one.’

  His fingers close back around the charm. With a jolt, I remember the hooded merchant in the market, and his thrust of the penknife into Lukas’s hand. Not to sell it to Lukas, but to harvest a drop of his blood.

  The candle flickers.

  ‘When I spotted a stranger with my runaways, I decided to satisfy my curiosity. But I must say, I wasn’t expecting this.’ Hackel’s lips curl into a smile. ‘I’ve got no quarrel with you, Lukas. If you want to buy my silence, you know the price. Just give me Danika Glynn, and I’ll –’

  Maisy emits a sudden hiss and Hackel’s candle goes out.

  The alley plunges into darkness. At first, I don’t know what’s happened. There’s a mad jumble, confusion, bodies colliding in the shadows and a couple of muffled shrieks. My foot comes down on the greasy chip packet and I slip, falling sideways into the group. Why did the candle go out? What happened? How did Maisy –

  Then it hits me. Maisy knows her proclivity. She must have known it for some time: long enough to gain control, to figure out how to use it. And it isn’t a little mouse, or a flower, or rain. It’s Flame. Maisy’s proclivity is Flame. Of all the people to have such a ferocious power . . .

  My eyes adjust and suddenly there’s no more time to worry about Maisy. Hackel’s arms are gripping Clementine’s throat, and she squeaks as her air supply is cut off. Hackel might not have a flame at his disposal any more, but he doesn’t need it. Not when a single crank of his arms could snap our crewmate’s neck.

  ‘Let her go!’ I start forward, but Hackel tightens his grip. Clementine releases a little choke and I freeze. If I take another step, she will die. I can see that much in Hackel’s eyes. And there isn’t much I can do – not without a weapon. I’ve got my climbing picks from the Rourton city wall, but they’re wrapped up securely in my jacket’s inner lining. If I even try to reach for them . . .

  Hackel keeps one hand wrapped around Clementine’s throat, but raises the other above her shoulder. Then he swivels towards the marketplace, and that horrible smile cracks back across his face.