Borderlands

by Skye Melki-Wegner

And now he has passed it on to me.

  I gaze at the star charm, fingers shaking harder than ever. As my hand moves, I realise there is more writing on the inside of the envelope. Smudged, of course, but still legible. I smooth the paper, struggling not to make a sound, and hold it up to the moonlight.

  I’m sorry.

  I can’t explain, but I swear I wouldn’t leave unless I had to.

  This is for you. Remember what I told you, that night after the airbase.

  My breath hitches. I remember. It was just after I’d discovered my Night proclivity, when I thought I was a monster for having such a shameful power. Lukas pulled out this star charm and showed it to me, and told me his grandmother’s proclivity had also been Night. ‘You can’t have light without dark, and you can’t have stars without the night.’

  I crumple the paper against my chest. The star charm is cold, but after a while my body heats the silver. It feels clammy and warm against my skin. I curl in on myself, almost like a child, and cling to that tiny metal shape until sleep takes me.

  I rise with the dawn. Light streams through the trees, dappling fish scales across our camp site. My breath makes fog as I roll to my feet, and I realise I’m still clutching Lukas’s charm. I clip it to my mother’s silver bracelet, where it dangles beside the rose. Then I fold the letter carefully into my pocket, and glance at my crew.

  Teddy is still asleep, stretching out his ankle periodically with a little snore. It sounds like a kitten’s mewl, which would normally amuse me no end, but my gaze skips over him to focus on the twins. Maisy is very still, but her chest seems to rise and fall a little higher than yesterday. I don’t know if it’s the result of Silver’s charm or just a good night’s rest, but the sight pulls a sigh of relief from my lips.

  Clementine sits over her, head lolling forward onto her chest. I can’t bring myself to wake her, so I tiptoe down to the stream to wash my face.

  The river is cool. It swishes quietly, marred only by the occasional croak of a frog in the weeds. I scrub away the dirt and leaf rot that last night’s bedding arrangements have kindly plastered through my hair. I probably still stink, but so do my crewmates, so perhaps we’ll cancel each other out.

  ‘Morning,’ says Silver.

  I spin, whipping myself in the face with a clump of wet hair. ‘I didn’t know you were there.’

  The old woman smiles, barely a metre behind me. ‘If you want to survive out here, my friend, best learn to walk in silence.’

  I step aside and Silver nods her thanks, then takes my place by the stream. When she bends over the water, her necklace of charms falls out from beneath her shirt. It dangles above the water, glinting in the early light.

  ‘You’ve got a lot of alchemy charms,’ I venture.

  ‘Yes,’ Silver says. ‘I do.’

  For a minute I think she’s going to leave it at that, which would hit my personal top five list for awkward endings to conversations. But then she seems to take pity on me and turns around. ‘Most smugglers do. We use ’em as a currency, and they keep us alive on the road.’

  I nod, staring at them. ‘That healing one must have cost a fortune.’

  ‘Cost me nothing,’ Silver says, ‘but time, sweat and tears.’

  I wait for her to elaborate, but this time it seems the conversation really is over. Silver turns back to the stream and unthreads her braid. Soon she stands with a whorl of loose hair, sleek and white, which she dips like a paintbrush into the water.

  As I watch her, I realise that Silver must once have been beautiful. Stunning, really. Even now, beneath the wrinkles, I see her high cheekbones, her green eyes. I imagine her as a young woman: a long braid of dark hair, skin lightly tanned from the sun on the road . . .

  ‘How long have you been a smuggler?’ I say. ‘I mean, were you born into a smuggling family, or –’

  Silver scrubs her hair beneath the water. ‘Not many souls are born into smuggling.’

  ‘So you join up later, then? You’re sort of refugees, like us?’

  ‘My people come from all over. North, south, east, west . . . don’t matter to us.’

  Silver straightens and wrings out her hair like a sponge. Water splatters across the rocks. ‘They follow the rivers,’ she adds, ‘or they follow the songs. They wash up here, in the borderlands. And if they prove they’re worthy, a clan might take ’em as one of their own.’

  I pause to consider this. Silver speaks in a strange sort of accent – I think it’s from the western regions, judging by traders who came to the Rourton marketplace. I want to ask why she ran away, why she risked everything to flee her home and join a clan of criminals. But it seems too personal, especially since I’ve told her nothing about myself. All she knows is that we’re refugees from Rourton. And it’s safest if that’s all she ever learns.

  As the day wears on, our spirits sag. We fashion a stretcher from branches to better carry Maisy, sharing the weight. But even when it’s not my turn on the stretcher rotation, my body aches. Actually, it whines. It’s like dealing with a spoilt toddler, except the toddler is composed of my own limbs. My legs squeal, my arms ache, my shoulders moan with exhaustion.

  I’d say that I feel like an old woman – except the only old woman in sight is Silver, and she isn’t hobbling. She strides along with a bop in her step, looking for all the world like she’s off on a pleasant stroll. She checks for etchings in the bark of seemingly random trees, then gives a contented nod when she discovers what she’s looking for.

  ‘Right,’ she tells us. ‘We’re headin’ the right way.’

  Every so often she scales a tree, or clambers up a stack of boulders, then returns with news of our surroundings. ‘Another two hours’ walk, I’d judge. Soldiers to our east, but they won’t bother us if we keep up a steady pace.’

  And so we walk. Whenever it’s my turn to take an end of the stretcher, I seem to wind up stuck with the back of it – which means I can’t see the ground ahead. On this uneven surface, I trip or stumble with almost every step. It’s bad enough tramping through the forest when I can see where to put my feet – let alone when I’m constantly fighting to keep Maisy balanced.

  At one point, I feel so irritable that I secretly wish I were the one getting a ride in the stretcher. Then shame floods my brain and I’m ready to slap myself for thinking it. Maisy’s life is still in danger, and I’m begrudging her a ride? That was a pretty selfish thought, even by my standards. But out in the wild, when you’re so tired that every step is a stab, you learn a lot about yourself. You think things that you wouldn’t normally consider, even in the darkest corners of your mind.

  At noon, the air starts to feel muggy.

  ‘We’re in for a storm tonight,’ Silver says, shading her eyes to observe the sky. ‘Always get this prickle in the air before it comes.’

  The sun shines directly overhead, and warm air clings to our skin as we cross a river. It’s wide but shallow, with water to our chests in the deepest part, so we hoist Maisy’s stretcher upon our shoulders. This river isn’t a gurgling brook. It’s slow and solid, like a lazy drizzle of honey. The air above its surface barely seems to move. I’d kill for a gust of cool breeze right now, but all I get is the prickle of humidity.

  ‘Almost there, my friends,’ Silver says, as we ­clamber onto the opposite bank. ‘Just over this ­hilltop, and I’d judge you’ll be seein’ my clan.’

  This strip of land is thin and sloped, like a razor blade. Huge trees rise from its top, as tall as houses, and branches stretch in all directions to cast a net of shade. We struggle up the slope, huffing like a pack of overfed richies, as stones and grass slip beneath our boots. Maisy’s stretcher drags like a boulder. At the top, I collapse into the shade beneath the closest tree and take a minute to catch my breath.

  ‘Wouldn’t doze off now,’ Silver says. ‘Look below.’

  I open my eyes. At first I
see nothing. Just empty river winding its lazy way along the shore. Then I spot the shimmer in the air – a strange little catch of light that doesn’t look entirely natural. ‘What . . .?’

  ‘Look harder,’ Silver says. ‘Can’t see it unless you know it’s there, eh? That’s the trick for breakin’ an illusion.’

  I refocus. The air ripples oddly, almost like water itself. I clench my fists and grit my teeth, summoning the last dregs of energy from my exhausted body. If this clan is hidden by an illusion, then I – of all people – should be able to see through it.

  And then I see them. Three hulking shapes upon the waterline.

  Boats.

  No, not just boats. Houseboats. For the first time, Silver’s words from yesterday make sense: ‘If you don’t want no one to catch you, my friend, it’s best to avoid staying still.’ This is how the smugglers remain free – and how they move about the borderlands. If they relocate every night, floating along the waterways, and cloak those homes with an illusion . . .

  Well, they’re practically uncatchable.

  The boats aren’t flashy. They’re wood and metal, with clockwork propellers. The machinery must be supplemented by alchemy, like my father’s old radio, because it doesn’t look strong enough to power a boat on its own. The ‘house’ part of each houseboat is a solid cabin squatting atop the deck, and each wears a painted name upon its side. The Nightsong. The Merchant’s Daughter. The Forgotten.

  ‘Right,’ Silver says. ‘Follow me.’

  She leads us down the far side of the slope, to where the boats are docked. As we approach, I realise two of the boats are silent. Only the third vessel, the Forgotten, is alive with voices. They wash out across the deck and onto the hillside, as though calling Silver back to join her smuggler family. Or maybe I’m just being sentimental. Either way, the old woman walks with a newfound hunger in her eyes.

  ‘Wait here,’ she says, as we reach the Forgotten. ‘Got to warn the others you’re coming, or you’ll wind up with bullets for eyeballs.’

  We lay Maisy upon the shore, then wait beside her. Silver clambers aboard the Forgotten’s deck, knocks on the cabin door and disappears inside. I hear several shouts of welcome, and a couple of cheers. I exchange a glance with Teddy, who raises an eyebrow. ‘Someone’s glad she’s home, at least.’

  A minute later, Silver reappears. A middle-aged man walks beside her, his beard a pepper-shake of ginger and grey. He crosses his arms.

  Clementine is the first to speak. ‘My sister,’ she says. ‘She’s been injured. Silver said you could maybe help her.’

  The man stares at us, as though to suss each of us out individually. Then his gaze slides down to Maisy, who still lies unconscious in the grass. His expression doesn’t soften.

  ‘This is Quirin,’ Silver says. ‘He leads this clan, so be sure and show him the proper respect.’

  Clementine looks taken aback. She was raised at the top of Rourton’s social hierarchy, and I doubt she’s ever been told to ‘show respect’ to a wild-bearded criminal before. Even so, she makes an effort. She takes a moment to digest Silver’s warning, then swallows hard and tries again. ‘Sir, we made a deal with Silver, to perform a job for your people. But I need you to save my sister. Please. She’s . . . she’s all I have.’

  Teddy makes an odd little movement, like he can’t decide whether or not to put a hand on Clementine’s shoulder. The man called Quirin notices this; his eyes flick between the pair of them. I don’t like it. He reminds me of a pawnbroker: someone doing calculations, figuring out what sort of numbers he’s dealing with.

  Finally, he turns back to Maisy. ‘Bring her aboard.’

  The houseboat’s innards aren’t what I expected. Actually, I’m not sure what I expected – a basic kitchen, perhaps, with pistols on the wall and sleeping sacks on the floor? But instead, it looks like a home. The ceiling is painted in pale lemon, with faded blue paper on the walls. A mechanical stove squats in the corner, beside a sink that must draw water from the river below.

  Bulbous metal pipes run along the ceiling like a cobweb – except that someone’s painted them a pleasant powder blue – and floral curtains hang limp around the window frames. A pair of couches line the walls, upholstered in moth-eaten velvet. All in all, the effect is more granny’s cottage than criminals’ lair. A trapdoor opens to the space below deck, which I guess must be the sleeping quarters.

  ‘What’s going on?’ calls a voice somewhere below our feet.

  ‘Up here, Laverna, and be quick about it,’ Silver says. ‘Got a patient for you.’

  A woman saunters from the space below. She looks about the same age as Quirin, although her braided hair is black instead of ginger. She wears thick black makeup around her eyes, which I privately think makes her resemble a raccoon. But she moves with a confident swing to her hips, as though she owns the place. Perhaps she does.

  Laverna takes a look at Maisy, then gestures for us to lie her on the nearest couch. ‘Let’s have a look, dearie.’

  A few other smugglers emerge through the trapdoor, throwing us curious looks. The youngest is a scrappy child, no older than three or four. He looks very much like Quirin – large eyes, a hooked nose – but with a shock of black hair instead of red. Perhaps Laverna and Quirin are his parents.

  We wait in silence as Laverna examines Maisy. She pokes and prods, then draws a pouch of dried leaves from her pocket. She brushes one across the wound, then holds it up to the light. The leaf shimmers oddly, shifting from olive green to yellow. She frowns.

  ‘What?’ Clementine says, unable to contain her­self. ‘What does that mean?’

  Laverna turns to her. ‘Infection,’ she says. ‘But if you give me . . .’ She pauses to think. ‘Two days and some sunshine, I reckon she’ll be right.’

  Silver shakes her head. ‘Storm’s comin’ tonight, my friend. Go outside – you’ll taste it on the air.’

  Laverna glances at our crew. ‘Three days, then. But I’d still bet the girl’ll live, unless someone’s been swapping my water for whiskey.’ She glances at our crew. ‘Who’re these ones, then?’

  ‘Visitors,’ Silver says. ‘I brought ’em. They owe me a favour.’

  The other smugglers stare at us. A couple cross their arms, as though not particularly happy with this turn of events. Still, no one speaks.

  Quirin takes a step forward. ‘We don’t need more clan members,’ he says. His voice reminds me of the riverbed, coarse with grit. ‘We’ve seen too many tagalongs lately, and none of them has proven his worth.’

  I glance across at Teddy, unsure whether to feel hopeful or not. If Quirin decides he doesn’t want us, will he just let us go? Or will he find some other, darker way to call upon our debt? I suddenly remember tales from when I was a tiny child. Bedtime stories full of wicked goblins and evil smugglers, who stole children from their beds for the darkest of alchemy . . .

  ‘King was hoardin’ Curiefer,’ Silver says. ‘These ones blew it up.’

  Murmurs ripple around the room. One man gives me a nod of respect, as though to acknowledge our work. But others just scowl and shake their heads, or rest distrustful fingers on the pistols at their belts.

  Quirin raises a hand, and the smugglers hush. ‘Our people aren’t afraid of kings. We’ve already turned away one teenage vigilante this week – I see no reason to saddle ourselves with four more of them.’

  ‘You’ve seen another teenager out here?’ I blurt. ‘I mean, sir?’

  Quirin’s lip twists. ‘Better learn to speak when spoken to, girl.’

  I bow my head in apology. But my heart patters, and my nails dig like fire into my palms. Lukas. He has to mean Lukas. How many other teenagers are running around the borderlands on their own? But why would Lukas want to join –

  ‘Other boy was out of his mind,’ Silver says, waving a dismissive hand. ‘This lot’s different. Girl’s an illusionist
, for one thing, and they’ve made it all the way from Rourton. I want a chance to test ’em properly.’

  Quirin stares at her. Then he nods. ‘All right. I’ll give you one week, Silver. But you’ll keep them on your boat, and they’ll be your responsibility.’

  I frown at Silver, confused. Back when I first met her, she said she’d lied about her name – that ‘Silver’ was just a reference to a smuggling job. But if her own clan’s leader calls her that, surely that means it is her real name. That means she lied to me about lying to me . . . and I believed her.

  The implications turn my stomach. Suddenly I think of Hackel – of his lies, his doublecrossing. This cabin looks like a quaint little cottage, but it might as well be a nest of spiders. What are we doing trusting smugglers? Silver isn’t just a harmless old woman. She knows how to twist the truth. We’d be fools to trust anything she tells us.

  Yet until Maisy is cured, we remain at her mercy.

  Silver breaks the silence. ‘Come on, my friends. My usual shipmates are off on smugglin’ jobs, so you’ll ride with me on the Nightsong.’ She gives a crooked smile. ‘And I’d judge we’ll get along nicely indeed.’

  The Nightsong’s interior is darker than its sister boat. The wallpaper is a mottled brown, stained by years of damp and leaks. One of the pipes provides a constant drip, so someone’s rigged a bucket on a string to catch its dribbles. No couches here: just a scattering of rough wooden chairs.

  ‘Cosy,’ Teddy remarks.

  Silver doesn’t look too pleased. ‘Only been a smuggler ten years, my friend. I ain’t earned the comforts of a leader like Quirin.’

  ‘Is Laverna his wife?’ I say.

  Silver crosses to the stove, where she cranks a mechanical handle. Then she lights a match and tosses it into the bowels of the metal pot. ‘Sure is. Latest in a long string of wives. She’s only been with this clan a few years.’

  ‘Where’s she from?’

  Silver shrugs. ‘Ain’t polite to ask these things. When you get to be a smuggler, my friend, you leave your old life behind. Everyone here’s got a past . . . something they fled from. Somethin’ awful, I’d judge. But if you ask no questions, you’ll hear no lies.’ She rummages around in a cupboard, and pulls out an old glass jar. ‘Tea?’