Borderlands (11 page)

‘So,' I say, trying to change the subject, ‘smugglers leave messages for each other on trees?'

Silver looks displeased, but she nods. ‘No point hiding it now, I'd judge. If we pass a message tree, we leave a note in code. I've been out scoutin' for a couple of days, so I'm tryin' to learn where Quirin's shifted the home.'

‘You mean, your home
moves
?'

‘Would've thought you'd learned that by now,' Silver says. ‘If you don't want no one to catch you, my friend, it's best to avoid staying still.'

Eventually, though, stay still we must. The sky grows dark and the shadows deepen. If it weren't for Maisy we could probably keep walking – it's not as if we've never travelled by night – but Teddy keeps stumbling, tripping over obstacles in the dark.

‘At this rate,' Silver says, ‘you'll tear the girl in half by sunrise. Best let her sleep.'

As the others lay Maisy in our few remaining sleeping sacks, I lay out our magnets in the usual circle around our camp. I concentrate, summoning the magic from the back of my mind.
Nothing to see here,
I think.
Just empty space.
With a twang, the illusion catches.

Too late, I realise Silver is watching me. ‘Illusionist, eh?' Her expression is oddly calculating. ‘You ain't mentioned that before.'

‘It's no big deal,' I say. ‘Just a party trick.'

The old woman raises an eyebrow. ‘Really.'

We stare at each other for a moment. Finally, Silver turns back to help the others with Maisy.

I let out my breath, then open the food supply pack. No one's touched it since Lukas did last night, before he went missing. As soon as I open it, I spy a tiny paper package atop the oats bag. It's a homemade envelope, folded from scraps of a flour cake wrapper, and my fingers detect something small and solid inside. On the outside, someone's used a scrap of charcoal to write a single word.
Danika
.

I glance up at the others. They're all busy with Maisy now; no one's looking in my direction. Good. This isn't something I want to share. The thought of everyone poring over it and discussing Lukas's motives makes my insides twist.

I don't want to talk about Lukas. I don't want to
think
about Lukas. There's too much going on right now, and more urgent things to worry about. It would be selfish to draw the group's attention away from Maisy. So I slip the envelope into my pocket and set about preparing dinner.

When it's time to sleep, I can't keep my eyes shut. I lie on my side, buried in a makeshift blanket of leaves. There are no sleeping sacks to share tonight; the bloodstained sack lies abandoned at our last camp, of course, and any remaining warmth must go to Maisy. The rest of us are squirrelled away under bushes. Oddly, no one suggests huddling up to share our warmth. The idea feels awkward now, like something in our crew has broken. Lukas has left us. Maisy is wounded. And instead of chasing the Valley, we're following a smuggler who holds us all in debt.

I lie alone in the dark. Subconsciously, my hand strays to my pocket. I can feel the little envelope, firm and solid in the dark. I tease it out, as quietly as possible, and clutch it tightly in my palm. Lukas folded this paper for me. Lukas wrote my name upon its surface. I squeeze it so tight that the charcoal smudges; when I hold my hand up to the moonlight, all that remains is a smear. My name, lost to night.

My mind writhes with memories. The way Lukas's hand felt, wrapped tightly in my own. The way his fingers brushed my proclivity tattoo: gentle, quiet, never judging.

And of course, my doubts. My uncertainty about whether Lukas blames me for his fate – and whether some small part of me still blames him for being a pilot. With this paper clutched in my hands, I know with a pang that the answer is
yes.
It's a
yes
that can't be changed, that can't be erased. Not this quickly. Not this easily.

But that doesn't mean my other feelings are untrue.

My fingers tremble as I unfold the paper. A charm falls from its folds into my palm. I recognise it immediately: a tiny silver star. I roll it across my skin and it gleams.

I know what this charm means to Lukas. It doesn't have any magical powers – not like the rest of the trinkets on his necklace. But Lukas's grandmother gave it to him before she died. She was the sole member of his family to truly love him: to treat him as more than a pawn in royal politics. From what Lukas has told me, this charm is his sole memory of her.

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.