Chasing the Valley (2 page)

 

 

I slip into a deserted alley. there should be rats
here, or a stray tomcat at least, but the animals of Rourton aren't stupid. They hear the bombs coming and they get out of the way. I'm not as fast as a rat, perhaps, but I can hide like one.

There's a sewer manhole near the end of the alley. I sprint towards it, inhaling smoke and light from distant fires. My city is burning for the first time in years and I don't want to imagine what else might be pouring into Rourton's skies. Alchemy bombs, with their cocktail of magical shrapnel, are not the sort of weapons you can predict. Their effects can be hideous or beautiful, plain or elaborate. Creating them is an art form practised only by the king's most cherished supporters.

It's strange to think how innocently they started: a long-ago failure to transmute lead into gold and silver. But alchemy isn't a natural power like pro­clivities. It's a created art, shaped and expanded by human hands. Now alchemy is used to taint metals with magic – and sometimes, to hurl down that magic from the sky.

Alchemy bombs have been known to blast a house to shreds and then bloom a jungle of flowers from the rubble within hours of the attack. They've melted entire apartment buildings into quicksand, sucking down anyone who attempted a rescue mission. And when my family died, the bomb painted our street with shining stars.

But why now, why tonight? Why is the king bombing us when winter has already beaten us into quiet subservience? His wars still rage on several of our borders, and people in Rourton are too afraid to resist. Many pray for the royals to protect us from Taladia's enemies. There is no reason for this bombing – no reason except to beat us down, to remind us to accept our place.

Or perhaps, to remind us to accept our losses.

Thousands of our soldiers are away in foreign lands, fighting and dying to expand King Morrigan's realm. As soon as I turn eighteen, I will be conscripted into his army. Five years of compulsory service – if you're lucky enough to survive – before they dump you back in your city of birth. And here in Rourton, some are starting to question the reasons for these wars. People are muttering. Whispering.
Questioning
. Why does the king need to conquer more lands? Why must their loved ones be taken?

They speak quietly, of course, but there are always rats in Rourton. And I guess that's why the bombs are falling.

I wrench up the manhole cover, breaking my stubby nails on the metal. As I climb down the shaft, the rungs flake with rust and one even snaps beneath my weight. My foot slides down with a rush of panic and I bang a shinbone against the lower rungs. More pain, but I can handle it. I clench my eyes shut for a second, blow the air from my lungs, then continue downward.

The air stinks of grime and faeces. It's thick and woolly, like I'm breathing dirty blankets. I shake my head and splash down into ankle-deep liquid. The sewer is dark, of course, but faint light trickles down when I pass beneath a drain. Echoes of streetlight and fire from above.

I'd never admit it aloud, but lately I've been tempted to run. It's suicide, of course – there are always announcements about refugee crews getting caught – but life in Rourton is a constant ache. The older I grow, the more I realise how a scruffer's life can scar you. No home, no future
.
Just the streets, the cold, and the ache in my belly. And I'm sixteen years old, only two years from adulthood. Only two years from removing my neck-scarf, revealing my proclivity and being conscripted into the king's army. Once I start looking old enough, it will become risky to go out in public. If any guards spot me, they'll drag me back to their station to be tested with a bloodline charm. Name, parentage, date of birth . . . all spelled out in blood and silver.

I don't want to join the army. I don't have a problem with fighting – it's part of life here – but I do it on my own behalf. Not on behalf of kings and councils who take our lives to conquer distant lands.

As I squelch along, I turn over Walter's words in my mind.
‘
There's gonna be a meeting tonight, in the sewers . . . Some of the scruffer kids are putting a crew together . . .'

‘A crew of teenagers,' I say aloud. The very idea sends a rush through my veins.

But it doesn't make sense. You can't build a refugee crew from kids.
They'd be dead within hours of fleeing the city, if they got out at all.

There are stories of successful crews. They're rare – once or twice a decade, perhaps – and no one knows if they're true.
Fairy tales
, most people call them. Fairy tales and nonsense. But the stories spread, like litter in the gutter, and even the king can't quite stamp them out. When a rumour bursts free, the city comes alive with gossip and whispers.
How did they do it? What was the trick that kept them alive?
And if you add all the stories together, this is what you get:

Five adults.

If you take more than five, it gets risky – too many bellies to fill, too many people to hide from the king's hunters. Larger crews never make it through the forest, let alone the wilderness beyond.

Each of the five should have a different magical proclivity: five pieces of a jigsaw, slotted together to form a crew. And people's proclivities don't develop until the end of puberty – which is why a teenage crew would never work. Even if some of these scruffer kids know their proclivity already, it's taboo to reveal them to anyone else. That's why we wear neck-scarves until we're eighteen.

To reveal your proclivity early would be . . . wrong. Humiliating. Dirty. It would be like expos­ing your naked body to the world. So how are they hoping to design a balanced crew?

My father explained it to me when I was younger and I asked why teenagers all wore neck-scarves.

‘Your proclivity is part of who you are, the part of nature that links to your magic,' my father said. ‘Younger teenagers haven't earned the right or gained the maturity to declare their proclivities to the world. They haven't learned to use their powers safely. To show their markings early would be . . .' He shook his head. ‘It'd be unforgiveable.'

‘But what is a proclivity marking?' I said, leaning closer upon his knee.

He showed me the markings down the back of his neck: a twisting line of black that reminded me of claws. ‘My proclivity is Beast.'

I traced my father's markings with my fingertips, thinking of how the stray cats followed him through the streets. ‘What other proclivities do people have?'

‘It varies. Some are more common than others. Rain, Wind, Bird, even Darkness itself . . .' He paused. ‘Everyone's magic is like a radio message, but not everyone's radio is tuned to the same frequency.'

‘What about Mother? Does she have a proclivity too?'

‘Oh yes.' My father smiled then, looking a little wistful. ‘Her proclivity is Daylight.'

I think of that conversation now, as I slosh through Rourton's sewers. My mother loved the sky. Every dawn she would throw open a window and coax gentle curls of light inside to wake our sleeping forms. There's no sky down here to remind me of her. But I can hear the bombs falling – muffled echoes through the earth – and that's enough to trigger my memories. I can't picture my mother's proclivity mark, but I can hear her death. Again and again, with every whistle and flare of tonight's bombing. With every crash, I hear her die.

The mud is getting thicker now. My boots stick a little with every stride, as though the tunnel wants to suck me down into the dark.

‘Hurry up!' a girl shouts.

I freeze. The voice has come from up ahead, just around the next corner in the tunnel. It echoes through sludge, bouncing off mildewed walls. You have to be careful in the sewer, because all sorts of dodgy people hide down here in the dark. I don't mean scruffers: no matter how poor we get, we'd only come down here in an emergency. I mean the robbers, the bashers, the scum who'd slash you with a knife as soon as look at you.

Don't get me wrong, they're not all violent. Sometimes you'll find a sad old man drooping in a sodden tunnel with his mind driven hollow by the years. But on the whole, it's safer to stay away. Not to mention the stench down here, or the risk of disease. Nothing about the sewers is inviting, really . . . unless you've got a good reason to hide.

A reason like a secret meeting to plan your escape from Taladia.

I push forward, trying to keep quiet. Every movement sloshes a stinking slurp of sewage in the dark. I pretend that it's just muddy water, a river of bubbles and natural muck, and splash onward towards the voice.

‘Everyone here?' This voice sounds like a teenage boy: dark and gruff, but with the faintest hint of a whine on the final syllable.

‘You know we're here, Radnor, so drop the silliness,' the girl says. ‘I'd imagine that even
your
family taught you to count.'

The girl's voice confuses me a little. She doesn't speak with the coarse accent of a downtown scruffer. Her
R
s are too muted, her
A
s carry a posh lilt of ‘la-de-dah' that suggests she's a richie from a wealthier part of Rourton. But I've never seen a richie hang out in the sewers.

‘Just making sure,' snaps Radnor. ‘We've got to move the plans forward, take advantage of this bombing. We'll never get another chance like tonight. But if we're gonna do this, Clementine, you'd better shut your face and learn to take orders.'

‘Take orders from a scruffer?' says the richie. ‘Are you mad?'

There's a louder boom from the city above. The explosion must be close, because this time the entire tunnel shakes and sewage jostles around my shins. The conversation halts for a second, as everyone waits for the aftershock to die away.

‘This crew is under my command,' Radnor says. ‘I'm already doing you a favour by letting you tag along, and I don't reckon you've got –'

‘Letting us tag along?
Letting us tag along?
' Clementine's voice grows shrill. ‘I'm sorry, did you miss the part where I offered you enough cash to roll across Taladia in a golden carriage?'

I slosh forward carefully. One of the speakers must have a lantern, because the light throws patches around the corner. I can see shadows on the wall shifting against the smudge of lantern-light.

‘Hate to be a party-pooper, guys, but can we get to the point?' says another boy, sounding amused. ‘This whole debate's getting a bit old. Don't get me wrong – you've picked an awesome spot for a fight, but only if you're gonna get down and dirty with a round of mud wrestling.'

I recognise this boy's voice: Teddy Nort, the famous pickpocket. Born and raised on the streets, Teddy makes his living with fingers like snakes and a grin that could charm the king himself into letting slip of his purse. He's pretty notorious in downtown Rourton, and I know his tone as well as any other scruffer kid around. But Teddy's the last person I'd expect to risk his life on a refugee crew, and my gasp echoes like a slap on the tunnel walls.

‘What was that?' Radnor says.

There's a splash of footsteps and light swings around the corner to greet me. There's no point running now, and nowhere to hide – not unless I want to dive headfirst into a river of sewage, anyway. So I do what my instincts tell me to do. I create an illusion. I focus upon the shape of my own body, where I can feel my limbs and heartbeat and head and toes. Then I force a spark of power along those body parts, hold my breath, and – with a burst of cold air that pinches each vein – I paint myself into the dark of a sewer wall.

An unfamiliar boy splashes forward, holding up the lantern to glare at me through the dark. He doesn't see me at first, fooled by my illusion, but the effect fades like melting ice and he spots me. ‘You're a spy!'

The illusion is completely gone, and I'm wishing I'd never conjured it. I'm not very good yet; my personal record is about three seconds. Hardly anyone has the ability to cast illusions – it's just a freak genetic thing, like having blue eyes or being a fast runner – but I've always tried to keep my ability a secret. The authorities don't like it when scruffers show signs of unusual powers, so it's safer to pretend to be as average as possible. And unfortunately, since the whole
point
of an illusion is deception, it's the sort of ability that makes people suspect you're up to something dodgy.

I fling up my hands to show I'm unarmed. ‘I'm just a scruffer,' I say. ‘I'm not a spy or anything.'

The lantern boy is tall, with a thick neck and small eyes. There's a wisp of hair on his chin, as though he's trying and failing to grow a beard.

‘Come on.' He grabs my arm tightly enough to leave a bruise. From the sound of his voice, I realise this must be Radnor.

I could twist free if I wanted to – I've been in enough street fights to know an enemy's vulner­able points, and Radnor's nose is within reach of my other elbow. But there are at least two other figures around the corner, maybe more, and I'm not stupid enough to take them on alone. Besides, I don't want to fight this crew. I've got something very different in mind.