Borderlands (16 page)

I offer the nuts to Silver first, since I guess they're her property. But she shakes her head, still concentrating on her alchemy vials. Clearly, she isn't in the mood to talk. So I shrug, and hoist the crate out onto the deck to share with my friends.

We sit on the deck, dangle our legs over the edge, and watch the sun inch its way across the sky. Noon comes and goes. I suck on a nut, then another, and then an entire fistful at once. Sweetness melts across my tongue. The taste brings back a memory of the last time I tasted honey-spice nuts. It was just after we fled Rourton, when I'd stolen a bag of food from the guard tower.

I hadn't even known my crewmates then – at least, not in the ways that matter. I'd still thought of them as shallow, and easy to define. There was Teddy Nort, the famous pickpocket. Clementine and Maisy Pembroke, spoiled richie twins who'd never known hardship in their lives. And Radnor, their leader. The boy who put this crew together. The boy who –

Don't think about it
.

But it's too late. The memory is back again. Blood in the water. A body slipping. A body tumbling, and the rush of the waterfall . . .

The sweet taste sours in my mouth. I force myself to swallow, then lean further over the rail. Water laps beneath me, cool and green. I try to focus on it. It looks nothing like the waterfall. Nothing like the water of the storm last night. It's just cold and pure, the colour of grass. The colour of bottles, or summer leaves.

The longer I stare, the easier it is to let my mind drift away. The ripples are silent. Gentle. I rest my head in the crook of my elbow, and let the warm sun spill across my skin.

‘You know,' Teddy says, ‘this wouldn't be such a bad life, really.'

His words are almost wistful. I look up at him, struck by his tone. ‘Living on the rivers, you mean?'

‘Yeah, exactly. It'd be pretty relaxing, I reckon, when you're not off on smuggling trips. Sunshine, sand and –'

‘Deadly alchemical storms?'

‘Hey, two out of three isn't bad.'

I frown, not sure whether he's serious. Less than a day ago, Teddy argued that the Valley was our only hope for a new life. But now, with his eyes fixed on the quiet water, there's a strange sort of longing in his tone.

I don't know much about Teddy's history. He's never spoken of his childhood – how he became a pickpocket, what drove him onto the streets. I've tried to ask, of course, but he's an expert at deflecting personal questions.

I suppose that smugglers and thieves are similar, in a way. They live beyond the boundary of the law. They profit by inflicting misfortune on others – and as friendly as Teddy might be, I can't deny that his burglaries have victims.

But Teddy would never kill for a profit. He wouldn't sell people to the hunters, like Hackel did. He wouldn't smuggle weapons, or try to make money out of war. And if he faced a dying girl like Maisy, he wouldn't demand payment to save her.

He might be a thief, but he isn't heartless.

‘So when we've paid off our debt to Silver,' I say slowly, ‘you're planning to ask her for work ­experience?'

‘That's an awful idea,' Clementine says, looking irritated. ‘You don't belong with these people. I don't trust these smugglers any more than I'd trust a thief.'

‘Er . . .' Teddy says, ‘I dunno if you've noticed this, Clementine, but you've been hanging out with a thief for a while now.'

‘That's different.'

‘How?'

Clementine hesitates. ‘Well, you're not a
nasty
thief. Not like these people.'

‘Not a nasty thief?' Teddy breaks into a grin. ‘That's gotta be either the nicest or the most insulting thing a richie's ever said to me.'

‘Do I want to know what most
richies say to you?'

‘Depends,' Teddy says. ‘Keen to add any new curses to your vocabulary?'

‘
That
depends,' Clementine says, ‘on whether you're serious about becoming a smuggler.'

Teddy glances around the boat, then back towards the cabin. Inside, I see the silhouette of Silver, who's still bent over her alchemy vials. There's a weary hunch in her back, and she no longer resembles a spry old squirrel. I wonder if her earlier strength was the result of an alchemy charm, or whether she's just worn down by the storm last night.

Teddy waves a dismissive hand. ‘Nah, I reckon you're right about the smugglers. Better not to trust them.' He pauses, then offers Clementine a smile. ‘Anyway, after everything we've been through, do you really reckon I'd let you guys nick off to the Valley without me?'

Clementine looks oddly touched, until Teddy adds, ‘I mean, who knows what kind of richies live on the other side? I'm not gonna miss out on a whole new nation of purses to steal.'

His smile melts into a devious grin, and I can't hold back a laugh. Perhaps my first impression of Teddy Nort was accurate after all.

In the afternoon, we scrub the deck. There aren't many other jobs left to do – not without building supplies, at least. It's hard to patch up broken walls when all you've got to work with is a crate of honey-nuts and a few soggy blankets.

Scrubbing isn't much fun, but I'm still in a fairly decent mood. Mostly I'm grateful for the rest. It's been a long time since I felt safe enough to relax – just soaking up sunshine under an open sky. My skin feels warm and toasty, and there's a fresh spattering of freckles on Teddy's nose.

But as the afternoon light starts to fade, so do our newfound spirits. I know Clementine's worried about Maisy; the
Forgotten'
s been gone the entire day. I'm worried about her too. And if I'm honest with myself, Maisy isn't the only person I'm thinking about. Because the more I look at this lagoon, the less it reminds me of grass or bottles . . . and the more it reminds me of bright green eyes.

I've blocked Lukas from my mind for the last couple of days. The hunters, the soldiers, the storm . . . they've all been more pressing, more urgent. First my friends were in danger, and there was Maisy's wound to deal with. But now I've got no more excuses. I have to face the fact that he's left us. That he's running towards danger.

And I have no idea how to save him.

Clementine throws down her scrubbing cloth. ‘How long does it take to collect a few supplies?'

‘Maybe Quirin's being extra careful,' I say. ‘You know, to make sure they're not being followed. If he's going to some super-secret hideout, I bet he's really keen to keep it hidden.'

‘If there was a problem,' Teddy says, ‘Silver'd tell us, I reckon. She doesn't look worried yet, does she?'

We all glance back through the cabin window. The old woman is still inside, fiddling with the mechanics of the clockwork wall. I don't know what she's doing – cleaning out the river gunge from when the boat went under, perhaps.

‘Wish she'd just tell us what our job's gonna be,' Teddy says. ‘To pay off our debt, I mean.'

‘Me too,' I say. ‘I want . . . I want to look for Lukas.'

I drop my voice to a whisper. Even though Silver's inside the cabin, there are no more solid walls to block the sound of our voices. ‘If this job's too hard, or too dangerous, I was thinking that –'

‘Maybe we should just nick off?' Teddy says. ‘Yeah, I reckon so too.'

Clementine bites her lip. ‘We have to wait until Maisy's better. And as much as I dislike these smugglers, I don't like to break my word. I was raised to see oath-breaking as . . . dishon­ourable.'

‘I know,' I say, voice low. ‘But if Lukas is the boy who's been following the smugglers around, nagging them to help him fight the king, then –'

‘But why would he do that?' Clementine says. ‘I know you want to think it's him, Danika, but I don't think it makes any sense.'

I bristle. ‘Why not?'

‘Why would he enlist a bunch of smugglers, of all people? He's a prince; he's not about to join up with criminals to bring down his own family.'

‘Course he would,' Teddy says. ‘He joined up with us, didn't he?'

‘That's different.'

‘How?'

‘We're not smugglers, for one thing,' Clementine says. ‘I'll admit Silver's done nothing to hurt us, but –'

As if on cue, Silver steps out through the remains of the cabin wall. Clementine falls silent. The old woman has a distant look in her eyes – the same look she's worn since last night.

‘Everything all right?' I say.

Silver stares out across the lagoon. There is a long pause, as though she is deciding what to say. Almost subconsciously, she fiddles with the alchemy charms around her neck.

‘I need to know something,' she says finally. ‘The friend who gave you those charms. What was his name?'

I don't know what to say. Silver used to work for the royal family; if I tell her about Lukas, she'll recognise the name of the prince. She'll realise we're more than just ordinary refugees. That we might be worth a lot of reward money . . .

‘It was Lukas Morrigan, wasn't it?' she says.

‘No, it was –'

‘Don't lie to me, my friend,' Silver says. ‘Only ten years since I left the royals' service, remember? I watched that boy in his early years, and I know those charms belonged to him.'

Silence. I glance across at Teddy and Clementine, but they seem as uncertain as I am. We could deny it, of course – but what's the point? She'll suspect us anyway, and proving ourselves to be liars doesn't seem a smart way to get her onside.

‘So,' Silver says quietly. She speaks in a pure richie accent now, with no trace of the fake western dialect. ‘This is rather interesting, isn't it? A group of refugees, all the way from Rourton, in the company of a runaway prince. I'm sure King Morrigan has offered a grand reward. He'll charge you with kid­napping. He'll have your heads.'

‘We didn't kidnap anyone!' I say. ‘Lukas is our friend. He ran away because his family's a bunch of –'

I force myself to shut up.

‘No need to hold back,' Silver says. ‘In case you'd forgotten, I abandoned them myself to join this smuggling crew. I have no love for the royal family.'

More silence.

I wet my lips. ‘Why did you leave them?'

Silver sighs. It's a weary sound, like papers collapsing beneath the weight of dust. ‘Because I invented terrible things in their service. Things I convinced myself were necessary, things for the greater good.' Her eyes grow distant. ‘Things to keep this kingdom under control . . .'

With a sickening wrench, I realise what she means. ‘No,' I whisper. ‘You didn't . . .'

Silver meets my eyes. ‘Yes,' she says. ‘I did.' There is a long pause. ‘I invented the alchemy bomb.'

‘I thought the king would use my bombs for good,' Silver says. ‘To fight our enemies across the sea.'

My chest is hot. All I can picture is my family burning. My mother screaming. Stars bursting like magical shrapnel from the ruins of my home. ‘You mean, to drop bombs on a city from the sky, like cowards –'

Silver's eyes narrow. ‘Cowards?'

‘Too afraid to come down,' I spit, ‘and put yourself in harm's way. Too afraid to look into the faces of the people you kill. It must be so easy from up there, floating safely in the sky without –'

Silver points at me. ‘You listen to me, and you listen well. I didn't know my invention would be used on Taladian cities. But even if I had known, I could have justified it to myself. The alchemy bomb was a masterpiece. For a team of young alchemists, it was our way into the history books. Every development in weaponry, all throughout human history, had been leading to this.'

‘Is that what you told yourself? Is that what you and your friends whispered to each other, so you could sleep at night while the rest of us burned?'

Silver's eyes are hard. ‘If my team hadn't invented the first bomb, someone else would have. It was inevitable. It was –'

‘It was
not
inevitable!'

‘Thousands of years ago,' Silver says, ‘humans used their hands to fight. Then someone invented clubs. Then swords, then lances. Then arrows. Then pistols.' Her voice is strained now, half-snapping, half-pleading. ‘Each new weapon was more powerful than the last, and each could be wielded from further away. The alchemy bomb was just a natural progression. It was going to happen sooner or later, no matter who came up with –'

‘Your bombs killed my family,' I say.

She says nothing.

‘I watched our apartment burn. I watched alchemical stars blast into the night like some kind of firework display. Something for the pilots to watch, to laugh at from above.'

Silver stares at me. She opens her mouth to speak, then closes it again. ‘I . . .' She takes a shaky breath. ‘I don't know what to tell you.' She stares across the lagoon. It ripples, cool and gentle beneath the fading sun.

‘What's the king doing near the Valley?' I say.

Silver's face is almost motionless. ‘My people don't involve themselves with kings.'

I wait in silence until she finds the guts to meet my gaze. ‘Oh, I don't know. I'd say you're pretty involved already.'

‘That was before –'

‘And this is now.' I fold my elbows on the rail. ‘You said the king was doing something dangerous. Bad enough to whip up that storm last night.'

‘Yes, but –'

‘If you want to forget about the bombs, that's your choice. I know what it's like to feel guilty. But if you ignore what's happening right now near the Valley, you'll do more than just block out bad memories. You'll put your whole damn clan in danger.'

Silver pauses for a long time. A breeze sends the bedsheets dancing, but they remain in place upon the rail. The old woman looks down at her hands and examines her fingernails one by one. Stalling for time, I suppose – or remembering the horrors those fingers have crafted.

Finally she says, ‘Do you know “The Song of the Road”?'

‘You mean the one that goes “Oh mighty yo” and all that?' Teddy says. ‘Yeah, that's what led us here.'

‘Good,' Silver says. She stares across the lagoon. The ripples are growing darker now, stained by the encroaching dusk. And in a singsong whisper, she begins to recite:

Oh mighty yo,

How the star-shine must go,

Chasing those distant deserts of green . . .

‘The Magnetic Valley wasn't always a valley,' Silver says. ‘Not as we know it today, at least. Hundreds of years ago, it was a channel of water. A narrow lake weaving between the mountains.'

‘The Valley was full of water?' I repeat, startled. ‘But then, how –'

‘It was the king at the time who drained it,' Silver says. ‘An ancestor of the current royal family. He wanted to invade the land beyond the Valley, and foolishly believed it was the water – not the magnets beneath – that interfered with his soldiers' magic.

‘It was a time of great change, you see. Just a century into the Alchemical Renaissance – and barely months after the fall of Midnight Crest, which had been a terrible humiliation for the king. So he set out to achieve something grand. Something visionary.' Silver gives me a sharp look. ‘Something to remind the people of his strength.'

She turns back to survey the water.

‘Traditionally, water flowed from Taladia down into the Valley. But the king changed all that. He conscripted workers to mine a system of tunnels beneath the Valley. Hundreds died to build those tunnels. The catacombs, they were called. The king used them to pump the water back into Taladia, contaminating the region nearby.'

I feel a chill of recognition. ‘The borderlands.'

Silver nods. ‘But those tunnels were tainted by alchemy, and the magical residue of those who died to build them. Sometimes when a soul dies, you see, it doesn't take its whole proclivity with it. As the water pumped through, it was . . . corrupted. Polluted. And so the borderlands became a realm of wild magic – and the Magnetic Valley became an empty bowl.'

‘So that line in the song, about deserts of green . . .'

‘Refers to the Valley,' Silver says, nodding. ‘It was once a mighty waterway, but now it lies empty. Just high slopes and green grass. A desert of green.'

I stare towards the horizon. With no trees directly overhead, I can just make out the peaks of mountains in the distance. Fragments of the Eastern Boundary Range. They paint massive shadows on the sky: too high to climb, too high for biplanes to cross. Those mountains divide Taladia from the land beyond. The Valley is the only chink in their armour. And beneath its grass, beneath its magnets . . .

‘The catacombs,' I say. ‘Are they still there?'

Silver gives me a hard look. ‘They are, but only a fool would trespass there.'

‘Why?'

‘Too old,' she says. ‘Too unstable.'

‘I don't see how they built 'em in the first place,' Teddy says. ‘I mean, everyone knows that magic stuffs up in the Valley. Too dangerous, right? If they used alchemy to pump the water, I reckon it should've ricocheted, or exploded, or –'

Silver shakes her head. ‘The catacombs aren't
in
the Valley. They lie deep beneath it.'

‘Yeah, but if the magnetic field goes up high enough to mess with biplanes, I reckon it'd go –'

‘The airspace is only tainted,' Silver says, ‘because thousands of magnetic seams run up the Valley's sides, cupping it from all directions. Those seams lie near the surface, and their fields are shallow. But the catacombs are deep, buried far below the reach of the Valley's magnetism.' She pauses. ‘Mostly.'

‘Mostly?'

Silver shrugs. ‘There are a few stray seams of mag­netic rock that run deeper into the earth. But their magnetism is weak, and their effects don't reach far.'

Teddy frowns. ‘How come you know all this?'

‘How do you think?' Silver says. ‘My people have tried to explore the tunnels, to extend their reach. We hoped to sneak all the way beneath the Valley. But those who go in rarely come out.'

‘Why bother then?' Clementine says.

‘Because we could make a fortune!' Silver says. ‘A hidden web of paths beneath the Valley, leading to the land beyond. We could smuggle goods in secret beneath the border: silver, spices, people . . .' She gives a wistful sigh. ‘Believe me, my friends – if those catacombs could be easily salvaged, my people would have found a way to restore them.'

‘Have you been there?' My throat is suddenly tight. ‘The land beyond the Valley?'

Silver shakes her head. ‘I work in the south. I buy spices cheap, and I cart them up for a premium in the northern markets.' She pauses. ‘And things less legal than spices.'

‘But you're so close! Someone in your crew must have –'

Silver cuts me off. ‘Only Quirin has crossed the border. He won't speak of it, though, and he won't let anyone else try. Not profitable enough. Not worth the risk.'

‘The risk?'

‘King Morrigan keeps a damn close watch on that Valley. And he can be a bit –' Silver waves a hand – ‘
obsessive
, let's say, about the land on the other side. If we'd managed to sneak through the catacombs, that would be one thing. But we can't just march back and forth in the open.'

‘I thought you weren't afraid of kings.'

‘True,' she says. ‘Because we're smart enough to work around them. There are some lines even smugglers don't cross.'

For a long moment, no one speaks. There's just the afternoon light, the breeze and the ripple of the water.

‘But now King Morrigan's trying to fix the catacombs?' I say.

‘I told you, my people don't –'

‘He's sending in hundreds of soldiers, all with Earth and Water-type proclivities,' I say. ‘Why do you think . . .?'

I trail off, struck by realisation. If magic works in the catacombs, soldiers with Dirt or Stone proclivities could extend and stabilise the tunnels. Those with Water proclivities could deal with groundwater, or any pockets of flooding.

It wouldn't be the first time that soldiers were given jobs based on their magic. I remember an old bedtime story,
The Rats of Ridgeton,
about soldiers with Beast proclivities who were tasked with sending plague rats into the enemy's camp.

‘He
is
trying to repair the catacombs, isn't he?' I say. ‘That's what caused the bellyacher. People messing around down in the tunnels, treading on old magic that shouldn't be touched . . .'

Silver looks down at her hands again. ‘Perhaps.'

‘Why?' Clementine says. ‘I'm sorry, but I don't see how a bunch of old tunnels is supposed to help –'

‘It must be his Plan B.' I glance across at Teddy. ‘Remember? When we were in the Knife, Sharr Morrigan said something about the king bringing in soldiers for his Plan B.'

‘Because we blew up his Curiefer stash,' Teddy says, nodding, ‘and all his biplanes. He can't invade by air any more, and I reckon ground troops'd be too exposed without magic. So instead of going over the Valley . . .'

I finish the sentence. ‘He's going underneath.'

By the time the others return, the sky is growing dark. The
Forgotten
sweeps back with silent ease: a shadow on the lagoon. It's followed closely by a smaller boat, which is streaked crimson with rust and old paint. The name upon its side is
Firebird.

‘What's that for?' I say.

‘It's our clan's emergency boat,' Silver says. ‘We keep it hidden with our backup supplies. I suppose Quirin wants me to take it until Carrilla returns to fix the
Nightsong
.'

The boats drop anchor about twenty metres away, in deeper water where the rocks can't scrape their bases. Then a strange flag sticks up from the
Forgotten
's mangled cabin. It flutters blue, barely visible in the fading light.

‘What's that?' I say.

‘If blue should leer, then soon be here,'
Silver recites, in a weary singsong tone. ‘Ah well, at least it's not red. He wants us to join him on the
Forgotten
.'

‘What's a red flag mean?' Teddy says.

‘When cloth bleeds red, a soul is dead,'
Silver says.

‘Ah. Right. Probably should've guessed that one.'

We slip beneath the guardrail and into the lagoon. I expect the water to be cold, but a pleasant warmth still lingers from the afternoon sun. Behind us, the
Nightsong
lies abandoned beneath a rising moon.