Chasing the Valley Read Online Free Page B

him but it’s pointless now, because Radnor has decided he doesn’t want me. Even if I manage to bargain my way onto the crew, I doubt we’d make it out of Rourton alive, let alone all the way to the Valley. Crew members have to respect each other, without any backstabbing or distrust, if they want to survive.
    â€˜All right,’ I say, in the poshest richie accent I can muster. ‘Send me a wire if you change your mind. My address is in the golden directory.’
    It’s a stupid jab at Clementine, of course, because only the wealthiest richies can send or receive telegraphs – and I don’t have any address, let alone one in the golden directory. I know I’m being immature, even as I say it. But it’s enough to make Teddy Nort grin, just for a minute. I can’t help feeling pleased that at least one of them seems to want me on the crew.
    Then I head off down the tunnel, sloshing muck up my legs with every step. There’s no point making friends with Teddy Nort – not when he’s about to flee the city. I keep remembering Radnor’s comment: ‘We’re not screwing it up at the last minute.’ It sounds like the crew is leaving soon, maybe even tonight.
    And if that’s true, it’s a solid bet they’ll be dead by morning.
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    Back up on the streets, I follow a shadowed alleyway. There’s no point thinking about the refugee crew. They don’t want my help, and they don’t want me. Full stop. End of story. Like everything else about life in Rourton, it’s better to make myself forget.
    The bombing’s over now. I hear voices in the distance, and the crash and crumble of damaged walls collapsing into dust. Smoke pours up into the night, bathing Rourton in a sea of starlit grey. It stinks of ash and scorched debris.
    The smell of fire brings back too many memories. Another night. Another bombing. My feet like lead upon another street.
    When I was little, my mother told me stories of the Magnetic Valley. It’s forbidden to speak of it, but everyone knows – everyone whispers its name in hope. That’s what Walter’s folk song was about, his drunken ramblings in the Alehouse as the bombs began to fall. Now, the words come back to me: a taunt of dreams that can never come true.
    Oh mighty yo,
    How the star-shine must go
    Chasing those distant deserts of green . . .
    The Magnetic Valley is where refugee crews run to, where our dreams carry us on the darkest nights, in the coldest alleyways. It’s a boundary of green meadows, a doorway into another nation that lies beyond Taladia. In the Valley, the king’s magically powered planes and war machines are as useless as toys. Its hillsides are lined with magnetic rocks, which interfere with magic.
    And according to our legends, the nation beyond is a paradise. It’s one of Taladia’s only neighbouring lands where our king has not waged a war. I don’t even know the name of the country, but if even halfthe stories are true, I’d give my right arm to live there. Supposedly there’s enough food and warmth and shelter for us all. The people’s leaders don’t bomb them, don’t send hunters to pursue them through the wild. Beyond the Valley, I could be safe. Safe, for the first time in my life.
    But for now, I’m just a scruffer in a city of flames.
    As the smoke thickens, my eyes start to water. I reach into my pocket for my handkerchief – a shred of stolen fabric from a clothing factory’s scrapheap – but it’s disappeared. I must have dropped it in the sewer somewhere. I wipe my eyes on a sleeve, but the grit feels like sandpaper. I haven’t had a chance to wash my clothes for ages. So I pick up the pace and try to ignore the dribbles running down my cheeks.
    At one point, there’s a scream. It’s a few blocks away, so I can’t see the source, but it sounds husky: an old woman, perhaps.