The Runner (Part I of the Runner Series)

Chapter 1

My fingernails scratch and chip as I grapple to hold on to the building's roof, my feet kicking furiously against the rough stone below me. Finding purchase, my muscles screaming with the effort, I manage to hoist myself up onto my forearms and over the ledge.

I'm sweating from exertion. Without stopping to catch my breath, I push up onto my feet and take off at a run, propelling across the roof toward the next building. The edge is just swimming into view when I hear a latched door flying open. Angry voices shout out as the guards' heavy bootsteps fall into pursuit.

Nearly there. My eyes are trained on the horizon as I recall the impending height and distance. My legs burn and my feet pound across the roof's surface, the reverberation of heavy footfalls at my back spurring me onward.

Finally, my runway ends. Without pausing or slowing down, I plant a foot on the raised ledge and throw myself out across the abyss.

For a single, perfect moment I am sailing through the air, suspended and soaring weightlessly five storeys above the ground. This is it. This is what I chase after: this feeling of utter freedom. The flattened surface of the next roof rises to greet me and I absorb the impact with a practiced precision, landing cleanly.

A grin tugs at my face as I roll out of my crouched position. My legs already feel lighter. I straighten and wince at a familiar pain shooting through my left knee, then turn to look behind me. I push my hair back from where it whips around my face, swirling and tangling in the hot desert air. Squinting into the sunlight, I catch sight of the four guards standing across the gap. The captain is at the forefront, red-faced, his sword raised menacingly toward me as he shouts his threats into the wind.

I raise a hand to my ear, pantomiming deafness while the captain's voice rises in fervour. He gestures madly for his men to return to the ground. Smirking, I turn and jog lightly to the next ledge, swivelling to glance back at the captain standing opposite the divide. Even at this distance I don't miss the daggers in his glare. A thrill of satisfaction runs down my spine and I cheerfully raise my hand to my forehead in a mock salute before I take one step backward and drop off the roof.

Instinctively, my hands shoot up as I fall, catching a window ledge protruding from the building's facade. My feet grip the stone slabs and gradually, brick by brick, I am able to descend into the alley.

Sand kicks up around me as I land on the pathway below. I dust my hands off on my thighs and lower the scarf covering my mouth and nose. Listening for the sound of any pursuing footsteps, I make for the main road, intending to weave my way between the buildings before the guards reach the ground. My worn leather boots scuff through the narrow passageway until I emerge on the busy street, colliding solidly with an older gentleman. His ornately carved pipe clatters to the ground. I bend down to retrieve it with a flourish, smiling graciously. The man, taking in my distinctly ragged appearance, sneers and plucks the pipe delicately from my outstretched hand.

"Apologies, sir." I throw him a wink and take off across the road, smoothly dodging all manner of people, packed tightly together on their way to and from their designated districts. I dart in between a groom and his horse and slip back into the alleyway opposite, changing direction every so often until I am satisfied that my pursuers won't have a hope of finding me.

I finally stop to take a breath when I reach a quiet intersection, sinking down against a cool stone wall until I am sitting with my legs splayed out across the ground. I grin as I examine the woven leather purse clutched in my hand, tossing it from palm to palm and gauging the weight. It's likely that the old man with the pipe will have noticed it missing by now, but a Court dweller such as him can afford to lose a few coins.

The purse is only the icing on top of a very successful heist. Sneaking into the royal stables and raising the outer gate was no simple task, but I managed to release a couple dozen of the army's prized horses into the Wastelands before I was spotted by a member of the guard.

The lost horses will only serve to delay the next draft, but my game is about more than just hindering the war effort. Knowing how furious the King will be when he discovers what I've done makes the risk more than worthwhile.

I drop the purse into the pouch tied at my waist and set off back down the alley, my shoulders angling precisely in the cramped space as I pick a complicated path through the network of rough buildings. The beggars hovering in the crumbling doorways greet me with watery eyes, gratefully accepting the coins I dole out from my stolen coin purse. I offer them a smile and an apologetic touch on the shoulder when the pittance runs out, murmuring promises to return soon.

My pace increases as I race back toward home, crumbling buildings streaking past my peripheral vision. These twisting, narrow streets are more familiar to me than any four walls and when I am in my element, no one can touch me.

Hours later and once again high above the ground, I gaze out from a seat in the window of my single-room haven. The breeze from the desert night cools my skin as I absorb the millions of flickering lights laid out before me, illuminating the dilapidated commoners' sector and drawing the eye toward the grandiose Palace set prominently in the centre of our spiralling City. The glass walls of the Palace reach high above the Court buildings surrounding it; the arched peak of the famous spire appears to scrape the night sky. I imagine the King and Princess tucked away inside, their bellies full of rich food while they toast their gathered members of Court, all of them far removed from any of the worries that might plague us commoners.

My own window is darkened, the lamp empty of oil. My stomach growls angrily as I rise to my feet and toss the old man's empty purse into a dusty corner. I know I'm much too thin these days and it partially accounted for my sloppy antics this afternoon. A wiser girl might take her aches as evidence that she should slow down—perhaps give that old leg injury a chance to heal.

I run a hand through my unruly curls as I cross the small room, grunting when my fingers catch in a snag. My flat is modest, free of any furniture save for the cushions, a small desk and a trunk containing my few personal effects. The landlord rents the attic to me for a reasonable price, and doesn't ask questions when I pay in various pieces of jewellery or some other trinket. I'm not bothered by the tight quarters; I require only a place to sleep and a window large enough to jump through.

Giving up on the knot in my hair, I sink down onto the lumpy pile of cushions that passes for a bed and stare up at the ceiling, releasing a frustrated sigh as I mentally review the chase earlier. That was a close one. Too close. Am I losing my edge? Our never-ending war against the Wastelanders has recently increased the demands that the Court places on the Commons, and I am beginning to feel the pinch along with everyone else. Stunts like the one I pulled at the stables are a stone in the shoe of the King: irritating, but ultimately unimportant.

Rolling onto my side, I shut my eyes tightly against my raging thoughts and the memories that threaten to surface. Eventually, the ache of hunger passes and a heavy wave of exhaustion pulls me under, wrapping me in its folds with the promise of just a brief rest before the daily fight starts all over again.