The Curse of the Gloamglozer

  For Joseph, William, Katy, Anna and Jack

  INTRODUCTION

  Far far away, jutting out into the emptiness beyond, like the figurehead of a mighty stone ship, is the Edge. Shrouded in mist and bordered by open sky, it is a place of forests, swamps and rocklands.

  There are many who inhabit its various landscapes; from the trolls, trogs and goblins of the perilous Deepwoods to the phantasms and spectres of the treacherous Twilight Woods, from the bleached scavengers of the Mire to the white ravens of the Stone Gardens. While in Undertown – that seething urban sprawl which straddles the Edgewater River – there are creatures from all over the Edge who have travelled there to discover what they hoped would be a better life than the one they left behind.

  Not all the inhabitants of the Edge live with their feet on the ground however. Some – the citizens of the great floating city of Sanctaphrax – live with their heads literally in the clouds. Dwelling and working in their sumptuous palaces and lofty towers, they are academics, alchemists, sub-acolytes and apprentices, plus, of course, all those who make their lives of research and study possible: the guards, the servants, the cooks and cleaners.

  Secured by the great Anchor Chain to the centre of Undertown below, the rock upon which Sanctaphrax has been constructed is still growing. Like all the other buoyant rocks of the Edge, it started out in the Stone Gardens – poking up from the ground, growing, being pushed up further by new rocks growing beneath it, and becoming bigger still. The chain was attached when the rock became large and light enough to float up into the sky.

  Over the years, successive generations have built more and more impressive buildings upon it; ever grander, ever higher. The once-splendid Great Library and erst-while Palace of Lights are now dwarfed by the College of Cloud, the palatial School of Light and Darkness, the Twin Towers of the Mistsifters and, of course, the magnificent Loftus Observatory. The latest additions to the Central Viaduct – that grand marble walkway which spans the air between the Observatory and the Great Hall – are the most grandiloquent and ornate so far.

  Overseeing it all, is the Most High Academe, an individual chosen by the Sanctaphrax academics for his intellect and independence. In the past, this post was filled by one of the earth-study librarians. Today, with the sky-scholars in control of Sanctaphrax, it is from their ranks that the current Most High Academe has been selected.

  His name is Linius Pallitax. He is a father and a widower. In his enthronement speech he spoke of the need for the sky-scholars to work with the ousted earth-scholars once again for the betterment of all. What he is to discover, deep down inside the floating rock itself, is that when the earth and sky come together for the wrong reasons, then there is no room for the greater good, but only for the greatest evil.

  The Deepwoods, the Edgelands, the Twilight Woods, the Mire and the Stone Gardens. Undertown and Sanctaphrax. The River Edgewater. Names on a map.

  Yet behind each name lie a thousand tales – tales that have been recorded in ancient scrolls, tales that have been passed down the generations by word of mouth – tales which even now are being told.

  What follows is but one of those tales.

  · CHAPTER ONE ·

  THE PALACE OF

  SHADOWS

  The great vaulted entrance-hall to the Palace of Shadows was silent save for the hiss of the wind and the soft, yet echoing, footfall of the immense insect-like creature that teetered unsteadily across the marble floor. High up above, beams of dim light streamed in through a circle of arched windows and criss-crossed the shadowy air. And as the floating rock of Sanctaphrax – fixed in place by the Anchor Chain – turned slowly in the breeze coming in from beyond the Edge, so the light swooped and the shadows danced.

  The spindlebug paused for a moment at the foot of the sweeping staircase and looked up. The skin, as translucent as the high arched windows above, revealed blood pumping through veins, six hearts beating – and last night's supper slowly digesting in a see-through belly. The light glinted on quivering antennae, and on the goblet and oval-shaped bottle of cordial which stood on the burnished copper tray clutched in the creature's claws. The spindlebug was listening intently.

  ‘Where are you, master? Where are you?’ he murmured to himself.

  He cocked his wedge-shaped head to one side. The antennae quivered impatiently. They picked up the soft murmur of voices throughout the vast building: the inconsequential chatter of the old woodtroll nurse, the soft humming of a girl – the young mistress – intent on some absorbing task, and there, unmistakable, from up in the master-study, a dry cough.

  ‘I hear you, master,’ the creature responded. ‘I'm sure you could do with a little pick-me-up to go with the news I bring,’ he trilled to himself. And with the goblet clinking against the bottle, he began the long climb up the staircase.

  It was a staircase the spindlebug knew well – but then he knew every single nook and cranny of the sprawling Palace of Shadows well: its hidden chambers, the murder holes, the corridors that led nowhere, the great balcony from which, for centuries, High Academes had stood to address the plotting, scheming academics below. What was more, the creature knew all the palace's secrets, his antennae picking up the whispers, the gossip, the rumours and cries.

  He stopped at the first landing, wheezing heavily, breathlessly aware that he wasn't getting any younger. Indeed, even for a spindlebug, he was old. A hundred and eighty years had passed since he had first hatched out in the underground gardens of a gyle goblin colony, far away in the Deepwoods. So long ago, so very long ago…

  The slavers had come. They'd destroyed the precious fungus beds and enslaved the spindlebugs who tended them. But not Tweezel, oh no. He was a young bug then, fast, quick-thinking. Hearing the slavers breaking through the walls, he had hidden himself away, making himself invisible in the shadows. Then he had fled into the Deepwoods, keeping to the shadows; always listening, always on his guard. Shadows were his friend.

  Tweezel reached the second landing, the place where he'd first laid eyes on his new master – Linius Pallitax, the youngest Most High Academe anyone could remember – and his young wife. She had been standing by the entrance to the robe-chamber, Tweezel remembered, laughing at her husband's ill-fitting new robes and the Great Seal of High Office round his neck. Big with child, and so pretty and full of life, she had seemed out of place in the dusty old palace.

  Tweezel stopped.

  But soon after had come that terrible night, when her cries of joy became cries of pain. He didn't like to think about it: the woodtroll nurse running back and forth, the terrible screams from the birthing-chamber, the sobs of the young master. Pitiful sounds. Terrible sounds. And then, silence.

  Tweezel shook his head and climbed to the third landing. He still remembered how long the silence had seemed to last and how impenetrable it had been. Despite his sensitive antennae, he had had no idea what had happened. The seconds had ticked past, one after the other … And then all at once, shattering the deathly silence, had come the most wonderful sound of all – the sound of a baby crying. The sound of the young mistress.

  Linius Pallitax had suffered a terrible tragedy: he had lost his wife in the throes of childbirth, yet he had also brought life back into the Palace of Shadows. It had been, Tweezel thought, almost like the old days when he'd first come to the great floating city, and the palace had been a noisy, bustling place, bursting with life.

  Back then, the academics of Sanctaphrax had been primarily earth-scholars, fascinated by the flora and fauna of the Deepwoods. Why, even he, Tweezel, had been considered a marvel! The High Librarian himself – the greatest earth-scholar of all – had found him starving in the slums of Undertown and brought him up here to th
e palace. Oh, happy, happy memories!

  In those days, of course, the Palace of Shadows had been known as the Palace of Lights and, with its countless windows of coloured glass which bathed everything inside in jewelled light, it had been the most magnificent building in all of Sanctaphrax. And he, Tweezel, the strange creature seemingly made out of glass, had been appointed its custodian.

  The ancient spindlebug reached the fourth landing and paused to catch his breath. But times had changed. The sky-scholars had begun to take over. Earth-study was no longer fashionable, it seemed. All over Sanctaphrax, the towers of sky-scholarship had begun to sprout; taller and taller they grew, reaching high into the sky. With the completion of the College of Cloud, the Palace of Lights had finally been surrounded totally, and thrown into deep shadow.

  The Great Purges had begun soon after; earth-scholars had been expelled from Sanctaphrax in wave after wave, and Tweezel's magnificent palace had become the Palace of Shadows. Tweezel sighed. There had followed the lonely years. The old librarian had died and a sky-scholar had been elected new Most High Academe. He had chosen to live in one of the magnificent new towers, and Tweezel had been left on his own to look after the empty palace as best he could.

  But shadows were his friend. He had stayed, and listened, and waited.

  And then – some sixty years later – Linius, the young Professor of Mistsifting, had become the Most High Academe. Just another sky-scholar, Tweezel had thought. But he'd been wrong. Linius was different. He respected the old ways. He had moved back into the palace, stood on the balcony and called for an end to the rivalry and faction fighting, and the beginning of a new era where earth-studies and sky-scholarship would complement one another, rather than compete.

  The sky-scholars hadn't liked that one bit – then or now. They muttered, they plotted – Tweezel heard them – but what could they actually do? Linius was the Most High Academe.

  Tweezel stopped at the door of the master-study and knocked three times.

  ‘Come in, Tweezel,’ came a weary voice.

  ‘I bring news of Wind Jackal, master,’ said Tweezel, entering the smoky room. ‘He sends word of his estimated time of arrival.’

  ‘Which is?’ said Linius.

  ‘Three hours, master.’

  ‘Wherever are you taking me, Maris?’ Linius chuckled as, still blindfolded, he found himself being steered across the floor by his daughter, his injured left leg dragging slightly as he went.

  ‘Stop!’ his daughter commanded, and Linius felt her little fingers teasing at the knot behind his head. The silken scarf fell away. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘You can open your eyes now.’

  Linius did as he was told. He rubbed his eyes and looked down to see a half-finished mosaic spread out on the table before him. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  A soft beam of muted yellow light swept across the shadowy room as the great floating rock turned. Maris held her breath.

  Would he like the picture she had made with the fragments of sky-crystal, or would he have preferred her to do something original?

  When she'd started out, making a copy of the ancient Quadrangle Mosaic had seemed like such a good idea, and Maris had spent several hours the previous day down in the airy marble square in front of the Great Hall taking detailed measurements of the intricate design. The circumference of the concentric circles. The angle of the lightning bolts. Getting the irregular series of calibrations just right. Later, she had turned the figures into a sketch, which she was now using to make as accurate a reproduction as she could.

  Her father picked up the sketch, glanced at it, laid it aside and returned his attention to the incomplete mosaic. ‘It's …’ He hesitated, his brow furrowed.

  Maris swallowed anxiously. She should have done something original. A caterbird, perhaps. Or a league ship – no, a sky pirate ship, soaring over the Sanctaphrax spires. Or maybe the white ravens circling the towering Loftus Observatory…

  ‘It's wonderful!’ he breathed. He leaned across the redoak table and tousled his daughter's hair. ‘You're a clever girl, Maris.’

  Maris smiled. It was all she could do not to purr out loud and her hand trembled as she tried to decide exactly where to place the piece of yellow sky-crystal she was holding.

  ‘What about over there?’ Linius suggested, and pointed to a gap in one of the zigzag lightning bolts.

  Maris slipped it into place as, from outside, there came the sound of a bell chiming five. She looked up and smiled shyly – but her father had turned away and was staring out of the tall glass balcony-doors, a puzzled frown on his forehead.

  ‘It fits perfectly,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What? I …’ Linius muttered absentmindedly. Then, turning back, he noticed the completed lightning bolt. ‘Oh, I see.’ He paused. ‘Tell me, Maris, why did you decide to make your mosaic in the shape of the Great Seal?’

  ‘The Great Seal?’ she repeated, surprised.

  ‘Yes, child,’ said Linius, a little impatiently. He raised the heavy chain of office which hung round his neck and let the medallion it supported swing back and forwards in front of her.

  ‘Oh, that,’ said Maris. ‘Yes, it does look similar. But my picture is of the Quadrangle Mosaic.’

  ‘I can vouch for that,’ a voice piped up from the other side of the great room. ‘Three hours we spent there yesterday. Blowing a gale it was, and so cold!’

  Linius turned round and peered into the shadows. ‘Welma Thornwood,’ he said, ‘is that you?’

  ‘No, it's the Queen of the Wodgiss Parade,’ the voice replied sarcastically.

  Linius smiled. How different from the academics Deepwooders were. No airs, no graces, no false compliments that became whispered insults the moment your back was turned. With Welma, the old woodtroll nurse, what you saw was what you got.

  ‘Mind you,’ Welma went on, ‘far be it from me to complain. If three hours of standing around in the bitter wind is what it takes for a daughter to get her father's attention, then so be it.’ She cleared her throat quietly. ‘No offence intended,’ she added.

  ‘None taken,’ said Linius. He knew there was truth to her words. The time-consuming responsibilities of high office had driven a wedge between a father and daughter who, before, had always enjoyed such a close relationship.

  The floating rock of Sanctaphrax turned once more, sending the shadows darting round the vast room. Welma Thornwood was briefly bathed in the dim yellow light. She was seated in a hanging-sofa with her embroidery frame on her lap and Maris's pet wood-lemkin on her shoulder.

  ‘Of course, the mosaic will look even better when it's finished,’ she said, without looking up from her needlework. The shadows swallowed her up once more. ‘And since Maris has promised to complete it as soon as possible, it would be so nice if you didn't leave it too long before your next visit.’

  ‘Quite, quite,’ said Linius, who hadn't heard a word. With his stave back in his hand to support his weight, he was looking over his shoulder at the balcony-doors. The long, lace curtains fluttered in the breeze. ‘Curious,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I could have sworn Tweezel said three…’

  At that moment the lemkin on Welma's shoulder began jumping about on its leash and shrieking furiously: a high piercing cry followed by a staccato cough which – had it been back in the Deepwoods rather than in this floating palace – would have alerted others of its kind to imminent danger.Waa-iiiii – kha-kha-kha-kha-kha …

  ‘Calm yourself, Digit,’ said Welma, tugging it closer and stroking its trembling neck and shoulders. ‘Come on, now. Quieten down.’

  But the lemkin would not quieten down, and when Welma tried to hold it in her lap, it scratched at her legs and slapped her face with its prehensile tail, so hard that it left an angry white weal on her cheek.

  ‘Aargh!’ she cried out in pain, and let go of the end of the leash.

  The lemkin leapt to the floor and bounded towards the door, its large eyes narrowed and mottled blue fur bristling.
>
  ‘Digit!’ called Maris, dashing after it. ‘You naughty thing, you. Come back here.’

  ‘Waa-iiii – kha-kha-kha-kha,’ the lemkin shrieked back.

  ‘Come back!’ Maris demanded again, angry now. ‘Atonce!’ She glanced round at her father anxiously. He'd never approved of her keeping a pet in the palace, and the last thing she wanted to do was give him an excuse to get rid of it. But oddly, he didn't seem to mind what was going on – in fact, it didn't look as if he'd even noticed.

  And then Maris saw why. On the other side of the tall, glass balcony-doors, a mighty sky pirate ship was slowly descending from the sky. Its sails fluttered, its brasswork gleamed in the golden light of the setting sun. It was magnificent. What was more, from the curve and carvings of its shiny polished bow, she recognized it as the Galerider.

  As she continued to watch, the sky pirate ship dropped anchor. The next moment, a gangplank was lowered onto the balustrade, and the Galerider's elegant captain descended.

  Maris's heart sank.

  Not that she had anything against the sky pirate captain – in fact of all her father's friends, Wind Jackal was probably her

  favourite. Uncle Windy, she'd once called him. He was funny – and sometimes he would do magic tricks for her. No, it wasn't Wind Jackal she was disappointed with, but her father – and herself, of course, for being so stupid!

  When Linius had entered the room earlier that afternoon, unannounced and out of the blue, Maris had been so happy to see him that she hadn't questioned his reasons for coming. She'd simply assumed he wanted to spend some time with his daughter.

  She now knew that she'd been wrong, and she remembered how distracted he'd been; forever checking the time and glancing out of the windows. He hadn't come to see her at all. He'd simply been waiting to keep an appointment with one of his Deepwoods friends.

  ‘WAA-iiii – kha-kha …’