Midnight Over Sanctaphrax Page 10

  ‘Indeed,’ Bogwitt echoed.

  ‘Yes, Bogwitt,’ said Twig. ‘As you once worked there as a guard, you must know Sanctaphrax like the back of your hand. Take the hidden alleys and secret passages on your way to the Professor of Darkness. Let's try and keep those gossipy academic tongues from wagging.’ He turned to the slaughterer. ‘Tarp,’ he said, ‘you must go with them.’

  ‘Me?’ Tarp cried out. ‘Accompany them to Sanctaphrax?’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘But I want to go with you, cap'n. I'm fit. I'm strong. You need someone like me on such a perilous quest.’

  ‘I'm sorry, Tarp, but only Cowlquape can travel with me.’

  ‘But why, cap'n?’

  ‘Think about it, Tarp,’ said Twig gently. ‘How far do you think we'd get, glowing like tilder lamps? Whenever it is dark, we would begin to glow if together - and the fear of others would not help in our search.’

  ‘But we could cover up,’ Tarp persisted. ‘We could wear thick hooded cloaks to conceal the light and …’

  ‘And end up more conspicuous than ever!’ said Twig. ‘No, I must do this without you. Together, we would only fail - and that is something I must not do.’

  The slaughterer nodded under standingly. ‘You're right, Cap'n Twig,’ he said. ‘I should have thought.’

  ‘Thank you, Tarp,’ said Twig gratefully. He turned to Bogwitt and Sleet. ‘It is agreed then. You three will await my return in Sanctaphrax, while Cowlquape and I journey on to find what has become of the rest of my missing crew.’ He frowned with pretend impatience. ‘So where is that paper and pen?’

  • CHAPTER ELEVEN •

  THE WESTERN QUAYS

  Two weeks later, Cowlquape and Twig found themselves on the dockside of the western quays. Their previous night's lodgings had been infested with vicious dustfleas and, having been bitten half to death, they'd decided to cut their losses before sunrise and leave the filthy dormitory Outside now, the first deep red feathers of sunrise were tickling the horizon. Twig yawned, stretched and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘May this new day bring us the information we require,’ he said, and sighed. ‘Oh, why is the fourth crew member proving to be so elusive?’ he wondered out loud.

  ‘Mm-hmm,’ mumbled Cowlquape. He was sitting on the jetty by Twig's feet, his legs dangling over the side. His nose, as always, was buried deep in one of the precious scrolls he kept in the bag slung over his shoulder.

  Twig looked around him. Unlike the rundown boom-docks to the east, where only the lowliest of tug ships moored, the western quays were well-heeled. This was where the leaguesmen's sky ships were docked, and the shore behind was lined with their buildings - solid constructions with faqades that were more than merely functional. Each one bore the coat of arms of the league it housed: the crossed sickle and chisel of the League of Gutters and Gougers, the piebald rat and coiled rope of the Gluesloppers and Ropeteasers, the pot and pliers of the Melders and Moulders …

  Behind them all stood the lofty Leagues’ Chamber, where the High Council of the Merchant League of Undertown sat. Always the most impressive building in the boom-docks, it looked more striking than ever at the moment, surrounded as it was by an intricate framework of scaffolding. Twig nodded towards it.

  They must be seeing to the roof,’ he said.

  ‘Mm-hmm,’ Cowlquape mumbled again. He licked his finger and, without looking up, turned to the next barkscroll.

  Twig turned back and stared at the river, flowing weakly past The rising sun bounced oozy blobs of red over its crumpled surface.

  The trouble was, their search for the fourth crewman in the leaguesmen's district had proved as unrewarding as their searches everywhere else in Undertown. The bustling streets, the noisy markets, the industrial quarter, the northern heights - Twig and Cowlquape had been to them all. Yet no matter how many taverns they visited, how many individuals they spoke to, how many enquiries they made, they had discovered nothing whatsoever about a falling shooting star or the sudden appearance of someone acting oddly.

  ‘Perhaps the time has come for us simply to abandon our search here in Undertown and set forth for the Deepwoods,’ said Twig.

  ‘Mm-hmm,’ said Cowlquape, his brow furrowed.

  ‘Cowlquape!’ said Twig. ‘Have you heard a single word I've been saying to you?’

  Cowlquape looked up, his expression puzzled, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

  ‘Ever the studious academic, eh?’ said Twig. ‘You've been lost in those barkscrolls ever since we got here.’

  ‘Oh, but it's … they're … just let me read you this,’ he said. ‘It really is absolutely fascinating stuff.’

  ‘If you must,’ said Twig resignedly.

  ‘It's more about The Myth of Riverrise,’ said Cowlquape eagerly. ‘About the Mother Storm …’

  Twig started as, for a fleeting moment, a memory from the fatal voyage into open sky flashed inside his head. ‘The Mother Storm,’ he muttered, but even as he said the words the elusive memory slipped away again. He looked up. ‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘Tell me what it says.’

  Cowlquape nodded and found the place with his finger. ‘For as I write, it is now the commonly held belief that the Mother Storm has struck the Edge not once, but many times, destroying and recreating with each return,’ he read out.’I…’

  ‘I?’ said Twig. ‘Who wrote these words?’

  Cowlquape glanced up. ‘They are a transcription of the original bark-writings that date back to the Time of Enlightenment in the Ancient Deepwoods,’ Cowlquape explained. ‘This version,’ he said, stroking the scroll affectionately, ‘was written down by a lowly scribe several hundred years ago. But the originals were much, much older.’

  Twig smiled. The lad's enthusiasm was infectious.

  ‘The Time of Enlightenment!’ said Cowlquape. ‘Oh, it must have been such a wonderful time to be alive. A glorious age of freedom and learning - long before our magnificent floating city of Sanctaphrax was even dreamed of. The Deepwoods emerged from darkness under the visionary leadership of Kobold the Wise. How I would love to have known him! He banished slavery. He united the thousand tribes under the lordly arms of the Trident and the Snake. He even oversaw the invention of the written word …’

  ‘Yes, yes, Cowlquape,’ said Twig. ‘Very interesting. Is there a point to all this?’

  ‘Patience, Twig,’ said Cowlquape. ‘All will soon be revealed. The Time of Enlightenment was abruptly snuffed out like a candle, Kobold the Wise's Union of a Thousand Tribes broke up, and the whole region descended into the barbarity and chaos that has reigned in the Deepwoods to this day’ He returned his attention to the barkscroll. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘this is what the scribe writes.’

  Despite himself, Twig remained silent and listened attentively as Cowlquape read from the curled and yellowed scroll.

  ‘Kobold the Wise grew old and weary. Madness walked the market glades and deep meadows. Tribe turned upon tribe, brother upon brother, father upon son, for the Sky had grown angry and stole the reason of all who dwelt beneath it.

  ‘Thus did representatives of the Thousand Tribes gather at Riverrise, and say, “Kobold, you who see further into Open Sky than the greatest of us, tell us what to do, for, in our madness, we are devouring each other and the sky turns our hearts black.”

  ‘And Kobold raised himself up from his sick bed and said, “ho, the Mother Storm returns. Her madness shall be our madness. Prepare yourselves, for time is short

  Cowlquape paused. ‘There's a bit of a gap in the text here,’ he explained. ‘Wood-weevils have devoured the original bark.’ He looked down again. ‘This is how it continues.

  ‘… The Mother Storm, she who first seeded the Edge with life, shall come back to reap what she has sown, and the world shall return to Darkness,’ he said, emphasizing every word. ‘Do you see, Twig? Kobold the Wise was describing The Myth of Riverrise and predicting the return of the Mother Storm - a prediction that came all too true, for the Deepwoods did indeed return to darkness
. And now it is happening all over again.’

  Twig turned away and stared up into open sky where the Mother Storm had held him in her terrible grasp.

  ‘The madness described is with us again,’ Cowlquape said solemnly, ‘blown in on the weather from beyond the Edge. The mad mists and heart-breaking rains - the terrible violence. What was it I read out?’ He found the place again.’… in our madness we are devouring each other. Don't you see, Twig. It isn't a myth at all. The Mother Storm is returning.’

  ‘The Mother Storm is returning,’ Twig repeated quietly. The words chimed with familiarity. But how? Why? He shook his head with frustration. Something important had undoubtedly happened to him out there in the weather vortex far away in open sky. Why couldn't he remember what it was? Would he ever remember?

  He looked at his troubled young apprentice. ‘Come, Cowlquape,’ he said. ‘I think we can safely leave such matters to the academics of Sanctaphrax. For ourselves, it is time we abandoned - or at least postponed - our search for the fourth crew-member of the Edgedancer, and set forth into the Deepwoods. Let's go to the posting-pole and find ourselves passage on board a sky ship.’

  Somewhat reluctantly, Cowlquape rolled up his precious barkscrolls, pushed them back into the bag and climbed to his feet. Then, together, he and Twig headed off along the quay to the central embarkation jetty. It was there that the posting-pole was situated.

  The posting-pole was a tall, stout pillar of wood to which those sky ship captains with spare berths to announce would nail advertisements, written out on squares of shimmering cloth. It was the easiest way for those with no means of transport of their own to travel from one part of the Edge to another.

  As Twig and Cowlquape reached the end of the embarkation jetty, the sun wobbled up above the horizon, crimson and majestic. Ahead of them, silhouetted against the sky, stood the posting-pole. With the countless fluttering pink-tinged scraps of material nailed along its length, it looked like a curious tree, its bark covered in blossom.

  ‘I only hope that one of them is offering something suitable,’ Twig muttered as he walked forwards.

  Cowlquape went with him. ‘How about this one?’ he said a moment later, and read from the square of cloth. ‘Ruggers and Royners Leagueship. Departing for the Deepwoods this afternoon. They've got a double berth spare. And the price seems fair.’

  But Twig shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, it's not quite …’ His voice drifted away as he raised and read announcement after announcement.

  ‘What about this one, then?’ said Cowlquape. ‘A tug-master bound for the ironwood copses of the barktrolls is leaving later this morning and needs an extra two pairs of hands.’

  But Twig paid him no attention as he continued to read down the list of vessels and their destinations. The Stormfinder, destination: the slaughterer camps.

  A voice in his head said, ‘No.’

  The Cloudeater, destination: the Great Hammelhorn Fair.

  ‘No.’

  The Luggerbrill, destination: the Goblin Glades.

  ‘No.’

  On down the list he went. No, no, no, until…

  ‘Yes, this is the sky ship you must take,’ the voice said, softly but clearly.

  ‘Of course!’ Twig exclaimed. ‘Cowlquape, this is it. This is the one. Listen.

  Twig looked up. ‘What better place to resume our search?’

  Cowlquape nodded uncertainly. His father, Ulbus Pentephraxis, had told him terrible stories about the Great Shryke Slave Market. ‘Won't it be a bit dangerous?’ he asked warily.

  Twig shrugged. ‘Undertown can also be dangerous,’ he said. ‘We must visit a place where creatures from all over the Deepwoods congregate.’

  ‘Yes, but…’ Cowlquape said. ‘I mean, couldn't we go to that Great Hammelhorn Fair you mentioned. Or, look, there's a sky ship heading for the Timber Clearings of the woodtrolls. Wouldn't that do instead?’

  ‘Cowlquape,’ said Twig, ‘there is no place in the Deepwoods like the Great Shryke Slave Market. Its denizens travel from every corner to be there. It is the obvious place to start our search.’ He glanced down at the announcement once again and smiled. ‘Thunderbolt Vulpoon,’ he said. ‘Now there's a name to conjure with.’

  Cowlquape shivered. ‘He sounds horrible,’ he said. ‘Isn't a vulpoon one of those vicious birds with a serrated beak?’

  ‘It is,’ said Twig.

  ‘And Thunderbolt!’ said Cowlquape. ‘What kind of a monster would take the name of a bloodthirsty bird of prey and the most terrible and unpredictable feature of the weather?’

  Twig snorted. ‘A vain and foolish one,’ he said. ‘Name wild, captain mild, as my father used to say. Those who select the most ferocious of names are without exception the ones least worthy of them.’ His eyes misted up. ‘Whereas the more gallant and valiant call themselves by less ostentatious names.’

  ‘Like Cloud Wolf,’ said Cowlquape quietly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Twig, Tike my father, Cloud Wolf, the most gallant and valiant sky pirate captain of them all.’ He glanced back down at the announcement. ‘Sky above!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘What?’ said Cowlquape, alarmed.

  ‘The departure time!’ said Twig. ‘The Skyraider is due to set sail in less than a quarter of an hour.’

  *

  ‘This is hopeless!’ Twig cried out. ‘Where is it?’

  Ten minutes had passed since he'd stuffed the cloth announcement into his back pocket - ten minutes spent dashing along the quay, racing up and down the jetties, looking at the names of the sky ships. An old lugtroll had just assured them that the sky ship they were searching was at the second jetty, but they were there now and, despite looking twice, had drawn yet another blank.

  ‘You don't think it might have left early, do you?’ said Twig breathlessly.

  ‘If the two spare places have already been filled, maybe so,’ said Cowlquape, secretly hoping that it had.

  ‘But it can't have,’ said Twig. He paused and looked up and down the docks.

  There were so many sky ships there - elegant league ships, sturdy merchant tug ships, streamlined patrol ships, as well as the occasional sky pirate ship - yet the Skyraider itself was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Perhaps we should return to the posting-pole and …’

  ‘No,’ said Twig. ‘There isn't time.’ He called to a group of dock-workers standing with their backs turned, deep in conversation. “Scuse me,’ he yelled. ‘Do you know where a sky ship by the name of Skyraider is berthed?’

  Without even deigning to turn round, one of them shouted back. ‘Nineteenth jetty. Bottom right.’

  Cowlquape turned to Twig. ‘But we've just come from that end of the quays,’ he said.

  ‘I don't care,’ said Twig. ‘This could be our last chance.’ He grabbed Cowlquape by the arm and dragged him forwards. ‘Come on, Cowlquape,’ he shouted. ‘Run!’

  Along the quayside promenade, they dashed. With Cowlquape close on his heels, Twig barged blindly through groups of haggling merchants, upending boxes of fish and barrows of fruit. Cowlquape glanced back over his shoulders. ‘Sorry,’ he called. On they sped, past jetty after numbered jetty which stuck out into mid-air, high above the Edgewater River. The eighth, ninth and tenth jetties flashed past.

  ‘Faster, Cowlquape!’ Twig shouted breathlessly, as the voice in his head urged him on.

  Twelfth … thirteenth … Cowlquape's heart was pounding, his lungs burning, yet still he drove himself on. Seventeenth … Eighteenth …

  ‘The nineteenth jetty!’ Twig exclaimed. He skidded round, jumped down the five stairs in one leap and pounded along the wooden platform. ‘And look!’ he cried. ‘How in Sky's name did we miss it before?’

  Cowlquape looked up and followed Twig's pointing finger to a magnificent sky pirate ship tethered to the end of the raised jetty on the left.

  ‘The Skyraider!’ said Twig. ‘We've found it, but… Oh, no!’ he gasped.

  The mainsail was up, the grappling-hooks
had been raised and a small figure was crouched over the tether-ring, unfastening the tolley-rope. The sky ship was about to depart.

  ‘STOP!’ Twig roared, as he doubled his speed and hurtled headlong along the jetty. Although he could not explain it, something told him he had to board the Skyraider. No other ship would do. ‘WAIT FOR US!’

  But the crew-member - a mobgnome - paid him no heed.

  ‘STOP!’ Twig shouted again.

  He could hear the mobgnome muttering irritably as he tugged at the snagged rope, then sigh with relief as it came free.

  Nearly there …

  The mobgnome tossed the rope onto the deck and, in the same movement, jumped aboard himself. Tantalizingly slowly at first, the sky pirate ship began to float up and away from the jetty.

  ‘NO!’ screamed Twig.

  The gap between jetty and sky ship widened.

  ‘Are you with me, Cowlquape?’ he cried.

  ‘I'm with you,’ came the reply.

  ‘Then, jump!’ yelled Twig and, as the pair of them reached the end of the jetty at last, they launched themselves at the departing sky ship. Together they flew through the air, arms outstretched, willing themselves on.

  ‘Unkhh!’ Cowlquape grunted as his hands gripped the safety-rail and his body slammed into the hull. The next instant, Twig landed beside him.

  Winded, the pair of them clung on for grim death. They would have to catch their breath before pulling themselves up on to the deck. But it didn't matter. The important thing was that they had made it, just in the nick of time.

  ‘Well done,’ whispered a voice in his ear.

  ‘We're on our way, Cowlquape,’ Twig murmured. To the Deepwoods and the Great Shryke Slave Market.’

  Twig, I … I…‘

  ‘Cowlquape?’ said Twig, twisting his head round. ‘What is it?’

  ‘My hands … all slippery,’ Cowlquape mumbled, and Twig watched helplessly as his young apprentice struggled desperately to pull himself up. ‘Can't… can't hold … aaaargh!’ He was falling. Away from the Skyraider, out of the sky and down to the pleated mud below…’