Edge Chronicles 6: Vox Page 11

  ‘Quickly, dearie¡ Quickly!’ said Hestera. ‘Speegspeel is waiting. Bring the bell jar over here, my loverly, and I'll warm it up ready.’

  Back at the furnace, Hestera placed the bell jar on the ledge of the door and waited till the powder inside was once again glowing a vivid red. Then, without saying a word, she removed it and hurried off, beckoning to Rook as she went.

  He followed behind her as she crossed the kitchen to the opposite corner. There, half-hidden in shadow, was a carved stone head set into the wall and gurning hideously. It was huge, each bulging eye the size of Rook's head and the bulbous nose as large as a hammel-horn. Beneath it, the mouth was vast and snarling. Rook frowned. Hestera seemed to be aiming straight for it.

  ‘Step inside and hold this close to you, dearie.’ said Hestera, handing him back the bell jar. ‘You're to take it up to the Leagues’ Chamber at the very top of the palace. Speegspeel will meet you there. Don't keep him waiting.’

  Rook nodded mutely. Hestera pulled a lever set to the right of the stone head, and the bared teeth opened. Rook stared into the mouth. Inside was a small cupboard-like affair - oddly modest for so grand an entrance - with a length of rope hanging from above.

  ‘It's a pulley-lift.’ Hestera told him. ‘It connects all the different palace floors. Go on, dearie.’

  Despite the heat of the hot bell jar clasped to his chest, Rook shivered. He manoeuvred himself up into the small box-shaped compartment and sat cross-legged on the floor. The rope hung down before his face.

  ‘That's the way, my loverly,’ said Hestera. ‘Seize the rope and pull. Pull with all your might. And don't stop till you reach the top. The bell jar mustn't be allowed to cool down. If it does, moisture could form on the inside of the glass - and if that happened …’

  Rook swallowed noisily.

  ‘But then, I'm sure a big strong lad like you won't have any problems. Not like old Gizzlewit. Stopped halfway up at the banquet hall, so he did. Horrible mess¡ Glass and guts everywhere!’

  Rook swallowed again and hugged the bell jar tightly to his chest - anything to keep it warm.

  ‘Go on, then, dearie,’ said Hestera, her voice laced with impatience. ‘Speegspeel's waiting, remember.’

  Rook seized one side of the rope and pulled down hard. The pulley-lift juddered and he felt himself rising up. He pulled again. The kitchen disappeared - and with it the intense heat from the blazing furnace. Higher he rose, in a dark chimney-like space, pulling hand over hand in a regular rhythm. Sweat beaded his forehead and dampened his hair; the muscles in his stomach and arms began to protest. But he mustn't allow the bell jar to cool. Rook drove himself on.

  A dim light above his head grew closer, closer … All at once, Rook found himself staring out of a narrow opening into the statue-filled hallway. It was as cavernous and shadowy as he remembered. And as cold¡ Tightening his grip on the rope, he pulled harder than ever.

  A moment later, he glimpsed an ornate reception hall with rugs on the floor, and numerous chairs and benches, each one covered with a ghostly dust-sheet.

  He continued up. An upper landing flashed past; then, on the other side of a metal grille, a small library with books lining the walls and display cases in the centre of the room. His arms were throbbing now, each tug on the rope harder than the one before. He wanted to stop, to rest - but he knew he dare not.

  A little further up, squinting through the hatch-like opening, Rook saw a grandiose room. The ceilings were tall and vaulted; a crystal chandelier hung low over a long, blackwood table laid out with gold cutlery and silver goblets.

  Rook's body was aching; his head throbbed. And he was hot. So hot…

  ‘The banquet hall … Gizzlewit!’ he murmured weakly, and started back, horrified by sight of the misty clouds of breath twisting from his lips as he spoke.

  He might be hot, but the banquet hall was freezing. Gizzlewit's terrible end flashed before his eyes.

  Doubling his efforts, Rook pulled on the rope with all his might. The banquet-room hatch disappeared as the pulley-lift went back into the square chimney-like stack. For a moment the rope twisted and snagged and the lift slowed. Rook tugged all the harder. There was a slight jerk, and the ascent continued. Up, up, up he went, past a locked hatchway and on. It grew darker, mustier; sticky spiderwebs wrapped themselves round his hands and face. But he kept going. And as he did so, something occurred to him. Something wonderful. It was getting warmer…

  With a jolt and a loud clonk¡ the lift came to an abrupt halt. Rook looked about him anxiously. It was darker than ever. Pitch black. He couldn't see his hands in front of his face.

  Just then, he heard a soft sing-song muttering behind him. He twisted round and cocked his head to one side. The voice grew clearer. ‘Keep to the black, not the white, if you want to keep your life.’ it was saying. Rook recognized the slightly hissing voice of the old goblin who had dragged him inside the palace. It was Speegspeel. ‘Keep to the black, not the white, if you want to keep your life.’

  Rook reached forwards, and his fingers closed round a small handle, which he twisted and pushed. The door remained shut. Trying hard not to panic, Rook paused, and listened.

  ‘Keep to the black, not the white …’ The rhyme broke off abruptly. Oh, he'd better be quick, so he had …’

  ‘Speegspeel, I'm here!’ Rook cried out. Tn the pulley-lift!’ He rattled and shook the door, and banged upon it with his fist.

  The goblin fell still and Rook heard the sound of hurried, shuffling footsteps approaching. There was the sound of jangling metal and a key being slid into a lock. The next moment, the door burst open, dazzling light flooded in and Rook found himself peering into the expectant face of the butler.

  ‘Number eleven!7 he exclaimed, relief splashing across his face. Oh, but he's a strong one, that number eleven. Speegspeel knew he would be.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And have you got it? Did you bring me food for the baby?’

  Rook opened the front of his jacket and pulled out the bell jar. Speegspeel clapped his hands together, making a sound like clacking wood. ‘Excellent!’ he hissed. ‘Jump out, number eleven,’ he said. ‘Hurry now. Follow me.’

  Rook swung his legs round and, holding the bell jar carefully, jumped down onto the floor. The staggering heat of the chamber wrapped itself around him like a suffocating blanket. He found himself standing in a magnificent rooftop chamber.

  Above his head, a spectacular panelled-glass dome opened up onto the bright sky beyond. Some of the panes had been broken and lay glittering on the floor around a huge, ring-shaped table - crudely repaired with ropes and wooden splints - which filled the centre of the chamber. On the side nearest him lay a great stone head, its unblinking eyes staring down blindly at the wooden boards; while on the far side of the table, out of place in the rundown finery of the chamber, stood a rickety-looking structure some twenty strides or so high, at the top of which - like an egg in a nest - was cradled a large metal ball. It was there that Speegspeel was heading.

  He circled the table, picking his way through the broken glass, and stopped at the foot of the scaffold. Rook stopped beside him, then watched curiously as the old goblin reached for a trumpet-like instrument some fifteen strides long which was leaning up against the wooden framework. With a soft grunt of effort, Speegspeel raised it up into the air, placing the flared bell at one end against the surface of the metal ball and the other end to his ear. His leathery skin creased as a smile spread across his face.

  ‘Baby needs feeding.’ he said. ‘It's nearly full enough, but not quite …’ He laid the ear-trumpet aside and turned to Rook. ‘Follow me.’ he said. ‘Follow Speegspeel and we'll feed the baby.’

  Rook tucked the bell jar under his left arm and followed the goblin up the tricky ascent. It looked difficult - and was even more difficult than it looked.

  The wood was rough and splinters kept jabbing into Rook's fingers; the gaps between the struts were wide and awkward to navigate - particularly with the heavy jar threatening t
o slip at any moment. He clambered over a long, thick beam set at an angle and on up towards the criss-cross framework which supported the great ball, keeping pace with the goblin.

  ‘We're almost there, number eleven.’ Speegspeel called over his shoulder encouragingly.

  Rook glanced down. The floor seemed miles below him already. He looked up again. He was level with the ball now. Close up, with its coppery gleam and segmented body, it looked like nothing so much as a giant wood orange, the impression completed by the long, stalk-like length of rope hanging down from a small hole in its underside. Just above, Speegspeel held out a hand.

  That's the way,’ he said. ‘Now right on up to the platform.’

  Rook reached up, took the goblin's hand and pulled himself up beside him. He was standing on a rough, almost-circular platform which ringed the top of the ball.

  ‘Look at baby,’ Speegspeel whispered. ‘Beautiful, isn't it?’ He stroked it softly, feeling the smoothness of its burnished outer casing. ‘The master designed baby. But Speegspeel, he made it. Just like master said. Beautiful baby. Beautiful big baby.’

  Far above Rook's head, a white raven swooped across the sky on soft, padded wings. Its gimlet eyes bored down through the glass dome of the great statue-covered building.

  ‘See the cap, number eleven? Set into baby's centre.’ whispered Speegspeel. ‘Remove it. Gently now …’ Rook did as he was told. ‘Now empty the bell jar into it. Every last speck. And quickly, before any nasty moisture gets into baby. We don't want that… Not yet.’

  With fumbling fingers, Rook slowly tipped the jar up. Then with a deft flick he thrust the neck of the jar down into the hole in the copper casing. It was a perfect fit.

  As the powder dropped down into the ball, Rook found himself looking through the glass bottom of the jar and into the so-called baby. It was almost full. He tapped the glass, and the last few specks of red powder dropped down inside. Then, in one movement, he pulled the empty bell jar away, slammed the cap back into place and tightened it.

  ‘All done,’ came Speegspeel's voice in his ear. The goblin was stroking the side of the huge ball with pride. ‘We'll have the baby full up in no time. The master will be so pleased with us.’

  Rook followed the goblin back down the scaffold. At the bottom, Speegspeel clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘The baby's fed,’ he said, ‘so you'd best be getting back. You don't want to cross old Hestera Spikesap. Speegspeel knows.’ He rubbed a gnarled hand slowly round his stomach. ‘Not if you don't want no mysterious stomach-ache,’ he said. ‘She's good at those. Mark old Speegspeel's words.’

  Returning to the kitchen was infinitely easier than leaving it had been. The lift went down all by itself. All Rook had to do was hold onto the rope to make sure it didn't go too quickly.

  ‘There you are, dearie1, said Hestera as he reached the bottom. He climbed out through the stone mouth into the suffocating heat of the kitchen. ‘I was wondering where you'd got to.’ she said, dragging him back towards the furnace. ‘It's got chilly since you've been gone. Stoke up the fire with logs, my loverly. Lots of logs.’

  ‘Yes.’ said Rook wearily.

  ‘And get those bellows working again. I need to warm these cold, aching bones.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And when you've done that, you'd better chop some more logs. We're running rather low.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rook. He handed Hestera the empty bell jar and the cork and, with a sigh, marched off towards the heap of logs.

  But despite his weariness, Rook's mind was racing; full of questions with no answers and wild speculations. What was baby? Why had it been built and what could it possibly be for? One thing he knew for certain; he had to find out. And, as an icy chill gripped him despite the heat of the kitchen, he realized that only one person would have the answers to these questions …

  The master of the Palace of Statues, Vox Verlix himself.

  • CHAPTER EIGHT •

  VOX'S EYE

  More logs, dearie¡ The furnace is getting low.’ came Hestera's wheedling voice.

  ‘Yes.’ said Rook wearily.

  He'd slept fitfully the night before, his troubled dreams filled with complicated recipes for bloodoak acorns and phraxdust, and a fat baby, its burnished copper face twisted up with fiery rage as it screamed, More¡ More¡ More¡ Rook had awoken almost as tired as when he'd lain down to sleep. Now it was back to the endless toil in the stifling kitchen and he was really suffering.

  As he hefted a great log up into the insatiable furnace, a spasm of weariness racked his body and it was all he could do to keep his eyes open. In the corner of the kitchen, seated on two vast carved rocking chairs, Hestera and Amberfuce's nurse, Flambusia Flodfox, were deep in whispered conversation.

  ‘I gave him three drops of your lufwood tincture, just like you said, Hesty dear.’ Flambusia was saying, nodding down at the waif who was dozing in his chair beside them. ‘And it didn't seem to have any effect.’ she added. ‘I swear he's getting used to it, Hesty. I had to add a drop from your, er …’ - her eyes narrowed and she leaned forwards conspiratorially - ‘special potion.’

  Oh, Flambusia!’ clucked Hestera. ‘I've told you, that is only for emergencies. Why, one drop too much and…’

  ‘Hesty, dear, you know I'm careful. Besides, his constant nagging is so hard to take. But just look at him now.’ The huge nurse smiled indulgently at the waif. ‘Sleeping like a baby’

  Hestera caught sight of Rook out of the corner of her eye. ‘Excuse me, Flambusia,’ she said. ‘I shan't be a minute.’

  The old goblin matron bustled over to the table, poured a glass of the green liquid from a pewter jug and hurried across to the furnace. ‘Here we are, dearie,’ she said to Rook. ‘Drink it all up now.’

  Rook looked round blearily. Hestera placed the glass in his hands; he raised it to his lips. At the first taste, Rook felt charged with renewed energy and he gulped down the rest of the green juice greedily. It coursed through his veins, invigorating his body and clearing his head.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  Hestera was shaking her head in bemusement. ‘My word,’ she said. ‘What a thirst¡ Why, you remind me of Bird whistle … Poor, dear Bird whistle …’ she added wistfully. She reached forwards and squeezed Rook's upper arm with a bony thumb and forefinger. ‘Feels good, doesn't it?’ she said. ‘Hestera's little potion's building you up nicely.’

  ‘Yes.’ said Rook. It was true; in the short time he'd been in Hestera's kitchen, the hard work and strange diet had certainly had an effect. He could feel it. He was definitely broader in the shoulders now; stronger in the arm.

  ‘Come on, then, dearie,’ said Hestera. ‘Let's see you using those fine young muscles of yours. Stoke up the fire and get those bellows pumping.’

  ‘Yes.’ said Rook, keeping his voice flat and toneless.

  Hestera turned away. ‘Sorry about that, Flambusia, my loverly. Now, where were we? Ah, yes…’ She rummaged in the folds of her apron and pulled out a small phial of brown liquid. ‘Here's a little potion that should be helpful.’ Her voice dropped. ‘It should make that chesty cough of his just a little worse.’

  ‘Thank you, Hesty dear,’ said Flambusia, spiriting it away into the tiny bag which hung from her huge forearm. ‘You're always so helpful…’

  Ding¡ Ding¡ Ding¡ Ding¡ Ding …

  The peace of the kitchen was shattered by the sound of insistent ringing. Flambusia stopped mid-sentence and Amberfuce stirred groggily and began coughing. Rook looked round to see the central bell - the one marked the Master's Chamber - jiggling up and down on its coiled ribbon of metal like a startled ratbird. Vox Verlix must be summoning someone to his chamber.

  Great hacking coughs racked the waif's body as he slowly emerged from his stupor. Rook would have to watch his thoughts, he realized.

  ‘The master calls.’ Hestera announced. ‘Flambusia, my loverly, I think you-know-who's awake.’ She pointed at the waif.

  Oh, don
't I know it, Hesty dear,’ said Flam-busia, tapping the side of her head and shaking it. She turned to the coughing waif. ‘I heard you the first time,’ she said. ‘Don't you go getting yourself in a state … Yes, yes, I know the master wants us upstairs. I was just about to wake you …’

  The waif fell back in his chair and motioned the nurse to take hold of its long handle. As the two of them set off across the kitchen, they passed Speegspeel sitting on a stool and gnawing at a hunk of meat. Amberfuce motioned for Flambusia to stop and fixed the goblin with a cold stare.

  Speegspeel looked up wearily. ‘What? What's that?’ He sighed. ‘Oh, they are demanding of poor old Speegspeel. Can't even let him have his lunch without disturbing him.’

  The waif's huge ears twitched, but his stare was unwavering.

  ‘All right, all right, I'm going. Speegspeel will be at the door to greet our visitor, don't you worry’

  Muttering under his breath, Speegspeel abandoned his half-eaten leg of hammelhorn, wiped his greasy fingers down his front, and set off towards the stairs. Flambusia followed him, with Amberfuce the waif directing her to hurry from his chair, whilst attempting to control his coughing.

  The bell rang again, more insistently than ever.

  ‘Coming, my treasure,’ Hestera purred. She scuttled over to a large chest of cupboards, unlocked one of the doors and pulled out a bottle of oblivion. ‘By Sky above and Earth below, he got through that last batch quickly,’ she was saying. ‘I shall have to make some more up.’ She decanted the crimson liquor into a pewter jug with a hinged lid, then placed it on a silver tray.

  Rook quickly turned away and busied himself with a log as she hurried back across the kitchen, the tray clasped tightly before her. He didn't want Hestera to see him slacking, or who knows? - he might just end up with a nasty stomach-ache. With a grunt of exertion, Rook hefted the log up onto his shoulders and, doubled over, staggered towards the furnace.