Edge Chronicles 6: Vox Page 4

‘Felix?’ he said. ‘Is it you? Is it really you?’

  The figure reached forward. Rook hesitated, then grasped the outstretched hand which gripped his own, firmly, warmly, and pulled him to his feet. There in front of him, resplendent in an array of bleached white bone-armour and grey muglump-leather pelts, stood his old friend Felix Lodd.

  Attached to his belt were leather pouches and hide ropes. A curved, serrated knife hung at his side next to a sturdy crossbow slung through a faded grey holster. In the ashen dust of Screetown, this tall figure with his fair hair and bleached apparel looked almost ghost-like.

  ‘I might look like a ghost, laughed Felix, as if reading Rook's thoughts, ‘but I'm real enough, Rook, my old friend.’

  ‘Felix!’ Rook cried, hugging him warmly. ‘I thought you were dead¡ We all did. Even Varis. She said that nobody can survive for long in Screetown …’

  ‘Much as I hate to disappoint my darling sister and all you learned librarians,’ said Felix with a smile, ‘it is possible to survive in Screetown - though not if you stand round a waterhole, chatting like two old washer-gnomes on laundry day’ He winked. ‘Come, Rook,’ he said, turning and effortlessly scaling a mound of rubble. ‘Tonight you're invited to supper in the Sunken Palace!’

  Rook scrambled up after him. ‘Wait for me, Felix,’ he gasped. ‘Not so fast!’

  Night was falling, and the shadows and the darkness were melting into one, yet Felix navigated his way skilfully and confidently through the broken landscape. He clambered over rockfalls, skirted round gaping crevices and picked his way over uneven rocks and rubble, as agile and sure-footed as a lemkin.

  Rook followed close behind - or as close as his stumbling, fumbling efforts allowed. Whenever he fell too far back, Felix would perch on a boulder or lean nonchalantly against a ruined pillar, smiling indulgently and waiting for him to catch up. The going was tough and Rook - hot, dusty and constantly out of breath - was beginning to flag.

  ‘There are quite a number of us now, Felix was saying as, once again, Rook caught up with him. ‘We kowtow to no-one, he told him, ‘be they shryke, Guardian or goblin guard, He smiled. ‘We call ourselves the Ghosts of Screetown.’

  ‘I can … can see why, said Rook, fighting to catch his breath. ‘But what do you actually do in this terrible place?’

  Felix turned and continued, clambering effortlessly up over a jutting spur of broken rock. ‘Hunt muglumps, he laughed. ‘Among other things.’

  ‘Such as?’ said Rook, wearily following him.

  They reached a broad stretch of jagged rocks.

  ‘Well, said Felix, ‘sometimes I organize raids with other ghosts to release those poor beggars in the Sanctaphrax Forest. We get them to Undertown, where you librarians take over, helping to shift them on to the Free Glades. Sometimes, to spice things up a little, I'll ambush a Guardian patrol - and the rest of the time I hunt and trap. All kinds of creatures, from feral lemkins in the ruins of Screetown, to muglumps in the sewers, He paused and glanced back. ‘Careful up ahead, Rook. It gets a bit tricky.’

  Rook nodded grimly. He was doing his best.

  They passed along a dark, narrow chasm, packed with shifting rubble to negotiate and awkward boulders to get round, and emerged at last beside a broad fluted pillar, cracked and lying on its side. Just beyond it, Rook saw a leaning statue, one arm - severed at the wrist -raised and reaching to the sky …

  ‘I recognize this place, he blurted out, disappointment in his voice. ‘You mean, all this time, we've been travelling back the way I came.’

  Felix nodded but said nothing. Reaching forward, he shouldered back a slab of rock and pointed down a narrow tunnel behind it. ‘It's this way,’ he told him.

  Rook followed Felix into the dark tunnel and waited as his friend pulled the rock back into place.

  ‘I'll lead,’ Felix whispered. ‘Put your hand on my shoulder. And don't make a sound.’

  Rook did as he was told, shuffling forwards as Felix set off. The ground was bumpy and dropped steeply. Although his friend was steadying him, it was all Rook could do not to slip and pitch forwards. The air grew cooler, damper, and was laced with an acrid odour that grew more pungent with every step he took. Had he been on his own, he would have turned back there and then, but he was with Felix now and, for the first time since the terrible crash, he felt safe.

  Beneath his feet came the edge of what seemed like a stone stair. Felix abruptly dropped away from him. Rook's hand grasped at nothing.

  ‘Easy does it,’ came Felix's voice, and Rook felt his friend's hand reaching back for him. He seized it gratefully and stepped down gingerly after him. A little further on, there was a second step; followed by a third … Then a long flight, which seemed to go deep down into the rubble. The odour grew more pungent. ‘What is that horrible smell?’ he whispered. ‘A ratbird roost, Felix whispered back. ‘And it's the best smell there is in Scree-town, believe me.’ As Felix spoke, Rook became aware of the sound of squeaky twittering far above his head and, when he looked up, it was as though the very rocks were squirming. There were thousands of the little creatures. Rook shuddered. ‘No desirable residence is complete without a rat-bird roost,’ said Felix above the rising clamour as the ratbirds raised the alarm. ‘If anything unpleasant should come creeping along to pay us a visit, the ratbirds will soon let us know.’

  It was darker than ever at the bottom of the stairs, but as the ground ifjt levelled out it became easier to walk. They seemed to be in some kind of ancient corridor. Felix increased his pace. Still holding on to him, Rook trotted along behind.

  ‘Nearly there, said Felix.

  The next moment, they came to a thick curtain of animal hide, which Felix pulled aside to reveal a carved lintel set into the wall above a doorway Rook peered in - and gasped.

  He was standing in the entrance to a great chamber. Eyes wide, he followed Felix inside. Despite the dirty walls and blackened beams, the original grandeur of the place was still in evidence. There were marble pillars and a mosaic-tiled floor, and ancient lamps hung from the high moulded ceiling. Clearly this had once been the residence of someone wealthy - a prominent leagues-man, perhaps; or a successful merchant. Not that the contents of the room belonged to either.

  There were dried muglump pelts, both large and small, covering every wall; and the implements that Felix must have used to slay them - curved swords, long thin javelins, and heavy nets, ringed with circular weights - hung from rows of great curling hooks. In one corner there were tusks, horns, skins and skulls; some stacked, some hanging, some clustered together in piles. In the other corner, set into an alcove above which a wall-torch flickered, was an ancient carved cistern. It was, Rook thought, similar to the Wodgiss-fonts the woodtrolls used in their celebrations - but made of stone, not wood. Into it - trickling from a crack in the rock - splashed a thin twist of crystal-clear water.

  ‘Welcome to the Sunken Palace, said Felix. He swept his arm around in a wide arc. ‘A modest little palace, but I call it home, he chuckled. ‘But then I don't have to tell you, Rook, that when you've grown up in the sewers of Undertown, anywhere without a leaking roof is absolute luxury.’

  Rook shook his head. ‘It's amazing,’ he murmured.

  Felix clapped his hands together. ‘Come on then, my old friend. You must be famished. Fetch me a pot of water from the cistern and I'll get a fire started.’

  Rook happily did as he was told. He dunked the large pot into the cistern, filling it almost to the brim; then -holding it before him with both hands - staggered back across the dusty tiles, splashing water as he went, to the fireplace, where once huge logs would have burned.

  Felix was there, down on his hands and knees. Having arranged the firewood - chopped-up beams, boards and pieces of furniture - he had unfastened one of the leather pouches attached to his belt and was setting out its contents on the hearth. There was a piece of flint, a short length of iron, oakbark dust and a ball of tinderwool.

  As Rook watched, Felix teased a few strand
s of the orange wool from the ball and placed them down on a flat stone. Over this, he sprinkled the oakbark dust. Then, with the flint in one hand and the small iron bar in the other, he struck the two together. A bright spark dropped onto the oakbark and smouldered. Felix crouched down and blew gently. At first nothing happened. Then, with a puff of smoke and a soft crackle, the whole lot abruptly burst into flames.

  The trick is to get it into the firewood without disturbing the pile,’ he murmured as he pushed the stone forward. The flames lapped at the twigs and branches. He nudged the stone right into the centre. The wood caught. There, he grinned. ‘Now where's that water?’

  ‘Here, said Rook, and the two of them hefted the pot up, and hung its handle over the central hook.

  With the fire blazing (it was Rook's job to keep adding extra pieces of wood from the pile by the wall) and the water coming to the boil, Felix gathered his ingredients from the hooks and shelves and busied himself with preparations for the meal.

  He chopped, cut and tossed handful after handful of vegetables into the pot - diced roots and tubers, woodonions and pinegarlic, the sliced leaves of oak-sprouts and barkgreens, and clumps of the succulent swamp-samphire which grew on the stagnant banks of the Edgewater River. He skinned and filleted three small creatures - a snowbird, a rock-lizard and something that looked suspiciously like a piebald rat - cut them up into pieces and, having seared the flesh in the flames, tossed them, too, into the boiling pot, then added a cupful of barleyoats for thickening.

  ‘And last but not least… he murmured to himself, as he undipped a second of the pouches from his belt. ‘A little bit of seasoning, He loosened the drawstring and thrust his fingers inside. ‘Some woodpeppercorns, I think. A few dried dellberries, brushsage leaves … He frowned. ‘And just a hint of tripweed…’

  ‘Oh, not tripweed, said Rook. ‘I hate it, remember? Pickled, dried, salted - it's all disgusting.’

  Felix laughed. ‘I've always loved it myself. But, all right, since it's you, he said, ‘no tripweed.’ He crushed the seeds, berries and dried leaves he'd selected on a stone with the back of his knife, and dropped the whole lot into the steaming broth. A sweet, aromatic fragrance immediately filled the chamber, perfuming the dank air and making Rook's mouth water.

  Frowning thoughtfully, Felix searched his belt for something else, opening and closing several other pouches. Rook watched, intrigued.

  ‘Where is it?’ Felix muttered. ‘Ah, here it is¡ A corktug, he cried as, with a flourish, he raised the bone-handled opener in the air. ‘Let us have a goblet of winesap together, you and I, Rook, and toast our reunion!’

  He seized a bottle from a rough lufwood crate, pulled the cork and poured out two goblets of the thick, dark amber winesap. He handed one to Rook.

  Try that, he said.

  Rook raised the goblet to his lips and sipped. A radiant smile passed across his face as the sweet fruity liquid coated his tongue and slid down his throat. A moment later, a warm glowing feeling coursed round his entire body. He took a second sip and shook his head. ‘Delicious, he said. ‘The best I've ever tasted.’

  ‘It should be, said Felix. ‘It was meant for General Tytugg. Drinks only the finest winesap, so he does, He chuckled. ‘Sadly for him, there was a little incident down in the boom-docks a couple of weeks ago and a whole consignment bound for the Hive Towers went missing … He raised his glass and smiled at Rook. ‘Here's to the Ghosts of Screetown!’

  ‘The Ghosts of Screetown, said Rook, raising his own glass high - before draining it in one go.

  It was so good to see his best friend again. Rook felt a familiar ache in his chest when he recalled the Announcement Ceremony at which Felix had learned that he would never become a librarian knight like himself. He'd disappeared immediately afterwards without saying a word.

  ‘They miss you, you know, he said softly.

  ‘Miss me?’ said Felix, looking down into his goblet.

  ‘Your father, said Rook. ‘And your sister, Varis. Did you never think of coming back? Or at least letting us know that you were still alive?’

  Felix's face clouded over. ‘Of course I did, Rook. Many's the time I considered returning to the sewers. But…’ His voice faltered and he swallowed heavily. ‘You have to understand. I was the son of the High Librarian, yet I wasn't picked to become a librarian knight¡ I let everyone down. My father and Varis. My tutors. Even you, Rook …’

  ‘No …’ Rook protested. ‘You've never let me down, Felix…

  ‘You're a good friend,’ said Felix. ‘You tried your best to help me pass my exams - sitting up with me, night after night. But you know what I'm like with treatises and barkscrolls and all that stuff. I just wasn't cut out to be a librarian knight and I was too ashamed to admit it -so I ran away. And that's something I've had to learn to live with.’ He shrugged. ‘Besides, I love it out here. This is the life I was born to - not being locked away in some dank library, surrounded by fusty, musty books and barkscrolls - and fustier, mustier professors!’

  ‘But how can anyone love Screetown?’ said Rook. ‘It's full of rotsuckers and rubble ghouls.’ He shuddered. ‘And worse.’

  ‘Worse?’ said Felix looking up.

  ‘Far worse,’ said Rook. ‘I crashed near a great canyon north of here and disturbed the creatures living in it. I didn't get a look at them - but they sounded enormous, Felix. Huge scratching claws, leathery wings …’

  Felix nodded. ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘This canyon, was it just below the great rock, close to where the Guardians lower their cages?’

  Rook nodded.

  ‘It's a bad place, Rook,’ Felix told him. ‘Usually I avoid it.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘But these creatures of yours sound intriguing. I could do with a few new trophies to decorate the place.’

  Rook's face broke into a smile. ‘You're incorrigible, he said.

  ‘Yet never bored!’ said Felix. ‘But enough of me, let's see how our stew is coming along, and then, Rook, you must tell me about yourself. I want to know everything¡ Especially how a fine young librarian knight like yourself ends up slugging it out with a rubble ghoul down here on the ground in Screetown!’

  While Felix stirred the thickening broth, Rook took another slurp of winesap. He shook his head. How had he ended up here? It was all so confusing.

  ‘I can remember being on dawn patrol,’ he said. ‘I'd already checked round Screetown and was heading for the Stone Gardens, when something must have struck the Stormhornet - my skycraft - and me.’

  Felix looked up from the bubbling pot. ‘A Guardian harpoon perhaps?’ he suggested.

  ‘I wasn't close enough to the Tower of Night,’ said Rook. ‘Besides, it was more powerful than a harpoon; much more powerful. One minute I was riding the air, sails full and weights swaying …’

  Felix nodded, his eyes betraying an envious longing to experience flight for himself. Rook's brow furrowed.

  ‘The next,’ he went on, ‘noise. Deafening noise. And blazing heat. And blinding light. And the stench of burning spidersilk … I was thrown across the sky - still clutching onto the prow of the Stormhornet, trying desperately to keep her airborne.’ He looked at Felix, his eyes filling up. ‘We crash-landed. I… He hung his head. ‘I survived, but the Stormhornet … Oh, Felix, I carved her myself from a single piece of sumpwood. We…

  Felix stepped away from the fire and placed his hand on Rook's shoulder. There, there, old friend. I understand. You were given something precious - the gift of flight. And then it was taken away from you. It's the way I felt at the Announcement Ceremony all that time ago…’

  Just then, there came a loud squawk and a flurry of flapping wings, and a snow-white bird with glinting eyes and one misshapen foot swooped down from the top of the stairs and landed on Felix's shoulder. It eyed Rook suspiciously.

  ‘Is that a white raven?’ gasped Rook. ‘I thought they'd all left the Stone Gardens for good.’ ‘All except Gaarn here,’ said Felix, tickling the vicious-beaked creature under i
ts chin. ‘He had a little accident when all the others left. I found him lying on the ground, little more than a fledgling; parched, half-starved and with a heavy stone crushing his foot. I nursed him back to health, and he's stuck by me ever since, haven't you, Gaarn?’

  ‘Waaark!’ it screeched. ‘Felix Gaarn friends.’

  Rook started back. ‘He can talk, he said, surprised.

  ‘I taught him, said Felix. ‘I may not be able to fly like you, Rook, but Gaarn here is my skyborne pair of eyes. He sees all and reports his findings, He paused. ‘In fact, it's thanks to Gaarn here that I came to be out looking for a young librarian knight he saw stumbling through Screetown.’

  ‘So that's how you knew where to find me!’

  Felix nodded. ‘I didn't know it was you though, Rook, old friend, he said.

  ‘Friend¡ Friend!’ the white raven cawed.

  Felix returned to the bubbling pot and stirred the stew with a long wooden ladle. He scooped out a piece of meat, chewed half and gave the rest to Gaarn. ‘I think it's ready, he said.

  ‘Ready!’ Gaarn confirmed.

  ‘Are you hungry, Rook?’ asked Felix.

  ‘Hungry?’ said Rook. ‘I could eat a tilder!’

  Felix laughed. ‘So could I,’ he said wistfully. ‘But I'm afraid we'll have to make do with snowbird, rock-lizard and…’

  ‘It sounds perfect,’ Rook broke in. The stew smelled delicious. And if it did contain piebald rat, then he didn't want to know.

  Deep down below Undertown, the sewer tunnels echoed to the soft, irregular drip-drip of water and the low murmur of voices. It was the end of the day and the professors and under-librarians were busy.

  Fenbrus Lodd was deep in conversation with Alquix Venvax on the Lufwood Bridge. A gaggle of raft-hands shared a joke as they moored their vessels. Two guards high up on a jutting gantry exchanged watch. On the floating lecterns, chained in clusters to the heavier Blackwood Bridge, librarian scholars completed their arduous work for the day - putting the finishing touches to their scroll-scribing, capping their inkpots and calling down to the chain-turners to reel them in.