by Paul Stewart
‘No!’ Maugin was screaming back. ‘The flight-rock. The flight-rock will save us. Cool the flight-rock and we float. Twig, we float!’
They clawed their way to the stone-cradle, with the wind whistling through their ears as the ship fell in a vertical spin.
‘Pull that iron ring, Twig!’ screamed the Stone Pilot. ‘Pull it with me. One. Two. Three. Now!’
Together, they hauled back the great iron ring of the stone cradle and a loud hiss spat out from the bars as cold earth fell on the stone encased within. The roaring in Twig’s ears grew less. The Windcutter was slowing. It was steadying. Twig opened his eyes. The wreck of the sky ship was righting itself as, with growing buoyancy, the flight-rock strained at the bars of the stone-cradle and pulled them upwards.
‘Listen now, Twig.’ Maugin’s voice was tense and urgent. ‘When we rise above the Edge, we must have sail any sail. To take us forwards; to take us back over land.’
‘I’ll give you sail’ said Twig. He was strangely calm. They hadn’t come this far to fail now.
The glow of the stormphrax chest cast a ghostly light over the tangled mess of rigging and tattered sail. Twig scanned the wreckage. The mast was broken but it would have to do. He threw himself into the task of raising a makeshift sail with feverish intensity.
They were rising with increasing speed when suddenly, yes, there were the lights of Sanctaphrax, and Undertown, straight ahead in the distance. Twig pulled on the sail ropes with all his might, the coarse fibres biting into his flesh, drawing blood.
Then the wind struck. The jolt ran through Twig’s body. He gasped with pain but the tattered sails billowed. The old Windcutter gasped with Twig, and dragged itself back towards the Edge.
‘Raise the starboard hull-weights,’ Twig instructed himself, as he dashed back to the helm. ‘Lower the port weights. And align the stern- and peri-hull-weights. That’s it. Now raise the studsail a tad easy does it, gently, and …’ The heavy boom swung wildly round. Twig looked up nervously. The broken mast was hanging on; the makeshift sails were holding.
They were going to make it. Limping, splintered; tattered, cracked and wind-battered. But they were going to make it.
•C H A P T E R T W E N T Y-T W O•
TO THE HEART OF SANCTAPHRAX
Twig moved forwards in his chair. ‘You have no choice!’ he said. ‘I have something you need and you have something I need.’
Mother Horsefeather permitted herself a little smile. The youth was certainly bold.
‘You are your father’s son,’ she said, and clacked her beak. ‘Coming here in that creaking wreck of a sky ship, giving ultimatums.’ Her beady yellow eyes glinted. ‘Might I remind you that if it hadn’t been for my backing, the Stormchaser would never have set sail in the first place.’
‘I know that,’ said Twig, ‘but…’
‘Now you tell me that it is lost. With Cloud Wolf aboard. Yet there you are, shouting out your demands. It is I who should be making demands of you, Captain Twig,’ she said.
‘No, I…’ said Twig uncertainly
‘Fifteen thousand it cost, plus interest. As you know, I’m not in the business of giving money away. I want a return on my investment…’
At that moment the Stone Pilot who, back inside her protective disguise, had been standing patiently at Twig’s shoulders, strode forwards. She slammed her gloved hand down on the table.
‘Hold your beak, bird-woman!’ she roared. ‘Let the captain speak.’
Mother Horsefeather clucked nervously, and smoothed down the ruffled feathers around her neck. She fixed Twig with a fearsome glare. ‘Your father,’ she sniffed, ‘was a gentleman.’
Twig nodded and swallowed noisily. ‘This is what I want,’ he said. ‘One, all debts incurred by my father, Cloud Wolf, are to be written off. Two, you are to supply me with a new sky ship, packed with supplies and ready to sail. I shall call it Edgedancer.’
‘Edgedancer?’ Mother Horsefeather sneered.
‘And three,’ Twig continued without a break, ‘you will pay for a crew of my choosing to sail her. I’ll take a pouchful of gold now, as a sign of your good faith.’
Mother Horsefeather’s expression darkened, ‘you ask a great deal, Captain Twig,’ she said, thrusting her beak towards him. ‘And what do you offer in return that is worth so much?’
Twig sat back in his chair and twiddled with his hair. ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he said. ‘I will give you the secret of safe phraxdust production.’
Mother Horsefeather’s jaw dropped. A curious chirruping sound rattled at the back of her throat. ‘But but but …’ she gurgled. ‘You mean … But I’ll corner the water market,’ she squawked.
Twig nodded, and stared at the bird-woman in disgust as her face contorted with joy and villainy and naked greed.
‘I’ll control it all!’ she cackled. ‘I’ll be more powerful than that glutinous Leaguesmaster, Simenon Xintax. And the odious upstart, Vilnix Pompolnius. I’ll be more powerful than the whole lot of them put together.’ She turned on Twig suspiciously. ‘You are sure you know the secret?’ she said.
‘I am,’ said Twig. ‘And when you fulfil my demands I shall prove it to you. You shall become powerful. And rich beyond your wildest dreams.’
Mother Horsefeather ruffled her feathers and fixed Twig with cold unblinking eyes. ‘You have a deal, son of Cloud Wolf,’ she said, pulling a leather pouch of gold coins from the pocket of her apron and tossing it across the table. ‘But remember this, Captain Twig. If you double-cross me, I shall personally see to it that the leagues hear of your impudence.’ Her beady eyes narrowed. ‘The League of Torturers will be particularly interested to hear that they have a new subject to study and at such great length!’
It was late afternoon by the time Twig left the Bloodoak tavern. With the Stone Pilot, he returned to the boom-docks, lugged the heavy chest up from the hold of the Windcutter and, together, the pair of them set off through Undertown.
The narrow, dirty streets were hot and sultry, and many of the stall-holders and shop-keepers had shut up their premises and retired for an afternoon nap. They would open again at sundown. One establishment, however, had not closed and, as Twig and the Stone Pilot struggled past with the chest of Stormphrax, its fat and glistening owner emerged from inside.
‘Oy! It’s you!’ Flabsweat cried, and made a lunge at Twig.
Without even thinking, Twig drew his sword. ‘Back off,’ he said calmly, ‘or it will be the worse for you.’
Flabsweat retreated, fear in his eyes. ‘I … I didn’t mean no offence …’ he blustered.
Twig stared at the frightened shopkeeper uneasily. Is this what the quest had done to him? Is this what he had become? He looked down, removed the gauntlet from his hand and held it out. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Take it.’
Flabsweat reached forward. ‘Wh … what is it?’ he said.
‘A trophy from the Twilight Woods,’ said Twig. ‘It is coated with phraxdust enough to produce fresh water for you, your family and all your animals for the rest of your lives.’
Flabsweat traced his finger over the liquid-like sepia dust. ‘Phraxdust,’ he gasped. ‘Why, thank you. Thank you.’
‘I trust that you will now consider the matter with the caterbird closed,’ said Twig.
‘Oh, quite closed, absolutely closed, completely and utterly closed,’ Flabsweat babbled. Twig turned to go. ‘And if there’s anything I can do for you,’ he said. ‘Any of the more exotic species you might like me to procure … I can get hold of anything. As a gift. Just you say the word.’
Twig paused and looked back. ‘I might hold you to that,’ he said.
Twig and the Stone Pilot continued on their way and, as Sanctaphrax came nearer, Twig’s heart beat furiously. He didn’t know whether he was nervous or excited. Only when they were at last directly beneath the massive floating rock did Twig look up. He saw a large basket suspended far above his head. ‘Is there anyone up there?’ he called. ‘I wish to visit San
ctaphrax.’
The small, angular face of a gnokgoblin appeared at the edge of the basket, and peered down. ‘At whose invitation?’ he said.
‘We are to visit the Professor of Darkness’ Twig replied.
The gnokgoblin’s eyes narrowed. ‘The Professor of Darkness, eh?’ he said. The basket began to descend.
Twig turned to the Stone Pilot and smiled. ‘So far, so good,’ he whispered.
The basket came to rest just in front of them and the gnokgoblin looked them up and down. ‘I hope that chest’s not too heavy’
‘Nowhere near as heavy as it will be,’ Twig said. ‘But we could do with a hand.’
Together, the three of them hefted the chest into the basket and jumped in beside it. Then the gnokgoblin bent down, grasped the winch-handle and began turning. The basket wobbled and lurched, and rose slowly up into the air.
‘Interesting individual, the Professor of Darkness,’ the gnokgoblin said, his voice nasal and whining. ‘Never abandoned his opposition to the Most High Academe.’ He looked askance at Twig, gauging his opinion before continuing.
Twig snorted. ‘I usurper is a usurper,’ he said.
The Stone Pilot shuffled about uneasily. There were spies everywhere in Sanctaphrax.
‘Well, he is,’ Twig snapped.
“Tis the mind of many in the venerable floating city’ the gnokgoblin said, nodding sagely. He looked up and met Twig’s questioning gaze. ‘I’m not one to listen to rumours, you understand’ he said, ‘but word is that the days of Vilnix Pompolnius are numbered.’
Twig listened in silence.
“Course, it’s his own fault. How did he expect the leagues to react when he cut off their supplies of phraxdust? Eh?’
‘Perhaps he has no more to supply them with,’ Twig offered.
‘Which is my point entirely. If he’s no use to the leaguesmen nor the academics, then how much longer can he cling on to power? Eh? You tell me that.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘If you ask me, it’ll be those leaguesmen who get to him first. Don’t like being double-crossed, they don’t,’ he said, and ran his finger sharply across his exposed throat. ‘If you take my meaning?’
Twig nodded, but offered no comment. It occurred to him that if Vilnix Pompolnius ever got his hands on the stormphrax in the chest, not only would his current problems be over, but his position of corrupt power would become unassailable.
They continued in silence to the top, where the gnokgoblin leaped onto the landing stage to help Twig and the Stone Pilot with their heavy cargo. ‘Just follow that path to the very end, and then turn left,’ he said. ‘The old Raintasters’ Tower is straight ahead. You can’t miss it.’
‘Th… thanks,’ Twig said, and shook his head. The splendour of the city which spread out before him was overwhelming.
For a start, what the gnokgoblin had called a path was in fact a wide avenue, paved in intricate patterns with red, black and white tiles and bordered on both sides with towers that gleamed like gold in the light from the sinking sun. And what towers!
Each one was different yet equally as wonderful as its neighbour. Some had minarets, some had spires; some were domed with intricate mosaics of mirrors and semiprecious stones. Some had clock towers, others belfreys. One had large windows, paned with crystal; another had clusters of diamond-shaped openings. One was so slender it swayed in the wind; another was squat and robust.
The design of each tower, of course, depended on which faculty or school it belonged to. As did the various instruments and pieces of paraphernalia attached to the sides. There were pin-wheels and wind-socks and cantilevered scales on one; sun-dials, weather vanes, plumb lines and brass calibraters on another. While on a third, an intricate system of suspended bottles each one a different shade of blue tinkled in the breeze.
Twig stared round him, open-mouthed. The finery, the elegance, the perfect proportions wherever he looked. It was too much to take in. A line of ornate pillars. An intricately carved portico. The statues, the fountains how did you make water fly like that? The sweeping staircases. The curving passageways. The delicately arched bridges.
‘It’s incredible,’ he sighed.
All round him, the gowned academics were scurrying this way and that. Over the bridges, up and down the stairs, in and out of the towers they went: some alone, some in twos, some in huddled, whispering groups all with their heads down, engrossed in their own concerns and as oblivious to the sumptuousness of their surroundings as they were to the presence of the youth and the hooded character who struggled slowly past them with the heavy chest.
Twig had expected Sanctaphrax to be a subdued place of learning, reserved and reverent yet the professors and lecturers and readers were behaving anything but. Sanctaphrax was thronging. The atmosphere was charged with secretive intrigue, with furtive anticipation and, as the academics passed him by, he caught snatches of troubled conversation.
‘… perilously near the end …’‘… chains won’t hold much longer.’ ‘Vilnix Pompolnius, he’s the one to blame …’‘I shall put your suggestions to the Professor of Fogprobing, perhaps …’ ‘Open sky for ever …’ ‘Something must be done …’
‘Something is being done,’ Twig muttered as he and the Stone Pilot finally made it to the end of the long, curving avenue. They turned left. Before them stood a dilapidated tower.
Untouched since that darkening evening when Vilnix, the then apprentice raintaster, had carried out his fateful experiment, the residence of the Professor of Darkness was all but in ruins. The right side of the tower had been blown clean away, leaving staircases exposed and chambers permanently open. What remained pointed accusingly up at the sky.
Twig and the Stone Pilot stumbled over the shattered paving-stones which led up to the door. They went inside and lugged the chest up the stairs. There was a light fanning out across the landing of the second floor. Twig walked towards it. A modest plaque nailed to the door confirmed that they had come to the right place.
Twig knocked softly.
‘Oh, what is it now?’ came a weary voice. ‘I’ve already told you all I know.’
‘Professor,’ Twig called urgently.
‘I am old and frail,’ the voice complained. ‘And so so tired. Just leave me alone.’
‘Professor, we must speak,’ Twig persisted and tried the door. It was not locked and, despite the professor’s continued protests, he and the Stone Pilot entered. The moment she was inside, Maugin abruptly dropped her end of the chest and sat down on the lid with an exhausted grunt. Twig lowered his end, looked up at the person behind the desk and gasped.
Apart from the fact that he was wearing black robes, rather than white, the Professor of Darkness was the Professor of Light’s double.
‘Who in Sky’s name are you?’ he demanded, and leaped to his feet. ‘I thought it was the guards back again.’
Twig smiled. ‘You don’t seem so old and frail now, Professor.’
‘Bwuh … bwuh … bwuh …’ the professor blustered, totally at a loss for words.
Twig stepped forwards. ‘I am Twig,’ he said. ‘This is the Stone Pilot. Together we have completed the quest upon which my father, Quintinius Verginix, was recently sent.’
The professor’s jaw dropped. ‘I … that is, you …’ His eyes twinkled. ‘You mean to tell me …’
‘We have returned with stormphrax’ said Twig.
The professor leaped to his feet and hurried across the room towards them. ‘Stormphrax!’ he said. ‘Are you certain?’
‘Quite certain’ said Twig. ‘Your colleague, the Professor of Light, confirmed it.’
‘Bah, that old buffoon!’ he said gruffly, but Twig noticed the wateriness in his eyes. ‘What’s the bally-buzzard up to, anyway?’ he asked.
Twig looked down. ‘I’m afraid the Professor of Light is dead’ he said gently.
‘Dead!’ the professor gasped.
‘His dying words were that I should tell you about the stormphrax’ said Twig. ‘That I can … trust
you.’
‘My old friend, dead,’ the professor said sadly. He smiled weakly. ‘Come, then. Let’s see what you’ve got there.’
The Stone Pilot climbed wearily to her feet and limped to one side. Twig stepped forwards and raised the lid. The Professor of Darkness looked inside. ‘Why, the old woodgoat!’ he squealed with delight. ‘It is stormphrax! This is wonderful! Quite wonderful! But how in Sky’s name did you come by so much? And why are the crystals all so small?’
‘It’s a long story’ said Twig.
‘And one I look forward to hearing,’ the professor said. ‘But first we must get the stormphrax to the treasury…’
‘No, Professor,’ said Twig firmly. ‘First there is something else I must show you. It is time to put an end to this phraxdust madness, once and for all.’ He glanced out through the window at the sun, already deep orange and low in the sky. ‘But we must be quick. I’ll need a mortar and pestle.’
‘But…’
‘Now, Professor,’ Twig insisted. ‘Please!’
The professor pointed him towards a marble work-surface at the far end of the chamber. ‘You’ll find everything you could possibly need over there,’ he said. ‘But…’
‘Thank you,’ said Twig.
He seized a metal beaker and hurried back to the chest. As he passed the professor, he nodded towards the window. ‘How long to go until twilight?’ he asked. ‘True twilight.’
‘Ah, true twilight,’ the professor said dreamily. ‘That mystical moment between light and darkness. So fleeting. So fine… It was the only aspect of our studies about which the Professor of Light and myself could ever agree upon…’
‘Professor!’ Twig snapped, as he passed him on his way back. ‘How long?’
The professor marched towards the window and performed a quick calculation in his head. ‘One and a half minutes,’ he said huffily.
‘Less time than I thought,’ Twig muttered. He hurried over to the bench and selected a mortar. ‘Gently, gently’ he whispered to himself as he poured some crystals down into the bowl. Next, he picked the heaviest pestle from the rack, and raised it above his head. ‘Professor,’ he called out, ‘you must tell me when that moment of true twilight occurs. Do you understand?’
