Quint turned sideways to allow an oncoming line of lugtrolls - a heavy roll of ornate carpet resting on their left shoulders - to get past, just as the sounds of angry voices rang out.
He looked across at where the shouting was coming from, to see a red-faced flat-head goblin driver standing up at the front of his immobile hammelhorn cart, waving his fist. In front of him was a prowlgrin-drawn carriage, its mobgnome driver looking equally angry, and in front of him, a long covered wagon, three hammelhorns in harness, impatiently pawing the ground and tossing their curly-horned heads from side to side.
Outside the gates of the sky-shipyard, all traffic had come to a standstill, and even those on foot were unable to continue any further.
‘Make way! By order of the Leagues!’ a voice bellowed, and Quint glimpsed the high hat of a leagues-master bobbing above the growing crowd.
As he spoke, the noise of the heavy metal wheels trundling slowly along the cobbled road became apparent. It was a low, ominous rumble, below the general hubbub of voices, and felt as much as heard. The metal pots and pans, kettles, cauldrons and watering-cans hanging out on display at the front of the ironmonger’s clinked and chimed, while opposite, suspended from a hook outside his store, the leather-worker’s great red and blue passionbird shuffled about on its perch, flapping its wings and squawking indignantly.
Next to Quint in the crush, Maris looked steadily ahead. Leaning over towards her, he whispered softly into her ear.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
For a moment, Maris seemed to ignore him.
The huge stone-wagons, which had been loaded with harvested flight-rocks back in the Stone Gardens, now trundled into view, like great buildings on wheels. The crowd broke into wild cheering as the teams of hammelhorns were urged on by the wagoneers. The gates of the sky-shipyard slowly swung open and the first of the mighty wagons turned off from the convoy and clattered inside. The rest of the wagons continued on down the broad street towards the other sky-shipyards, the high-hat leaguesmaster and his shryke bodyguard leading the way.
‘I’m sorry too,’ said Maris, looking Quint in the eye for the first time that day. Her face softened. ‘It was wrong to sulk - it’s just that I was angry that you didn’t speak up for me …’
Quint took her hand and squeezed it gently. Around them, the crowd was ebbing away as it followed in the wake of the stone-wagons.
‘I should have,’ Quint admitted, ‘but you and Tem disobeyed orders by following us last night…’
‘We saved your lives!’ said Maris, that look of determined defiance returning to her face. ‘Without me, Tem and Duggin the ferry pilot, you would have been washed away, both of you, just like …’
She paused, and her face drained of all colour. Quint shuddered.
That night, they had all returned in silence from the Sluice Tower, the hideous, despairing cries of Menisculis the waif echoing in all their minds. Back at the Tarry Vine, Wind Jackal had taken the ferry pilot aside and, while the rest of the crew had made their way up to the rafters, had had a long conversation with him. When Wind Jackal finally joined the others, they were all in their hammocks - all, that is, except for Quint and Maris, who were waiting expectantly outside the captain’s garret alcove.
‘Did you thank Duggin?’ Maris began excitedly. ‘He’s a brilliant pilot, he …’
Wind Jackal silenced her with a thunderous look.
‘Never disobey an order of mine again,’ he told her slowly.
‘But…’ Maris’s face fell. She seemed at a loss for words and turned to Quint, her eyes appealing to him to say something.
Quint bit his lip and looked down at his boots. It was the cardinal rule of any sky-ship crew: Never disobey a captain’s order. There was nothing he could say.
Tears were now filling Maris’s eyes as she turned back to Wind Jackal.
‘Now get to bed, both of you,’ he said, entering his garret alcove and pulling back the curtain. ‘It’s late. Get a good night’s sleep. We’ll set sail at noon.’
Maris had gone to bed without a word. Quint had pulled off his wet clothes, flopped gratefully into the soft hammock and, totally exhausted, fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep. At dawn, they’d been woken by the screeching and squawking of the white ravens circling round the top of the tavern roof. And as the crew had packed up their sky chests, and polished and checked their equipment, Maris had studiously ignored Quint.
Quint noticed of course, though if he was honest, he wasn’t sorry. He wanted to block out all memory of the terrible night before - the icy sewer water, the waif’s cries, and the thought that Turbot Smeal was still out there somewhere.
Instead, he busied himself along with the others, preparing for the journey ahead, the old excitement that he always felt before a sky-ship voyage returning in waves as he burnished his breast-plate, buttoned up his greatcoat and buckled on his parawings. At last, they were leaving the crowded, turbulent streets of Undertown for the freedom of the vast sky and the immense, unknowable majesty of the endless Deepwoods beyond. Quint could hardly wait!
And now, here he was, outside the gates of the sky-shipyard where the Galerider awaited its crew.
Quint smiled at Maris. ‘Let’s put the last few days behind us - Sanctaphrax, Undertown, the cliff quarries, the Sluice Tower - and make a new start. The sky awaits us, Maris …’
Maris smiled back, her eyes twinkling with excitement. ‘Then I, for one, wouldn’t want to keep the sky waiting!’ she laughed, and together they hurried after Wind Jackal and the rest of the crew, who were just entering Thelvis Hollrig’s sky-shipyard behind the great lumbering stone-wagons.
Inside, the place was in uproar, as the sky-shipwrights and their teams of workers hurried to put the finishing touches to the various vessels in the sky-ship cages above. Some were climbing ladders; some were winching cargo - with two mobgnomes who had taken on more weight than they could manage suddenly soaring up into the air, squealing with terror, as a huge leadwood crate came hurtling down in the opposite direction. Shinning over the jutting gantries, crawling along the luffing jibs; dashing from one place to another, with slopping buckets and over-filled boxes and baskets and crates …
‘Mind your backs! Mind your backs!’ panted a red-faced cloddertrog just ahead of them.
Lumbering across the yard, a crimson flag clutched in his huge hairy hand, he was warning everyone thereabouts of the line of luggers trotting behind him, a freshly varnished mast clutched to their chests. Or rather, trying to …
Crash!
The team of pitch-sloppers never stood a chance. Staggering backwards out of the shadowy winch-dock, a weighty wooden vat of steaming black tar suspended from ropes between them, they collided with the end of the mast.
The pitch-slopper at the front tripped, fell - and brought the rest down with him. The tar - fresh from the heating-brazier and as runny as tildermilk - slopped over the side, scalding the hapless goblin who had fallen and spilling out over the ground. It turned viscous and sticky in an instant. One after the other, the goblins following behind fell into it - and there they remained. Each time one of them managed to pull an arm or a leg free, it was by levering himself against one of the others, who then got his arms and legs stuck. Little by little, the tar spread to every bit of the struggling goblins - bodies, boots, hands and hair. And, as it cooled, it bound them together in a great sticky ball…
Meanwhile, the luggers had fared little better. Knocked off balance, they’d spun round in a huge circle, staggering and stumbling as they tried desperately not to drop the precious mast. In one uncontrolled sweep, they scythed down a troupe of sail-setters, smashed into a hammelhorn delivery-cart and knocked against a row of long ladders, all leaning up against a sky-ship cradle - then fell over, with the great mast across their chests, pinning them all to the ground.
The ladders fell in all directions, sending half a dozen hull-riggers hurtling downwards and leaving another six hanging on by the tips of their fingers, shouting for help
…
In the midst of all this chaos, beside the huge stone-wagon, the yardmaster Thelvis Hollrig stood impassively. One bony hand fingered the cluster of charms and amulets at his neck, the other tapped his long thin leagues-cane on the ground. Beside him, Hummer the grey goblin clerk twitched his white tufted ears and scratched away at a sheaf of barkscrolls.
‘Twenty flight-rocks!’ Thelvis tutted through his sharpened teeth, casting an eye over the contents of the stone-wagon. ‘And all but one of them fit only for light-galleys and rubble-barges! Hummer! Have the “nine-strider” taken to the launch cradle.’
‘Yes, Yardmaster,’ Hummer nodded. ‘And the other flight-rocks?’
‘They can be assigned later. We’ve got a triple-decker leagues-galleon awaiting a flight-rock, and I’ve promised our good friends in the League of Beamlaggers and Boardlayers a launch this afternoon - or had you forgotten?’
‘No, Yardmaster.’ Hummer shook his head.
‘Well?’ Thelvis tapped his leagues-cane on the ground.
‘Yardmaster?’ said Hummer.
‘What are you waiting for!’ thundered the yardmaster, unsheathing the sword concealed in the cane and waving it at the grey goblin. ‘Unload it now!’
‘Yes, Yardmaster!’ gulped Hummer, dropping his sheaf of barkscrolls, stooping to pick them up - and dropping them again. ‘You heard the yardmaster!’ he barked in turn at a group of rock-handlers gathered round a brazier nearby. ‘Unload the nine-strider!
The rock-handlers - large cloddertrogs in heavy gloves, aprons and hoods - bustled over, grasping glowing callipers.
‘Careful! Careful!’ yelled the grey goblin as the cloddertrogs tugged back the netting that covered the stone-wagon and grasped the huge round boulder beneath. ‘Don’t let the others escape!’
The netting was secured and the cloddertrogs trooped off through the shipyard, carrying the great floating rock above their heads, while on either side their companions ran blazing torches over its pitted surface. Catching sight of Wind Jackal and his crew, the yardmaster sheathed his sword and sauntered over.
‘Captain Wind Jackal,’ he said. ‘All packed and prepared to set sail, I see.’ Thelvis Hollrig flashed his sharp-toothed smile. ‘You’ll find your sky ship fully repaired and provisioned, and awaiting you at the North Tower.’
He pointed with his cane, before reaching out and grasping Wind Jackal’s arm conspiratorially
‘And, Captain …’ Thelvis muttered softly, his small eyes narrowing. ‘Remember our little deal is strictly hush-hush. Don’t want any of the Leagues of Plenty getting to hear of it. We’ve got a big launch this afternoon, so slip away quietly during that if you can, there’s a good fellow.’
Wind Jackal nodded and pulled his arm free of the yardmaster’s bony grasp.
‘You heard the yardmaster, you scurvy skycurs!’ he shouted, with a laugh. ‘The Galerider’s ready and waiting for her crew!’
Spillins, Steg Jambles, Tem Barkwater, Ratbit, Filbus Queep and Sagbutt the flat-head goblin gave a heartfelt cheer and followed their captain as he strode through the bustling sky-shipyard. Maris and Quint caught the yardmaster’s eye as they followed in their turn. The glinting smile he shot back at them made Quint shudder.
‘Good luck out there in the endless Deepwoods,’ Thelvis Hollrig called after them. ‘Bloodoaks, shrykes, gloamglozers … Rather you than me!’ He chuckled to himself.
‘Don’t listen to him,’ said Maris, her face once again determined and brave.
Quint smiled back at her. ‘It’s so good to have you with us,’ he said.
Reaching the North Tower, they craned their necks back and gazed at the sky cradle above.
Far up at the top of the tower was the Galerider - and it looked magnificent. The varnished wood and the polished metal gleamed like new. The spider-silk sails that Spillins and Ratbit had delivered were in place and almost glowing in the lowering sun - with a corner of the extra sailcloth sticking out from the top of the reappointed caternest glowing brightest of all. Steg and Tem’s ropes and rigging, fresh from the chandlery sheds, had been secured to the mast, hull and deck-cleats, and now whispered softly as the gentle breeze blew through them.
The biggest difference, however, was the body of the sky ship. Not only had the gaping hole disappeared, but all trace of the cloud-limpet and sky-fungus damage -made so much worse by the terrible storms they’d faced at the cliff edge - had been totally removed. Master carpenters and expert polishers had done their work well and now, freshly plugged, trimmed and varnished, the hull of the magnificent sky ship gleamed in the afternoon sun.
Pushing open the leadwood doors, Wind Jackal entered the tower, leading the others up the spiral staircase and out onto the gantry at the top of the tower. Then, one by one, the crew climbed the bars of the sky cage that encased the Galerider’s hull, and stepped over the balustrade onto her deck. There, as Wind Jackal - the last to board - joined them, they were met by the Stone Pilot and one other.
‘Duggin!’ exclaimed Maris, delightedly seizing the gnokgoblin ferry pilot’s hand and pumping it up and down. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Duggin here has accepted my offer to join the crew,’ said Wind Jackal. He smiled kindly at Maris. ‘Since he proved himself to be such a brave and resourceful sky-sailor last night.’
Maris blushed.
‘The Edgehopper’s lashed to the fore-deck, Mistress Maris,’ said Duggin, beaming from ear to ear. ‘So it’s both of us coming on this here voyage!’
‘We’re glad to have you,’ said Wind Jackal, and the crew all nodded - especially Tem, who seemed as delighted as Maris at this new addition to the Galerider’s crew. ‘Now, to your stations, all of you,’ said Wind Jackal, ‘and make ready to set sail!’
The crew did as their captain ordered. Ratbit headed for the aft-deck, Sagbutt for the gunwales, while Steg Jambles and Tem Barkwater hurried to the fore-deck, where they were joined by Duggin, who checked that his sky ferry was properly secured. Maris went below deck to check on the ship’s medical supplies, following on the heels of Filbus Queep, who was eager to inspect the cargo of tallow. And while Spillins eagerly climbed the mast, exclaiming with delight as he jumped down into his refurbished caternest, Quint joined his father at the helm, his heart racing.
Just then, from a sky cradle on the West Tower, there came the long, sonorous sound of tilderhorns being blown.
‘Must be the launch Hollrig was getting so excited about,’ said Wind Jackal. ‘We’ll let them get all the cheering and horn-blowing out of the way, and then we’ll slip quietly away’ He called across, ‘All ready, Stone Pilot?’
On the flight-rock platform, the Stone Pilot - all facial expression hidden behind the great hood - nodded vigorously.
Quint unhooked his telescope and trained it on the West Tower. A league ship, still in its shipyard cradle, was silhouetted against the bright sky. All round the balustrade of the newly fitted vessel - both fore and aft - the heads of its crew could be seen, looking down. Some of them were waving. At the centre, on either side of the mast, the rock-burners were blazing with such intensity - sending super-heated air down a series of pipes and pistons into the very heart of the rock - that the great flight-rock itself was glowing.
Below the cradle, at the top of the tower, stood a leaguesman - the Master of the League of Beamlaggers and Boardlayers. He was as wide as he was tall, and dressed in clothes with so many ribbons and frill that he looked almost like a shryke standing there, the wind ruffling his feathers. His high hat, as beribboned as everything else, glinted in the light of the burners and, as it swayed in the breeze, was constantly being prodded back into position by his hat-tipper.
‘It is my honour, my privilege, my duty - as ritual decrees,’ the leaguesmaster bellowed down at the listening crowd above the roaring of the burners, ‘to introduce this …’ He swept a flapping arm flamboyantly behind him. ‘To introduce this, the latest addition to the leagues-fleet, to the sky …’
Quint fo
cused his telescope on the ornate lettering at the magnificent vessel’s prow. Below, on the gantries of the West Tower, leaguemen in high, mid and low hats now prepared to raise them in salute.
‘Bane …’ Quint read, ‘of the …’
‘Bane of the Mighty!’ roared the leaguesmaster, seizing his high hat and waving it above his hairless head.
As he spoke the words, the vessel’s stone pilot - wearing the dark, domed helmet with the single eye-slit favoured by most league stone pilots - took a step forward. Then, reaching up, he gripped the two drenching-levers with both his hands and pulled them sharply down. Ice-cold sand and gravel poured from the sluice-tanks above, saturating the new, white-hot nine-strider in an instant.
As it made contact, the flight-rock hissed so loudly there were some in the crowd who covered their ears. Thick clouds of billowing steam poured out of the rock, rolling across the deck and over the balustrades, swallowing up the crew as they went. And deep within the clouds, the rock could be seen rapidly changing colour -white to yellow, orange to crimson, purple to black …
Creaking and cracking noises filled the air as the flight-rock - which had gone from super-heated to super-cooled in a matter of seconds - bucked and strained inside the shipyard cradle.
The crowd held its breath.
The next moment, there was a loud clang, followed by a louder thud, and all at once, like a giant mire-clam, the great cradle snapped open.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Three short, sharp reports echoed out as, in rapid succession, the temporary anchor-hooks snapped, one after the other. An instant later, the air trembled with a tremendous whooshing sound as the sky ship abruptly hurtled up into the orange-tinged sky so fast it was as though it had been expelled from a giant catapult.
‘Sky be praised!’ the leaguesmen bellowed as the crowd erupted into deafening whoops and cheers.
Clash of the Sky Galleons Page 10
