by Paul Stewart
The squires did as they were told, chattering excitedly to one another while they removed their sky ships from the vices and carried them carefully across to the neighbouring theatre. As they approached the great pump-bellows – huge concertina-shaped leather sacks with tapered pipes emerging from them – the roar of the wind they were making grew louder, and the air filled with the smell of pinewood smoke.
‘That's it, that's it,’ said Arboretum Sicklebough, taking up his position on a podium above the pumping bellows where he could watch everything that was happening. ‘First of all, observe the movement of the air,’ he told them, and pulled on a lever to his side. ‘And mark it closely.’
Immediately, a streak of grey-white smoke was released into the airstream which, as the bellows pumped, showed the swirls and eddies of the shifting air. Quint noticed how it dipped in the middle, then spiralled off to the left before whirling round and round in the centre, like water pouring down a plughole.
Sicklebough closed off the lever. The smoke stopped. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let the storm test commence!’
The squires assembled in a large circle round the edge of the chamber, holding their precious models by the fingertips of their outstretched left hands. With their right hands, they carefully adjusted the hull-weights and sail settings.
Quint looked across the Storm Chamber to where Phin was battling with a stubborn studsail, his brow creased with concentration. Looking up, he caught Quint's eye and smiled weakly. Quint set his hull-weights high, to compensate for the down-draught at the edge of the miniature storm, but gave his mast extra topsail for the eddying winds closer to the centre.
He touched the talisman around his neck for good luck, and hoped that he hadn't made a mistake in his calculations – a mistake that would lead to his mast being snapped off at the last moment. Just then, a sly elbow dug into his ribs, knocking him off balance.
‘Sorry, didn't see you there,’ said Vilnix, smiling unpleasantly.
He was standing next to Quint, attaching an extra staysail to his retractable nether-mast and adding neben-hull-weights below as a counterbalance. Quint bit his tongue.
‘Make your final adjustments and prepare to launch!’ Sicklebough's voice rang out above them.
Quint looked at the model in Vilnix's hand. It was a beautiful craft, certainly, but Vilnix had completely misread the pinewood smoke. If he launched the sky ship with the sails set as they were, the extra neben-weights would cause it to turn turvey the moment it reached the centre of the Storm Chamber.
Quint wrestled with his conscience for a moment. Should he keep quiet? Let Vilnix humiliate himself after all his hard work? He didn't like Vilnix, but still …
‘Your neben-weights,’ Quint whispered out of the corner of his mouth.
‘What?’ said Vilnix, a startled look in his eyes.
‘Your neben-weights,’ Quint repeated. ‘You've mis-set them. They'll wreck your ship. If you just take them up three notches …’
‘I'm not falling for that,’ sneered Vilnix. ‘I know your sort, sky pirate's brat!’
Quint turned away.
‘Launch!’
Sicklebough's voice rang out. As one, the squires released their sky ships into the swirling air at the centre of the Storm Chamber, where they darted and dipped like stormhornets at dusk.
Above their heads, Arboretum Sicklebough craned his thin neck forward and narrowed his eyes as he assessed the performance of each of the twenty-two miniature sky ships. Several were torn to shreds within moments.
‘Faulty hull construction, Squire Wexis!’ barked the tree goblin.
A moment later, his irritated voice rose up above the sound of the storm winds a second time. ‘Split rudder, Mendellix. That'll teach you to skip lathe-practice!’ And Quint grimaced as his friend Phin's sky ship shattered in mid air.
The others hovered at odd angles, buffeted by the savage winds of the miniature storm, until Sicklebough signalled for their makers to haul them back in by tugging on their anchor ropes. After several minutes, only Quint and Vilnix's sky ships remained, sailing ever closer to the centre of the swirling storm.
Of the two, Vilnix's model was faring far better, its nether mast allowing it to ride the worst of the downdraught. But Quint's stormchaser was holding its own – despite its tiny mast bending alarmingly. He could hardly bear to look.
All round him, the squires clasped their own battered models and held their breath. Vilnix, at Quint's side, stared at his own beautiful model, a look of triumph on his face.
Suddenly, Vilnix's craft reached the centre of the storm. For an instant, it hung there in the air. The next, the neben-weights abruptly flew up in the air and dragged the tiny ship upside down, like a fighting fromp on the end of a chain. With a loud crack, the retractable mast snapped, and the ship hurtled downwards, smashing to smithereens on the ironwood floor below.
A gasp went round as Quint's ship reached the centre of the storm, where it hovered gracefully and effortlessly in classic, stormchasing style.
Sicklebough pulled hard on the lever by his side, and the bellows wheezed to a halt. Quint pulled his craft back towards him with shaking hands before glancing over at Vilnix.
‘I'm sorry, Vilnix,’ he said. ‘I did try to warn you …’
He stopped, shocked at the look of pure hatred on the squire's face.
‘You think you're so clever, Quintinius Verginix,’ Vilnix rasped, spitting the words out. ‘But I'll show you. Just you wait and see …’
•CHAPTER SIX•
THE HALL OF WHITE
CLOUD
Sigbord smiled as he turned the breast-plate over in his great paddle-like hands. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Beautiful workmanship. I haven't seen anything like it since the old days back in the Deepwoods.’
The forge throbbed with heat thrown out by the glowing furnaces and the pounding of the foundry hammers. Spedius Heepe looked at the Captain of the Treasury Guard, a greedy glint in his eyes.
‘You just can't get quality like this in Undertown,’ Sigbord continued, shaking his head. ‘Not for love nor money,’ he added, running his fingers over the stylized emblem of the bloodoak that had been picked out in burnished copper on the breast-plate's front.
’Yes, I thought you'd appreciate that, as an old Deepwoods goblin yourself,’ said Spedius, pushing his wire-framed spectacles up over the bridge of his nose. ‘Old hammerhead design, I believe. Isn't that right, Clud?’ He paused, and frowned. ‘I said, isn't that right, Clud?’
The huge mottled goblin turned from the convoluted tangle of pipes and gauges that spread across the walls and ceiling of the forge like metallic tarry-vine.
‘That's right, Spedius,’ Clud Mudskut growled, a lopsided, gap-filled grin crossing his lumpen face. ‘Though what would a weedy little Undertown scroll-scratcher like you know about old hammerhead designs, eh?’
Spedius gave a thin, high-pitched laugh and climbed to his feet. Short and slight, the bespectacled armourer barely came up to the mottled goblin's waist, but he reached up and slapped his colleague heartily on the back.
‘Only what you tell me, Clud, you old Deepwoods metal-basher. Only what you tell me.’
The two armourers laughed heartily, Spedius's shrill giggle mingling with Clud's rumbling guffaw. Sigbord waited for a moment, then cleared his throat noisily.
‘Yes, well,’ he said, placing the breast-plate carefully down on the scroll-strewn desk, ‘beautiful workmanship, as I say. But if I know you two I'm going to have to pay handsomely for it.’ His stroked his stubbled jaw. ‘Shall we say fifteen gold pieces?’
Spedius Heepe stopped laughing and his small, dark eyes narrowed behind the wire-framed spectacles. ‘Come come, Captain Sigbord,’ he said, ‘you can do better than that.’ His mouth set in a thin, hard line beneath his sharp, twitching nose. ‘Clud here has spent the best part of a week on this breast-plate, just so that you'd look your best for Treasury Day.’ He paused thoughtfully, and when he spoke again his voice was
little more than a whisper. ‘Shall we say, fifty gold pieces?’
‘Fifty!’ Sigbord exploded, the heavy rings in his ears clinking as he shook his head. ‘Why that's … that's …’
He fell still. The / breast-plate was indeed magnificent and he did want to look his best on Treasury Day. It was the day when all of Sanctaphrax celebrated the overthrowing of the earth-scholars by the sky-scholars - with a little help from a band of loyal flat-head goblins. Now the descendants of those goblins stood guard over the treasury and its precious store of stormphrax, with Sigbord standing proudly at their head.
‘I don't have that sort of money,’ he growled.
‘Then perhaps we can come to some other arrangement?’ said Spedius, with a tight little smile.
‘Such as?’ said Sigbord, picking the breast-plate up and stroking its polished surface.
‘A trade,’ said Clud with a grin.
‘Precisely,’ added Spedius. ‘You, my dear captain, have keys to the Treasury Chamber.’
‘A couple of shards of stormphrax,’ growled Clud, his face suddenly serious.
‘In return for this magnificent breast-plate …’ Spedius folded his arms.
‘Out of the question!’ stormed Sigbord, raising the armour as if to fling it across the forge.
‘And five more like it,’ finished Spedius.
Sigbord hesitated.
Stormphrax was sacred, so sacred that it was considered blasphemy for anyone, save the Knights Academic and the Treasury Guardians – the Professors of Light and Darkness – even to cast their gaze upon it. The glowing crystals, so heavy in absolute darkness, were the priceless reward that lay at the heart of great storms; a glittering prize which the Knights Academic risked their lives for on their valiant quests. Certainly no furnace masters would ever be granted access to it. Yet Sigbord knew that, even though it was strictly forbidden, there were many in Sanctaphrax desperate to get their hands on it, to experiment with it, to unlock its fabulous secrets …
‘A couple of shards?’ he growled.
‘Tiny little shards.’ Spedius grinned. ‘Who's to know, Sigbord? It'll be our little secret, and just think how magnificent you and your lieutenants are going to look …’
*
‘Stope … ! Stope … !’
The small, wiry grey goblin stirred in the nest he'd made for himself out of rags and straw, in the furthest corner of the forge.
‘Stope!’ Clud Mudskut's voice boomed, rattling the forge pipes and setting the gauges quivering.
‘Coming, Furnace Master, sir,’ he called back, scrabbling to his feet and rubbing his eyes.
‘There you are,’ the mottled goblin growled as Stope approached the central furnace, where the pipes from all directions converged.
He grasped the young goblin by the collar of his shabby tunic and lifted him off his feet. Stope found himself staring into the furnace master's mottled face, which was inches from his own.
‘Listen up, whelp,’ growled Clud. ‘That breast-plate you made for me …’
‘Y … yes,’ stammered Stope.
‘You're to make five more before Treasury Day.’
‘But … but that's only a week away …’ Stope protested. ‘There isn't time …’
‘Then you'd better make time, my dear young forge-hand,’ came Spedius Heepe's wheedling voice from below, ‘or you'll find yourself back in Undertown next Dumping Day!’
Stope shuddered. Like so many before him, he'd left the dark and dangerous Deepwoods to seek a better life in Undertown, only to find squalor and misery awaiting him. A friendly basket-puller had taken pity on the starving grey goblin and smuggled him up to Sanctaphrax, where he'd knocked on the first door he'd come to and claimed ‘Sanctaphrax Sanctuary’.
According to the ancient laws of the great floating city, any who made it up to the rock and claimed sanctuary had to be taken in, so long as they were prepared to work as unpaid servants. After a year, they could be thrown out on ‘Dumping Day’ if they hadn't given satisfaction. Stope had been taken in by the Hall of White Cloud, where he'd proved himself a skilled forge-hand and quick learner. But despite this, he knew that the furnace masters, Clud and Spedius, could throw him out any time they chose.
‘I'll do it,’ he croaked.
Clud released his grip, and Stope slumped to the floor.
‘That's a good forge-hand,’ smiled Spedius, turning to go. ‘Oh, and Stope …’ The smile froze on his thin, pinched features. ‘Not a word of this to anyone, understand?’
The heat of the central furnace took Stope's breath away, despite the heavy tilderleather visor he wore. He checked the ventilation gauze and the temperature setting. The blue-grey metal ingot was now white-hot in the heart of the furnace, ready to be beaten out into a curved sheet on the great anvil beside him. Stope grasped the fire tongs with gloved hands and carefully removed the glowing lump of metal.
It was almost midday, but Stope was far too busy to notice the time. Day and night, he'd worked in the armoury forge, snatching sleep only while he waited for the furnace to reach forging temperature. Two gleaming breast-plates, each exquisitely tooled with bloodoak designs, sat on the polishing bench in the corner, but they were not enough. And time, as Stope knew, was running out. He raised a hammer and brought it down on the ingot.
Clang!
A shower of sparks flew into the air.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The metal began to take shape beneath his blows, thinning and curving as its glow turned from white to orange, to a fiery red.
‘Such a pleasure to watch a craftsman at work,’ came a cracked, ancient-sounding voice.
Startled, Stope looked up.
An aged knight academic in full armour stood before him. His white hair fanned out like a halo around his lined face, as his startlingly blue eyes sparkled in the furnace light.
‘Hall Master!’ Stope exclaimed, lowering his hammer and lifting his visor.
‘Please,’ said Philius Embertine, raising a gauntleted hand. ‘Don't let me stop you. You must be the forge-hand my furnace masters told me about …’
The young grey goblin blushed. ‘My name's Stope, sir, and I'm proud to serve the Hall of White Cloud.’
‘I'm sure you are, my lad,’ said Philius, his blue eyes twinkling. ‘And by making these fine breast-plates, you are rendering a service far greater than you can possibly know …’
‘I … I …’ Stope stammered, unsure what to say.
‘Ah, Hall Master,’ came Spedius's voice as the furnace master suddenly appeared through the tangle of forge pipes. ‘Sigbord has agreed to your little deal, and you can take delivery as soon as Clud and I finish these breast-plates … With young Stope's help, of course.’
Behind him, Clud scowled at Stope.
Philius turned and Stope saw a look of vague befuddlement fall, like a veil, over his ancient features.
‘Good … good … You've made an old knight very happy …’ he mumbled distractedly. ‘Just thought I'd look in on you … I'm on my way to … to the Armour Hall … to lecture …’
Spedius smiled. ‘Of course you are,’ he said smoothly. ‘If you'll permit it, Hall Master, my forge-hand here can guide you there.’ He looked round. ‘Stope!’ He clicked his fingers and motioned that the youth should lay down his tools and take Philius by the arm.
Quickly removing his visor and gloves, Stope did as he was bid, and escorted Philius out of the forge.
‘Most … most obliging …’ mumbled the old knight academic as they shuffled out. ‘So easy to … lose … one's way.’
With the hall master's heavy, gauntleted hand resting on his shoulder, Stope made his way from the forge, up a half-flight of stairs and down a long hallway. He could hear the rasping breath of the old professor close to his left ear, and feel its warmth. And glancing behind him, Stope caught him looking about – through the windows, along the adjoining corridors and at the name plaques on the doors they passed – without the faintest hint of recognition.
As they approached the Armour Hall, the sound of the rowdy squires echoed back along the hall. Bored with waiting, they were laughing and joking and teasing one another. Stope wondered how poor old Philius Embertine – someone who could no longer even find his way around his old academy hall – managed to conduct lectures at all.
Just then, Stope heard a hissed, ‘Here he comes,’ followed by the sound of scurrying footsteps and scraping wood.
He peered in through the small, circular window in the door. The squires had all scrambled to their seats, and were perched on their jutting study-ledges, slates balanced on their laps and legs dangling. Seizing the handle, Stope pulled the door open and ushered the professor in.
‘Er … Good afternoon … Knights of … er …’ he muttered, his voice soft and quavering.
‘Good morning, Professor Embertine, sir,’ the squires chanted back from the study-ledges.
The hall master clanked across the room to the raised podium at the front, apparently oblivious to the whispers that hissed round the high, vaulted ceiling. He took his place at the lectern beside an ancient-looking suit of armour, suspended from a rickety frame.
Stope turned to go. He was exhausted and knew he had to get back to the forge to have any hope of finishing the breast-plates. But it felt so cool in the corridor beside the half-opened door compared to working at the furnaces, and besides, the hall master – whom he'd only ever glimpsed from a distance at meal times in the Eightways – intrigued him. A moment or two wouldn't make any difference, he told himself.
Up on the podium, the hall master seemed to be gearing himself up for the lecture. He was swaying gently, to and fro, to and fro, and staring straight ahead of him.
‘Um … Um … Right … um … yes … So where were we?’ He looked at the hanging suit of armour as if half expecting the answer to come from it. ‘I … um …’
Stope looked around at the group of squires. Some of them he recognized.
There was that fat one with the pudding-bowl haircut. Always in trouble he was. What was his name? Tonsor? Yes, that was it. Tonsor Wexis. And there, next to him, the brown, curly-haired one who was always making jokes – Belphinius Something. And Someone Wistelweb … And … Oh, yes, on the ledge just above him was the young squire who'd noticed that Stope had burned his arm that one time, and brought him hyleberry salve. Stope wouldn't forget his kindness.
