The Winter Knights

by Paul Stewart

  Quint smiled and raised his tankard to join the others. ‘Here's to all of us!’ he grinned.

  In the far corner, hunched over his wooden platter, Vilnix Pompolnius glared over at the happy group of squires. They all thought they were better than him – all of them, even that little upstart forge-hand. He could see it in their eyes. Especially the sky pirate brat, Quint.

  Well, he'd show them. He'd show all of them.

  He had avoided that stupid snowball fight organized by the snooty Upper Hall Squire … Raff! What a ridiculous name.

  Vilnix smiled to himself. Instead of throwing snowballs like an idiotic young'un, he'd visited the Viaduct Towers – or rather, one viaduct tower in particular. The one with a vulpoon skeleton hanging outside. And a very useful little trip it had turned out to be.

  He patted his pocket and then raised his tankard of woodale with a sarcastic sneer.

  ‘Here's to all of you!’

  •CHAPTER NINE•

  THE HALL OF GREY

  CLOUD

  Quint couldn't sleep. Outside, an icy wind howled through the turrets and towers of Sanctaphrax like an angry white-collar wolf, rattling windowpanes and threatening to tear shutters and awnings from their hinges. He was inside his dormitory closet and should have been warm and snug. But even though he'd pulled the lufwood door tight shut and drawn his snowbird-down quilt up over his head, Quint could still feel the cold draught which was sweeping up the central staircase.

  Light and airy, the buildings of the great floating city had not been built to withstand such intense winter cold. Unable to stop shivering, Quint abandoned his attempts to sleep before the dawn gong sounded and, bleary-eyed, began to pull on his clothes.

  He was slipping his arms into the long-sleeved tunic when he first heard something rustle. He paused. The rustling stopped. It was probably just the little ratbird, he thought.

  Leaning forward in the darkness, he fumbled for his lamp, lit it, and held it up. But the creature was still fast asleep in her cage, her head tucked under a furry wing. Puzzled, Quint hung the lamp back on its hook and started dressing again - only to hear the rustling once more. This time he realized where the sound was coming from.

  He reached into the side pocket of the tunic - and groaned. There, still rolled and fastened with a black spider-silk ribbon, was Maris's letter, unopened and unread.

  ‘Earth and Sky,’ he muttered. ‘How could I?’

  From the cage there came a soft, questioning trill. Quint looked round at the tiny ratbird whose beaklike snout was now poking out and sniffing the air.

  ‘Oh, Nibblick,’ said Quint as he pushed a small piece of barley bread through the bars. ‘ forgot all about Maris. Fine friend I am!’

  Unrolling the letter with half-frozen fingers, Quint held it up to the yellow light and began to read.

  Dear Quint,

  It is so cold down here in Undertown that, as I write this, I can hardly stop my hands from shaking. My guardian, Heft, is so mean that he only allows one fire to be lit a day, and that is a small one in his and Dacia's personal apartments. The rest of us – Grewlock the cook, the little mobgnome maid who cries the whole time, Pule the old goblin butler and me – all have to freeze!

  I know I shouldn't be ungrateful, but, oh, Quint, it's so miserable and boring down here. My room is small and poky and has bars at the window. Heft and Dacia are so security conscious that they keep practically every door in the place locked! I swear they even lock my door at night. I'm sure I've heard a key in the lock after I've turned the lamp out. Where on earth do they imagine I'm going to run off to?

  The only good thing about my room is the view it has of the market-place in Western Quay Square. Most days I wave to Welma from my window, and sometimes I call down to her – but I have to be careful because Dacia considers such behaviour unbecoming to the daughter of a High Academe.

  I miss Father so much, Quint, and our old life up in Sanctaphrax. What adventures we had! Down here, Dacia never allows me out of her sight, and all I seem to do is sit here in my room or stand beside her chair when boring old leagues-men and their wives come to visit. I have to curtsy, and only talk when I'm spoken to – which is practically never – and listen to Heft rattle on and on …

  You wouldn't believe the stories he tells, Quint. From the things he says, you'd think he was Father's most trusted friend, and that Father never did anything without consulting him first. It's all just boasting, of course, and completely untrue, but I know that if I say anything he'll lose his temper and fly into one of his rages – rages he usually takes out on the servants.

  Just the other day, he flew into a terrible tantrum and all because I wouldn't sign some silly barkscroll he waved under my nose. Father told me never to sign anything without reading it first, and I told him so. He got very angry and red in the face, but I wouldn't give in, so he stormed off and told Dacia that I wasn't to leave my room for a week! He's nothing but a big bully!

  But listen to me! Moaning on! How are you, Quint, up there in your Knights Academy? I bet you'll look splendid in your squires’ robes on Treasury Day! Do you remember last year? It seems so long ago now. Don't forget me, down here, Quint, and try to drop me a line sometime when you're not too busy.

  I must stop now, because the Leaguesmaster is coming to visit, and Heft is insisting that I be there – still, at least I'll get to stand next to the fire and warm up a bit!

  I'll slip this letter to Welma in the market-place the next time old fromp-face lets me go out!

  Your friend,

  Maris

  Quint rolled the letter up and carefully tied the spider-silk ribbon. He didn't like the sound of Maris's guardians one little bit. He looked at the ratbird nibbling on the barley bread.

  Should he send word to his father? he wondered.

  He reached for his tilderleather satchel with its barkscrolls and ink-pot, then hesitated. After all, what would he say? Maris isn't allowed out much? Her guardians are too mean to heat their apartments properly? They keep their doors locked?

  Perhaps he should wait – go down and see Maris and her guardians first, before worrying his father. In the meantime, he'd send Maris a nice long letter full of news, to cheer her up …

  Tap! Tap! Tap!

  ‘Hey, Quint! Are you awake?’ It was Phin's voice, calling up from the sleeping closet below.

  Quint leaned over and opened his door, an icy gust of air making his teeth chatter. ‘I w-was … j-j-just … about to write a l-l-letter … before th-the dawn gong …’ he said, shivering uncontrollably.

  Phin climbed out of his sleeping closet and onto the dormitory ladder. He was clad in three sets of robes and had a large untidy turban wound round his head.

  ‘Do you like it?’ he asked Quint with a laugh. ‘I got it from an ice-scholar the other day. It certainly keeps the cold out!’

  ‘I like it,’ smiled Quint, ‘but I'm not sure the Hall Master of Grey Cloud is going to.’

  Phin's face fell for a moment. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘We start in the Hall of Grey Cloud today!’

  Below them, the sound of the dawn gong drifted up the central staircase.

  ‘You'll have to write that letter of yours later, Quint,’ he said, smiling again. ‘If Fenviel Vendix is as strict as they say he is, we don't want to keep him waiting!’

  Twenty minutes later, after a hurried breakfast of hammelhornmilk and semmelseed cakes in the Eightways, Quint and Phin joined the group of squires milling about in front of the entrance to the Hall of Grey Cloud. From behind the tall, narrow doors, the low grunts and piercing squeals of prowlgrins could be plainly heard, and Quint felt a shiver of excitement. After all the dry, theoretical work of sky-ship construction and sail-setting, and the endless hours of armour naming, now, at last, they were about to work with living, breathing creatures.

  Ever since entering the Knights Academy, Quint had taken every opportunity to watch the prowlgrins being exercised by their grooms and knights-in-waiting in the Inner C
ourtyard. Despite the restricted space, they were so fast and so agile, and he'd marvelled as they leaped high into the tilt trees that stretched in an avenue across the paving stones, always elegantly poised and perfectly balanced. Now, at last, he was going to get the chance to ride a prowlgrin himself.

  The doors opened slowly, their heavy hinges protesting, and a warm blast of scented air filled the corridor outside. A deep expressionless voice from within barked a single command.

  ‘Enter!’

  Quint took a deep breath and followed the other squires through the doorway and into the Hall of Grey Cloud. The smell that greeted them was unmistakable — straw, both damp and dusty, mingled with the musty odour of chopped meat, while underneath, the sweet, earthy smell of prowlgrins themselves pervaded everything. Occasionally, when he'd been lying in his sleeping closet, Quint had caught a whiff of the place. But now, walking through the tall arched doors, the mix of scents was intoxicating.

  Before him, situated at the top of tall, square pillars which stretched the length of the hall at regular intervals, were the prowlgrin roosts. There were pegs hammered in from the bottom to the top for the ostlers and grooms to scale – on occasions also used by those old or weary prowlgrins that were unable to leap up from the ground. Halfway up were great metal byres, stuffed with straw and used to catch the prowlgrin droppings. Above these, extending both to the left and the right, all the way up to the high vaulted ceiling, were thick, horizontal roost ‘branches’.

  And there, perched upon them, were the roosting prowlgrins themselves.

  The great hall thronged with grooms, ostlers and farriers, byre-gillies and stable-hands, all hurrying about their business. Some were pushing wheelbarrows of straw; some were lugging buckets of water, or offal, or the dark, pungent grease that was used to massage the creatures’ joints. Some were leading their prowlgrins outside for their daily exercise. Some were mucking out. Everywhere there was feverish activity, endless coming and going and unfamiliar noises.

  The squires stumbled across the hay-strewn floor in a daze, unable to take it all in. Some way in front of him, Quint noticed Vilnix's lip curl with disgust as a stable-hand brushed past, a gently steaming offal bucket in his hand.

  ‘Halt!’

  The low, expressionless voice rang out again. The squires snapped out of their daze and quickly formed a line, backs straight and eyes front. From beside a roost pillar, the tall angular figure of Fenviel Vendix, Hall Master of Grey Cloud, stepped out. His small eyes narrowed as he surveyed the squires, one by one, stopping when he came to Phin.

  His mouth set into a thin line and his eyebrows furrowed as he eyed the squire's untidy turban for a moment. Then he pointed his long riding crop at Phin's rapidly reddening face and slashed the air.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Phin, snatching at the turban. ‘At once, sir.’

  He unwound it and held it out. Fenviel's eyes glittered, and for one horrible moment Quint thought he was about to strike his friend with the crop.

  Beside him, Vilnix sniggered, and instantly Fenviel turned his gaze on him. Vilnix straightened up and wiped the smile from his face. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead as the hall master approached and stared intently into the squire's face. For a moment there was utter silence. Then, from above, there came a strange mewling cry. Fenviel turned from Vilnix, whose knees were now trembling, and pointed his riding crop at the roost pillar.

  ‘Climb!’ he barked.

  The order seemed to cut through the tension and the squires sprang to life, climbing the roost pillar in groups. Up on one of the branches, a smiling groom greeted them and motioned for them to spread out around him.

  ‘Welcome, Squires,’ the gnokgoblin smiled and looked them up and down. ‘For many of you, your time in the Hall of Grey Cloud will be the most rewarding part of your training. For others, the most arduous.’

  The squires listened to him closely.

  ‘For here,’ the gnokgoblin went on, tapping the side of his head, ‘it is not enough to rely on this. You must use this.’ He placed his hand on his chest. ‘Your heart.’

  Quint found himself nodding. To his left, Vilnix tutted impatiently.

  ‘Now, if you look down at the nests,’ the gnokgoblin told them, ‘you'll find your new charges waiting to greet you.’

  Quint looked down at his feet. There, nestling in a cradle of compacted straw that hung down from the branch on which he stood, was a prowlgrin egg. It was soft and jelly-like. Inside it, just visible through the translucent membrane, was the blurry shape of an infant prowlgrin. The small creature let out a muffled cry and, with its tiny claws, began scratching and scraping at the egg-case from within. Quint gasped and kneeled down to take a closer look.

  Along the branch, all the other squires did the same, looks of wonder and amazement on their faces as they examined the nests at their own feet – all, that is, except Vilnix, who leaned down awkwardly and regarded the hatching egg with shock and disgust. Suddenly, one by one, the egg sacs burst with a gentle popping sound and the tiny prowlgrin pups leaped free and high into the air.

  ‘Catch!’ came Fenviel's barked command from below.

  With his heart in his mouth, Quint stuck out both arms as his pup sailed up over his head.

  ‘Oof!’

  A moment later, he let out a sharp breath – a mixture of relief and wonder – as the prowlgrin pup landed with extraordinary poise and delicacy on an outstretched arm, and its tiny yet powerful legs gripped on tightly as if it were a branch.

  ‘Amazing!’ gasped Phin.

  ‘Incredible!’ ‘Awesome!’ the other squires, their newly-hatched charges clinging to their arms, all agreed.

  ‘Not so tight!’ Vilnix rasped at the glistening pup gripping his arm. ‘You filthy little beast.’

  Quint stared at his own prowlgrin pup in awe. Its fur was damp and sticky and its eyes were still closed, but its balance was perfect. And as it shifted its grip with its powerful toes, it let out thin mewling cries. Quint smiled with delight and was about to tickle it under its chin when the pup's huge eyes snapped open. Instantly its gaze focused on Quint's, and the pair of them stared at one another in rapt wonder.

  ‘You're beautiful,’ Quint breathed, ‘aren't you, boy? Now what shall I call you?’

  ‘No names!’ came Fenviel's barked order from behind him.

  Startled, Quint jumped, and the prowlgrin gave out a sharp yelp.

  ‘No, sir. Sorry, sir,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Right, young squires,’ said the gnokgoblin groom cheerfully. ‘Clean them up, like so …’

  He grabbed a handful of straw and began rubbing the prowlgrin pup on the squire's arm next to him. Quint and the others followed suit with their own pups, and soon the branch was filled with the sound of tiny prowl-grin purrs.

  ‘Then give them some morsels … Just a little, mind …’ He dangled a fromp giblet above the pup, who gave a tiny leap and snatched it from his fingers. ‘Take a handful from the offal bucket,’ commanded the groom, ‘and pass it along.’

  ‘Good boy,’ smiled Quint as his pup gobbled down the bloody scraps. ‘Good boy!’

  The prowlgrin pup licked its lips and settled down on his arm. Down the line, he could hear Vilnix complaining.

  ‘This is disgusting … I think I'm going to be sick.’

  Fenviel fixed him with one of his terrifying stares and Vilnix quickly shut his mouth.

  ‘Introduce the pups to the branch!’ commanded the groom. He demonstrated by kneeling and allowing the prowlgrin on his arm to hop off, onto the roosting branch, where it settled down sleepily.

  The squires all did as they were told, with Vilnix giving an audible sigh of relief as his prowlgrin let go of his arm.

  ‘They will need feeding every hour, day and night, for the next three weeks,’ announced the groom with a rueful smile. ‘So I suggest you snatch what sleep you can, and work together! You'll find offal buckets and arm protectors below.’

  Fenviel Vendix strode across the bra
nch and permitted himself a small smile as he began to climb down the roost pillar.

  ‘Good luck!’ he barked.

  As the weeks passed, Quint often thought back to that first morning in the Hall of Grey Cloud. It had all seemed so chaotic then. Yet, the longer he remained there, the more he realized that beneath the apparent disorder, the prowlgrin stables were highly organized and meticulously run.

  For a start, he discovered that the prowlgrins were not allowed to perch in any old place. Each one of them – old and young, large and small – was assigned a special spot on a specific roost pillar.

  The half-dozen pillars to the left of the hall, for instance, were home to those prowlgrins that were kept for work purposes – riding, carrying, pulling, transporting – with the roost pillar on the extreme left reserved for the finest, strongest male beasts which had been selected for breeding. Further to the right, where he and the other squires were busy raising their pups, were the brood-prowlgrin roosts.

  It was here that the pregnant females laid their eggs in nests carefully constructed from straw chewed over and over in their great mouths. Their task over, they retreated to the upper branches and sat – purring and grumbling – while their pups were fussed over and fed by Quint and his companions.

  ‘In the wild,’ said Tuggel, the gnokgoblin groom, ‘the young fend for themselves as soon as they hatch. But here in the hall’ - he laughed cheerfully as Vilnix scowled - ‘they've got you lovely young squires to mother them!’

  The first three weeks had been the hardest, with none of the squires getting anywhere near enough sleep. Phin and Quint had shared their tasks, taking it in turns to muck out and do the feeding, and had managed well. Now their pups were half-grown, young, sleek and powerful. Quint would spend hours every day, brushing and currying the young creature until its bright orange fur gleamed like burnished copper. He filed its claws, polished its teeth, oiled its paws and rubbed herbal liniments into its joints.

  ‘You'll be a knight's prowlgrin one day, won't you, boy?’ Quint cooed as he combed the growing fringe of fur beneath its chin. The pup gazed back at him with its big yellow eyes, mewling and purringcontentedly.