by Paul Stewart
Heart in her mouth, Maris had slipped out of her room and tiptoed down the corridor and into her guardians’ bedchamber. There, she'd nipped behind the heavy window drapes at the far end of the huge room. With her heart hammering in her chest, she'd peeked through a gap in the drapes. Dacia had collapsed on the enormous carved lufwood bed and was snoring like a woodhog, while Heft was kneeling in front of an open chest at the foot of the bed.
As Maris watched, his eyes grew heavy and closed and his head lolled forward. Soon, he too was snoring thunderously, crouched over the treasure chest as if worshipping its contents.
Maris had waited a while, just to be sure they weren't about to stir. Then, with a deep breath, she emerged from behind the curtains and tiptoed over to the open chest.
How full it had been! she remembered indignantly. It contained more gold coins than she had ever seen before – all glinting and gleaming in the yellow light of the two-groat tallow candle that flickered on the lampstand. Without a second thought, she hitched up her skirt and scooped several handfuls of coins – a fraction, she was sure, of what her father had left her – into the folds of material. Then, scarcely daring to breathe, she hurried away from the bedchamber.
Back in her own room, she'd wrapped the coins up with her letter in a small cloth and stuffed the whole lot inside the copperwood urn. Then – unable to sleep, her head spinning with the thought of what she'd just done – she sat up the whole night, waiting for morning. By daybreak, the market stalls had already been set up and there, lurking in the shadows once more, was Vilnix Pompolnius. For the first time ever, she was pleased to see him. Instead of ignoring him, as she'd done on all the other occasions, she pulled the red kerchief from her sleeve and waved.
Then she'd pushed the urn through the bars at her window and lowered it on a length of knotted sheet into Vilnix's waiting arms. He'd grabbed it, pushed it inside his jacket and dashed away without even the slightest acknowledgement.
Well, she'd thought, with a bitter feeling of triumph. At least Quint would realize that she was a ‘true friend’ now. But she would pay a high price for proving her friendship when Heft counted his gold again. And she didn't have much time – a day or so at most …
An hour later, dressed in her warmest clothes, with her belongings wrapped up in a small bundle under her arm, Maris had set off to confess everything to the twin Most High Academes. Up in their bedchamber, Heft and Dacia were still sleeping off the effects of the sapwine as she slipped out of their apartments.
She hadn't gone more than half a dozen paces when she felt a tug on her sleeve. With a terrified gasp, she'd spun round – to be confronted once more with the leering face of Vilnix Pompolnius.
‘I'm glad I caught you,’ he said, his nasal voice breathy and urgent. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a barkscroll, which he'd thrust into her hands. ‘I've just come back down from Sanctaphrax – Quint told me to give you this. It's very important, so read it now!’
Then he'd dashed away before she could stop him.
What a strange barkscroll it had been, summoning her here to the Loftus Observatory with no explanation. And the handwriting! A thin, spidery scrawl so unlike Quint's usual beautiful penmanship.
Something was wrong, Maris was certain, and now she was going to get to the bottom of it. Pushing open the door to the observatory, she began to climb the stairs, two at a time. By the time she'd reached the circular Observatory Chamber, Maris was panting with exertion. Outside, high up at the top of the Great Hall, the bell chimed a quarter off eight hours.
‘Quint?’ she called, rushing to the door to the north gantry platform and stepping through it. ‘Quint? Are you there?’
Quint strode towards the Loftus Observatory through the thick snow. In the distance, the Great Hall bell was chiming a quarter off eight hours. His heavy black cape billowed out behind him as he quickened his pace, the glowing lamp-staff in his gauntleted fist throwing a glinting light onto the battered old suit of armour he wore.
How inconvenient of his mentor, the Professor of Light, to summon him to the Loftus Observatory on this morning of all mornings, Quint thought.
Until about a couple of hours ago, the plan that Quint, Phin, Stope and Raffix had been working on for weeks now had been going perfectly. Stope's work in the forge was completed, Raffix had prepared the Galerider and Phin had retrieved the light-casket from Philius Embertine's bedchamber. All that had been left was for Quint to equip himself. He'd sneaked down to the lecture theatre in the Hall of White Cloud and carefully unhooked the old knight academic armour from its stand. It was surprisingly light, and Quint had experienced a guilty thrill as, piece by piece, he'd buckled the armour on.
So this is what it felt like to be a knight academic in full armour, he'd thought, and smiled to himself.
The suit was clearly too big for him, and was battered and worn, but Quint felt magnificent as he quietly left the hall and made his way up the Central Staircase, taking care to conceal it beneath his heavy black robe. He'd just got to the Central Landing when who should come sneaking up behind him but Vilnix, his thin face red from running, and his voice an urgent, panting whisper.
‘Thank Sky I've found you, Quint! I've been looking for you everywhere. Why aren't you in your study?’ Vilnix had gasped.
‘I couldn't sleep,’ Quint had lied. The last thing they needed was the sneaky squire discovering their plan. Fortunately, Vilnix seemed to have other things on his mind, for he didn't give Quint's heavy cloak or armoured boots a second glance.
‘That's just as well,’ said Vilnix, ‘because the Professor of Light wants to see you urgently on the north gantry platform of the Loftus Observatory at eight hours. And don't be late,’ he'd said, and smiled wolfishly at Quint. ‘Your very future depends on it!’
Vilnix had gone off, chuckling to himself and rubbing his hands together. Try as he might, Quint couldn't work him out. But then, he thought, as he hurried up to meet Raffix in the Central Hall of the Upper Halls, he had more important things than the workings of Vilnix Pompolnius's mind to worry about.
He reached the entrance to the Loftus Observatory and rushed inside. He hoped this meeting with his mentor wouldn't take too long. Raffix and the others were waiting for him back at the Knights Academy. Quint arrived at the Observatory Chamber, gasping for breath. The armour had felt light at first, but now, after climbing all those stairs, it seemed to weigh more than stormphrax itself.
The north gantry door was ajar. Quint walked over to it and pulled it open.
‘Maris!’ he exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’
Maris turned from the balustrade, a look of joy on her face. ‘Quint!’ she gasped. ‘At last.’
Quint stepped onto the gantry. As he did so, there was a loud crack, and the look of joy on Maris's face turned to horror as the platform beneath her feet suddenly gave way.
With lightning reflexes, Quint shot out a gauntleted hand and grasped Maris by the wrist, hanging onto the handle of the creaking gantry door with the other. Below them, the platform clattered and clanged against the sides of the tower as it crashed to the ground. Above him, Quint felt the door hinges shudder as they began to give way. Four metal bolts buckling under the strain was all that stood between them and certain death.
Maris turned a tear-streaked face up towards his, and Quint tightened his grip on her wrist. His arms felt as if they were being wrenched from their sockets, and sharp stabs of pain shot through his shoulders. The gantry door began to buckle and, below him, Maris seemed to sense this …
As she dangled precariously over the edge, she screamed, ‘Save yourself, Quint!’
•CHAPTER NINETEEN•
BLOOD IN THE SNOW
The skies over sleeping Sanctaphrax were pitch black, with dark turbulent clouds delaying the onset of dawn. Inside the Hall of White Cloud, although the furnaces had burned down low and needed stoking, the glowing embers cast a soft crimson light throughout the forge.
In the far cor
ner, behind a clump of twisting flue-pipes, a wiry young grey goblin emerged from a nest of rags, rubbed the sleep from his eyes and gathered together the small bundle he'd prepared the previous evening. He slung it over his shoulder and, checking that there was no-one else up and about at such an early hour, he crept softly out of the forge and headed for the Central Staircase.
At the other end of the Knights Academy, in a study alcove of the Academy Barracks, a sleepy-headed academic-at-arms yawned, stretched and scratched his head before climbing gingerly out of bed. He stood for a moment, shivering. The little lufwood stove had gone out in the night, and despite the heavy tilderwool blanket that hung at the entrance, his study alcove was bitterly cold. Still shivering, he grabbed his clothes and hurriedly dressed. Then, having buckled the breast-plate and upper armour of an apprentice swordmaster into place, he hurried off down the corridor towards the Central Staircase.
In the Central Hall of the Upper Halls, a gangly young knight academic-in-waiting with oval spectacles paced the floor. His brow was furrowed. Pausing for a moment beneath one of the tall, ornately decorated pulpits, he reached out and, with his forefinger, traced the twists and curves of a carved tarry-vine with his forefinger. This was the pulpit where the Fellowship of the First Scholars held their debates.
He walked on, looking up at the towering pulpits all round him. In the one to his left, the Knights of the Great Storm held their secretive meetings; and in that one over by the back wall, he knew that the Friends of Mist and Fog would meet to talk endlessly of the weather …
So much discussion and debate, he thought with a wry smile, and pushed his spectacles back up his nose. The Pulpit Societies of the Upper Halls generated enough hot air to warm the Sanctaphrax rock to its core. Yet for all their talk, not one of the squires, knights or high professors who gathered there could explain this endless winter – nor decide what to do about it.
Just then, he heard the sound of footsteps and turned to see two figures approaching. One was a slightly built forge-hand, the other an apprentice swordmaster.
‘Where's Quint?’ the apprentice swordmaster whispered, his face drawn and anxious-looking.
‘He's been called to meet his mentor at the Loftus Observatory at eight hours,’ said the young knight. ‘He only heard a few moments ago …’
‘So what do we do now?’ asked the forge-hand, urgently. ‘We can't call it off. We might not get another chance …’
‘Well, we can't leave Quint behind,’ said the knight, as calmly as he could manage. ‘I think we should go ahead as planned, get everything prepared. Quint will join us as soon as he can. Now,’ he said, with a smile, ‘instead of standing round here debating like some Pulpit Society, let's get a move on.’
They were about to slip away when the sound of more footsteps echoed round the vast, empty hall. The group turned to see a thin, hunched Upper Hall squire crossing the floor, rubbing his hands together gleefully as he did so. Catching sight of the three figures over by the pulpit, the squire paused for a moment. He seemed as surprised as they were to find anyone else up at this hour. He approached them, the smirk on his face changing to a sneer.
‘Who have we here, then?’ he asked. ‘Raffix, Phin! And … let me see … Ah yes, Stope the forge-hand, I remember you …’
‘Vilnix Pompolnius,’ said Raffix. ‘What are you doing creeping about this early in the morning?’
‘I could ask you the same question,’ said Vilnix, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.
‘Us?’ said Raffix nonchalantly. ‘Oh, um … We've just formed a Pulpit Society … Though only a small one, you understand …’
‘How interesting,’ Vilnix sneered. ‘And what's this Pulpit Society of yours called?’
‘Called?’ said Raffix, his face reddening.
Vilnix chuckled. ‘You mean to say you've dragged an academic-at-arms and a grubby little forge-hand up from the Lower Halls to form a Pulpit Society, and you haven't even thought up a name?’
‘It's …’ Raffix began.
‘Perhaps I can help,’ Vilnix interrupted. ‘The Apprentice Windbags! Or the Ranting Ratbirds … Or no, I've got it – the Boring Barkslugs!’ He sniggered at his own joke.
Raffix bridled, colour flushing his cheeks. ‘If you must know,’ he said stiffly, struggling to come up with a plausible name that would wipe the smile off the squire's smug features, ‘we are called … the Winter Knights.’
*
The bedchamber of the Hall Master of High Cloud was dark and cold. A moaning sound, low and eerie, was coming from the large sumpwood bed, chained to the centre of the floor. The bed swayed and lurched as its occupant thrashed about and clawed at the bedclothes.
Hax Vostillix was having a bad dream.
He was on board a stormchaser, gripping the balustrades grimly as the fragile vessel rolled and swayed, pitched and plunged. One moment he was unbearably hot, as though his body were in flames; the next, as the fragile sky ship was swallowed up by the freezing ice-blizzards, he became so cold that his teeth chattered and his body shook uncontrollably.
All at once, a loud screeching sound filled his ears, and he looked down to see thousands of ratbirds streaming from the hull of the ship, twisting round in the air, before speeding off towards the far horizon. The sky ship was out of control and, in a fast and furious spiral, spinning down towards the white mud of the Mire …
Hax Vostillix's eyes snapped open. He was bathed in sweat, his skin dripping and his nightgown soaked right through. But he was cold. Bitterly cold. His fingers and toes were so frozen he could barely feel them, and yet inside, his belly was on fire, churning and convulsing. And then there was the pain …
Hax had never known pain like it. It wrenched and racked his stomach, like a thousand red-hot needles that stabbed and slashed, twisting his guts into knots.
‘Wooorgh!’ he groaned. ‘Aaoouurgh …’
Spasm after spasm of intense pain drove though him, folding him up double as it cramped and branded. Grunting with utter misery, Hax rolled over and crawled from the swaying sumpwood bed. He stumbled across to his desk – its surface strewn with cloud charts, weather predictions, ballistics lists and mist readings – and slumped down into the chair.
The pain grew more intense than ever, and the words and figures on the barkscrolls swam before his eyes, seeming to taunt him and goad him. He pushed them aside, and as he did so, his hands knocked against the silver tray with its untouched plate of food, the jug of sapwine, the small gold bowl …
All at once, he doubled up violently again, his chin on his knees, as a fiery convulsion erupted inside him. The pain was so bad, it felt as if his belly was about to explode.
‘Must be something … I … ate …’ he moaned.
His gaze fell on the gold bowl …
Of course! The delberry bonbons. And he had taken them as proof that not everyone hated him. How could he have been so stupid? So careless?
The searing pain inside him grew more and more intense. Hax's vision clouded over. The fire surged up from his belly, into his throat …
‘Aaaargh!’ he screamed, twisting out of the chair and crumpling, open-mouthed, to the marble floor like a gutted oozefish on a slab.
It took several moments before the convulsions ceased, the limbs stopped thrashing and the Hall Master of High Cloud fell still. As a bright streak of blood trickled from the corner of Hax's mouth onto his white beard, a low buzzing sound came up from his throat.
The next moment, a single dark striped insect appeared. It rested on Hax's swollen, protruding tongue for a few seconds, its feelers quivering as it tasted the air. Then the tiny creature spread its glistening wings and, with a rasping buzz, took flight.
Another insect appeared in its place …
And another, and another - until there was a thick stream of them, spewing out from the hall master's gaping mouth. Soon, the bedchamber was filled with the sound of angry buzzing as the swarm of newly-hatched woodwasps swirled round the room, while Hax's life
less eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling.
‘Murder! Murder!’
Daxiel Xaxis stormed into the Hall of Grey Cloud, his face disfigured by a mass of weeping purple blisters. He seized the nearest gatekeeper and thrust his swollen, pustular features into the startled guard's.
‘Rouse all the gatekeepers!’ he wheezed through blistered lips. ‘There is no time to lose! Hax Vostillix, our beloved leader, has been murdered!’
‘Murder!’
‘Murder!’
‘Murder!’
The news flew round, and before long the Hall of Grey Cloud was resounding with the indignant cries of the gatekeepers as they scrambled from their hammocks and benches, clambered into their white robes and grabbed whatever weapon was closest to hand. They clustered round the Captain of the Gatekeepers, who angrily pushed away the byre-gillie fussily attempting to apply a hyleberry poultice to the wasp stings. He raised his hand for silence.
‘When I took the Hall Master of High Cloud his supper last night, he was in good spirits,’ Daxiel began, wincing with pain. ‘Yet this morning, at seven hours, when I opened the doors to his chamber, I found the hall master dead and the place infested with woodwasps!’
All round him, there was a sharp intake of breath, and the gatekeepers exchanged dark looks.
‘Yes, yes, I know what you're thinking,’ said Daxiel. ‘Woodwasp eggs – an earth-scholar trick! But that's just what they want you to believe!’
‘They?’ asked a heavily-tattooed flat-head goblin with a puzzled frown.
‘The academics-at-arms, of course!’ snarled Daxiel. ‘They, and their friends in the Upper Halls. Sanctaphrax born and bred, the lot of them, and they hated Hax Vostillix because he wouldn't stand for their stuck-up ways! That's why he took on Undertowners like us to be his gatekeepers.’
