by Paul Stewart
The professor looked round. He saw Twig standing above the bowl of stormphrax with the pestle raised above his head.
‘No,’ he gasped. ‘Are you mad? You’ll blow us all to open sky!’
‘Have faith, Professor,’ Twig said. ‘And keep your eyes to the sky. Remember, not a moment too soon and not a moment too late.’
The chamber throbbed with silence for what seemed like an eternity. Twig’s arm began to ache and doubts to niggle. What if the Professor of Light had been wrong after all? The shaft of golden light pouring in through the window shifted a shade.
‘Now!’ the Professor of Darkness cried out, shattering the awful silence.
Twig held his breath and brought the pestle down as hard as he could into the waiting mortar. There was a thud. A crunch. A sparkling brilliance. But no more. And, as the golden light at the window turned to amber, Twig looked down at the bowlful of sepia powder sliding round like liquid.
‘It worked,’ he whispered. He spun round to the professor. ‘It worked!’
The Professor of Darkness trotted towards him, beaming with delight. He looked down into the bowl. ‘First stormphrax! Now phraxdust! Wait, I must pinch myself to check I’m not dreaming.’
‘This is no dream,’ said Twig. ‘The stormphrax will restore equilibrium to Sanctaphrax and the phraxdust will purify the drinking water once more.’ He turned and stared boldly into the professor’s eyes. ‘And now I know it works, there is something else to do, Professor,’ he said, his voice hushed and earnest. ‘I have a plan to ensure that the secret of safe phraxdust production shall never fall into the wrong hands. But I’ll need to ask for your help if it is to work.’
‘Ask away, Twig, my boy,’ said the Professor of Darkness. ‘Ask and it shall be done.’
With darkness falling, Twig and the Stone Pilot followed the professor from his chamber. Back down the spiral stairs they went, grunting and groaning as the heavy chest bumped against the walls. At the bottom, instead of going out through the door, the professor took them down a further flight of stairs, through a narrow archway and on into a tunnel. It was dark and dank there, with only the dim light from the lantern in the chest to show them which way to go.
‘Daren’t risk lighting the torches in case it destabilizes the stormphrax,’ the professor called back.
On and on they walked. This way, that way, down stairs and ramps, gradually making their way to the very centre of the floating rock. Behind him, Twig could feel the Stone Pilot getting slower and slower. He knew that she was nearing the end of her strength.
‘Is it much further to go?’ asked Twig.
‘We’re almost there’ said the professor. ‘Just round this next corner and …’
‘HALT! WHO GOES THERE?’
The professor stopped in his tracks. Twig who was finding it difficult to see the black robes in the dark tunnels anyway walked slap-bang into him. Maugin grunted with alarm and dropped the chest onto her foot and grunted again, this time with pain. Out of the confusion came the professor’s frail voice.
‘Is that you, Bogwitt?’ he said. ‘It is I, the Professor of Darkness. I must have access to the treasury’
‘Can’t,’ came the surly reply from the guard.
‘I … I… I beg your pardon,’ the professor spluttered. ‘Do you dare to deny me entrance?’
‘By order of the Most High Academe.’
‘What?’ exclaimed the professor. ‘But both you and I know that our worthy leader, Vilnix Pompolnius, would never dream of including me in such an order. So let me pass. At once.’
‘No-one is to enter the treasury’ said Bogwitt with sudden ferocity. ‘Neither leaguesman nor academic’ He lifted his lamp to the professor’s face. ‘And especially not you. Those was my orders from Vilnix Pompolnius himself. What’s more, you’re to surrender your key’
‘Surrender my key? Over my dead body!’ the professor huffed.
‘If that’s what you want, so be it’ came the chilling response.
The lamp was placed on the ground with a clatter, and Twig heard the swoosh and thwip of a sword and dagger being unsheathed. He peered round over the professor’s shoulder at the guard blocking their view.
‘A flat-head’ he muttered to himself. ‘I might have known.’ As he stared at the swaggering goblin all glinting ear-rings, gold teeth and blades fury and loathing rose up in his throat. How dare this barbaric flat-head goblin stand in their way when they had come so far and achieved so much when they were so near to their final destination?
‘My dear Bogwitt,’ the professor was saying. ‘This must all be some kind of a misunderstanding. If you could just let us inside the treasury for a moment. No-one would ever know and …’
At that moment Twig’s rage exploded. He wrested his own sword from its scabbard and leaped forwards.
‘Let us pass, curse you!’ he roared.
For a moment, the flat-head looked surprised but only for a moment. With a leering smile playing over his lips, he squared up and lunged abruptly forwards, his sword thrusting towards Twig’s neck. Twig stepped sharply back, and parried. The two swords clashed ferociously and stunned by the awful force of the blow Twig reeled backwards. Bogwitt was on him in a trice, sword thrusting and dagger slashing.
Twig trembled before the onslaught of wild, thrashing blows. Panting with effort, he staggered backwards, defending himself as best he could, but weakening with every second. Suddenly, the flat-head jumped to the right and swung his heavy sword in from the left. Twig was caught unawares. He stumbled to the side and struck his elbow on the wall.
‘Aaaoow’ he howled, as searing pain shot up his arm and down his spine. His sword clattered to the stone floor.
Bogwitt stepped forwards, eyes glinting. He raised his own sword. ‘Silly little fool,’ he hissed. ‘Did you really believe that you could defeat me – personal bodyguard to Vilnix Pompolnius himself – the fiercest and most feared guard in Sanctaphrax?’ He gripped the hilt of his sword till his knuckles went white. A glistening purple tongue flicked across his thin lips; his eyes gleamed. ‘I shall enjoy this.’
‘Stop!’ Twig cried out. ‘Do not strike’
The flat-head sneered. ‘So the big brave bear was a timid wee woodmouse all the time, was it?’ he said, and laughed unpleasantly.
‘Hear me out,’ said Twig, and reached inside his jacket.
‘What treachery is this?’ the flat-head roared. ‘Remove your hand at once, before I pin it to your heart.’
Twig slowly pulled out his hand, bringing with it the pouch which Mother Horsefeather had given him. He jingled it lightly in his palm. ‘Gold, Bogwitt,’ he said. ‘Ten gold pieces could be yours.’
‘Of course it could,’ said Bogwitt. ‘Or I could slit your pretty throat and take it all.’
‘You could,’ said Twig, standing his ground. ‘But it wouldn’t do you any good.’
The flat-head hesitated for a moment. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked gruffly.
‘He to whom you have pledged your allegiance is about to be dethroned,’ he said.
‘What, Vilnix Pompolnius? Don’t make me laugh!’ said the flat-head. ‘The Most High Academe?’
‘The scurrilous usurper,’ the Professor of Darkness muttered under his breath.
‘The leaguesmen are against him,’ Twig continued. ‘The academics are against him.’
‘But… but why?’ demanded the flat-head.
‘Why?’ the Professor of Darkness broke in. ‘Because he has run out of both the phraxdust which secured his alliance with the leaguesmen and the stormphrax which holds the floating city in place.’
Bogwitt looked confused. ‘But there is stormphrax in the treasury,’ he said. ‘That is what Vilnix ordered me to guard.’
‘Why don’t you take a look then?’ suggested the professor, and handed him a heavy key.
The flat-head goblin’s eyes narrowed. ‘If this is some kind of a trick … ?’
‘Just look!’ snapped the professor.
> With his sword still raised, Bogwitt picked up his lamp and crossed over to the treasury door. There, he turned the key in the lock, twisted the handle and pushed. He stuck his head in and stared round in disbelief. Anger rose in his throat.
‘Empty,’ he snarled. ’The lying, cheating, no-good …
It’s completely empty!’
‘Vilnix lied to you,’ the professor said simply. ‘As he lies to everybody’
‘You backed the wrong side, Bogwitt,’ Twig said, spelling it out for him. ‘And now there can be no place for you in Sanctaphrax. However …’
‘But I didn’t know!’ Bogwitt blurted out. ‘I was only doing my job. I…’
‘However,’ Twig repeated, ‘there is one possible way out of all this.’ He paused. ‘You are a good fighter, Bogwitt.’
‘The best,’ he nodded.
‘And clearly loyal,’ said Twig.
‘I am, I am,’ the flat-head agreed eagerly.
Twig nodded. ‘Then this is what I propose,’ he said. ‘You join the crew of my sky pirate ship. But not as a slave. There will be no bondmen or galley-slaves on board the Edgedancer.’ He glanced down at the leather pouch. ‘What do you say?’
For a moment, the flat-head goblin remained silent. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his broad face. He met Twig’s gaze. ‘I says yes,’ he replied.
Twig slowly counted out ten pieces of gold into his hand. ‘But if you try to cross me, Bogwitt, it will be the worse for you,’ he added threateningly. ‘There are many, both in Undertown and Sanctaphrax, who would like to get their hands on Vilnix Pompolnius’s former bodyguard.’
‘You can rely on me, Captain Twig,’ said Bogwitt.
‘I believe I can,’ said Twig, and he slapped the coins down into the palm of his hand. ‘Welcome aboard, Bogwitt,’ he said.
The professor, who had been watching the exchange with some confusion, stepped forwards. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘let us complete our task.’
Twig nodded. ‘Bogwitt,’ he said, ‘will you take the other end of that chest.’ The flat-head did not move. ‘Bogwitt!’ Twig snapped. ‘I trust that this is not the first indication of a mutinous nature.’
‘No, no,’ said Bogwitt, and approached the chest. ‘Not at all, sir, but…’ He shuddered. ‘Why does the box glow so strangely?’
‘Stormphrax,’ Twig answered. ‘We have brought stormphrax. Equilibrium is about to be restored to the empty treasury of Sanctaphrax.’
A minute later, the treasury was no longer empty. In the middle of the circle which had been carved at the very centre of the chamber, stood the chest of stormphrax.
‘But why has nothing happened?’ asked Bogwitt.
‘Only when it’s in darkness, pure and absolute, does the stormphrax attain maximum weight,’ the professor explained. He raised the lid of the chest and removed the twilight lantern. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘It is time.’
In a line, with the professor in front and Twig bringing up the rear, the four of them made for the door. As they went, the lantern and the lamp swung, sending dark shadows swooping round the chamber and across the chest. The stormphrax grew heavy, then light again then heavier than ever. And as that happened, so the floor of the treasury rocked and trembled.
‘Quick!’ the professor cried, and broke into a run.
The others followed, stumbling and staggering as the floor continued to judder. When he reached the door, Twig glanced back for one last look. The chest seemed absurdly small in the centre of the enormous chamber. Could it really be enough to stabilize the mighty floating rock?
‘Twig!’ said the professor sharply.
Twig stepped outside, seized the heavy iron handle and slammed the door shut behind him, the sound echoing back along the dark tunnels. At the same time, the floor beneath his feet abruptly dropped away.
His stomach lurched. His heart leapt into his mouth. Terrified, he cried out.
The next instant, the movement jerked to a halt. There was silence. There was stillness. Twig turned to the Professor of Darkness.
‘Is that it?’ he said.
‘That is it,’ the professor confirmed. ‘The perfect amount.’
Twig shook his head in disbelief.
‘Trust me,’ said the professor. ‘Deep down here at the centre of the rock, the effect is minimal. Up on the surface, however, in the city itself, the consequences will be cataclysmic. In fact, you must believe me when I say to you that Sanctaphrax will never ever be the same again.’
•C H A P T E R T W E N T Y-T H R E E•
SHOWDOWN
Vilnix Pompolnius was waking from a deep dreamless sleep when the floating rock first trembled. He opened his eyes, glanced round the luxurious Inner Sanctum and smiled a self-satisfied smile.
‘How wonderful this all is,’ he muttered. ‘And how exquisitely clever I am to have made it mine.’
He threw back his covers, climbed out of bed and walked to the window. The sun large and red and wobbling like an immense bowl of dellberry jelly had - just risen up above the horizon. Pink, feathery light spread across the sky. Vilnix yawned and rubbed his hand over his stubbly scalp.
‘The start of yet another delightful day’ he said, and threw the window wide open.
A blast of refreshingly dewy air struck him in the face, snatching his breath away. Behind him, the glass droplets of the crystal chandelier tinkled like wind-chimes. Vilnix leaned out and pulled the window shut again he didn’t want them to shatter. But the chandelier continued its insistent jangling music.
Vilnix frowned and looked round, puzzled. ‘What in Sky’s name … ?’ he muttered.
At that moment, the rock lurched and the mirror the second mirror, the mirror which was leaning up against the wall abruptly slid back, over the thick white carpet and down to the floor. Vilnix sighed. At least it hadn’t smashed. But what had caused it to fall in the first place? The weight-fixers and chain-clampers weren’t due to start work for another two hours and anyway, the floating rock was now gripped by judders and jolts far more severe than anything their drills could cause.
Horrified, Vilnix Pompolnius clung on to the window sill as the Inner Sanctum shook more violently than ever. Priceless objects were crashing to the floor all round the chamber the porcelain vases and ivory figurines, the ornate carvings and the time-pieces, the leatherbound books.
Is it a storm? Vilnix wondered. Or an earthquake? Or has the floating rock finally become so buoyant that it is tearing away from its moorings?
At that moment, there was a loud cracking sound and the chandelier abruptly broke free from the ceiling moulding and hurtled to the floor. It landed with an almighty crash on the mirror. Shards and splinters of crystal and glass flew all over the chamber, embedding themselves in the panelled walls.
‘What is going on?’ Vilnix screamed. ‘Minulis! MINULIS!’
But, on this occasion, the personal manservant to the Most High Academe failed to appear.
‘Minulis, where are you?’ stormed Vilnix, and strode furiously towards the door of his servant’s spartan antechamber. He’d show the impudent wretch that he wouldn’t be kept waiting!
Vilnix hadn’t got more than half-way across the glass-strewn carpet when, all at once and with no warning, the entire chamber dropped down. He stumbled and fell to the floor. Above his head, a crack opened from one side of the ceiling to the other, and a massive section of gold-embossed plaster came crashing down about him.
When the dust settled Vilnix raised his head, stood up and shook the powdery fragments from his robes. Sanctaphrax, he realized, was now steady again. Rock steady. ‘And yet for a moment we were falling,’ he whispered. ‘Which can mean but one thing …’ His sallow face reddened with fury. ‘That odious sky pirate must have returned with the stormphrax undetected.’
His head spinning with decisions and imperatives, Vilnix pulled his gown of office over his hair-shirt, fixed the spiked steel skull-cap into place and swept from the chaos of the chamber.
‘I’ll sh
ow him,’ he muttered furiously. ‘I’ll show them all! They’ll see what happens to traitors who meddle in the affairs of the Most High Academe.’
It wasn’t only the Inner Sanctum which suffered damage. In every corner of every room of every tower of Sanctaphrax, the story was the same. Instruments slipped from worktops; books fell from shelves. Walls cracked, windows broke, stonework and plaster tumbled to the ground as the vibrations had grown more violent.
Shrieks of terror and howls of pain rose up above the rumbling, crashing roar, and the citizens of Sanctaphrax young and old, venerable and lowly spilled out from the towers and into the squares and streets. For a moment they stood there, at a loss to know what to do as minarets and castellations came crashing down around them.
‘What’s happening?’ ‘What’s going on?’ they screamed at one another. “Tis the end of Sanctaphrax!’ Then someone called out, ‘To the Great Hall!’ and, as one, they all surged along the main avenue towards the oldest and most solid building in all of Sanctaphrax, the place where they always took to in an emergency.
The crowd arrived at the hall, angry and loud. They poured inside and were outraged to discover that even this ancient place of sanctuary had not been spared the consequences of the terrible shaking that had gripped their floating city. Fallen blocks of stone littered the cracked marble floor; a pillar lay on its side while a second one looked ready to topple at any moment. And, as they watched, a jagged crack zig-zagged its way up across the back wall from the foundations to the roof.
‘Not here,’ they cried out. ‘Not the Great Hall!’
By the time those at the back of the crowd were at last entering the building, the rock was once again still yet no-one’s rage had abated. Not a jot. From the academics, crushed together at the front of the hall, to the servants and guards, packed in around the walls, the cries were the same.
