A few seconds later, he was out of the study and slipping down the servants’ corridor toward the utility room. Once inside, he breathed a sigh of relief. The cleaners had been and gone. He was safe.
The cramped, enclosed room was a jumble of gas pipes, waste chutes, and laundry tubs. It was nearly dark, apart from the flare of the single gas lamp. He carefully sidestepped a collection of dustpans and mops and made his way to the central flue, lighting the cigar with a match as he went. He swung open a small vent door and dragged deep, savoring the smooth taste, before leaning forward to blow the smoke right into the flue cylinder, letting the smoke wind its way up and out of the chimney system high above.
There was a sudden sound of footsteps. Fast and purposeful, they stopped abruptly on the other side of the door.
“Woodrot!” Petronio stubbed out the cigar and threw it down the flue. What a waste! As the door to the utility room swung inward and light spilled in, he stepped quickly into the far corner behind a pile of boxes and drew back.
Whoever it was who’d just entered didn’t seem to notice the smoky scent. The intruder was humming a tune, badly. The hum came to a stop, followed by a moment’s silence and then clanking noises accompanied by an interesting variety of muttered swear words.
A disgusting and all too familiar smell of sewage slowly filled the room. There was more muttering followed by a sigh and “Gotcha!”
Of course! Petronio’s father had been complaining about the drains for weeks. Being rich made no difference — plumbers were always booked up. However, it appeared that one of their species had finally bothered to turn up. Bad timing, nothing more. Petronio thought about stepping out and startling the worker. It would serve him right for spoiling his smoke. But he wondered what a lowly plumber would make of the High Councillor’s son lurking in the utility room. No, that wouldn’t do at all.
He leaned back and nearly collapsed against the boxes when the unmistakable voice of his father suddenly echoed around the room. What the holly was his father doing in the utility room, talking to someone up to their elbows in the brown and nasty?
“We must move cautiously. Quercus is old, but not stupid.” The voice sounded muffled and slightly distorted.
Petronio was confused. Only one person had come into the utility room.
Another voice, sharper and more feminine, answered. “We? Do not presume to speak of us, Councillor!”
“Naturally, my lady. A slip of the tongue. I beg you, accept my apologies….”
Petronio forced himself to breathe slowly as he twigged the truth. No wonder the speakers sounded odd: They were distant. The plumber must have opened up one of the air-conditioning pipes and the voices were being carried up from the vent in the drawing room downstairs.
The woman continued as if his father hadn’t even spoken. Petronio could detect a strange accent, her pronunciation of the Dendran language sounding stilted and formal.
“We pay you for information. As I have explained, the Empire of Maw is running out of space and raw materials. It is amazing to us that your puny little forest kingdom has managed to deflect all inquiry and communication for thousands of years: Arborium is truly the last potential frontier. The gas your trees exude to deter unwanted visitors was a clever evolutionary trick.”
“Yes,” mused Grasp’s voice. “Nature is rather ingenious. However, as you are standing here, I presume that your empire’s science has afforded you some protection?”
There was no answer. Petronio wondered if the woman was nodding or ignoring his father. And who the bark was she?
Councillor Grasp filled the silence. “We keep ourselves to ourselves. But I fervently believe that the time will soon be right for our little country to serve a greater need. My lady, I stand at your service.”
The sound of a chair being scraped back along the floor rose up the air shaft.
“Oh, do sit down, you stupid little man.”
Petronio felt a surge of anger. Nobody called his father stupid and got away with it! Businessmen who stood in the High Councillor’s way had a habit of vanishing over the edge in sad but unforeseen accidents.
The woman continued, “In our country, the amount of wood in this room alone would make one a billionaire! This island will be a farm unlike any other, and your people will make excellent workers! Of course, once we have cleared sufficient trees and revived our economy with controlled stocks of precious timber, we shall be able to tap your huge reserves of underground natural gas … and clearly, you will of course be wanting a handsome cut!” Petronio smiled. Whoever she was, she had certainly got the measure of his father.
Grasp’s tone became wheedling. “Well, my lady … a small pecuniary deposit will simply help to smooth the machinery of change. And … I do believe you mentioned the job of President of Arborium for someone who stays, ah, loyal to the end?”
“You want more, and yet more again. I think we understand each other well, Councillor. Our plans are progressing, but time is short. In seven days, I believe you hold a quaint celebration called the Harvest Festival.”
“Yes. What about it?”
“This shall be the moment we act!”
Petronio’s mind darted off. What was his father up to? President? Petronio tried the phrase out in his head: My father, President of Arborium. It sounded good — more than good. His duty was to report traitors, but duty be hanged! And what did she mean about the festival held on the first full moon of autumn? It was a waste of time, a bunch of poor plebs cluttering the capital with their stupid lanterns, gossiping about the weather! What was she on about?
His musings were interrupted by a sneeze. Petronio was startled. How could he have forgotten the presence of the plumber? More to the point, he now knew he wasn’t the only witness to the high treason unfolding below.
“What was that?” came the woman’s voice, sharp and alert.
There was a short, shocked silence. Petronio could almost hear the conspirators thinking.
When Grasp spoke, his voice was flustered. “The house creaks and groans. It is the nature of wood, unlike your … er … cities of glass and steel.”
“Are you as stupid as you look, Councillor?” hissed the woman. “Ceilings … don’t … sneeze!”
Petronio could hear the tension in her voice.
“Yes … of course. I think … it’s possible … a spy!” deduced Grasp.
“Do you have any idea what that means? Do something about it. Now!”
Somewhere in the house, a bell immediately sounded, summoning security.
In the utility room, Petronio plunged his hand inside his jacket. Damn and Diana! His trusty knife was currently lying under the mattress in his bedroom. Totally useless! Maybe it would be better to wait for the professionals. He wasn’t sure how to go about tackling a fully grown man, especially one who would be armed with both muscle and an array of heavy wrenches, but he could try. After all, he was well known for his ungentlemanly successes in combat class. He’d use the element of surprise.
He took a deep breath and jumped from his hiding place with a screeching yell. The plumber spun around toward him, an ugly-looking iron wrench poised in midair. But it was a slight brown face with high cheekbones that hovered behind, topped by the customary leather skullcap. And the eyes that stared wide with alarm were a vivid, almost jewel green. This was not the sort of surprise Petronio had intended.
“You!” Petronio shouted.
The face stared back with instant recognition. In Arborium, children from all backgrounds attended nursery and acorn school together until the age of seven; rich and poor mixed together like compost. After that, education cost; only those with means could afford it. The King enjoyed using words such as equality but the reality was far different. Ensconced within his palace walls, the old man had no idea that the compost was rotten to the core.
Once Petronio had moved on and become aware that his former playmate, Ark Malikum, was the son of a sewage worker, he’d wrinkled his nose and quickly jo
ined the other children in looking down on him. Ark had always been skinny and faintly smelly: easy prey. Petronio remembered how his embarrassment at the association had given way to casual threats and intimidation whenever he and his new friends crossed paths with the unfortunate Ark. Their lives had gone in very separate ways, as birth intended — until now.
This momentary shock delayed Petronio for a split second too long.
In that instant, Ark dived for the door, knocking a pile of boxes sideways. Anything he lacked in strength, he made up for in speed. Flight had always been his best way out of trouble and he was nearest the door.
By the time Petronio recovered his senses to scramble over the boxes and lunge out through the open doorway, he was greeted and grabbed by two sets of powerful arms.
“What ’ave we ’ere? A chubby mole in a hole!”
“You’ve got the wrong person!” Petronio shrieked, only too aware of the consequences of this mistake. “Quick, he’s getting away!”
“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! Always innocent, aren’t they?” The guards were obviously newly appointed, and what was more, they were smiling a bit too eagerly as the sturdy youth tried to struggle free.
“Don’t you know who I am?” Petronio demanded. He wondered whether to try attacking at least one of them, but instantly decided against it. One was slender and sinewy, and the other had a scar on his head like a warning sign: Don’t mess with me! Petronio was in enough trouble already, but he still protested. “You’ll be shoveling squit by tomorrow for treating me like this!”
“Ooh! Hark at him, all high and mighty, considering we caught him in the act! Wot you think, Salix?”
“A fancy bit of lip, that! I think we got a right smart-arse ’ere, Alnus!” The guards were taking no chances. The larger one held the intruder in a neck lock as they hauled him downstairs.
“Here’s your spy, sir! Perhaps if he’d been on a diet, he might ’ave slipped away. Thank Diana fer too many goat pies!” said Salix, shoving him into the room, before standing back.
Petronio stumbled forward and found himself looking up into a pair of strange, almost violet eyes.
The woman stared at him, then turned to read the explosive expression on Councillor Grasp’s face. She raised an eyebrow. “Ah, let me guess. The family resemblance gives it away. Your son? Yes?” She circled Petronio slowly. He was transfixed.
Admittedly, Dendrans came in all shapes, sizes, and colors. The only trait that marked them out was the extra length of their fingers, all the better to grasp at branch or twig. But this woman was unlike any Dendran he’d ever seen. Her eyebrows were sculpted into twin crescent moons, her lips were painted red as rowanberries, and her black hair was pulled tightly into a woven bun. Her robe was like that of a Holly Woodsman, hood pulled back — though women priests were unheard of these days.
“What is the meaning of this?” thundered Councillor Grasp, addressing both his son and the now uncomfortable guards.
“Father. I humbly apologize.” Petronio spoke quickly, trying to gauge how much time had already been lost. “But please listen. There was someone else in the utility room. A boy. Arktorious Malikum.” He felt sweat gather under his armpits as he tried not to breathe in his father’s general direction. Being caught out smoking would sidetrack the situation.
“The plumber boy?”
“Yes. And he’ll be out of the house by now!”
“What?” Grasp was shaking with rage. “You mean you let him escape!” The Councillor smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Don’t they teach you the buddy obvious in school?”
Petronio was shocked. It was the guards’ fault! If only they hadn’t got in the way. As for the insults, he’d get his own back later.
His father lowered his voice. “Did you hear everything? “
Petronio was a born liar. Like father, like son. But for this once, he would make an exception. He nodded and mumbled, “Both of us … heard.” He was digging himself deeper with every word.
“Let me assure you, boy, that if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I will not treat you like a son, but a traitor. Do you understand? The last fifteen minutes of your life never happened. Now leave us!” Grasp flicked his hand, dismissing Petronio as if he were a speck of dandruff. He turned to the guards. “So, it looks like we have more than one plumbing leak. There’s another little drip that needs to be stopped — permanently! Don’t prove as incompetent as my so-called son! And report straight back to me as soon as it’s dealt with,” Grasp snarled. “Do what you have to do. The sewage worker you let in earlier is a liability. Now move it!”
The guards did as they were told, pounding out of the house and onto the highway. The chase was on.
3• ONE MINUTE BEFORE ARK’S JUMP
The mist had done Ark a huge favor. At this level, a few hundred yards below the treetops, the forest transformed into a backdrop of blurred shapes. He was now no more than an outline crouched between the advancing guards. Ark only had seconds.
His mind raced. What he’d overheard in the utility room was a death sentence. He had to do something, but what? He looked desperately at his plumbing belt: wrenches, screwdrivers, pliers, ratchets, and rope, thin but strong, for crawling through dark, stinking pipes … Rope! That was it!
The leaves shivered in the gloom, whispering amongst themselves, as Ark peered briefly over the safety posts at the edge of the highway. Why wait to be pushed? All he needed to do was unhook the rope from his belt, loop it around one of the posts, and then tie the ends tightly around one wrist. Crouching down for just a moment, he fastened the rope with nervous fingers.
It was now or never. All he had in his mind was blind faith. If the post was rotten, then … snap! Ark would truly plummet down: a wingless bird. Dead.
He stood up and took a running leap straight over the edge.
Every instinct screamed at him to stop. Too late. He flew out into space in a great arc. The rope unraveled, then pulled taut. The wrench was so sudden, he thought his shoulder might have dislocated. But underneath the branch line where he now swung wildly, he was still breathing, still alive. The earth had not claimed him — yet.
Quickly, with his free hand he undid his plumbing belt, which had been handed down from father to son for generations. His father had given it to him only last year when he had grown too ill to work. But Ark had no choice. He spotted his target, a broken bit of scaffolding sticking up from a withered old trunk, and threw the belt down toward it. He was a good shot. Even before it landed, Ark began climbing back up the doubled rope. He was as deft as a spider, soon reaching the underbelly of the scaffolding.
Beneath all the branch lines and highways, higgledy-twiggledy structures of wooden scaffolding supported the infrastructure of Arborium. There were mail tubes and gas pipes, and mini aqueducts that carried the supplies of water pumped up by the tree roots from deep beneath the soil. Ark had to keep moving fast through this tangle. He scrambled up until he found a perch directly under the branch line. He undid the rope from his wrist and pulled hard. It slithered back around the safety post and was swiftly coiled.
Just as the rope slipped finally into his hands, footsteps reverberated along the planks above him and cries of alarm were lost in the leaves. The steps finally came to a halt. There was a scraping sound, followed by a curse. So close.
Ark hugged his knees, trying to shrink into himself, and made his breathing shallow. Could they have spotted the thin strand of rope in the deepening dusk? If they had, it was over. He waited for a face to be thrust right over the edge, to stare straight underneath at him or for the thud of a close-range crossbow bolt.
“Nothing would survive that fall,” muttered a voice that could only be a few feet away.
“Not quite ‘nothin’.’ What’s that?” Another voice, even closer.
“Where?”
“Down there! Plumbing tools?”
Silence.
Ark counted to three. Would it be better to be caught or to actually
jump?
“Ha!” A short, hard laugh. “Gives a new meaning to belt up, that does, doesn’t it!”
“Almost makes you feel sorry for ’im!” There was more grim laughter, followed by coughing and then the rumble of a gob of spit being dredged from creaking lungs. “Pah! Good riddance!”
That was that! The plan had actually worked. The half-witted guards had seen what he wanted them to see. Now, according to the fading sounds of mockery up above, he was dead, off to the River Sticks to join the other sorry souls who had killed themselves.
He heard a far-off rumble of thunder, but the drum of drips on the woodway above had finally stopped. A pigeon warbled softly somewhere to his left. The men must have gone. But Ark still didn’t move, curled up among the jumble of pipes and tubes. He wasn’t sure that he could and he felt no satisfaction in having fooled his pursuers. After all, from now on, he might just as well be dead. His throat was dry and he felt like he’d been turned inside out.
If anyone had been watching, they would have seen what looked like a bundle of rags wrapped tightly around the scaffolding. Ten slow minutes passed before the bundle gradually began to separate into moving limbs. Ark unfolded and shakily pulled himself upright. He had to bend sideways to avoid knocking his head on any pipes. At waist height, a zinc-lined aqueduct ran either side of him on the underside of the branch. Water. He climbed closer, scooped his hands into the clear liquid and lifted it to his lips. As he straightened up, two pairs of identical eyes stared back at him.
Flippin’ fungus! he cursed silently. Just what he needed!
Admittedly, it was the perfect spot: tucked out of the way with a plentiful supply of refreshment, the woodway above a convenient waterproof roof. He should have noticed that what looked like a haphazard pile of twigs was, in fact, artfully woven around the pipes, but his mind had been on other matters.
The two baby ravens continued staring at Ark as they opened their beaks and screeched. But the word baby in no way described these creatures, their claws already able to slice to the bone with one swipe, and beaks capable of cracking a puny Dendran skull like a walnut. Each of the fledglings was half as big as Ark and if these were the tiddlers … he shuddered to think about their parents.
Ravenwood Page 2
