Edge Chronicles 10: The Immortals

by Paul Stewart;Chris Riddell

  The pair of them gathered up their belongings and took the stairs to the upper deck. Nate thanked the bargemaster for a safe passage – but the old tusked goblin was supervising the shifting of the cargo and was far too engrossed to notice the young crop-haired youth and his bandy-legged companion as they followed the luggers and loaders across the swaying gangplank and onto the skytavern. Nate concentrated on keeping his balance – and not looking down.

  ‘Welcome aboard the Deadbolt Vulpoon,’ came a soft, slightly sibilant voice.

  As he stepped from the precarious plank onto the vast deck, Nate found a tall foppish individual barring his way. Slip stopped beside him. The rangy goblin – a hammerhead, by the look of him, but without either the distinctive tattoos or gold ear and neck rings that had once defined this warrior clan – looked at them loftily, one after the other. He pulled back a braided cuff and cleared his throat.

  ‘I take it you’re travellers,’ he said, ‘not luggers or loaders?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Nate. ‘We need a berth for Great Glade. How much is it?’

  ‘Depends,’ said the hammerhead with a sniff. ‘A grand cabin, complete with sumpwood bed, bathing cauldron and day and night attendance would be a thousand gladers.’

  ‘A thousand,’ repeated Nate, feeling the glader notes in his pocket.

  ‘Each,’ said the hammerhead. ‘But then, sadly, they’re all occupied.’

  ‘Shame,’ said Nate with a relieved sigh.

  ‘Other cabins vary, depending on the level of comfort required – bed or sleeping ledge; size of cabin hole … That sort of thing. Prices range from fifty to five hundred gladers.’

  ‘Each,’ said Nate.

  ‘Each,’ the hammerhead confirmed with a curt nod of his head.

  Nate flicked the corners of the notes. He glanced round at Slip, who was waiting patiently by his side. He realized his cheeks were reddening under the dismissive gaze of the hammerhead. ‘Anything cheaper?’ he said.

  ‘Cheaper than an inside lower deck cabin?’ said the hammerhead. He sucked in air through his sharpened teeth. It was clear he wasn’t going to make much of a percentage out of these two. ‘There’s the depths,’ he said, the words short and hissed. ‘But I can’t really advise it. All you get is a hammock – and they’re a rough crowd down there.’

  ‘Sounds fine,’ said Nate cheerfully. ‘What do you think, Slip?’

  ‘A hammock? For Slip the scuttler?’ he said, and chuckled. ‘Home from home, that’s what Slip thinks.’

  ‘It’s settled, then,’ Nate told the hammerhead. ‘Two for the depths.’

  ‘Ten gladers, then,’ said the hammerhead. He scowled. ‘All together.’

  Nate pulled the bundle of money from his pocket and peeled off the promissory notes. He handed them to the hammerhead and slipped the rest – a paltry twelve gladers – back into his pocket. The hammerhead took the money without acknowledgement and handed over two lufwood tokens in exchange.

  Nate examined them. On one side, carved into the tablets of polished wood, were the words Deadbolt Vulpoon; on the other, a crude cross section of the ship, with a hole punched through the very bottom of the hull at the stern.

  ‘Phraxweapons?’ The hammerhead nodded towards Slip’s bedroll and Nate’s knapsack. ‘Phraxweapons are not permitted on board any skyship for safety reasons.’

  They both shook their heads and opened their belongings to show him.

  ‘No phraxweapons,’ the hammerhead confirmed with a cursory glance, before waving them aside. ‘The depths are that way …’ He pointed down at his feet and turned away.

  The hammerhead was no longer interested in the lowly miners with their five-glader passes. Instead, he had his eyes on the young fourthling couple who had just come aboard from a privately chartered phraxbarge. He’d noticed the fine cut of their clothes, their fashionable funnel hats and carved blackwood canes, as well as the expensive and extensive luggage that accompanied them, carried by a pair of hefty lugtroll servants in matching topcoats.

  With an ingratiating smile, the hammerhead leaned forward, his soft fingertips pressed together. ‘Welcome,’ he said, voice oily and head tilted to one side. ‘Welcome aboard the Deadbolt Vulpoon.’

  Clutching their passes, Nate and Slip went through the arched doorway behind the hammerhead – and stopped. Their eyes widened. Before them lay a vast polished deck, with brightly lit corridors and stairways radiating off it, leading to every part of the massive skytavern. Each doorway and window frame, every beam and stanchion, had been carved into an intricate tracery of entwined leaves. It was as though the very timber was turning back to the trees from which it had once been hewn. Ornate lanterns hung from gilded hooks at the end of every crossbeam, while gleaming in the light below them were sumpwood chairs, laden with plush cushions, bobbing at the end of delicate chains.

  Some of them were occupied. A portly tufted goblin was deep in conversation with three giggling gnokgoblin matrons. An elderly fourthling with a plaited white beard and side-whiskers sipped at a woodlily-shaped goblet, his eyes closed. A little further off, a long-legged mobgnome, a parchment cascading over his knees, ran a bony finger slowly down a long list of figures …

  ‘The stateroom and apartments are located at the top of the main stairs, sir, madam,’ the hammerhead’s obsequious voice rang out.

  Nate and Slip turned to see the fourthling couple strolling towards them, arm in arm. Scuttling after them, weighed down with luggage – skychests, hat boxes, caskets and trunks – came the two lugtrolls. They all passed Nate and Slip without so much as a sideways glance, and continued towards the sweeping staircase to their right, with its deep-red carpet and gold stair rods.

  Nate and Slip took the staircase to the left – and the one after that, and the one after that … Down flight after flight they went, going deeper and deeper into the cavernous hull of the great skyship. With each cabin deck they passed, their surroundings grew darker and more cramped. The single lamp that flickered at the centre of the lowest deck was barely enough to see by.

  Nate paused and peered in through one of the open cabin doors. Inside were three stacks of bunk beds, each one filled with a goblin or troll and their belongings. There was a babble of voices and the air was rank with the smell of tilder tallow and unwashed bodies.

  ‘Wha’ you gawping at?’ a rasping voice demanded, and a wizened mottled goblin reached out a filthy hand and slammed the door shut.

  Nate and Slip kept on down the stairs, which creaked with every step they took. Given the state of the cabins, Nate was beginning to wonder what in Sky’s name a five-glader hammock was going to be like? As he emerged at the bottom of the stairs, he paused.

  He turned to Slip. ‘Remind you of anywhere?’ he asked.

  The scuttler beamed delightedly. ‘Just like the Sanctaphrax Forest!’ he exclaimed. ‘Only not as steep!’

  Like a low horizontal mineshaft, the depths of the Deadbolt Vulpoon stretched off into the gloom, with no cabin holes to let light – or much air, for that matter – in on the scene. Instead, there was a forest of crossbeams and upright struts from which row after row of hammocks had been strung. The majority seemed to be occupied by the most bedraggled and disreputable collection of individuals Nate had ever seen. Old miners, blue-eyed and phraxtouched; tattooed goblin trappers covered in animal pelts; cloddertrog knife grinders and sly, shifty-looking individuals in greasy topcoats and battered hats.

  ‘What about those?’ said Slip.

  Nate turned to see the grey goblin pointing at a couple of hammocks slung between a strut and the outer hull, through which a tiny chink of light appeared – together with some much-needed air.

  ‘Perfect, Slip,’ he said, and clapped the grey goblin on his shoulders. ‘Well done.’

  Settled at last, Nate lay back in the hammock. All around him, the beams and struts rumbled and trembled as the cloudpilots – far, far above their heads at the bulging phraxchamber – readjusted the buoyancy rods and cooling p
lates, and shoved the huge flight lever from ‘hover’ to ‘forward’. With a gentle rocking and a sharp lurch, the mighty skytavern thrust ahead.

  They were off. At last …

  • CHAPTER FIFTEEN •

  That had been two days ago. As the great ship steadily steamed over the vast tracts of the Deepwoods, Nate and Slip kept themselves to themselves in their small corner of the depths. The wraith-like figures of their fellow passengers came and went as they visited other parts of the great ship, scavenging and turning their hands to menial tasks – for no one travelling in the depths had any money to speak of, not once they’d paid their passage. Nate’s own twelve gladers nestled in the depths of his jacket pocket.

  Twelve gladers. It was all they had between them until they got to Great Glade. They would have to make it last.

  In the darkness, Nate turned to his friend. ‘Slip? Slip? Are you awake?’ he whispered.

  Slip’s big worried-looking eyes stared up at him through the gloom.

  ‘Slip’s awake, Master Nate. Slip’s just lying here thinking …’

  Nate heard the grey goblin’s belly rumble noisily. His own stomach gurgled in sympathy.

  ‘What were you thinking about?’ Nate asked.

  ‘About what Slip and Master Nate are going to do in that great big city so far from the mines …’

  Nate lay back and stared at the crossbeam above his head.

  ‘First, we’ll go and see my uncle, Quove Lentis, High Professor of Flight,’ Nate said, in a voice he hoped sounded more confident than he felt. ‘I’ve never met him. He was my mother’s brother, and he and my father had a big falling out before I was born … But I’m sure he’ll be able to help.’

  Below him in the darkness, Slip didn’t reply. But Nate could feel his eyes staring up at him.

  ‘Then we’ll visit the rich phraxmerchant who owns our mine, Slip. His name is Galston Prade, and he has a big mansion in New Lake. I haven’t met him either, but I found his name in my father’s papers. When he hears about what that mine sergeant of his is up to, he’s bound to give us a big reward and then …’

  ‘Then?’ said Slip, sitting up. He was hanging on Nate’s every word.

  Nate wanted to talk to Slip about the two phraxcrystals that nestled in the lightbox and how, if they ever needed to, they could sell them for a good price. But down here in the depths, surrounded by the ragged flotsam of the Eastern Woods, it was wiser to keep quiet.

  ‘Let’s just say I’ve got a plan,’ he said. ‘We’ll be all right. You and me, together.’

  ‘You and me,’ Slip echoed in the darkness. ‘Together.’

  His stomach rumbled again, noisily.

  ‘But now,’ said Nate, placing the lightbox next to the ironwood chest in his knapsack and strapping it shut, ‘it’s high time I found us something to eat!’ He swung down from the hammock and handed the knapsack to the grey goblin. ‘Here, Slip, guard this with your life,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  ‘Slip’ll guard it,’ said the goblin, hugging it tight to his puny chest with surprisingly powerful arms. ‘Don’t you worry.’

  As Nate left the depths and climbed the zigzag flights, one after the other, he felt faint with hunger. The higher he went, the smarter and better cared for the corridors became, and as he passed the entrance he’d first taken and continued up the stairs, the flickering lamps gave way to elegant globes, and the stained boards to thick patterned carpets. And it became much quieter. On the deck above the most opulent cabins of all, Nate came to two heavy doors.

  He crept closer. The panels, top and bottom, were carved with intricate pictures of hunting scenes. Standing on his tiptoes, Nate peered in through one of the circular windows …

  His jaw dropped. On the other side of the glass was a vast dining hall. Even though the doors cut out the sound, he could see that the place was thronging with animated groups of goblins and trogs, trolls and fourthlings, who were seated at great round tables and clustered inside floating booths. Nate stared longingly at the platters of food they were being served, his mouth watering. To his left, a well-dressed family of cloddertrogs were tucking into steaming slices of salted hammelhorn and spiced tilder; to his right, a hammerhead in a gaudy topcoat was using a large knife to carve succulent pieces from a glistening spitroast woodhog.

  Nate’s stomach gurgled loudly, half in protest, half in expectation …

  Before him, a tall, thin, impossibly elegant tufted goblin matron, her greying hair plaited and coiled up on top of her head, was delicately eating a huge bowl of delberries with a pair of tiny silver tongs. Nate loved delberries. As he stared through the glass, he could almost taste that sudden explosion of syrupy juice as her teeth broke through the berry’s smooth skin …

  Nate gripped the door handle and pushed hard. As the door swung open, he was struck by a wave of moist warmth and deafening clamour and the most delicious mixture of smells. In front of him, far above his head on a jutting balcony, was the source of all those wonderful aromas.

  For there, he could see a row of huge ovens, trays of roasting meats and racks of baking pies and loaves of bread being pushed in and pulled out of them on long flat spatulas. There were bubbling vats and steaming cauldrons being stirred and seasoned on the flaming hobs. There were heavily laden spits being slowly turned over low flames – everything tended to by scurrying cooks in starched coats and conical hats with pleated brims. They battered and basted, never still for a moment; they made their way through mounds of woodbeet, lake cabbage, tripweed and earthapples; dicing, slicing, peeling and paring …

  Nate was momentarily overcome by the wealth of sights and smells, his stomach grumbling and his head fuzzy …

  ‘Out of my way, young master,’ a voice sounded in his ear.

  Nate turned to see a lugtroll in a lopsided bonnet and a spattered apron veering round him, the laden trays balanced on each of her hands swaying precariously.

  ‘Sorry, I …’ he said, and stepped to one side – only to be shoved in the back by a huge flathead, a barrel of sapwine strapped to his back.

  He turned on Nate. ‘Excuse me, young master,’ he growled menacingly. ‘Got thirsty customers to see to …’

  He turned and lurched away. Nate watched him for a moment as he lumbered from table to table, turning the key at the top of the jutting spigot, and filling the goblets of those who wanted it.

  ‘Are you going to stand around … slurp … blocking the aisles up all evening?’ said a gabtroll, bustling past, a large pail of ice hanging from the crook of her arm and a bowl of steaming vegetables balanced on her head.

  ‘No. Sorry, I …’

  The gabtroll looked him up and down from both directions with her stalk-like eyes.

  ‘I don’t think the young master belongs here in the Grand Salon,’ she said kindly, taking him by the arm and guiding him towards the door. ‘Do better to try the hanging galleys on the fore hull, that’s a good young sir.’

  Light-headed, Nate stumbled out of the door, and the gabtroll turned smartly on her heels, straight into the path of the flathead wine butler. There was a loud crash of breaking platters and shattering goblets as the tray clattered heavily to the floor, followed by a derisory cheer – which was snuffed out a moment later as the door shut behind him.

  Nate hurried along a broad corridor. The walls were lined with portraits of former captains of the Deadbolt Vulpoon, the older the painting, the simpler their clothes, with ruffs, frills and embroidered jackets giving way to modest leather jerkins and bicorn hats. Coming to the midships, he took a long spiral staircase up, emerging – red-faced and panting – on a jutting viewing gantry. All round him was velvet darkness; above, the towering phraxchamber, silhouetted against the sky.

  High at its top, coils of steam billowed from the funnel in lamp-stained twisting plumes that trailed behind the ship, before dissolving into the night. At the back of the chamber, the air shimmered like liquid in the blast of the white light that roared from the p
hraxchamber’s propulsion duct and thrust the mighty skytavern forward. Above the throb and hum of the vast chamber, Nate heard another sound – a sharp tapping, like the chinking of glass, as the metal plates of the outer casing moved over its surface, dislodging the long, heavy icicles that had gathered there.

  ‘Come on,’ Nate muttered, tearing himself away from the extraordinary sight. ‘Got to get to the hanging galleys!’

  Promising himself that he would return to this fascinating spot, he hurried round to the other side of the platform and took a second set of stairs back down into the ship. Past the wheel gantry he went, where a uniformed lugtroll stood at the ship’s wheel; past the captain’s quarters, large and opulent-looking, its shutters drawn. At the next landing, he paused at a small window and peered out at the basket winches for a moment. These were used to lower passengers down to the forest canopy on sightseeing trips to the thrillingly dark and savage Deepwoods below.

  Nate hurried on. Once again he smelled frying food and, following his nose, scurried along a narrow bare-board passageway to his right. The sound of voices grew louder and, turning a corner, he found himself at the end of a long line of hungry passengers shuffling forwards to the open doors of what must be a hanging galley, judging from the delicious smells wafting from it.

  As he drew closer and stepped inside, the smells grew stronger. Nate’s mouth began to water. The galley was poorly lit and filled with wreaths of smoke and billowing steam. At its centre stood the cook, a sweaty-looking cloddertrog in a filthy apron and filthier headscarf, who was standing at a huge cauldron of bubbling oil. He was working his way along a line of strange-looking creatures which hung from translucent threads, unhooking them, dunking them in a vat of fragrant spiced batter and dropping them into the cauldron of boiling oil, where they hissed and spat. Beside him, a short, plump gnokgoblin matron wielded a long-handled spatula, turning the frying pieces and plucking them from the oil when they’d turned a golden brown.

  Nate smiled. Unlike the impossibly expensive delicacies served up in the ornate Grand Salon, the food in this galley, which was clamped to the side of the skytavern’s fore hull, was freshly caught, simply cooked and, best of all, Nate thought, cheap.