Edge Chronicles 10: The Immortals

by Paul Stewart;Chris Riddell

  It had imposing silver doors beneath an arched porch, gleaming walls studded with lines of thin lancet openings, and a gabled roof set with huge round windows and crowned with five pointed turrets. Nate reined in Tallix and pointed to the turrets.

  ‘Those are the towers of the high professors. Earth, Air, Light, Darkness …’ He counted them off on the fingers of his hand. ‘And Flight.’

  He climbed down from the saddle and held out a hand to Slip.

  ‘My father spoke of this place,’ he said as the grey goblin got down unsteadily. Nate tied Tallix’s reins to a tall lamppost. ‘And of my uncle, Quove Lentis, High Professor of Flight. He’s my mother’s brother …’

  ‘And he’ll be able to help us, friend Nate?’ said Slip. ‘Find us positions, maybe, in this magnificent place?’

  Nate smiled. ‘Well, there’s no harm in asking,’ he said.

  • CHAPTER NINETEEN •

  The two of them climbed the steps of the arched porch to the silver doors, where two lancers on magnificent-looking prowlgrins stood guard. With the famous chequerboard collar to their topcoats and the distinctive red banderbear badges on their sleeves, they were unmistakeable.

  ‘Freeglade Lancers,’ breathed Nate, stopping in front of the smartly uniformed gnokgoblins.

  ‘The very same,’ smiled one of them, pushing back his polished funnel hat with its ironwoodpine sprig cockade. ‘Corporal Hudder, First High Branch Troop, Silverbark Company, Third Old Forest Roost, at your service.’

  ‘I’m looking for my uncle, the High Professor of Flight,’ said Nate.

  ‘Your uncle?’ said the corporal, exchanging a look with his comrade. ‘Well, at this hour you should be able to find him in his tower chambers – that is, if his private secretary lets you see him. Very important academic, your uncle.’

  ‘Fourth door on your right, marked “Flight”,’ said the second lancer helpfully, rapping on one of the silver doors with his lance.

  The doors slowly opened and, thanking the lancers, Nate and Slip stepped into the marble hallway beyond. Ahead of them were six doors. The largest one, fashioned from golden copperwood, opened into the Debating Chamber; the other five led to the turrets above. Nate found the one marked ‘Flight’, pushed it open and began a long climb up a narrow set of worn stone stairs.

  By the time they reached the top, both Nate and Slip were blowing hard and had to pause in the small circular chamber with its narrow window slits for a few moments to catch their breath.

  ‘What can I do for you, young sirs?’ said a chubby, round-faced low-bellied goblin in an embroidered belly sling and crushed hat of quarm felt, who was seated at a large lectern covered in barkscrolls.

  ‘I’d like to see the High Professor, my uncle,’ said Nate, wiping his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

  ‘Your uncle?’ said the low-belly, squinting at Nate humorously. ‘Can’t say as I can see much of a family resemblance. You, for instance, young sir, look quite good-tempered …’

  ‘Squeeve! Who is it?’ came a bad-tempered call from the next room. ‘Whoever it is, tell them I’m busy, Sky curse it!’

  The low-belly rolled his small twinkling eyes and mouthed the words ‘Excuse me’ to Nate and Slip, before getting up and disappearing behind the heavy embroidered drapes behind him.

  ‘What … ? Who … ? By Earth and Sky … !’

  The voice dropped, and Nate could hear only low murmuring through the curtains. Suddenly, they parted and the low-belly emerged to usher Nate through to the chamber beyond.

  ‘The High Professor will see you now,’ he said with a beaming smile. ‘Perhaps I can offer your friend here some mosswort tea while he waits?’

  Slip nodded uncertainly as Nate pushed the curtains back and stepped into a bright sunlit room with windows on all four sides and a high vaulted spire ceiling. In the centre of the chamber, surrounded by marble pedestals and open crates, stood the tall stooped figure of the High Professor of Flight, his long-tailed topcoat flecked with glittering dust. He held a claw-ended chisel in one hand and a lump of stone in the other.

  ‘My nephew, you say?’ he snapped, his small beady eyes narrowing to slits as he peered at Nate down his long aquiline nose. ‘You’re not one of my sister Quentia’s lads. Phraxmerchants, all three. Why, by the look of you, you’re a … a …’

  ‘Phraxminer,’ Nate said helpfully. ‘Yes, Uncle …’

  ‘Uncle? You call me uncle. But if you’re not one of Quentia’s sons, then …’ Quove Lentis paused and his narrow eyes widened as the truth slowly dawned. ‘You’re not telling me that you’re …’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nate, stepping forward and offering his uncle his hand in greeting. ‘I’m your sister Hermia’s son, Nate. Nate Quarter …’

  The high professor took a step back, still clutching the chisel and lump of stone.

  ‘So Hermia had a son,’ he said softly as if talking to himself. ‘With that damned upstart, Quarter …’

  ‘My father was no upstart!’ said Nate, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks. ‘He was a mine sergeant – one of the best in the Eastern Woods!’

  ‘Mine sergeant?’ said Quove Lentis, turning away and placing the lump of stone on the pedestal. ‘Eastern Woods.’ He spoke with an icy disdain as if merely pronouncing the words left a bad taste in his mouth. ‘Do you see this?’ said the high professor. He pointed to the stone on the pedestal. ‘This is the head of an ancient statue, dug from the ruins of Old Undertown. It was excavated and brought back to me by a recent expedition in grateful thanks for my support. And do you know why?’

  Nate looked at the stone head. It was chipped and cracked, but the features were still distinct. The wide nose, the broad cheeks and heavy jowls … He shook his head.

  ‘No, of course you don’t,’ said the high professor loftily. ‘This is a likeness of my ancestor, none other than the legendary Most High Academe, Vox Verlix, the greatest architect of the Second Age of Flight. “Lentis” was the junior branch of the family, but nonetheless!’ Quove Lentis’s eyes blazed. ‘This statue once adorned the great Palace of Statues in Old Undertown. And now I have it, all these centuries later, to remind me of my great family name …’

  ‘But, Uncle, I—’ Nate began, but the high professor silenced him with a wave of the chisel.

  ‘A great family name,’ he repeated, ‘that my sister Hermia chose to drag through the Copperwood mud by marrying a common labourer. A common labourer, I might add, who had the audacity to criticize me – me, Quove Lentis, High Professor of Flight – for disowning her. He was probably just after her money. Well, I put a stop to his little game …’

  The high professor trailed off. His beady eyes had a faraway look as he remembered the bitter words from so long ago. His thin lips twitched and he gripped the claw-ended chisel fiercely for a moment before opening his fist and allowing it to fall with a clatter to the floor.

  ‘So, Nate Quarter, phraxminer from the Eastern Woods,’ Quove Lentis said in a thin nasal voice, dripping with contempt. ‘What is it, exactly, that I can do for you?’

  Nate took a step towards the stooped professor until his face was close to his and their eyes level.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said defiantly. ‘Nothing at all.’ He turned on his heels. ‘Come on, Slip, we’re leaving,’ he said a moment later as he pushed the curtains aside, strode past Quove Lentis’s private secretary and marched down the turret stairs. Slip thanked the low-belly goblin for the mosswort tea and hurried after him.

  ‘What happened, friend Nate?’ he asked. ‘What did your uncle say?’

  But he got no answer until they were back in Tallix’s saddle and heading down the hill towards the Free Glades district, far in the distance.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ said Nate, his cheeks still burning from indignation and humiliation.

  What had he been thinking, barging into that arrogant professor’s chamber and expecting to be greeted with open arms? Hadn’t his father told him how shabbily the high profes
sor had treated his mother? He’d been such a fool, Nate thought bitterly. Why, he’d dishonoured his father’s memory by even talking to that evil twisted academic with his stupid statue and proud family name. Tears of bitter shame sprang to his eyes, which he angrily wiped away with the back of his hand.

  ‘We don’t need the high professor, Slip,’ Nate said quietly. ‘Or any of those high-and-mighty academics …’

  ‘We don’t, friend Nate?’ said Slip, from behind him in the saddle.

  But Nate did not reply, lost as he was in thoughts of his father.

  • CHAPTER TWENTY •

  They rode in silence for an hour or more. Descending the steep hills of the Cloud Quarter, they found themselves amongst clusters of fine timber mansions that fringed the south lake of the Free Glades district. Out on its shimmering surface, the long narrowboats of the clam tenders bobbed in the early evening sun, while groups of prosperous-looking webfoot goblins promenaded along the broad timbered boardwalk that ran the length of the western shore.

  They paused to let their thirsty prowlgrin drink his fill from the clear waters of the lake, rolling his dark eyes and emitting a low growl of pleasure as he did so. Ahead of them to the north, the towering spikes of the Ironwood Stands stood out, black against the golden sky. Once home to the Freeglade Lancers, it was now a refuge for the rare giant tree fromps that, centuries earlier, had roamed the forests of the Deepwoods in their thousands.

  ‘What shall we do now?’ Slip asked, his large eyes full of concern.

  Nate turned to him and smiled. ‘Forgive me, Slip, I didn’t mean to worry you. Tomorrow,’ he said, patting Tallix on the side, ‘we shall look for work in the Copperwood district. A skilled lamplighter and his apprentice shouldn’t have any trouble finding employment …’

  ‘Apprentice?’ said Slip excitedly.

  ‘Of course, Slip,’ said Nate, with a laugh. ‘The two of us together, remember?’

  ‘Slip remembers,’ said the grey goblin happily, climbing back into the saddle behind Nate.

  ‘As for tonight,’ said Nate as they set off again, ‘tonight we’re going to spend in a very special place …’

  ‘Where?’ asked Slip excitedly.

  ‘You’ll see,’ said Nate with a smile.

  They travelled along the western shore of South Lake, past the opulent city houses and characteristic tall mansions. Then, following the sun, they headed west round the high bluffs that skirted the magnificent Ironwood Stands. They came to more buildings; simpler wooden constructions where humbler artisans and traders lived. Two lop-ear young’uns were playing a game with small sticks and a handful of flat stones. Tossing the stones in the air, they would try to catch as many of them as possible on the back of their hand. Then, depending on how many they had caught, they would use the same number of sticks to make a line. The first one across the road was the winner.

  As Nate and Slip’s prowlgrin approached, the young’uns hurriedly gathered together the dusty sticks and stones and scampered to the side of the road. Slip waved at them as Tallix ambled past.

  As they approached the shore of the Great Lake, a flock of reed herons strutted across the dark, gleaming mud. In the distance, a small flotilla of fishing coracles floated in a circle near the middle of the lake, goblin fishermen balancing at the prows, their long cone-shaped nets poised. At Lake Landing, Nate spotted the famous academy jutting out into the lake from the far shore. This was still the headquarters of the Librarian Knights, although many of their number now lived and worked in the Institute of Phrax Studies, which their leading professors had established at the beginning of the Third Age of Flight.

  They continued down the lake road until, with the lights of the New Undertown district twinkling in the middle distance, the dense circle of spikebriars and milkthorn thickets which enclosed Waif Glen came into view.

  ‘This is the place,’ said Nate excitedly, and he twitched Tallix’s reins, making the great black prowlgrin increase his pace to a sort of lolloping, bounding gallop.

  They arrived at the entrance to the glen – a small opening in the impenetrable wall of thorns – a couple of minutes later. A full moon had risen low in the sky. Climbing down, Nate and Slip led Tallix to a roost pillar beside the entrance and watched as the prowlgrin leaped a dozen strides into the air and landed on a jutting branch beside five other prowlgrins, all fast asleep and snoring contentedly. Then they turned and followed a narrow, winding path that led them through the dense thicket of milkthorns and spikebriars. As they passed by, the eyes of countless waifs – flitterwaifs, nightwaifs, ghostwaifs – glittered in the depths of thorns.

  Emerging on the other side, Slip gasped and grabbed Nate’s arm. ‘This is even more beautiful than the Cloud Quarter,’ he whispered. ‘Slip’s never seen anywhere as beautiful as this. Not ever …’

  For a moment, the two of them stood at the foot of a long gravel path beneath the glittering silver moonlight, marvelling at the sight in front of them. Long avenues of darkglade trees for solitary contemplation led away on one side, while on the other, groves of white-barked snowbeech trees for communal tranquillity shimmered in the moonlight. Ahead of them lay fragrant lawns of herbgrass and meadow hay for rest and healing, while at the very centre of the beautiful Gardens of Thought, ringed by deep pools and trickling waterfalls, towered the magnificent gladewillow.

  Everywhere about them were the motionless forms of Great Gladers who had come to sleep in Waif Glen beneath the stars. In the distance, the curtain of gladewillow leaves parted and the waif, Thornesse, Keeper of the Garden of Thoughts, stepped out into the moonlight.

  ‘Greetings, friends,’ her soft voice sounded in both Nate and Slip’s heads at the same time. ‘Welcome to the tranquillity of the garden. May you find a restful night’s sleep here with us.’

  ‘Thank you …’ blurted out Slip.

  Smiling, Nate put a finger to his lips. Here in the Garden of Thoughts, no speech was necessary.

  Thornesse the waif disappeared back behind the gladewillow curtain. She was the seventh keeper to have tended the garden since its foundation in the First Age of Flight. More than three centuries had passed since the first keeper – a wise and deeply spiritual waif by the name of Cancaresse – had looked after the Garden of Thoughts. Finally becoming too frail for her duties, she had been escorted back to her place of birth in the distant Nightwoods by a commander of the Freeglade Lancers, who had never returned.

  Halfway along the gravel path, Nate and Slip took a narrow track that led into a meadow of lush woodthyme, and lay down. In a few moments, as a cooling breeze wafted over them, they both fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  • CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE •

  Felftis Brack, mine owner Galston Prade’s chief clerk, eased himself into the cushioned cradle of his floating chair and reached for his favourite quill. Over two feet long and ending in an exquisitely sharpened nib, it was fashioned from a caterbird’s tail feather, found many years before on Lullabee Island in the Free Glades district. The luxuriant black and white feather quivered over the chief clerk’s hunched shoulder as he leaned forward and dipped the quill into the inkwell of his sumpwood lectern.

  In the small dusty study, where row after row of locked drawers spanned the walls from varnished floor to high-arched ceiling, the tall, thin fourthling cut a curious figure. He wore a long glistening topcoat of oiled snailskin leather, the tails of which trailed down from the floating stool to the floorboards, two strides below. Beneath this extravagant garment, which creaked with every flourish of the quill, Felftis Brack wore a velvet undercoat, festooned with bunches of carefully labelled keys, each corresponding to one of the hundreds of locked drawers that lined the study walls.

  His long legs were clothed in thin drainpipe trousers that ended just above the ankle, revealing two large, lightly webbed feet. These, together with the chief clerk’s greenish complexion, suggested a strong strain of webfoot goblin blood in Felftis Brack’s ancestry, something emphasized by the tall spik
e of hair that rose from his forehead. Carefully combed and oiled, it resembled the magnificent crests that topped the heads of his forebears.

  The caterbird quill hovered over the ledger which lay open on the chief clerk’s lectern as Felftis Brack scrutinized the accounts from his master’s phraxmine. He smiled, a look of sly pleasure passing over his pallid face as he licked his lips greedily.

  ‘Excellent work, Grayle. Excellent …’ Felftis chuckled to himself, the feathered tip of his quill quivering over his shoulder as he made an entry in the ledger in his precise copperplate script.

  Just then, there came a sharp rap at the study door. With his quill poised, Felftis Brack looked up from the ledger. His brow furrowed with irritation.

  ‘What is it?’ he called out in a clipped voice.

  The door opened and a stooped gnokgoblin wearing a topcoat of the Prade family livery – black and yellow cuffs and crushed green velvet – entered the study.

  ‘Humble apologies for the interruption, sir,’ he said softly, ‘but there are a couple of phraxminers outside asking to see the master.’

  ‘Phraxminers, you say?’ Felftis Brack’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Well, there’s no point in disturbing the master. I’d better see them, Hink. Show them in.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said the gnokgoblin, leaving the study.

  Felftis Brack laid his quill to one side and sat back in his floating chair, his hands behind his head. It seemed the accounts would have to wait. The door opened a second time, and a young phraxminer with cropped hair entered the room, followed by a wiry grey goblin, his huge dark eyes darting nervously round the drawer-lined chamber. The chief clerk released the weights beneath his floating chair and descended slowly to the floor.