by Tom Banks
‘My daughter, the Lady Marianna of Hammerstein,’ said the Countess quickly, stifling a smile.
‘Ah,’ said Fondly awkwardly. ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m sure, My Lady.’
‘The pleasure is all yours,’ said Rasmussen, with a smile so sickly it even smelled of treacle.
‘My Lady!’ muttered Stanley, laughing behind his hand as he stood beside Rasmussen.
‘Yes?’ said Lady O’Grady to Stanley, with a sharp look.
‘No,’ said Stanley, ‘I was just laughing at Rasmussen being called “My Lady”. I’ve never …’
‘It’s funny, is it, for a person of rank to be addressed correctly?’ snapped O’Grady.
‘Person of ….?’ said Stanley, confused.
‘I’m sure Stanley …’ began the Countess, but Lady O’Grady’s dander was up.
‘I am grateful to the Captain for allowing the ball to proceed, but his insistence on this … this … integration … between nobility and the common sort …’
‘Common sort yourself!’ said Rasmussen, glowering now from beneath her assortment of tiaras and bows.
‘Really!’ said O’Grady, glaring at Stanley as if it had been he who spoke. ‘If young people cannot comport themselves politely, perhaps they should be asked to leave …’
She stuttered to a halt as it became clear to her that everyone was looking at the Countess for guidance on what to do next.
‘Yes,’ said the Countess quietly. ‘In the Captain’s absence, attendance at the ball is at Snivens’ discretion. I must make it clear right now that rude and unwelcoming behaviour cannot be tolerated.’
Lady O’Grady clasped her hands in front of her bosom, and stared triumphantly at Stanley, but he couldn’t help noticing that the Countess had been addressing her remarks at Lady O’Grady herself. He took a breath to say as much, when behind him he heard Snivens announce yet more guests to the ball, which was already thrumming with activity.
‘His Grace the Earl O’Dawes, along with his son Paddy. Baron Farquhar, Margery Gusset and … erm …’ said the butler.
Stanley and Rasmussen turned to look. No one else seemed to notice anything amiss. The Bilgepump Orchestra struck up a jolly reel, and chatter continued about them as the newcomers joined the throng. But for Snivens to miss a name seemed strange to Stanley. Not only did he have a prodigious memory and an encyclopaedic knowledge, he had the list of guests that the Countess had provided. As Stanley watched, Snivens took the list out of his pocket and fluttered through it, while apologising to the newcomer.
‘Odd,’ said Rasmussen, next to Stanley.
‘Yes,’ said Stanley. ‘Who is that man?’
‘No idea. Mum?’ she turned to the Countess, who had been back in conversation with the group. The Countess turned to look.
‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘Not sure. Seems vaguely familiar though. Perhaps he was a last-minute replacement for someone?’
And she turned back to the grown-ups’ conversation, which was currently about the price of hay.
The man on the steps was now standing close to Snivens, looking over his shoulder at the list. He was a smooth-faced, jowly man, with a smile that somehow seemed more sad than happy. Stanley put this down to embarrassment at being left off the list. He moved closer, to try and hear what was being said.
‘Tell me what they say,’ said Rasmussen as he left. ‘I’ll try and find out who knows him.’
‘Roger Willco,’ said Stanley.
‘Is he?’ said Rasmussen.
‘Is he what?’ said Stanley.
‘Is that him? Roger Willco?’
‘No. Roger Willco means “I understand what you’ve said, and will do as you ask”,’ said Stanley.
‘Oh. It’s a very confusing and silly way of saying a simple thing. Please speak more clearly in future,’ said Rasmussen, clucking like a hen.
‘Right. Yes. Roger Wil … I mean, I understand and will do as you ask,’ said Stanley, abashed.
‘Very good,’ said Rasmussen.
Stanley, thinking that perhaps this little madam act was getting to Rasmussen a bit too much, moved closer to the steps where Snivens now stood, listening to the newcomer, who was whispering in his ear.
‘Erm!’ said Snivens aloud, once the man had finished speaking. ‘Mr Fassbinder, special aide to erm … somebody …’
At this point Mr Fassbinder seemed to find someone in the crowd whom he knew, and with a little wave he dived into the throng. Stanley approached Snivens conspiratorially.
‘All well, Mr Snivens?’ he asked, watching Mr Fassbinder chatting to a couple of lords and a chambermaid.
‘Ah … yes, I’m sure …’ said Snivens distractedly. ‘It’s just … I didn’t quite catch who he said he was with, and he’s not on the list. But he seemed a nice enough chap …’
‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ said Stanley.
‘You mean “curious and more curious”,’ said Snivens, ever the stickler.
‘Yes,’ said Stanley. ‘I suppose I do.’
And so once more Cloudier was preparing to go up in her weather balloon. She stood by the iron ring that attached it to the deck near the stern of the Galloon, while Tarheel and Clamdigger winched it in.
‘So you’re chief lookout now?’ said Clamdigger as he heaved.
‘No, just, you know, helping out, I suppose,’ said Cloudier, wary of seeming to be too much of a captain’s pet.
‘Maybe I could come up to the weather balloon at some point and help?’ said Clamdigger.
Tarheel’s good eye glittered with mischief.
‘Erm,’ said Cloudier, embarrassed. ‘Don’t you usually keep lookout from the crow’s nest?’
‘Yes, but …’ stuttered Clamdigger.
‘I mean, not that …’ stammered Cloudier.
‘Here we are, young miss,’ said Tarheel, pulling the balloon’s little basket over at an angle so that Cloudier could climb in.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I suppose you could …’
‘Erm, no. You’re right. Should get to the crow’s nest really,’ said Clamdigger, and he began to let the rope out from its winch.
‘Maybe I’ll write you a poem,’ said Cloudier inexplicably.
‘That’d be nice, miss,’ said Tarheel.
‘No, I mean, oh, never mind,’ said Cloudier, raising her voice as the weather balloon picked up speed.
‘If you like!’ called Clamdigger. Cloudier was not sure whether his tone was resigned or pleased, and he was now receding as the balloon pulled further and further away from the Galloon, though it was still connected by its sturdy rope.
‘I do like!’ she called lamely, just as the first of the many sails and balloons came between them. She thought she heard Tarheel’s throaty laugh, which didn’t make her feel any better. Still, she thought, at least with all this miscommunication she had something to feel sorry for herself about, and therefore something to put into verse.
They were still moored up to Castle Eisberg, and the Captain had asked her to stay put for a short while, until he had made plans for her, so she should have a little while to get on with some poetry before the work task started in earnest.
Only it wasn’t as easy as that. With an understanding that poetry wasn’t just self-pity that rhymed, had come the realisation that she wasn’t very good at it. She had read and re-read her small volume of verse, and had learned much, but writing her own verse had become harder, not easier. However, she was determined to try, and her apparent inability to communicate with her best friend Clamdigger was as good a place as any to start.
She opened her trusty notebook and took out a pen.
Shall I Compare Thee To A … she began to write. No, too obvious.
How Do I Quite Like Thee … No, not thee. She’d been that way before. How about something more freeform in style?
Clamdigger.
Stripy long figure.
Talking,
but not quite
Saying
Anything.
&nb
sp; Many things.
Left
Unsaid.
Left in his head.
Like bread.
In a breadbin.
‘Hmm,’ she allowed. ‘It’s a new direction, I suppose.’
‘KKWWAAAARRRKK!’ said a voice beside her, making her throw her pen overboard and slam her book shut on her fingers.
‘SQUEEEEEE – HAK – HAK – HAK – HAK – KWAARRRRRRRKKK!’ screamed the nightmarish figure now sitting on the rim of the basket, staring directly into her soul with red eyes like hot coals.
‘Oh my word!’ squeaked Cloudier from behind a cushion, aware that this perhaps wasn’t the image of insouciance she normally tried to project. She was relieved to see that she knew the owner of this voice, though this was only the second time they had met.
‘Errr, hello, Fishbane,’ she managed, as she righted herself and made an attempt to smooth down her hair.
‘SKKWWAAAAAAAKKKK-EEK-EEK-EEK-EEEEEEEEEEK-AAARRRRRKKKKK!’ said Fishbane politely, then he dropped from sight behind the edge of the basket.
Fishbane was a Seagle, a kind of enormous seabird, with a razor-sharp beak and talons like dragon’s teeth, but surprisingly helpful once you got to know him. He had helped Cloudier before, and she knew him to be a friend of the Captain’s from some previous adventure.
‘FKWARK!’ he opined, as he popped up again with Cloudier’s pen in his beak.
Cloudier knew him well enough to know what he wanted. She held her notebook up to him, and he looked at it with what seemed to her like murderous hatred. But, with the pen sticking out of his beak, he began to write. Cloudier had seen this before, but it was no less fascinating for that. When he had finished, he winked, and dropped again from sight, making hideous squawking noises as he went.
Cloudier gingerly turned the notebook round, to see what Fishbane had written. She was not surprised to see a fluid, cultured hand covering the page.
This is what it said:
Greetings, purple-feathered verse-striver, from Fishbane, lord of three of the four winds.
Cloudier was pleased to see that the letter was addressed to her this time, rather than the Captain, though she wasn’t sure how she felt about being addressed as ‘purple-feathered verse-striver’. She read on.
Pleased am I that the good Captain heeded my words, and has the Chimney Isles in his sights. But he must hurry. Zebediah, curse the very name, is closer than he thinks, and has some mischief afoot. Word amongst the weed-people is that the Sumbaroon has spies abroad. A bitter Pill must be crushed. Look to the working sort. Send warning, rhyme-writer, poet-spy. Yet strike out – the seed that falls far from the tree has more light to grow by.
Fishbane the Wanderer
P.S. Be not afraid of writing ‘good’ or ‘bad’ verse. Write much, read more and worry less.
‘Hmm,’ said Cloudier, partly in response to the worrying news of Zebediah’s spies, and partly at being given poetry-writing advice by someone who would use a phrase like ‘the seed that falls far from the tree has more light to grow by’.
Despite his rather pompous style, she knew that Fishbane was right – she should strike out, take the weather balloon off to see what she could see. She took a small brass compass out of her pocket and checked it. She stuck a finger in the air to test the wind speed and direction. She looked about her to get her bearings. The mountains around Eisberg lowered over her in the twilight, and would be difficult to get beyond, but she felt that she could do it, and perhaps she owed it to the Captain, who was stuck here being diplomatic with the Count.
Dramatically, she ripped a page from her notebook, and then wished she hadn’t, as she struggled to write on it. She leaned on the edge of the basket, and scribbled.
Mother,
I’m going off for a while. Please don’t try and follow me. There are some things I need to do.
C.
She read it through, and was pleased with its sparseness and sense of mystery. But she couldn’t bear to be the cause of worry, so she added a postscript.
P.S. I’m taking the weather balloon to look for the Grand Sumbaroon. The Captain asked me to help, and Fishbane will be looking out for me. I’ve included his message here. I’ve got thermal undies, and a packed dinner. Back by morning. Love you, Cloudier.
She folded the two letters together and placed them in one of the rocket-shaped capsules she used to communicate with the Galloon. After winding its clockwork mechanism and setting it off down the rope, she waited a short while, until she thought it must have reached the deck. Then, trying not to think too hard about what she was doing, she untied the balloon and let it fly.
Before long, she was rising quickly past the huge main balloon of the Galloon which, even though she was hundreds of feet away, filled her entire forward view. Above it, there were a few outrigger sails and a flagpole, and above that a view to the far horizon, with only the Eisberg Mountains and a far distant sea between. Out in that sea were the mountainous Chimney Isles. Cloudier took a deep breath, coughed a little as the cold air hit her throat, and turned round.
‘North,’ she said decisively.
With only a brief check of her compass, a few misgivings and a little thrill of excitement, she set off into the blue.
On deck, Abel was pacing up and down, worrying. He was out of his depth in front of all the dignitaries down in the ballroom, and he knew it. He desperately wanted to make the most of this opportunity for advancement, to make sure he was firmly in the Captain’s good books, but wasn’t sure how to go about it.
As he worried and paced, paced and worried, he heard a noise. A kind of fizzing whirr, somewhere above. He looked about and could see nothing except the great balloons and sails way overhead, billowing and bobbing in the wind. All seemed well. Thinking no more of it, he began to pace again.
He had only stepped into the ballroom for a few minutes, and had been simultaneously boggled by the finery on display, and troubled by the preponderance of flat caps and flatter vowels. It didn’t seem right to him, this mixing of sorts, drivers and dukes, stable girls and Sultanas, all ‘mucking in’ together. And yet there must be some way for him to make the most of it, and to make an impression.
‘Whirr …’ went the noise above him. He ignored it.
Perhaps if he could be involved in some kind of derring-do, some attention-grabbing affair that ensured that everyone there would know his name. Something that made the name Able Skyman Abel synonymous with Captain Anstruther.
He stopped pacing and puffed out his chest as the idea began to excite him. He could feel it – this was it. This was the idea that would put his name on the tongues of all the VIPs in the north! He would arrange some kind of escapade in which he was the hero – a robbery he could foil, a fight he could break up, an assassination attempt he could intervene in – and become known as Abel, the Skyman Who Saved The Day!
Standing tall now, his mind whirring with ideas under his big bearskin hat, he began to form a plan. If that lazy boy Clamdigger could be persuaded to … no … too risky. How about planting something in the Countess’s handbag? No, she was too alert … something to do with Ms Huntley? She seemed to be ever in the Captain’s good books, perhaps it would do her good to be knocked down a peg or two …
‘Whirr …’
‘Shhhh!’ he hissed unthinkingly. ‘I need to think. If only I had reason to accuse someone at the ball of wrongdoing …’
‘WHIRR …’
‘Oh, for the love of …’ he said, and turning round, took the full force of Cloudier’s message-rocket, firework and all, square between the eyes.
‘Mama …’ he squeaked, as he fell senseless to the deck.
Beside him, the capsule cracked open, and the letters floated out. The last thing Abel saw was these words:
Sumbaroon has spies abroad … look to the working sort …
Aha! thought the most devious part of his mind, before blanking out completely.
The ball was now well underway. The Bilgepump Orch
estra was playing jigs and reels and polkas and arias, klezmer and bhangra and beats from all over, in an effort to make absolutely everyone feel at home. The ball-goers were having an absolute riot, all previous social awkwardnesses forgotten. Cook was keeping a constant stream of delicious snacks and titbits flowing, and had even managed to come along for a dance or two, while other people stepped into the kitchens. Plates were being cleared away and glasses refreshed by peers of the realm and Peter the goatherd alike, with no one batting an eyelid. Stanley loved every moment of it. He was hurrying to and fro between the dumb waiter and the ballroom, bringing in groaning platters of sausage rolls, plopping them down on a table, and then stopping for a dance or two before hurrying back for more.
‘What fun!’ brayed a stick-thin woman in glittering pearls, as she was swung off her feet by a small hairy gardener.
‘Ey oooopp, Your Maaaaajessty!’ growled a pig girl called Grunty, as she bowed low before a bearded king.
‘Don’t you “Your Majesty”me!’ snorted the King, as he took Grunty by the arm and led her towards the bar.
‘This is great, isn’t it?’ Stanley called to Rasmussen, who was standing on the feet of a footman as they danced.
‘Yup!’ she called back, and then he heard her telling the footman how the Duchess of Tod had been making eyes at him all evening.
‘Really?’ said the footman, dropping Rasmussen off his feet as he swept off to find the Duchess.
‘She has been making eyes at him!’ laughed Rasmussen. ‘But only because she wants a biscuit!’
Stanley was confused, until he looked where she was pointing, and saw the footman being introduced to the Duchess of Tod – a large slobbery dog belonging to an old man in a bath chair.
‘See?’ said Rasmussen. ‘People believe what you say when you’re wearing fancy pants clothes. You should try it!’
‘Hmm. I think it helps if you are also a real-life countess, dripping with jewels and heirlooms,’ said Stanley, not unkindly.
‘I’m not a countess! My mum is!’ Rasmussen snapped, putting away the pendant she had been fiddling with.
‘No, sorry. But you will be one day, perhaps,’ said Stanley.
