by Tom Banks
‘So I recommend that we keep our ears to the ground, our noses to the grindstone, our eyes peeled, and our mouths shut,’ said Stanley. ‘Adventure will make itself known soon enough no doubt.’
‘What are we looking out for?’ said Rasmussen absently.
‘Well, I don’t think that Charlie stealing things was what Abel was talking about – he must have read something in those notes about a spy onboard. So we should look out for anything untoward, I suppose.’
‘Like one of the more mysterious ball guests looking shiftily around the room as he edges towards the door, then slipping quietly out, as if he doesn’t want to be noticed?’ said Rasmussen.
‘Yes, that kind of thing,’ agreed Stanley. ‘If that happened, we’d be duty bound to follow him, whatever the risks, on a knife-edge journey into the unknown with the future of the very Galloon itself at stake,’ said Stanley thoughtfully.
‘Yes, I agree,’ said Rasmussen, sipping a cup of tea she had somehow managed to conjure up. ‘And hopefully, once that’s done, we’ll be free to keep an eye out for this adventure we’ve been waiting for.’
‘Hear hear,’ said Stanley, but Rasmussen’s attention was already elsewhere.
‘Look over there,’ she said.
Stanley turned and watched, as Mr Fassbinder, who was standing by himself, apparently admiring a pot plant, began to shift edgily towards the main doors of the ballroom. He looked around the room as he did so, but didn’t notice Stanley and Rasmussen. He opened the door a crack with his fingertips, and then stood quietly in front of it for a couple of moments, as if he just happened to prefer standing by doors. Then he swung it open enough for his lithe frame to fit through, and was gone in a blink.
‘Corks,’ said Stanley.
‘That’s what we’ve been looking for,’ said Rasmussen. ‘What reason could he have for going out that way?’
‘He could be …’ began Stanley, ever literal.
‘Shush, please!’ said Rasmussen. ‘He could have many reasons, legitimate or otherwise. Let’s follow him on a knife-edge journey into the unknown to find out.’
‘With the very future of the Galloon at stake?’ said Stanley excitedly.
‘Well, I don’t know yet, do I?’ Rasmussen smiled. ‘But there’s only one way to find out.’
And she slurped her teacup empty, plonked it on the table and stood up.
‘To the kitchens!’ she said.
‘Oh,’ said Stanley. ‘That’s not what I expected …’ But he followed her anyway.
Cloudier was cold. Not tingly fingers and steamy breath cold, but blue lips and stabbing-pains-in-the-joints cold. Breathing was a chore, and her eyes streamed, with the tears freezing on her cheeks almost immediately. She had actually dropped quite a long way since leaving the Galloon, following valleys and passes rather than trying to float over the Eisberg Mountains as the Galloon itself could do, but the cold was still much worse than she could ever have imagined. It was only the occasional blast from the burner that gave her any warmth at all, but that couldn’t be used too much, as it would send her floating higher, into even colder air.
She had blankets, and gloves, and a flask of tea that Clamdigger had made for her, but she was beginning to feel foolish for setting out on her own, Captain’s orders or no. She hoped that someone had paid attention to her message, but even if they had she knew they’d be unlikely to follow until morning. So she pulled the blankets closer round her shoulders, and peered again over the edge of the basket, into the gloaming.
Flying her little balloon out over the sea in the dead of night, heading for an island range of fiery volcanoes where the Captain’s sworn enemy could be waiting.
She didn’t mind – she’d have jumped out of the balloon here and now if it would save the Galloon – but she did wish she’d brought a friend along for company. Someone to share the experience with. Cloudier was aware that an adventure undertaken alone wasn’t a proper adventure until you were back home, repeating it to a circle of friends round a cosy fire. If she did get back, of course …
She shook off these dark thoughts, while also logging them for future poetic reference. She resolved to keep a journal of her adventures, so that if she never saw Clamdi— anyone again, there was still a chance that her exploits would be known.
With this in mind, she held her trusty pen up to the burner. The ink was frozen, and it was a delicate matter to unfreeze it, and her fingers, enough to do some writing, without sending the balloon too high up into the air. She was very proud of the little craft so far, but she was aware that conditions were calm and there could be sterner tests head. Once the pen had warmed a little, she shook it by her ear and heard the ink sploshing about. This done, she balanced her trusty notebook on the edge of the Galloon, and with the controlling ropes of the balloon in one hand, she managed to flip it open, manoeuvre the pen into a comfortable position and write.
Dear Diary,
she wrote, and then felt self-conscious. She scribbled it out and began again.
It’s cold. I am high up. I could really use a fry-up …
No, stick to prose.
I am alone, but then are we not all alone? I am up in the air, but then, who is not up in the air, in some way? I fly into the unknown, but then who does not …
No. She was annoying herself already. Try not to try so hard …
Cloudier’s log, two hours out from GG. The dusk is beautiful – snow falling in fat white flakes, fog still close, an eerie calm. But very aware of the importance of my journey. If I can find the Sumbaroon, and follow it, or get a message back to the Captain, then his quest to reclaim his lost love and save the precious Galloon may be in its final stages. If I fail, then Zebediah’s deceit will be complete, and the Galloon will once again be in peril. The balloon responds well. I cannot see much, but the ground is in sight, and the fog seems to be lifting.
Cloudier stopped for a moment, to shake her stiff hand, and then continued.
I think I can just make out the line of the sea ahead, beyond the foothills. From there it shouldn’t be too far to the Chimney Isles. I’ll arrive in the early hours. I will keep this journal up as long as the cold allows.
Cloudier thought she heard a sound on the wind – the scree-kakkk-kakkk-kakkk noise of a Seagle. But it was distant, and lost in the fog.
I feel as if Fishbane, or one of his people, is following me. This is reassuring, as long as he doesn’t poo all over this journal and render it useless. But then again, perhaps it’s just the mountain winds.
She heard the noise again, however this time it sounded like it could have been a wolf howling in the distant forests. She steeled herself and carried on writing.
It’s nice to finally have some time on my own, without any grown-ups interfering and sticking their silly noses in everywhere. To be in charge of my destiny, just me and the open skies. To be mistress of my own universe, with no one telling me what I can and can’t do …
She re-read this, and then thought of her mother reading it, and being upset. She drew a thick line through it all and wrote:
If I can’t be honest with a diary, what’s the point?
She swallowed and carried on.
I wish my mum was here.
And she looked up at the darkening horizon, where the foothills gave way to the waves.
Rasmussen had, within moments of leaving the ballroom, ceased to look like a little puffball princess, and become her usual, slightly grubby self. Her dress was intact but somehow deflated, and all extraneous ribbons, bows, rosettes, ringlets and jewellery had been jettisoned. Stanley felt much more comfortable, as she strode along beside him, occasionally hiding behind a pillar for no more reason than because it felt like the kind of thing you should do when following someone.
Fassbinder was turning out to be a challenge to follow and impossible to second-guess. Stanley and Rasmussen had rushed through the little kitchen near the ballroom, where much of the prep for the party was happening, and had hopped into a dumb wai
ter, which took them up one deck. Then they had crept along the corridor that ran over the ballroom, hoping to catch Fassbinder coming up the stairs at the far end, on his way to the main deck.
They couldn’t think exactly what it was he would be up to, but it seemed likely that, as he didn’t know his way around the Galloon, that would be his starting point. But of course he hadn’t been there, and they had crept around stealthily but pointlessly for a good few minutes, whistling like owls and signalling to each other, before realising he was nowhere to be seen. They had panicked a little, and thought about giving it all up, before Stanley caught a glimpse of him rushing down a staircase that only really led to a broom cupboard. They had realised that, of course, Fassbinder might be a master spy, but he had no idea where he was going, so they hit upon another tactic. Grabbing a cape and hat from the cloakroom nearby, they had waited at the top of the spiral staircase, knowing Fassbinder had to emerge soon, unless his secret mission was to tidy the broom cupboard, in which case good luck to him.
Before too long, Fassbinder had of course climbed the stairs, silently and seemingly with no embarrassment. He had found, at the top of the stairs, a moustachioed gent in a cape and hat, and so he had asked the way to the Captain’s cabin. The gent (who was of course Rasmussen with her ponytail stretched under her nose, standing on Stanley’s shoulders) had thought for a moment before giving him detailed directions in the silliest accent Stanley had ever heard. The gent had then seemingly giggled a little around the midriff, before recovering his composure as Fassbinder moved on.
And so now, they were following Fassbinder through the familiar corridors of the Galloon, and were able to keep a reasonable distance because they already had a good idea of where he was going.
‘Why do you think he wants to go the Captain’s cabin?’ whispered Stanley, from beneath the large pile of clothes they had borrowed from the cloakroom, in case of the need for more disguises.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Rasmussen, struggling to control the pile of dresses and wigs in her arms.
‘Perhaps he wants to talk to the Captain?’ mused Stanley.
‘The Captain was at the dance, he could have talked to him at any point. There’s something much more untoward going on.’
They hurried on in silence for a while, stopping to peer round corners, and leaving just enough of a distance between Fassbinder and themselves so as not to make him suspicious. He disappeared down a hatchway, which Stanley knew led to the corridor where the Captain’s cabin was situated.
‘Come,’ said Rasmussen, who knew the ins and outs of the Galloon even better than Stanley, having lived aboard it all her life.
She turned to the left and began to feel around the edges of what seemed to Stanley to be a perfectly ordinary plank, part of the wall panelling that ran along the inside of most of the below-deck spaces on the Galloon.
It turned out it was a perfectly ordinary plank, so Stanley watched patiently as Rasmussen tried another, then another, and finally a third.
‘Maybe …’ he said, but she interrupted immediately.
‘Watch and learn, Mr Furry!’ she said pompously, as the third plank proved to be loose. She pulled it out with a ‘squeak’, and thrust her head into the gap created. Then she squeezed her shoulders in, and the rest of her. Stanley watched as she climbed down the gap between the panelling and the walls proper.
‘Used to be some piping or something in here, but now it’s a handy shortcut. Follow me!’ she said, lowering herself further into the hole, and dragging the ragged selection of dressing-up clothes with her.
Stanley followed, and was surprised to see that, through this hidden gap, they had access to the floor below. He waited for Rasmussen to get through and began to push his own pile of clothes into the hole. He heard them drop to the ground below. Then he squeezed through, and hung by his fingers before dropping himself. Looking about, he realised that they were in the corridor near the Captain’s cabin, and had got there a good deal quicker than Fassbinder.
‘Put these on!’ said Rasmussen. ‘He’s coming!’
Unthinkingly, Stanley threw himself into all the clothes Rasmussen handed him. It was only afterwards that he realised he was wearing an apron dress with a number of pinafores and underskirts, a little lace bonnet, and a handbag.
‘I look like a milkmaid!’ he complained to Rasmussen, but she was nowhere to be seen. In her place was an upstanding young guardsman, clean faced but stern, with a smartly pressed uniform and a steely gaze.
‘Rasmussen?’ he said, looking around in bewilderment.
‘It’s me, you turnip!’ said the guardsman. ‘It’s a disguise. Ten per cent costume, ten per cent luck, and ninety per cent belief. If you believe it, he’ll believe it!’
‘But that makes more than a hundred per cent,’ complained Stanley, still in awe. Now he looked, of course it was obvious that Rasmussen was standing before him, dressed in a long grey coat and a tall shako hat, standing on top, rather than in, a pair of black boots. She lifted up a foot, and showed him that each boot was stuffed with spare clothing.
‘A hundred per cent isn’t enough!’ hissed Rasmussen as footsteps approached along the corridor. ‘You have to have more than that to make it work.’
‘But you can’t have more …’ replied Stanley, however his sentence was cut short by Fassbinder, who rounded the corner and stopped dead. He seemed, for the first time, to be surprised.
‘Ah! Young man, madam, good day …’ he said, filling time.
For the first time Stanley wondered why he couldn’t have been the soldier, and let Rasmussen be the milkmaid. But it was too late now. Rasmussen was staring blankly at the opposite wall, in true soldierly style, so Stanley piped up.
‘Lor, fie I say, as I was a-walking one morning in Maytime …’ he said inexplicably.
The soldier gave him a look.
‘Quite,’ said Fassbinder. ‘I wonder if either of you could tell me which is the Captain’s cabin. He’s a good friend of mine and I wanted a quick word …’
‘CAPTAIN’S IN THE BALLROOOOOOM, SAH!’ screamed Rasmussen, at the very top of her surprisingly loud voice.
‘Aha!’ said Fassbinder, stepping back a little. ‘Then perhaps I could just slip in and leave a note on his desk?’
‘Deary my oh lordy, fol-de-rol diddle and bless my soul!’ said Stanley, whose only experience of milkmaids came from folk songs.
‘It’s this door, is it?’ said Fassbinder, his tone just beginning to betray impatience.
‘CAPTAIN’S PUH-RIVATE CABIN IS THIS DOOR WHAT I AM A-STANDING BY OF, SIR YES SIR, SAH!’ bawled Rasmussen, clearly enjoying herself immensely.
‘So if I can just …’ said Fassbinder, stepping round Rasmussen, who of course couldn’t move easily owing to standing on piles of clothing stuffed into boots many sizes too big for her.
‘I’m not sure we can—’ said Stanley, before remembering himself. ‘Oh, my handsome soldier, my dainty duck, my dear-o. Are we sure we should be …?’
But before he could finish the thought, and to his dismay, Fassbinder was stepping past Rasmussen, and into the Captain’s cabin, his private study, which was, for some reason, unlocked.
Once in, he leaned out of the door, and spoke to Rasmussen the soldier.
‘Let me know if anyone’s coming, won’t you, old boy? I’d hate to … spoil the surprise.’
‘RIGHT YOU ARE, SAH! YOU’LL FIND ME THE VERY SOUL OF DISCRETIOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON … SAH!’ screamed Rasmussen, saluting, winking, nodding her head and, somehow, clicking her heels all at once.
This was too much for her disguise, which fell apart around her, but no matter, as Fassbinder was now inside the Captain’s cabin, with the door firmly shut. They even heard him bolt the door from the inside.
‘Now what do we do!?’ whispered Stanley urgently. ‘Why did you let him go in?’
‘BECAUSE … I mean because …’ began Rasmussen, moderating her voice as she remembered where she was. ‘Because, if we don’t let
him in, he may turn nasty, and he’ll just try and come back later. But if we let him in, we can retire to our trusty hidey-hole in the ceiling above the Captain’s study, and see exactly what he’s up to.’
As she said this, she began to climb the walls of the corridor. By bracing her back against one wall, and her legs against the other, she edged her way up to a beam above Stanley’s head. Once it was in reach, she grabbed it, and used it to clamber into a tiny space, only a few inches high, between the top of the door and the beam. Stanley knew of this hidey-hole, as they had used it before, so it was the work of a moment to clamber up and join her in the musty little space.
Rasmussen pulled aside a small piece of wood that covered a gap in the floor of the tight space, and then Stanley was looking down on Fassbinder, standing in the middle of the Captain’s snug study. He stood for a few seconds, just looking around, without moving. Stanley did too, but from where he was squatting, he could only see all the room’s normal bric-a-brac. A green-leather-topped desk, brass firedogs, a washstand and basin, a few seats and a hat stand. A suit of armour in one corner, two small pot plants, and a mantelpiece on which Stanley knew the Captain kept a portrait of Isabella, his life’s true love and the focus of his quest.
As they watched, cramming their faces together to look through the hole, Stanley and Rasmussen couldn’t help but feel that something had changed in Fassbinder’s demeanour. He moved in a slightly clunkier manner as he began to move around the room, and all pretence at grace was gone now he wasn’t on show any more. To their dismay, he swiped a hand across the Captain’s desk, knocking inkstand, lamp and clock to the floor. He wrenched open a desk drawer, before turning it over so that all the contents fell on the floor. He stood for a second looking at the debris, then opened another drawer, scanned the upturned contents, and carried on with a third. Whatever he was looking for didn’t seem to be in there, so he continued to the other side of the desk, and began to turn those drawers over as well.
