by Alex English
Echo forgot her fears for a moment, put down her candlestick and threw the curtains wider. The sphere was, in fact, a huge silk balloon, rigged with a network of ropes to some kind of peculiar horseless carriage that dangled beneath.
A flying coach? Echo placed both palms on the glass and peered down at it. No, that was ridiculous – coaches couldn’t fly! It wasn’t a coach at all; it had no wheels for one thing. And the round windows that studded its copper body made it look more like one of those little ships they sent out to clean the weed from the depths of the castle moat.
‘Am I still dreaming?’ Echo wiped the steam from the windowpane with the sleeve of her nightgown and pressed her nose back against the glass. ‘Where’s it come from, Gilbert? Whose is it? What is it?’
Gilbert scuttled down her arm and on to her hand, his yellow scales bright in the moonlight. He took a look out of the window with one conical eye, then rolled it in a way that said, Search me.
As she watched, a gust of wind caught the balloon and buffeted it in the breeze, and Echo saw that the rope rigging had snagged on the castle’s ironwork. The strange vessel was trapped.
‘Well, I suppose someone should do something,’ she said. ‘And it is outside my bedchamber.’
She pushed open the window and poked her head out, shivering at the rush of freezing air. ‘H-h-hello?’
No answer. She cleared her throat. ‘Is anyone there? Should I fetch the guards to help you?’
A circular hatch at the rear of the vessel’s roof popped open and a frizzy-haired ginger head appeared. A man’s face, mostly obscured behind a huge pair of brass goggles, peered up at her from the shadows. ‘Guards won’t be necessary,’ he said. ‘I could do with a hand up though. Would you oblige? Blasted tethers are all tangled and my airship’s completely stuck.’
An airship? Echo swallowed. Of course, she shouldn’t help this strange man, whoever he was, into the castle in the middle of the night. She really, really shouldn’t. She took a closer look at the man, who had climbed out of the hatch and now teetered on the airship’s roof. She couldn’t see the glint of a sword or dagger, and he had a friendly smile. ‘I suppose he looks harmless enough,’ she whispered to Gilbert, ‘and I can always scream for a guard if anything terrible happens.’
Gilbert blinked and bobbed his head, in a yes kind of way, so Echo raced to her bed, tied two sheets together and secured one to the bedpost. She ran back and dropped the other end out of the window. The pilot hauled himself up and Echo stumbled backwards as he flipped over the sill and landed, panting, on the velvet cushions. He pushed his goggles up on to his forehead, making his halo of ginger frizz stand even more upright than before. ‘I must apologize for my unscheduled arrival.’ He grinned. ‘Whatever would your parents say, eh?’
Echo swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, and took in his strange green suit covered with gadget-filled pockets, his huge hobnailed boots and the wooden tube, thankfully not a sword, tucked into his belt. ‘I don’t have parents.’
The man’s grin dissolved. ‘Ah. Ah . . . I see.’
‘Oh no. It’s fine. I mean, it happened years ago,’ Echo said, forcing down the heaviness that threatened to settle in her chest. ‘I don’t even remember them.’
‘Well, oh dear. I do seem to have got off on the wrong foot, so to speak.’ The man cleared his throat, jumped up and thrust out a large, freckled hand. ‘Professor Mangrove Daggerwing – inventor, explorer, adventurer – at your service.’
An explorer? An adventurer? Echo opened and closed her mouth. Was this some kind of joke? Or a dream? Lockfort didn’t have explorers or adventurers. ‘I’m Echo,’ she finally managed.
Professor Daggerwing grabbed Echo’s hand and shook it so vigorously her teeth almost rattled. His palm was huge, warm and rather clammy.
‘And who’s this little fellow?’ he said, peering down at Gilbert, who was back on Echo’s shoulder, nestled among her curls.
‘His name’s Gilbert.’
‘What a splendid chap,’ said the professor, tickling him under the chin with his little finger. Gilbert’s eyes rolled in delight and his scales flushed pink in the candlelight, in a way that said, Why, yes, I am quite splendid, and thank you for noticing.
The professor stood up straight again and glanced around, blinking at the opulent gold-and-purple fabric of Echo’s fourposter bed, the wood-panelled walls carved with lilies and roses, and the hundred-candle crystal chandelier suspended, shimmering, from the ceiling. He cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps I should be calling you Princess Echo?’
‘Lady Echo, if you really have to.’ Echo wiped her hand on her nightgown. ‘Although I’m not much good at being a lady. I’m a ward of the king. You can just call me Echo.’
‘Ah, the king. That would be the king of . . .’
Echo stared at him for a second. How many kings did this strange man think there were? ‘The king of Lockfort, of course.’
‘Lockfort!’ The professor’s jaw dropped for a moment, and then a slow smile spread over his face. ‘Lockfort indeed. What luck!’ He gave a sudden giggle and stifled it with both hands, then clapped them together in delight. ‘Absolutely fascinating! I do wonder if I’m the first!’
‘The first? What do you—’
He sprang forward and shook Echo’s hand once again. ‘Well, I do declare. Here I am talking to a real Lockfortian!’
‘I . . . I don’t know what you mean. We’re all Lockfortians.’
He leaned closer and his voice dropped to a whisper. ‘You were rumoured to be rather a hostile bunch, but I have to say that I think you’re perfectly delightful.’
Echo grinned weakly.
‘But I digress. The king! I must speak to him at once. Please take me to him,’ said the professor.
‘He doesn’t really like to be woken.’
‘Nonsense! When he hears the great explorer, Mangrove Daggerwing, has come from beyond the Barren—’
All the breath seemed to leave Echo’s body in a rush. Beyond the Barren? Was that what he’d said?
‘B-but there’s nothing after the Barren,’ she said after a moment. ‘It’s the edge of the world.’
‘The edge of the world?’ Professor Daggerwing’s bushy ginger eyebrows shot up so high they almost disappeared beneath his hair. ‘My goodness, is that what they tell you here?’
‘Well, yes . . .’ Echo trailed off. It was the end of the world. What did this strange man mean? She cleared her throat. ‘At the end of the Barren, there’s a great mist, and then if you go too far you . . .’ She stopped, suddenly unsure of herself.
‘You . . . ?’
‘Well, I’m not exactly sure.’ Echo felt herself flushing.
The professor grinned. ‘I think someone must be pickling your peppercorns!’
‘Pickling my . . . ?’ Echo was completely confused. ‘I don’t have any peppercorns.’
‘Joking with you?’ The professor took a long look at her. ‘No, maybe not. Here, let me show you what’s really out there.’ He removed the wooden tube from his belt, opened it and pulled out a scroll of paper with a flourish. ‘It’s all here. Take a look.’
Echo grabbed her candlestick and leaned over the professor’s shoulder as he unfurled the parchment and spread it out on her bedspread.
‘We must be here,’ he said.
Echo nodded, running her forefinger round the familiar ring of uninhabitable and treacherous land that was the Barren. Then she stopped. In the centre of it, where she’d expected to see Lockfort’s orderly rings of streets bounded by the circular city walls, was simply a circle marked Terra Pericolosa in angry red ink.
Echo frowned, about to ask what this meant, but all thoughts were forgotten as the professor unrolled the rest of the map, opening it out right across the bed. For, outside the Barren, where Lockfort’s maps had nothing at all and Echo had been expecting to see a blank space, this map showed snaking rivers and soaring mountain ranges. She looked at it in amazement. What were these places? Strange names wer
e written in curling black letters – Cinnabar, Pomegranth, Dark Nordland – dizzyingly large numbers of them. And the map showed lakes and forests, deserts and valleys, moors and—
‘That is the great city of Port Tourbillon,’ said the professor, stabbing a large forefinger in the middle of the map.
‘Another city?’ breathed Echo. ‘No . . . There can’t be!’
‘Oh yes! There are many cities, and mountains, and—’
‘An ocean,’ said Echo, almost dropping her candle as she spotted the pale blue expanse. She recovered herself, relieved at last that she was right. ‘That proves it. This isn’t a real map – it’s just a drawing. The ocean’s only in fairy tales.’
‘Fairy tales? Not at all, my dear,’ said the professor. ‘There’s a whole world out there just waiting to be explored.’
‘What’s the ocean like then?’ said Echo, studying the professor’s face for any signs of a lie, but not finding a single one. ‘If it’s real, that is. Have you actually seen it?’
‘Seen it? I’ve swum in it! Soaked in the salty water, lazed beneath the star-palms, let the puzzle fish nibble my toes.’
‘Puzzle fish,’ Echo whispered, the words unfamiliar in her mouth. Despite herself, she felt a tingle of excitement. ‘And what else?’ she said.
The professor grinned. ‘My goal is to explore the furthest reaches of the world and study their flora and fauna. Currently, I am on my way to the Violet Isles to assist Doctor Beetlestone with cataloguing her butterflies . . . Such enormous creatures! You’ve never seen anything like them. Great strong wings that’ll flap your hat right off your head. And they lick you like dogs, you know. It’s a most peculiar sensation.’
Echo’s mind spun. Was this strange man crazy? She thought for a moment. ‘So why are you in Lockfort then?’
‘Well . . .’ The professor flushed. ‘Technically, we’re not supposed to venture here; ever since the Great War, the place has been off limits. No, I was heading to the Violet Isles, here.’ He pointed to the cluster of islands on the map. ‘I came via the Verdigris Plains. But I must have dozed off somewhere near Galligaskins and then the old girl’s engines stalled and somehow I seem to have drifted here.’ He gave her a beaming smile. ‘But all’s well that ends well, eh? A most fortunate occurrence, if I may say so.’
Echo’s head whirled with all these strange new ideas. ‘What’s the Great War—’
They both jumped as Echo’s bedchamber door burst open with a clatter of boots. The glare of a lantern dazzled her and she stumbled backwards.
‘Drop your weapons!’ yelled a guard, jabbing his spear at the professor.
Professor Daggerwing threw both hands in the air. ‘Weapons, my dear fellow? I come in peace!’
‘Are you hurt, Lady Echo?’ Another guard barged into the room. ‘What has this ruffian done to you?’
‘I’m absolutely fine,’ said Echo, pushing down a flicker of fear. Would the professor be in trouble? ‘He hasn’t done anything.’
The first guard clanked over to the open window. ‘He must’ve got in through here,’ he said.
‘He didn’t get in – I helped him in,’ said Echo.
‘You helped him—’
‘What is going on in here?’ The king appeared at Echo’s door, his gold brocade nightcap askew on his mop of yellowblond hair.
‘An intruder, Your Majesty,’ said the guard, bowing deeply.
‘He’s not an intruder.’ Why did nobody ever listen to her? Echo folded her arms, feeling suddenly defiant in front of the king. The professor hadn’t done anything wrong! ‘I told you, I let him in.’
The king ignored her and glared at the professor, red-faced. ‘Who are you?’
The professor gave a half-bow half-curtsy and almost tripped over his own feet. ‘My name is Professor Mangrove Daggerwing, Sire.’ He waved a hand at the map still spread out on Echo’s bed. ‘I come from beyond the Barren—’
‘An outsider?’ The king’s blue eyes blazed. ‘Treason!’ He pointed a thick, shaking forefinger at the professor. ‘Seize him! Take him to the dungeons!’
He marched to the door and turned, a complicated expression on his face that Echo couldn’t quite read.
‘And burn that map.’
CHAPTER THREE
Echo stared miserably into her coddled eggs as she sat at the banqueting table the next morning. The table was even longer and lonelier than usual; it seated at least forty, but had one measly place setting for Echo instead of the usual two, as Prince Horace was still on bed rest for his sprained ankle.
Martha clamped a plump hand on to Echo’s forehead. ‘Are you feeling well, Lady Echo? It’s not like you to be off your breakfast.’
Echo brushed her away. ‘I’m quite well, Martha. I’m just cross because you won’t believe me.’ Why had she ever teased Martha with tales of mushrooms growing under her bed or lied about eating Horace’s marzipan bears? Now Martha would never believe her.
Gilbert wriggled in his hiding place in the pocket of Echo’s gown and nibbled her finger, as if to say, I believe you. She waited until Martha turned away before slipping him a sliver of bacon, which he gulped down with a gleeful chirrup.
‘Perhaps it was a dream, Lady Echo.’ Martha came back with a gilt tureen and smiled kindly at her. ‘You know, you do have them. Now, how about some nice sweet custard?’
‘No thank you.’ Echo folded her arms across her chest, wishing she’d never told Martha about a single one of her dreams. ‘And I’ve told you a million times – it wasn’t a dream. Ask King Alfons.’
‘Oh, Echo, you can’t just ask the king things—’
Echo sighed. Martha was right. The king wouldn’t listen to a maid like Martha any more than he listened to Echo. He barely even passed the time of day with his son, Horace. But what if the professor’s map was real? Why had the king had it burned? He’d called the professor an outsider. But Echo knew how it felt to be an outsider, and it wasn’t fair. ‘Maybe I should ask him.’
‘You can’t,’ said Martha, putting down the tureen with a bang. ‘Imagine! Bothering his Royal Highness with your stories. Remember when you told Lord Rolfe you’d seen a water serpent swimming in the moat? I didn’t hear the end of it for days.’
‘I was just trying to liven up that boring dinner.’ Echo frowned. ‘This time it’s not a story, I swear it! There was a flying machine, with a balloon. An . . . an airship.’
‘Airships indeed! You’ll be telling me you’ve been on a flying carpet next.’
‘It was right outside my window!’
‘And where is it now then. This airship?’
‘The guards took it away. I heard them.’
‘I’ve never heard anything so silly in all my days, Lady Echo. You and your imagination! It’d be the talk of the turrets if something like that happened in the dead of night.’
‘I’m not imagining this time!’
‘Then you’re playing tricks on me again.’ Martha poured out a thick stream of creamy liquid into Echo’s goblet. ‘Drink your milk. It’s good for your bones.’
‘But there was a man—’
‘Milk.’ Martha put both fists on her hips.
Echo gave in and took a sulky gulp. Martha was clearly not going to believe her, whatever she said.
‘Maybe you’re right. It was a dream,’ she mumbled into her milk. But her heart said there was an airship and a man and a map, and the king was keeping it all secret. But why?
Breakfast over, Echo left the banqueting hall and wandered back past the ballroom in the direction of her bedchamber. She took a quick look around, but there was nobody in the long, wood-panelled corridor, only the oil paintings of King Alfons’s dusty ancestors frowning down at her from the walls.
‘It’s safe. You can come out now,’ she whispered.
Gilbert emerged from her pocket and clambered up to her shoulder, where he draped himself round her neck like a scarf.
‘You know I’m telling the truth, don’t you?’ she said.
Gilbert blinked and butted his scaly head against her ear as if to say, Yes, Echo, always.
‘They must have hidden the professor’s ship somewhere,’ she murmured. But where? Where could they put it so that no one would find it? A thought hit her. The ramparts! Nobody ever went up there but her, and now, thanks to King Alfons, they were out of bounds to her too. Was there time to go up and look? She did some quick calculations in her head. It was Thursday, which meant history with Miss Brittle she realized with a groan. They would have to be quick.
Echo ducked into a side passage and ran all the way to the eastern turret staircase. She reached the top of the stairs and grasped the brass handle, expecting the door to the ramparts to swing open, as it always did. But today it wouldn’t budge. She rattled it in frustration. ‘It’s stuck.’
Gilbert scuttled down her sleeve, over her hand and on to the door frame. He cocked a conical eye at the gap between the door and the jamb, as if to say, Or rather it’s locked.
‘Locked? Let me see.’ Echo squatted down and peered at it. A metal block obscured the crack of light. Gilbert was right – the king must have had it locked.
Echo frowned. A lock wasn’t going to stop her. Now, how could she get the door open? Echo glanced around, but there was nothing to help. She shoved her hands in her pockets in exasperation and her fingers found the velvet wrapping of her mother’s emerald pin, carefully tucked into her pocket for safe keeping that morning.
Echo unwrapped it and looked at it for a moment. The pointy end might do it. Could she risk her mother’s precious pin though? She thought for a moment about the deathly boring day that stretched out before her. What if the airship really was up here? No, she had a chance and she had to take it.
Echo opened the clasp, carefully inserted the point into the keyhole and jiggled it. There was a small click, and something in the lock loosened, but it didn’t give. She pressed gently with the pin until she could feel the workings of the latch.
Gilbert’s scales turned a shade of pale green, as if to say, Be careful, and he scuttled backwards along the wall, away from the door handle.
