by Alex English
‘Isn’t it always?’ The woman’s eyes sparkled. ‘I’m Meera Milkweed.’ She thrust out a hand to shake Echo’s and her armful of silver bracelets jangled. ‘I’m the professor’s housekeeper, cat keeper and sometimes cartographer.’ She looked them up and down. ‘I suppose, if you’re staying, I’d better make up some beds.’ She disappeared out of the room in a whirl of colour.
‘Now for breakfast,’ said the professor, opening cupboards and examining jars.
Echo’s eyes widened and she hugged herself in glee as she took in all the strange foods and spices that filled the professor’s shelves.
‘I really hope it’s not pickles this time,’ whispered Horace.
In fact, the kitchen was full of jars of pickles, stacked up to the ceiling in an array of colours. It seemed the selection in the Hummerbird was only the start. The professor had just pulled out an assortment of jars when Mrs Milkweed returned, carrying armfuls of sheets.
‘Oh, Professor, you can’t feed children on pickles,’ she said, rolling her eyes in amusement at Echo and Horace. ‘There’s fresh wildeboar bacon in the larder. Now, you put these sheets on the top-floor beds and let me deal with breakfast.’
The four of them were soon sitting companionably at the large wooden table, tucking into huge plates of eggs, smoked wildeboar bacon and crisp, sugary waffles dowsed in hazel syrup. It was a world away from the bland coddled eggs and goblets of milk Echo and Horace were used to. The professor poured out generous mugs of tea for all of them, while explaining their adventures to Mrs Milkweed, who seemed to be used to tales of undiscovered cities, dungeons and daring escapes. ‘So,’ he said, ‘it’ll take a couple of days to get the old Hummerbird fixed before I can take these two home.’
‘If we can get home,’ said Horace, staring glumly into his mug.
‘The professor will find a way,’ said Mrs Milkweed, patting his hand. ‘There always is one, however difficult things seem. Now, what can we do to cheer you up in the meantime? There’s lots to see in the city.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Horace. He absent-mindedly broke off a piece of waffle and tossed it to Gilbert, who was sitting in the middle of the table, ready to nab any leftovers. Gilbert caught it with a snap and swallowed greedily.
‘There must be something.’ Echo wiped the syrup from her mouth with one of the professor’s butterfly-print napkins. ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘Butterflies! Horace loves butterflies, don’t you?’ She turned to the professor. ‘You said you were on the way to study them before.’
The professor nodded sagely. ‘Indeed, I was. The best butterfly country is out in the Violet Isles, but here in the city there is, of course, the Tourbillon Butterfly House, and the Great Library has plenty of reading matter.’
Horace brightened slightly and nodded. ‘I suppose that does sound interesting.’
‘Take a look at this.’ Mrs Milkweed took down a worn purple book from one of the overcrowded shelves. ‘This’ll tell you about some of the varieties we have out here.’
Horace opened the book and immediately lost himself in its pages and Echo saw her chance to ask about the pin.
‘I was wondering, Mrs M,’ she said, casually nibbling on a waffle, ‘if you’ve ever heard of somewhere called Evergreen and Spruce?’
‘Want some jewellery, do you?’ said Mrs Milkweed, jangling her bracelets with a grin. ‘I get all mine from Ginshi Flux at the market. Tell her I sent you and she’ll give you a discount.’
‘No, I mean thank you, but I need to find that particular shop,’ said Echo. ‘I . . . I just want to look in the window.’
‘I don’t blame you! They’ve got some beautiful things, but they’re pricey. You’ll find it on Goldsmith’s Lane.’
‘Can you show me where that is?’ asked Echo, stuffing the last piece of waffle into her mouth and jumping up from her chair. ‘I’m going to go right away.’
Mrs Milkweed looked at her for a moment and cleared her throat. ‘We’ll have to get you kitted out first. Your clothes make you a bit . . .’ She paused and searched for the right word. ‘Conspicuous.’
Echo looked down at her crumpled golden silk gown. ‘Oh.’
‘And I think young Horace could do with wearing something more . . . practical too.’ She turned to the professor. ‘You’ll need to go to the Mech Market to order a new envelope for the airship anyway. Why don’t you get them some new clothes while you’re there?’
‘Clothes shopping?’ The professor almost choked on his tea. ‘But Mrs Milkweed, I hardly think—’
‘Nonsense, Professor. These children rescued you. The least you can do is take care of them for a few days while they’re here.’
‘But I can’t . . .’ He trailed off in dismay.
Mrs Milkweed took his plate. ‘If you can care for seven cats, Professor, then two children should be a doddle.’
‘But I was hoping you would—’
‘I’ll be far too busy redrawing the map you lost. Now, off you go, all of you!’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As they walked to the market through the streets of Port Tourbillon, Echo stared in awe around her, at the crazy kaleidoscope of buildings towering above, their chimneys snaking towards the sky; at the steam carriages rumbling over the cobbles; at the hustle and bustle and people and dirt and differentness.
But the differentness felt like home somehow. Like she’d been here before. Like she belonged. She gazed around her with a huge grin on her face. No longer was she the only one with dark curls and freckled skin: Port Tourbillon shimmered with a whole rainbow of people. She had to stop herself from staring in wonder at the people she passed. A woman with tall studded boots and hair woven with pink feathers rode by in a steam carriage, waving in greeting to the professor; a boy with skin darker than Echo’s and startling purple eyes rattled past with a barrow of strangely mottled vegetables; two white-moustached men with completely bald heads nodded to them as they strode along, arm in arm, swinging matching jewelled canes.
The professor seemed to know half the city. ‘Good morning, good morning!’ he cried, tipping his hat to a man with a waist-length, plaited beard, waving to three women pedalling a three-seated bicycle and shaking hands vigorously with a fellow in jingling cowboy boots who introduced himself to the children as Palomino Jones.
Echo soon realized what Mrs Milkweed had meant about her golden silk skirts being conspicuous though, as she raised quite a few eyebrows herself. Everyone wore such practical clothes in Port Tourbillon. There were no tight, rib-crushing gowns or swishing skirts to get in the way. In fact, most of the city’s women wore breeches, Echo noticed with envy.
‘Will I be able to have breeches too?’ she asked.
‘We can certainly obtain some ladies’ breeches,’ said the professor. ‘I know a very capable tailor who will run you up a few pairs in no time.’
‘He’ll need to make sure there’s a pocket for Gilbert,’ she said, stroking the little lizard, who was slung round her neck, happily taking in their surroundings and enjoying being out in the open for once.
‘Naturally! And how about you, young Horace?’ said the professor. ‘Do you have any special requests?’
‘Can’t I stay as I am?’ said Horace, looking down at his velvet-clad legs. ‘They’re just ordinary trousers.’
‘They might be in Lockfort,’ said Echo. ‘For a prince. We need to look normal here.’
‘But . . . but,’ Horace spluttered, ‘these are my best pair. Father will be cross . . .’ His face crumpled. ‘I suppose that doesn’t matter any more.’
Echo shook her head. Why couldn’t he see how incredible everything was here? She found herself wishing once again that she’d noticed he had stowed away. Why had he followed her anyway? He knew he wasn’t cut out for adventures. With some effort, she softened her voice. ‘The professor will take you home, Horace, just as soon as the balloon’s fixed. But for now we’re here. Think of the Butterfly House! You can’t go there dressed like royalty.’
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nbsp; ‘I suppose not.’ Horace gave a half-hearted shrug and followed after them, but his shoulders drooped and his eyes stayed fixed firmly on the pavement the whole way there.
The Mech Market was a vast palace of a building, with a high arched roof of glittering black glass. As they entered, Echo saw huge gas lamps hanging overhead, their light reflecting off the stalls full of metallic machine parts – cogs and propellers, spanners and screws, flywheels and fenders and rusty old canisters of flying gas. There were compasses, barometers, star charts and navigation maps everywhere she looked.
‘What is this place?’ she whispered in awe.
‘Welcome to the Mech Market,’ said the professor, ‘where engineers come to buy and sell everything they need. Port Tourbillon isn’t the trading capital of the world for nothing, you know! It’s famous for the best technology money can buy. That’s why explorers like myself base ourselves here. It’s the gateway to the whole world!’
The gateway to the world! Echo looked around in amazement. In her excitement to get to Port Tourbillon, she hadn’t even thought about places beyond. Just how big was the world? She glanced at Horace, who was staring at everything with a dazed expression. ‘What’s wrong?’
He gave a tight-lipped shrug. ‘It’s all just so . . . so different.’
‘I know!’ Echo grinned and hugged herself. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ She raced off after the professor before Horace could answer.
They continued past racks of scopes and eyeglasses, goggles and leather-flapped flying hats, stalls selling travelling provisions – tins of jellied rabbit, leathery strips of salted meat that made Gilbert’s nostrils twitch, paper bags of boiled sweets (perfect for airsickness) and hard little sky biscuits – until they came to the fabric area.
‘Now this is what I need,’ said the professor, as he pointed to a stall of rainbow-hued silks.
As they waited for him to find exactly the right silk for the Hummerbird ’s envelope, Echo stroked a bolt of purple fabric. ‘I still don’t quite see why it’s called the Mech Market,’ she said, as he finally emerged from the stall, his order finished.
‘Ah,’ said Professor Daggerwing, ‘let me show you. Follow me.’ He strode off across the market hall.
Echo and Horace trotted after him. They came to the end of the hall, went through an archway of cogs and emerged into an outer courtyard.
Echo sucked in a breath. Everywhere spanner-wielding engineers tinkered with mechanical beasts. There was a stall full of clockwork pigeons, a table covered with glittering metallic beetles and a trio of robotic monkeys busily tapping out messages on typewriters.
But, most magnificent of all, in one corner stood an enormous copper dragon. Its metallic scales shifted over one another as its owner, a dark-skinned, oil-smudged girl with green ribbons woven into her black hair, fiddled with the controls to its hydraulic wings.
The girl, who looked a few years older than Echo, saw Echo’s open-mouthed stare and glared at her, before returning to her work.
Echo quickly turned away and examined the table of clockwork beetles behind her. As she did so, Gilbert emerged from her pocket, cocked an eye at the robotic insects and, before she could stop him, leaped on to the table.
‘Gilbert, no!’ Echo lunged forward, grabbed him and prised open his scaly jaws. ‘It’s not food!’ she said.
Gilbert’s crest crumpled and he forlornly spat out the beetle.
‘Mighty smooth clockwork there,’ said the stallholder, a portly man with a handlebar moustache and a rather batteredlooking top hat. ‘Mind if I examine its workings?’
‘Workings? Oh!’ Echo realized he was talking about Gilbert. ‘Oh, he’s not a toy.’
‘Toy?’ The man’s eyebrows flew into the brim of his hat. ‘These aren’t toys, my dear. These are sophisticated pieces of communication equipment.’
‘Postal pigeons and beetle bugs,’ explained the professor, arriving beside her. ‘The former are used to send and receive messages. The latter are for spying on people.’
‘Surveillance,’ corrected the man. ‘They’re very popular – can I interest you in one?’
‘Oh, no thank you, my good man. My postal pigeon is still going strong.’
The man shrugged and went back to polishing his beetles.
Echo looked up and noticed that the girl with the dragon was staring at her. She hesitated for a moment before shyly walking over. ‘This is incredible,’ she said. ‘Did you build it?’
‘Yes,’ said the girl, raising one eyebrow as she looked Echo up and down. ‘Nice dress. Going to a costume ball, are you?’ She went back to her work.
Echo flushed. Was the girl mocking her? She tried again. ‘Can I have a look inside?’
The girl answered without looking up. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You may not.’
Echo swallowed, starting to feel silly. ‘What does it do?’
The girl put down her rag. ‘You’re not from around here, are you? She is a dragon mech and her name’s Smokesister,’ she said. ‘Full hydraulic wing action, flexible talons, night vision. Plus, she does this.’ The girl stood back and casually pressed a button attached to the dragon’s belly cavity by a long cable.
The dragon’s metal jaws opened, there was a whoosh of gas and suddenly flames burst out of the beast’s mouth, almost singeing Echo’s skirts. Gilbert hissed and hid in Echo’s hair. Horace, who had wandered up to them, jumped backwards with a yelp, bumping into a pile of metal cogs, which went spinning away across the floor.
The girl laughed as Echo stepped backwards in alarm. ‘Realistic, isn’t she? Don’t be scared though; she’s completely under my control.’
Was the girl trying to upset her on purpose? Echo couldn’t make her out. She dusted down her skirts to hide her nerves and forced a smile on to her face. ‘Does she fly?’ she asked.
The girl shook her head. ‘Not yet, but she will. And three times faster than the fastest airship. Got to get the engine working on all cylinders before I can get her off the ground though. Then I’ll have my name on a plaque at the Engineers’ Guild – Abena Tuesday, master engineer.’
The burly man from the beetle stall grinned, a wicked glint in his eye. ‘Gotta get her working first, Abena.’
‘I will if you’d stop interrupting me,’ Abena snapped, grabbing her spanner and going back to her work with a huff.
‘Well, bye,’ said Echo. But the older girl had turned away and disappeared beneath the dragon without a word.
Echo’s cheeks flushed with heat. She glanced down at the glossy folds of her silk gown and felt suddenly foolish.
‘Echo, come on!’ called Horace.
Echo turned away and went back to the entrance, where Horace and the professor were standing.
‘Ah, young Echo! Ready to go and buy some breeches?’ said the professor. ‘I think it’s about time we got you kitted out Port Tourbillon style.’
Echo nodded and her smile returned. ‘Definitely.’ She wanted to get out of these Lockfort clothes right away; the sooner she looked the part, the sooner she’d be on her way to Evergreen & Spruce.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Back at Hawthorn Square, Echo found the room that the professor had prepared for her, and threw her parcels down on the bed, dislodging the dozing ginger-and-white Stargazy, who leaped down with an injured miaow. She stroked his head and took a look around. There was no chandelier or four-poster bed here. Instead, her room was small but cosy, with a neatly made-up copper-framed bed, a shaggy purple rug on the smooth-worn floorboards and a small circular window that looked out on the garden in the square. It was no palace bedchamber, but somehow it was perfect for her, she thought with a grin. She ripped open her parcels, peeled off the gold silk dress, now somewhat rumpled and torn, and discarded it in a corner, before pulling on her new clothes.
Echo bent her knees experimentally and grinned as she admired herself in the mirror. The new breeches fitted perfectly. She could be anything in breeches like these – an explorer, an adventurer, a pirate!
‘Oh, Gilbert, I’m sorry!’ Echo suddenly caught sight of the little lizard wriggling out of the folds of her dress. He gave a cross chirrup, which to Echo sounded like, How could you forget me?
‘I didn’t.’ She scooped him up and slipped him into her specially designed lizard-sized hip pocket. ‘Plenty of room for you in here.’ She paused. ‘I suppose we should check on Horace.’
Gilbert popped his head out and gave a chirrup, which Echo knew meant, Let’s go! So, after a moment to ready her nerves, she grabbed a cushion and whizzed into the slideway back downstairs.
Horace was in the professor’s library with a glossy black cat, Beetlecrusher, on his lap. He looked up from one of the professor’s butterfly books as Echo came tumbling in. ‘Can you believe it?’ he said. ‘There are over a thousand butterfly varieties out here. Lockfort only had twelve, and I’d already spotted eleven of them.’
‘Wow!’ Echo smiled, relieved that Horace had found something to occupy himself with. He was definitely less trouble when he was happy. Gilbert scuttled out and leaped on to the table, where he eyed the books curiously.
Miaow! They all jumped as a loud cry rang out from the ceiling. Echo looked up to see that the noise had come from a large metal speaker.
Horace sighed. ‘That’ll be another one of the cats wanting to come up. Can you do the honours?’ He pointed at what looked like the rear half of a bicycle in the corner of the room. ‘It’s another of the professor’s inventions – he calls it the cato-puller. Just pedal until the cat appears.’
Echo got on to the seat and pedalled. There was a whirring of cogs and a clanking of chains and finally a basket emerged from a hole in the corner of the floor with not one but two more cats inside, the sleek white Sugarsnap and the fluffy golden-brown Dandelion. They hopped lightly out of the basket and Sugarsnap jumped on to the table, where she circled Gilbert curiously.
