by Paul Stewart
Twig smiled. ‘I'm afraid not,’ he said. He turned to the others. ‘Come on Tarp, Cowlquape. If we're going to complete our business this side of midnight, we'd best be going.’
‘Please yourself.’ The cloddertrog turned away. ‘Too good to drink with the likes of us,’ said Grom, nudging Tugger.
Twig, Tarp and Cowlquape retreated. The light drizzle turned to great heavy drops of rain. Twig felt a surge of irrational anger welling up inside him. He fought against the feeling. Beside him, Tarp's and Cowlquape's faces were drawn and tense.
‘Waaargh! You stupid oaf!’ bellowed an angry voice.
‘Me, stupid?’ a second voice roared. ‘You ridiculous dunderhead!’ There was the sound of a clenched fist slamming into a jaw.
‘It's … it's the weather doing this,’ Twig muttered through gritted teeth, and grabbed Cowlquape by the arm.
The next instant, the whole place exploded into violence as each and every cloggertrog turned on one another. Fists flew. Teeth were bared. Clubs were drawn. Curses filled the air.
‘Quickly, Cowlquape,’ Twig said, steering him forwards. ‘Let's get out of here.’
But there were cloddertrogs everywhere, gripped by rain-rage, blocking their way, lashing out blindly at any who came too near. Punching. Kicking. Snarling and biting.
The great vat was splintered and leaking. A scrum of half a dozen of the furious creatures fell screaming to the ground, where they squirmed and writhed in a flood of tripweed beer, still scratching and scraping and scuffling with each other.
‘I'll rip off your head.’ ‘I'll tear you limb from limb!’ ‘I'll yank out your liver and swallow it whole!’
And all the while, the terrible rain grew heavier. It hammered down torrentially flooding the narrow streets and dousing the blazing lufwood torches, one by one.
‘Come on, Tarp,’ Twig called as he and Cowlquape attempted to squeeze through the crush of thrashing bodies. ‘I… wurrrgh!’ he grunted as a particularly large cloddertrog seized him from behind and clamped a fleshy hand over his mouth. Another cloddertrog had hold of Cowlquape. A third pinned Tarp against a wall.
Half a dozen more torches sputtered and died. Then, all at once, the last of the blazing lufwood torches went out, and the whole area was plunged into darkness.
‘WAAAAH!’ the cloddertrog screamed in Twig's ear and shoved him roughly away. He careered into Tarp. Their luminous glow became brighter than ever.
‘Spirits!’ the cloddertrogs howled and fell back -enraged still, yet too terrified to attack.
‘Quick,’ Twig whispered to the others. ‘Let's get out of here before they realize we might not be spirits after all.’
He grabbed hold of Cowlquape's arm, and the three of them made a dash for it. The cloddertrogs bellowed after them, but did not follow. Yet there were others out there on the streets - everywhere they looked - all driven to bloodthirsty violence by the madness of the weather.
‘What do we do?’ said Tarp, running first in one direction, then back again. ‘We're done for! We're doomed!’
‘This way,’ hissed a voice in Twig's ear.
‘Very well, this way!’ he shouted and ran up the narrow alley, the others hot on his heels. ‘Stick together!’ he bellowed. ‘And pray to Sky that…’
‘Aaaaargh!’ they all cried out in horror as the ground beneath them seemed to give way.
Falling. Down, down, down. Tumbling through the dark, fetid air, arms and legs flailing wildly. Above their heads there was a loud bang as a trapdoor slammed shut.
• CHAPTER TEN •
THE CISTERN
‘Goodness!’ Cowlquape gasped as the rapid descent came to an abrupt halt. Something soft, silken and oddly springy had broken his fall. With a cry of surprise he bounced back, and grunted with pain as Tarp Hammelherd crashed heavily into him. The two of them fell back down onto the bouncy mesh of fibres. Twig landed on top of them both.
All at once, there was a click. Then a thud. Then, with a hissing swish, a rope drawstring tightened up. The mesh-like material gathered around them, gripping them tightly and thrusting the three hapless individuals close together.
The first thing that hit Cowlquape was the incredible stench, so powerful it felt like the fingers of an invisible hand reaching down his throat and making him gag. Encased in the thick netting, the glow from Twig and Tarp was muted, but by the faint light that did penetrate outside, Cowlquape slowly began to make out his surroundings.
They were suspended high above a great, steaming underground canal. All around them, pipes protruded from the walls of the immense tunnel through which the canal flowed. A constant stream of filthy water poured from the pipes and into the foaming torrent below.
The sewers,’ Cowlquape groaned. ‘I … Ouch! That hurts!’ he yelped as Twig's bony elbow pressed sharply into his back. ‘What are you doing?’
Trying to draw my knife,’ Twig grunted. Though I can't… seem to … move …’
‘OWWW!’ Cowlquape howled, still louder.
Twig gave up the struggle. It's hopeless,’ he muttered. ‘I just can't reach it.’
‘Wouldn't do you much good if you could,’ came Tarp Hammelherd's muffled voice from below them. His face was pressed into the bottom of the net. ‘It's made of woodspider silk.’
Twig groaned. Woodspider silk was the material used in the manufacture of sky pirate ship sails - light as gossamer, yet tough enough to withstand the battering of the gales which swept in from beyond the Edge. His knife would be as good as useless against the thick spun fibres from which the net had been constructed.
‘This is terrible, cap'n,’ Tarp Hammelherd complained. ‘I'd have sooner chanced my luck with those crazy cloddertrogs than ended up strung up like a great tilder sausage.’ He winced miserably as the steaming vapours of the passing filth swirled up into his nostrils. Piebald rats sniffed the air and squeaked up with frustration at the glowing bundle dangling above them. ‘Somebody, or something, set this trap,’ he said, ‘and we've fallen into it.’
‘What do you mean, something?’ said Cowlquape, alarmed.
‘I've heard that muglumps live in the sewers,’ came Tarp's hushed and muffled voice. ‘Fearsome beasts they are. All claws and teeth. But clever, devious - perhaps one of them might have …’
‘Shhh!’ Twig hissed.
From far in the distance came a harsh, clanking sound.
‘What's that?’ Cowlquape whispered, dread setting the hairs at the back of his neck tingling.
‘I don't know,’ Twig whispered back.
The clanking grew louder. It was getting closer. Twig, pinned against Cowlquape, couldn't turn his head. Tarp, beneath them, couldn't see a thing. Only Cowlquape, whose head was fixed so that he could gaze back along the tunnel, faced the direction of the sound. He gulped.
‘Can you see anything, Cowlquape?’ said Twig uneasily. He knew that it wasn't only piebald rats and muglumps that lived in the sewers. There were trogs and trolls who had left their underground caverns in the Deepwoods for the promise of a better life in Undertown, only to find that the frantic bustle above ground was too much to take. Some starved. Others had taken up residence in the sewerage system underground, where they scavenged a brutal existence.
The clanking was closer than ever now, harsh and clear above the gushing pipes. Clang! Metal scraped on metal. Clang! The pipes seemed to shudder.
And then Cowlquape saw it: a great metal hook which swung through the air, clanged against a pipe jutting out from the tunnel wall and took hold. The hook was fastened to a gnarled wooden pole around which two bony hands tightened their grip and pulled.
A shadowy figure standing awkwardly in a bizarre craft of lashed-together driftwood emerged from the gloom. He swung the hook again. Clang! It gripped the next pipe, and he pulled his barge against the current of the foaming canal, closer and closer.
Cowlquape gasped. ‘I can see something,’ he whispered.
CLANG!
The boat was almost beneath them
now. A huge flat-head leered up at him.
‘Twig,’ Cowlquape squeaked, ‘it's …’
The hook sliced through the air in an arc, then ripped back, releasing the net. Like a hot flight-rock - with the three hapless individuals still bound up inside - it fell with a heavy thud into the bottom of the goblin's barge, just as the current took it underneath.
They hurtled along the stinking canal, buffeted by waves of filth, the driftwood craft dipping and rocking in the swell. The goblin, balanced expertly on the stern, loomed over them. In his bony hands was the long hook, now acting as a rudder and guiding the makeshift boat on its way. Faster and faster, and …
CLANG!
The boat jolted to an abrupt halt as the goblin's hook latched fast to a jutting pipe overhead. Twig, Cowlquape and Tarp struggled inside the net.
‘What have we caught today, Bogwitt?’ came a voice from above.
‘Bogwitt?’ breathed Twig.
Dagger in hand, the goblin reached down and pulled the slip-knot that held the top of the net. The net fell away. Twig leapt to his feet, glowing brightly. Mouth agape, the astonished flat-head goblin dropped his dagger.
‘Sleet!’ he yelled. ‘He's glowing! He's glowing like us!’
‘Don't you recognize me, Bogwitt?’ said Twig, trying to sound calm as the barge rocked dangerously beneath his feet. ‘It's me, Twig.’
‘I recognize you, Captain Twig,’ came the voice from above. ‘Though I never thought to see you alive again, least of all in the sewers of Undertown.’
Twig looked up. There in the entrance of a wide, gaping pipe stood a gaunt figure dressed in the heavy longcoat and tricorn hat of a sky pirate. He, too, was bathed in the same luminous glow.
‘Sleet!’ cried Twig, almost losing his balance. ‘Wingnut Sleet!’
But the former quartermaster of the Edgedancer had already turned away and disappeared into the pipe.
‘Don't you mind him, captain,’ said Bogwitt, clambering awkwardly from the boat, his right leg dragging behind him. ‘I'm sure he's more pleased to see you than he's letting on. And as for me, I couldn't be happier.’
‘Nor I, to see you,’ said Twig. ‘I can scarcely believe what's happening.’
He followed Bogwitt up the iron holds in the wall to the entrance of the pipe, high above. Unlike all the others, no foul water spewed from it. Cowlquape and Tarp followed them close behind. Then, pushing back a heavy hide curtain at the other end of the pipe, they found themselves in a wide chamber.
Wingnut Sleet stood to one side, his face half turned away. ‘Welcome,’ he said softly.
Cowlquape looked round in amazement. The place was a veritable smuggler's cave, stacked from top to bottom with boxes and crates overflowing with an array of costly items. There were rugs on the floor and hangings on the walls. There was furniture: two armchairs, a table, cupboards - and a small, ornately carved writing-desk. There were pots and pans, bottles and jars, crockery, cutlery, cruet… and the mouthwatering smell of tildermeat sausages.
‘It used to be a water cistern,’ Sleet explained. ‘Now it is where we are forced to live.’
Twig nodded. ‘I feared you might not be living at all,’ he said.
‘Aye, well, perhaps it would be better if I weren't,’ Sleet muttered under his breath as he turned and crossed the cistern to where a skillet was sizzling on a stove.
‘But Sleet…’ Twig began.
‘Oh, him and me get by all right down here,’ Bogwitt broke in. ‘We've been here weeks now. We forage and filch - and you'd be amazed at the stuff we find in the nets some days … though we always take any creatures back to the surface - after relieving them of any valuables they may be carrying. And with light no problem …’ He nodded towards Wingnut Sleet's back, hunched over the stove. ‘So long as the two of us stick together.’
‘The glowing, you mean?’ said Twig.
‘It was the same with us two when the cap'n found me,’ said Tarp. ‘And now here's the four of us all aglow.’
‘Something must have happened out there to cause it,’ said Twig. ‘But I remember nothing. How about you, Bogwitt? Can you remember what happened to us out there in open sky?’
The flat-head goblin shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We set off after the caterbird in search of your father, we entered the weather vortex - and then, not a thing.’ He grimaced as he pointed to his right leg. ‘All I know is that I was injured somehow.’
‘And you, Sleet?’ said Twig. The hunched figure remained silent. Twig frowned. The quartermaster's surliness was beginning to irritate him. ‘Sleet!’ he said sharply.
Sleet stiffened. ‘Not a thing,’ came the sullen reply. He laid down his spatula and turned slowly round. ‘I know only that it did this to me.’ He removed his tricorn hat.
Cowlquape gasped. Tarp Hammelherd turned away. Twig, eyes wide with horror, started back. ‘Y… your face!’ he breathed.
The hair was gone, as was the left ear - and the skin down that side looked as if it had melted like wax. A white, sightless eye nestled in the molten folds. The quartermaster's hand moved up to the hideous scarring. This?’ he scowled. This is how I bund myself on my return from open sky. Not a pretty sight, eh?’
‘I… I had no idea,’ said Twig. Sleet shrugged. There is no reason why you should,’ he said.
‘But you blame me for taking you inside the weather vortex?’
‘No, captain,’ said Sleet. ‘I agreed W to accompany you. It was my choice.’ He paused. Though I confess to being disappointed that you don't know how we made it back to the Edge either.’
‘I know only what I was told,’ said Twig regretfully, ‘that we looked like eight shooting stars as we sped back across the night sky. At least, that's how the Professor of Darkness described it.’
Sleet's one good eye narrowed. The scarred flesh quivered. The Professor of Darkness?’ he said.
Twig nodded. ‘Some he saw landing in Undertown -you, Bogwitt, Tarp Hammelherd; perhaps one other as well. The others travelled further. They came down somewhere in the Deepwoods. I vowed to find you all. And look, I've found three of you already. It's more than I'd ever dared hope for.’
‘Hope,’ said Sleet bitterly. ‘I've learnt to live without it. After all, hope isn't going to heal this.’ He ran his fingertips gently down the terrible scars.
Cowlquape turned away.
‘I could bear neither the staring eyes …’ Sleet glanced at Cowlquape and Tarp Hammelherd, ‘nor the averted gazes of those who are repelled by my appearance. So I came down to the sewers, to hide myself away. And Bogwitt - to his credit - accompanied me.’
‘Where he goes, I go,’ Bogwitt growled loyally.
‘We look out for each other,’ said Sleet. ‘It is necessary down here,’ he added darkly.
‘Like the professor - sorry, Twig - looks out for me,’ said Cowlquape, turning back. ‘It's sometimes necessary, even in Sanctaphrax.’
‘Sanctaphrax,’ said Sleet, more softly. His eyes misted over. ‘I too once nurtured dreams of finding a position in the floating city of academics. But then, with that place, it isn't what you know, but who you know.’ He sniffed bitterly. ‘And I knew no-one.’
From the back of the chamber came the smell of burning. Bogwitt limped across the floor and seized the skillet from the stove. ‘Supper's ready,’ he announced.
Tildermeat sausages,’ said Sleet.
‘My favourite,’ said Twig, suddenly realizing how hungry he was.
Bogwitt shared out the sausages, sliced up a loaf of bread and returned with five plates balanced in his arms. He handed them out.
‘And there's a flagon of excellent sapwine I've been saving for a special occasion,’ said Sleet. ‘Bogwitt, our finest goblets if you please.’
‘To the crew of the Edgedancer,’ Twig announced when each of them had a brimming glass in his hand. ‘To those found and to those still to be found.’
The others chorused the toast in hearty agreement and everyone sipped at the sweet, go
lden liquid.
‘Aaahl’ sighed Tarp Hammelherd, wiping his whiskers on the back of his hand. ‘Exquisite!’
Even Cowlquape appreciated the warm spicy flavours of the sapwine and a little later, when they were all tucking into the succulent tildermeat sausages he too realized just how hungry he'd become.
‘Delicious,’ he spluttered, tearing off a chunk of sausage and a hunk of bread. ‘Absolutely deee-licious!’
Twig turned to his scarred quartermaster. ‘I must say, Sleet, you've done well given the awful situation you found yourselves in. And you, too, Bogwitt. Very well. But you can't stay here in this terrible place, especially as you have both been injured on my behalf. One day I shall have a new ship and you shall be my crew again. But for now I must find out what has happened to the others.’
‘We will go with you,’ said Sleet.
Bogwitt nodded enthusiastically. ‘Where you go, we go, Captain Twig,’ he said.
‘Not this time, Bogwitt,’ Twig replied gently. ‘Your leg needs time to heal, too.’
‘Then we must stay here,’ said Sleet sullenly. He nodded towards the vaulted roof. ‘For there is nothing for us up there.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Twig. ‘Sanctaphrax is up there.’
‘S … Sanctaphrax?’ said Wingnut Sleet. ‘But…’
‘As you so rightly said, Sleet, it isn't what you know, but who. I know the Professor of Darkness. And you know me.’
Wingnut Sleet's mouth dropped open.
‘I shall write you a letter which you will deliver to the professor himself.’ He glanced round. ‘I assume you have the means to do so,’ he said.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Sleet. ‘Paper and ink of the highest quality, and the finest snowbird quills. Something I picked up on one of our foraging trips.’
Twig smiled. ‘You will stay in my study in the School of Light and Darkness and await my return,’ he said. ‘I would guess that the professor might wish to conduct a couple of experiments on you, concerning the way you glow - but otherwise, you will be left alone. How does that sound?’