Stormchaser: Second Book of Twig

by Paul Stewart

  ‘A murmur went round the hall. Garlinius Gernix? Lidius Pherix? Petronius Metrax? Where were they now? The murmuring increased. “Seven years ago, the last Knight Academic set sail,” Vilnix went on, “Screedius Tollinix, his name …”

  ‘ “It was eight years ago,” someone cried out.

  ‘ “Nearly nine,” called another.

  ‘Vilnix smiled slyly. He knew he had got them. “Nearly nine years,” he announced, his voice echoing round the hall. He turned to Quintinius Verginix and pointed accusingly. “And we are pinning all our hopes on him” He paused dramatically. “Why should he succeed where others have so tragically failed?”

  ‘Just then, the Great Hall lurched violently. “Nine years!” Vilnix cried out again. “We need to do something now!” The hall lurched a second time. “But what?” Dust fell from cracks in the ceiling. “The answer is simple, my friends,” Vilnix announced. “We must build more chains.”

  ‘There was a gasp, then the hall fell still. The plan was indeed simple. It was also outrageous. There had only ever been one chain: the Anchor Chain.

  ‘A senior reader from the Faculty of Air Studies was the first to break the silence. “The production of chains would mean more factories, more foundries, more forges,” he said. “The Edgewater River is already polluted.” He nodded towards the chalice, still clutched in Verginix’s hands. “We run the risk of making the water completely undrinkable.”

  ‘All eyes turned to Vilnix, who smiled benevolently. Then, making a mental note to reward the senior reader with a full professorship for his question, he hobbled back to Verginix and seized the chalice. With his free hand, he pulled a silver ball-shaped medallion from his gown and dipped it into the muddy liquid. Instantly, the water turned crystal clear. He returned the chalice to Verginix, who sipped. “It’s sweet,” he said. “Pure. Clean. It’s like the water from the Deepwoods springs.”

  ‘The Professor of Light grabbed the chalice and drank, too. He looked up, eyes narrowed. “How is this possible?” he demanded.

  ’Vilnix returned the professor’s gaze impassively. “It is possible because of an amazing discovery,” he said. “My amazing discovery.” He tapped the medallion. “Inside this pretty bauble is a substance so powerful that a single speck is enough to provide a person with drinking water for an entire year.” He turned to the rows of incredulous academics. “This stor …” He stopped himself. “This substance, which I call phraxdust in honour of our beloved floating city, signifies a new beginning. Now we can ensure the future of Sanctaphrax by building those chains we so badly need, safe in the knowledge that we will never go thirsty.”

  ‘A cheer resounded around the hall. Vilnix lowered his head modestly. When he looked up again, his eyes were blazing with the excitement of impending victory. “My associates in the League of Free Merchants are merely awaiting the go-ahead to get started on the chains,” he said. A smile flickered over his lips. “Naturally,” he said, “they will deal only with the Most High Academe the new Most High Academe, that is.”

  ‘He swung round and stared at the Professors of Light and Darkness. “For what would you have this pair of buffoons who, between them, have brought Sanctaphrax to the very edge of destruction with their arcane rituals and pointless traditions? Or will you have someone who offers change, a fresh start, a new order?”

  ‘Cries of “a fresh start” and “a new order” began to echo round the Great Hall. It lurched again. “And a new Most High Academe Vilnix Pompolnius,” the soon-to-be Professor of Air Studies proclaimed. The others took up the chant. Vilnix closed his eyes and bathed in their adulation as the chanting grew louder.

  ‘Finally, he looked up. “Let your will be done!” he cried. “I, your new Most High Academe of Sanctaphrax, shall speak with the leagues-men. The chains will be built. And Sanctaphrax, teetering on the brink of oblivion, will be saved!”’

  The caterbird looked sadly at Twig. ‘One person alone remained unmoved,’ it said. ’One who, at the last possible moment, had seen everything he’d aspired to cruelly snatched away. Your father, Quintinius Verginix. His face hardened. There was something they would not take away: the sky ship that had been constructed especially for him. The Stormchaser.

  ‘He spat with disgust and strode across the floor. At the door, he paused, turned. “If I, Quintinius Verginix cannot prove myself as a Knight Academic, then I shall prove myself as Cloud Wolf, the sky pirate,” he bellowed. “And I make you this promise, Vilnix Pompolnius. You and your treacherous friends in the leagues will rue this day for so long as you shall live.” And with that, he left’.

  The caterbird shook its head sadly. ’Of course, nothing is ever that simple’ it said. ‘Despite your father’s parting words, it was many moons before his defiant promise came true. His first ill-fated voyage almost saw the end of both him and his ship indeed the only good that came of it was his initial meeting with the Stone Pilot. He was forced to lay low, to store the Stormchaser in a safe berth and take up a position on a league ship until he had gained sufficient money and inside information of the Leagues to try again.’ Its eye swivelled and narrowed. ‘The league captain he ended up serving was the notorious Multinius Gobtrax…’

  ‘It was upon his ship that I was born,’ said Twig thoughtfully. ‘But what about Sanctaphrax itself?’

  The caterbird snorted. ‘For all Vilnix’s fine words of a fresh start and a new order, the situation rapidly worsened. Nowadays, as you know, the Undertowners labour like slaves in the foundries and forges, making chains and weights to support the Anchor Chain. They manage to keep Sanctaphrax in place but only just. It is a never-ending task. And all the while, the waters of the Edgewater River are becoming more and more polluted. It is only because of the particles of phraxdust, supplied to the loyal leaguesmen by Vilnix Pompolnius, that Undertown hasn’t already choked to death on its own filth.’

  Twig shook his head in dismay. ‘And Vilnix?’ he asked. ‘What does he get out of it all?’

  ‘Wealth and power,’ the caterbird replied simply. ‘In return for drinkable water, the leagues shower Vilnix and his new Faculty of Raintasters with everything they could possibly want and more. Just so long as the specks of phraxdust keep coming.’

  ‘But surely the situation cannot last for ever,’ said Twig. ‘When the phraxdust runs out Vilnix Pompolnius will have to take more stormphrax from the treasury’

  The caterbird nodded. ‘That’s precisely what he does do,’ he said. ‘And the Professor of Darkness is powerless to stop him. What’s more, the production of more phraxdust has proved elusive. Despite a thousand attempts many tragic no-one has been able to reproduce the results of that first experiment.’

  ‘But it’s crazy!’ said Twig. ‘The more stormphrax that’s taken from the treasury, the more chains they need to manufacture. The more chains that are manufactured, the worse the pollution in the water gets. And the worse the pollution in the water, the more phraxdust they need to purify it!’

  ‘It’s a vicious circle,’ said the caterbird, ‘that’s what it is. A terrible, vicious circle. And twenty years after that momentous meeting in the Great Hall, the situation is looking bleaker than ever for both Sanctaphrax and Undertown. Wrapped up in their own concerns, both the raintasters and the leaguesmen remain blind to what is going on around them. But if nothing is done and done soon then it is only a matter of time before everything falls apart.’

  ‘But what can be done?’ said Twig.

  The caterbird shrugged and turned his head. ‘That is not for me to say’ It swivelled a purple eye round towards him. ‘Right,’ it said, ‘my story is complete. Now, will you release me?’

  Twig started guiltily. ‘Of course,’ he said, and retrieved the knife from his sleeve. He began jiggling the narrow blade about in the padlock again. There was a soft click. The lock was undone. He unclasped the padlock and pulled the door open.

  ‘OY!’ came an angry cry. ‘You said you were trustworthy! What in Open Sky do you think you’re do
ing?’

  Twig spun round and gasped with horror. It was Flabsweat, back at last with the animal-doctor, and bearing down upon him like a madman.

  ‘I can’t…’ he heard the caterbird complaining. ‘Help me, Twig.’

  Twig looked back. The caterbird had managed to get its head and one wing out of the cage, but the door was small, and its other wing was twisted back and jammed. ‘Go back in and try again,’ Twig instructed.

  The caterbird did as it was told, folded its wings up and thrust its head back outside. Flabsweat was almost upon them, a heavy club swinging at his side. Twig reached up and, with his hands round the creature’s neck and shoulders, pulled gently. Flabsweat raised the club. The caterbird pushed its legs hard against the perch.

  ‘Come on!’ Twig urged it desperately.

  ‘Almost there …’ the caterbird strained. ‘I … Made it!’ It flapped its wings experimentally once, twice then launched itself off from the edge of the cage and soared up into the air, apparently none the worse for its confinement.

  It was time for Twig to make himself scarce, too. Without looking round, he turned on his heels and sped away into the thronging street. As he set off, the club glanced against his shoulder. A second earlier, and it would have smashed his skull.

  Faster and faster Twig ran, barging through the crowds, elbowing dawdlers out of his way. Behind him, Flabsweat screamed with rage.

  ‘Thief! Scoundrel! Netherwicket!’ he roared, ‘CATCH HIM!’

  Twig ducked down into a narrow alley. The shouting grew fainter, but Twig kept going, faster than ever. Past pawnbrokers and tooth-pullers, barbers and inns, round a corner and slap-bang into the arms of his father.

  Cloud Wolf shook him roughly by the shoulders. ‘Twig!’ he bellowed. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. We’re ready to set sail. What have you been up to?’

  ‘N … nothing,’ Twig faltered, unable to return Cloud Wolf’s furious gaze.

  High in the sky, behind his father’s head, Twig saw the caterbird flapping off into the setting sun past Sanctaphrax, out of Undertown, and away. He sighed enviously. The caterbird might be gone, but its doom-laden words remained with him. A vicious circle, that’s what it is. If nothing is done then it is only a matter of time before everything falls apart.

  And for a second time, Twig found himself wondering, But what can be done?

  •C H A P T E R T H R E E•

  CRIES AND WHISPERS

  i

  In the Twilight Woods

  It was twilight. It was always twilight in the woods, with the sun permanently setting. Or was it rising? It was difficult to tell. Certainly none who entered the Twilight Woods could ever be sure. Most, however, felt that the golden half-light between the trees whispered of endings not beginnings.

  The trees, majestically tall and always in full leaf, swayed in a gentle breeze which endlessly circled the woods. They, like everything else the grass, the ground, the flowers were coated in a mantle of fine dust which glittered and glistened like frost.

  Yet it was not cold. Far from it. The breeze was balmy, and the earth itself radiated a soothing warmth which rippled through the air above so that everything swam slightly before the eyes; nothing was quite in focus. Standing in the Twilight Woods was like standing under water.

  There was no birdsong, no insect-rustle, no animal-cry, for none of these creatures inhabited the woods. Yet, to those with ears to hear, there were voices and not simply the whisperings of the trees. They were real voices muttering, mumbling, occasionally crying out. One was close by.

  ‘Hold steady, Vinchix’ it said wearily, though not without hope. ‘Nearly there. Hold steady, now.’

  The voice came from high up in the air, where a wrecked sky ship was skewered on a jagged treetop, its broken mast pointing accusingly up at the sky out of which it had dropped. Dangling from a harness was a knight, seated upon his prowlgrin charger and silhouetted against the golden sky. Inside the rusted armour, their bodies were skeletal. Yet both the knight and his mount were alive, still alive. The visor creaked, and the ghostly voice repeated its words of encouragement, words of command. ‘Nearly there, Vinchix. Hold steady!’

  ii

  In the Palace of the Most High Academe

  The chamber or Inner Sanctum, as it was known was truly sumptuous. The floors were carpeted with snow-white fur, the ceiling embossed with gold, while those areas of wall not lined with bookcases were panelled with blackwood and silver, and encrusted with precious stones. Ornaments cluttered every surface porcelain vases and ivory figurines, ornate carvings and intricate time-pieces.

  A crystal chandelier sparkled from the centre of the room, unlit, but glinting in the sunlight shooting darts of brilliance all around the room. On the silver panels, they flickered; on the polished tables, the cabinets, the grand piano; on the portraits and mirrors and on the gleaming pate of the Most High Academe of Sanctaphrax himself, who was stretched out on an ottoman next to the long arched window, fast asleep.

  He looked out of place in the opulent surroundings. The black gown he wore was faded, and there were sandals on his feet modest, scuffed. Likewise, his angular body and sunken cheeks spoke of a life of abstinence rather than indulgence; his shaven head, of humility and rigour yet also a degree of vanity. After all, why else would a person have his personal monogram ViP stitched into the hem of his hair-shirt?

  A high-pitched rasping vibrated throughout the chamber. The person stirred and rolled onto his side. His hooded eyes snapped open. The rasping sound came again, louder than before. He sat up and peered through the window.

  Situated at the top of one of the tallest, and certainly the most magnificent tower in Sanctaphrax, the Inner Sanctum offered breathtaking views across Undertown and beyond. The Most High Academe looked down. Between the billowing clouds of smoke, he could just make out half a dozen or so Undertowners busy securing the latest chain to the side of the great floating rock.

  ‘Splendid’, he yawned, and climbed stiffly to his feet. He stretched, scratched, rubbed a hand absentmindedly over his head, and yawned again. ‘Things to be done.’

  He strode over towards a massive ironwood chest which stood in the corner of the room, pulled a heavy iron key from the folds of his robes and crouched down. At sundown, he was to have a meeting with Simenon Xintax, the current Leaguesmaster. Before then, he wanted to weigh the remaining phraxdust and calculate just how long the precious specks would last.

  The lock released with a soft click, the lid creaked open and the Most High Academe stared down into the gaping darkness within. He bent down, retrieved a glass phial, held it up to the window – and sighed.

  Even he could see the liquid dust was all but gone.

  ‘A problem, certainly,’ he muttered, ‘but not yet an emergency. Better get it weighed, though. Work out just how many particles of phraxdust remain. Bargaining with Xintax from a point of ignorance would be fatal…’ He wriggled round irritably. ‘But first I have got to do something about this intolerable itching.’

  Thankfully, thoughtful to the last, Minulis his manservant, had remembered the back-scratcher. A pretty thing it was, with a solid gold handle and claws of dragon ivory. The Most High Academe squirmed with pleasure as he scraped it up and down his back, reminded as he always was that the greatest pleasures in life are often the simplest. He lay the scratcher down and deciding to postpone his calculations a little longer poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter which Minulis had also thought to bring.

  He walked across the room and stopped in front of a full-length mirror, smiled, straightened up and lifted his head. ‘To you, Vilnix Pompolnius,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘The Most High Academe of Sanctaphrax.’

  At that moment, the drilling began again louder than ever. The floating rock trembled, the Inner Sanctum rocked and the mirror shook. The Most High Academe was so startled that he let the glass slip from between his fingers. It broke with a muffled clink and the spilt wine spread out over the white f
ur like blood.

  The Most High Academe turned, and stepped away in disgust. As he did so, he heard a breathy whooshing sound behind him, followed by an almighty crash. He froze. Turned back. And there, lying on the floor in a thousand pieces, was the mirror. Crouching, he picked up a piece of glass and turned it over in his hand.

  What was it his grandmother used to say? A broken looking-glass, a sorrow come to pass. He stared at the dark eye staring back at him from the jagged fragment, and winked. ‘It’s a good job you’re not superstitious,’ he said, and cackled with laughter.

  iii

  In the Mire

  The leader of the gnokgoblins a short, stocky female by the name of Mim sniffed the air, fingered the collection of talismans and amulets around her neck and stepped forwards. She winced as the soft mud oozed up between her stubby toes.

  Screed Toe-taker watched her scornfully. ‘Still think you can make it across the Mire on your own?’ he said.

  Mim ignored him and waded on. Squellp, squellp, squellp went the pale sticky mud as it covered first her ankles, then her calves, then her knees. She stopped and looked up. The Mire seemed to stretch out for ever in front of her. Even if she, by some miracle, could make it across to the other side, she knew that neither old Torp nor the young’uns would stand a chance.

  ‘All right’, she said, and turned angrily sinking down still further in the process. ‘Perhaps we could be doing with a guide after all’. She hitched her skirt up. The mud crept higher. ‘Help us out of here’, she said.

  Screed stepped forwards and held out a bony white hand. Like the Mire which was his home, every inch of his body had been bleached the colour of dirty sheets. He pulled the goblin back to safety, and stared down at her, hands on hips.