by Paul Stewart
‘Cursed thing!’ he muttered, and looked across at the barkscroll, so temptingly near. ‘Maybe if I could just lean across…’
He climbed onto the edge of the basket and, supporting himself on the attached rope, reached out. The gap was still too wide. Below him, the cavernous drop yawned. With his shaking hands shifting little by little along the rope, Quint stretched out still further. Closer and closer his fingertips came. They grazed the edge of the barkscroll, setting it turning.
‘Just a little further,’ he muttered.
The barkscroll continued to turn, infuriatingly slowly. Quint strained forwards, and waited for it to come right round. His eyes bulged, his arms shook, the tendons in his neck flexed. As the scroll came closer, he jerked forwards. His fingers closed around the leathery tube. He'd got it. The barkscroll was in his grasp.
‘Phew!’ he whistled with relief, as he eased himself carefully back along the rope and dropped down into the basket. ‘This place is lethal. It's…’
At that moment, there was a sharp tearing sound behind him. Quint spun round to see a knot of rope wedged into the pulley fraying, fibre by breaking fibre. Within seconds the whole lot had taken on the appearance of a woodthistle's fluffy seedhead. Quint's elation turned to despair.
‘Oh, no,’ he muttered, his heart thumping in his ears. ‘Oh, no.’ He thrust the barkscroll down inside his shirt and clung on to the rope and the side of the basket. The last strands snapped. ‘Oh … Help!’ he screamed as the basket abruptly plummeted.
Down, down, down, boy and basket crashed through the branches, tearing the barkscroll holders from their moorings and sending the barkscrolls they contained fluttering off every which way. Then, twisting and turning, Quint lost his grip and tumbled out of the basket.
Falling! He was falling towards certain death…
… when all of a sudden and out of nowhere, a hand seized him round his wrist.
‘Hold on!’ a voice hissed close to his ear.
Quint tried in vain to crane his neck round to see who had rescued him. It was all happening too quickly. Yet he was aware of a dry, crackling sound and a ripe, juicy odour like the smell of rotting leaves. The next moment, he found himself being swung hard to one side.
Terrified, Quint screwed his eyes shut. For an instant he imagined himself to be back on board the Galerider, tossed about in a great storm. Then, with a jarring thud, he felt something solid beneath his feet and looked down to find he was on an aerial platform, high up in one of the trees.
But who had got him there?
Scrambling to his feet, Quint scoured the forest of tree-pillars for the character who had caught him as he fell. There was no-one there.
Quint frowned. ‘You saved my life,’ he murmured. He patted the rolled-up barkscroll, still safely tucked into his shirt, and grinned. ‘In more ways than one.’
Although Quint knew he hadn't been quick, he had no idea just how long his task had taken him. By the time he reached the entrance to the Palace of Shadows, the new day had already broken and the far horizon was blushing pink and red.
He turned the great brass handle and pushed the heavy front door open. A mournful creak echoed round the hall. He stepped inside.
‘Where have you been?’ came a voice. He turned to see Maris standing in the centre of the entrance hall, hands on her hips.
‘I … I was on an errand,’ said Quint, ‘for your father.’ He reached down inside the shirt and pulled out the barkscroll. ‘He asked me to fetch this for him.’ He stepped forwards. ‘I need to get it to him at once.’
‘Oh, no you don't,’ said Maris. ‘You know how tired he's been looking.’
‘But…’
‘He was up working all night again,’ she insisted firmly. ‘He's absolutely not to be disturbed.’
‘But, Maris!’ Quint protested. He really couldn't make her out at all. Did she like him, or didn't she? Sometimes it seemed as though he couldn't do a single thing right.
‘Just give it to me,’ she said impatiently, her hand outstretched. ‘I'll give it to him the moment he wakes.‘
Reluctantly, Quint did as he was told.
‘Thank you,’ said Maris primly. ‘Now go and get washed and changed. You can't possibly come to class looking like that. Wordspool would throw a purple fit – and anyway, it reflects badly on my father and myself.’
‘Class? Wordspool?’ said Quint, confused. ‘What time is it?’
At that moment, the bell at the top of the Great Hall chimed the three-quarters. ‘A quarter to six,’ said Maris. ‘We've got fifteen minutes before school starts!’
· CHAPTER FOUR ·
WELMA THORNWOOD
The kitchen was stiflingly hot. The air above the glowing cooking-range shimmered like water while the high vaulted ceiling was thick with swirling clouds of steam. Yet still Welma was not satisfied.
‘More heat,’ she wheezed as she pumped up and down on the stove-bellows, first with one foot, then with the other. Up down, up down. The compressed air hissed through the pipes. The fire roared.
Maris flicked away the hair which clung to her glistening brow and looked up. Having spent the whole morning cold and shivering in Wordspool's draughty classroom, she was now dizzy with the intense heat coming from the glowing stove. ‘Does it have to be so hot?’ she asked.
‘If we … don't want our spiced scones to … end up like spiced stones,’ Welma replied breathlessly. ‘The hotter the fire …’
‘The lighter the dough,’ Maris finished for her, and laughed. She'd heard the words on a thousand other baking days. It was one of the many woodtroll sayings that Welma had brought with her from the Deepwoods, passed on – word of mouth – down countless generations. She'd been told it by her mother, who'd been told it by her mother, who'd been told it by her mother … and Welma – who had no young'uns of her own – had passed it on to her, Maris.
Welma looked round to see the young mistress perched on her step-stool at the round table, smirking from ear to ear. She tugged at her apron. ‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘but I thought you liked your scones crunchy on the outside and fluffy on the inside.’
‘I do,’ said Maris.
‘And for that, we must do two things,’ said Welma. ‘One, ensure the oven is furnace-hot. And two …’ Her gaze fell on the whisk idling in Maris's fingers. ‘We must beat the mixture until it is frothy light.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Is it frothy light?’ she enquired.
Maris looked down into the bowl. The mixture slopped about in the bottom. ‘Not quite,’ she said, a little shame-faced.
‘Then beat, child! Beat!’ said Welma. ‘While I see to the woodapples.’
Maris nodded, tucked the huge bowl into the crook of her arm and began whisking the creamy mixture furiously. Ever since she was little, of all the cakes, pastries and other assorted dough-bakes that Welma and she had made together, it was spiced scones that she liked most. Delicious on their own, with the traditional Wodgiss Night filling of woodapples steeped in honey and topped off with cream, they were sublime. It was Maris who had suggested they make some for Quint. Now, with her right arm aching and her left arm stiff, she was beginning to regret her generosity.
‘So, how are you and the young sky pirate captain's son getting on, anyway?’ asked Welma as she stirred the stewing woodapples.
Maris started. It wasn't the first time she'd wondered whether her old nurse could read minds. If she hadn't already been so red in the face from the heat, she would have blushed with embarrassment. ‘We're getting on all right,’ she said.
‘More than all right, if you ask me,’ Welma persisted. ‘After all, why else would we be making him Wodgiss spiced scones?’
Maris whisked the mixture more vigorously. Glops of it splattered down her front, on the table, on the floor. ‘Like I told you,’ she said, ‘we're getting on all right.’
‘Only you did say you thought he was a little…’ Welma placed the lid back on the bubbling pot ‘… rough and ready.’
M
aris snorted. ‘Well, he is,’ she said.
‘Hmm,’ said Welma thoughtfully. ‘Your father certainly seems to think highly of him,’ she added.
Maris's lips pursed. ‘Does he?’ she said, and began beating the mixture so violently that a huge dollop landed in her face. ‘Ugh!’ she exclaimed and the bowl slipped from her arm and fell to the stone floor with a loud clang!
‘NO!’ Maris shouted and burst into tears. ‘Oh, Nanny,’ she sobbed. ‘I'm hopeless! I'm useless! I can't do anything right!’
‘Maris, my little sugar-dumpling,’ said Welma, her face crinkling up with concern. She trotted across from the stove, wrapped her arms around Maris's waist and squeezed her tightly, warmly. ‘There, there,’ she whispered, as she reached up and wiped Maris's face clean with her apron. ‘Don't fret so. It's only a bit of batter.’
‘But I've ruined it,’ said Maris. Scalding tears streamed down her cheeks. ‘We're going to have to start all over again. Separating the snowbird eggs, sifting the barley flour, grinding the spices…’
Welma pulled away and glanced down at the floor. She shook her head. ‘No we won't,’ she said. ‘Look!’
To her surprise, Maris saw that the ironwood bowl had landed on its base. None of the mixture – frothy light as it was – had been spilt. She picked it up, placed it on the table and wiped her eyes.
‘You see,’ said Welma, taking Maris by both hands, ‘things are never so bad as they first seem.’
Maris flinched. Never so bad as they first seem. The words echoed in her head. Never so bad as they first seem. She tore her hands away. ‘No, they're not,’ she laughed bitterly. ‘They're worse! Far far far worse!’
‘Why? How?’ said Welma. ‘What in Sky's name are you talking about, child? What is worse?’
‘Everything!’ wailed Maris. ‘I mean, I try …’ she sobbed. ‘I try so hard. But Father never even seems to notice me. Whatever I do. I know it's not his fault. He … he spends so many hours on that Great Work of his, and – oh, Welma, I do worry about him so. He never even seems to sleep…’
Welma nodded sympathetically. She was only too aware of how much the young mistress worried about her father.
‘And then he comes along. Him! That cocky little know-it-all son of a sky pirate, QUINT!’
‘But you said you were getting on all right,’ said Welma, patting her arm.
‘We are,’ said Maris. ‘But now my father's got even less time for me. It's all “QUINT, can you do this? QUINT, can you do that?”' She looked away. ‘It's as if he'd rather have a son than a daughter…’
‘That's enough, Maris,’ said Welma sharply. She shook her head. ‘All this carry-on! I mean, I'm not saying that the Most High Academe doesn't spend too much time on his work. He does. But that doesn't mean he loves you any the less. Work is work and family is family and…’
‘And Quint is both!’ she said. ‘Work and family.’
‘He's not,’ said Welma.
‘He is,’ said Maris. ‘Father includes him in everything. Sending him on errands, giving him tasks …’ She looked up angrily. ‘He's never given me a task!’
‘He's made him his apprentice,’ said Welma gently. ‘That's what apprentices do.’
‘Yes, but what was it he told Wind Jackal?’ said Maris, still fighting back the tears. ‘ “While Quint is here, he will be like my own son.” His own son! You see! Work and family. He is both! And where does that leave me?’
‘Maris, my treasure,’ said Welma, ‘if you don't mind my saying, you're sounding a bit jealous.’
‘Jealous?’ Maris stormed. ‘Don't be ridiculous! Jealous of that oaf. I'm not jealous, I'm … I'm …’ Her lower lip trembled. ‘Lonely,’ she said at last, her voice small and wobbly.
Welma shook her head sadly. ‘Oh, Maris,’ she whispered.
‘I can't help it,’ Maris blurted out. ‘It's just the way I feel…’
‘What you feel is what you feel – that's what we woodtrolls say.’ She patted Maris on the shoulder. ‘And knowing how you feel is the first step to changing how you feel,’ she said. ‘If you really want to.’
Maris shrugged. She still felt like crying. ‘How can I change if nothing else changes?’ she said. ‘I mean, if Father continues to work so hard and Quint takes all his attention the whole time…’
‘Well,’ said Welma, ‘you must make things change.’
‘How?’ said Maris.
Welma's eyes twinkled. ‘Let's look at this logically,’ she said slowly. ‘You feel your father ignores you. You can't seem to get close to him. And you're lonely. Quint, on the other hand, seems close to him, but is new here. He doesn't have any friends. I would think he was a little lonely himself. He probably needs someone his own age to talk to. So…’
‘So, I ought to make friends with Quint?’ said Maris.
Welma smiled. ‘Let's just say that I don't think it's any bad thing us preparing delicious Wodgiss spiced scones for tea,’ she said. ‘So, come on then, Maris. You dollop out the mixture into the baking trays while I give the oven a final blast of the bellows, and…’
‘And when they're in the oven,’ said Maris.
‘Yes?’ said Welma.
‘Can I scrape the bowl?’ she asked.
Welma smiled so hard that her eyes disappeared and her button-nose creased back on itself. ‘Of course you can, my little sugar-dumpling,’ she said. ‘Of course you can.’
In the upper gallery of the kitchen, far above the heads of the young mistress and her woodtroll nurse, stood a solitary figure, his head swathed in the clouds of steam. It was Quint.
Too tired after his long night in the Great Library to do any of Wordspool's homework, yet far too excited to sleep, he had taken to the palace corridors once again. The whole place fascinated him.
He'd just stumbled upon a music chamber. It was amazing. On the platform stood a klavinette – a keyboard instrument that seemed to produce sound by the internal plucking of its strings. Beside it were three chairs, each with a different instrument on it. One was a wind instrument, one was a string instrument, while the third was a combination of the two, with a bow leaning up against the back of a chair. It was made from the outer carapace of some giant barkbeetle, with a hollowed length of lufwood and woodcat gut. From what he could make out, it was designed to be bowed and blown at the same time.
What impressed Quint most was the fact that, thanks to the attentions of the faithful spindlebug Tweezel, the room was so clean. And not just clean – but ready. At any moment, that quartet of musicians could walk through the door, pick up their instruments and play as if nothing had ever happened.
And it was the same in the other rooms he stumbled across as he roamed the corridors, storey after storey, trying door after door. Room after room, each one lovingly tended to – yet so still, so unused.
There was the ground-floor Caucus Ante-Chamber – a wood-panelled room with leather chairs once used by the senior librarians who, following the death of the previous Most High Academes, would cluster together there until they had selected a new one. And on the third storey, the Gift Chamber where cavernous glass cabinets housed generations of officially received gifts – everything from a set of crystal woodgrog goblets to a stuffed and gilded banderbear. Further along the corridor was the Portrait Gallery with its paintings of Most High Academes – each one carefully dusted – stretching back down the centuries. Some were famous, like Ferumix the mathematician and Archemax, whose philosophical musings on light had once been considered heretical. Others were nonentities, forgotten even before the white ravens in the Stone Gardens had picked their bones and set their spirits free.
Quint had stood looking at the portrait of Linius Pallitax for several minutes. It smelt of fresh paint and, from the dates on the plaque below, he could see that it was the first new painting to have been hung in decades – one more of the old traditions to have been reinstated by the current Most High Academe.
Certainly, the likeness was good; the hooked nose, the wis
py beard and the ears, almost twisted at their tips, had all been faithfully reproduced. And as for the eyes, the artist had captured the expression in them perfectly – that sparkle of childlike eagerness, tempered by a haunted look of…
‘What is that look?’ Quint murmured. ‘Weariness? Despair? Fear?’ He shook his head. ‘Or perhaps a combination of all three?’ He sighed. ‘But you're not going to tell me, are you?’ he said to the portrait. ‘I'll have to find out for myself.’
As Quint closed the door of the Portrait Gallery behind him, all thought of the Most High Academe vanished. The smell now filling the corridor was intoxicating. Sweet, fruity, laced with honey and spices – it reminded him so much of the oakapple cordial his mother had made all those years ago. Head raised and nose up, Quint followed the smell along the corridor, down the stairs, to the rear of the palace and through a small door…
‘Mmmm,’ he sighed. He had found the source of the mouthwatering smell. Clouds of it wafted round his head, billowing up from somewhere far below.
Quint walked forward to the stone balustrade and looked over. Between the clouds of steam, he could see several massive pieces of machinery. At first he thought he must have stumbled across some kind of workroom, but a closer look revealed that – as the smell of cooking itself suggested – he was standing on the gallery above a vast kitchen. The huge machines were merely ovens, boilers and broilers, on a scale large enough to feed the army of academics and domestic staff who must once have filled the erst-while Palace of Lights. Now, as the Palace of Shadows, the number it housed was down to five and, like so much else in this great building, the kitchen apparatus remained carefully tended but unused.
‘But someone's cooking on something,’ he murmured. He could smell the simmering oakapples. He could almost taste them.
Quint peered down. The steam was coming from directly below him. There must be a stove there, he thought, just out of sight – and he was about to move round to the other side of the gallery to check when…