by Paul Stewart
‘QUINT!’
Quint jumped.
‘QUINT!’
The voice was coming from down in the kitchen. It was Maris.
‘QUINT!’
There it was a third time. What had he done now?
He leaned over the balustrade and strained to hear what was being said. But it was impossible. He could just make out that she was talking to Welma – but the shouting was over now and their conversation no more than a murmured buzz.
Quint turned away, left the kitchen gallery and made his way back to his room. The anger and exasperation in Maris's voice when she had shouted his name had been unmistakable. ‘She hates me,’ he told himself flatly. ‘It's the only answer. She hates me.’
He kicked the door to his bed-chamber shut and threw himself on the bed. ‘Stuck-up little prig!’
‘The thing is,’ Welma was saying, ‘as a Deepwooder, I must say that I'm all in favour of what your father is trying to do in Sanctaphrax. Those sky-scholars have got too big for their boots – what with their mistsifting and raintasting and big towers everywhere. Why, to listen to them you'd think the Deepwoods didn't exist. But they do, and there was a time when earth-studies mattered. The old librarians knew that, and so does your father…’
Maris listened, surprised, as she licked the whisk slowly clean. It was unlike Welma to mention the politics of Sanctaphrax, but ever since the trays had gone into the oven, she had talked non-stop.
‘Oh, I accept that it can be handy to know when it's going to rain, but as a Deepwooder I know how important it is to understand the properties of the creatures and plants of the Deepwoods,’ she went on. ‘To know what is and isn't edible, what should and shouldn't be worn, what can and cannot be used for medicinal purposes … The librarians knew all about these things in the old days. Someone has to prevent all the information that has been accumulated over the centuries from simply being lost.’
Maris nodded. She pulled the wooden whisk from her mouth. ‘I just wish that that someone wasn't my father,’ she said.
‘I know, my treasure,’ said Welma. ‘He's taken a great burden upon himself, that's for sure. And he's so determined to succeed that I fear for him.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Maris.
Welma frowned. ‘Do you remember that old story I used to tell you?’ she asked. ‘The Tree That Said It Could Fly.’
A smile spread across Maris's face. ‘I think so,’ she said.
‘Tell it to me, then,’ said Welma.
Maris laid the whisk down on the table. ‘Well, it's about a lufwood tree and a leadwood tree,’ she said. ‘The lufwood tree keeps saying, “I shall fly, I shall fly, if it's the last thing I do.” And the leadwood tree keeps saying, “Prove it!” '
Welma smiled and nodded encouragingly.
‘The lufwood flaps its branches but it does not fly. It spins its leaves but does not fly. It jiggles its roots but still it doesn't fly,’ said Maris. ‘Then, just as the leadwood tree is about to lose its temper with its boastful neighbour, the lufwood is struck by a bolt of lightning. It bursts into flames and, being lufwood and buoyant when on fire, it tears itself from the ground and rises up into the sky.
‘ “I said I would fly,” the lufwood calls down.
‘ “Yes, my friend,” the leadwood calls back. “You said you would fly if it was the last thing you did. And it is!”' Maris looked up and smiled weakly. ‘When I was small, I used to think it had a happy ending,’ she said. ‘But it does-n't, does it?’
‘It depends how you look at it,’ said Welma. ‘The lufwood's wish did finally come true.’
‘Yes, but it was burning away to nothing,’ said Maris.
‘That's right,’ said Welma. ‘And do you remember the moral of the story? For in success can lie destruction.’
Maris flinched. ‘And you think my father is like that lufwood. You think that he…’
At that moment, the heavy double doors to the kitchen flew back on their hinges and crashed against the walls behind them. Maris and Welma spun round to see Linius Pallitax standing in the doorway.
His robes were dishevelled. His hair was matted. His face was pale, drawn, puffy-eyed – and unmistakably angry. ‘Why did no-one wake me?’ he demanded. ‘I've already missed most of the day.’
‘B … but you were up all night,’ said Maris nervously. ‘You needed to sleep.’
‘Even if it does mean turning nocturnal,’ Welma added wryly.
‘When I want advice about when to sleep, I shall ask for it,’ he snapped. He looked round. ‘Have either of you seen Quint?’
‘No,’ said Maris. ‘Not since…’
‘Oh, for Sky's sake!’ he roared. ‘Do I have to do everything myself? I send him on an important, not to say urgent, errand – and what happens? He disappears!’
Maris frowned. ‘Urgent?’ she said. She fumbled in her side pocket for the rolled-up barkscroll.
‘Is this what you need?’
Her father limped across the kitchen, snatched the barkscroll from her hands and opened it up. ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘Yes!’ He turned on his daughter, eyes blazing. ‘But why didn't Quint bring it straight to me?’
‘Because … because I told him not to …’ Maris stammered. Her face smarted, her eyes stung. ‘You … you were asleep. I didn't want him to disturb you …’
‘When did he arrive back?’
Maris hung her head. ‘This morning,’ she said, and swallowed. ‘At about six hours.’
‘Six hours!’ he roared. ‘Maris, this is absolutely intolerable! You must not interfere in matters you know nothing about…’
‘But I only meant to …’
‘Stop meddling in my affairs. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Y … yes, Father,’ said Maris, her voice breaking.
Without another word, Linius Pallitax turned on his heels and left. The double doors slammed shut behind him.
‘You see?’ Maris shouted, the moment he had gone. ‘It's always the same. In his eyes, everything I do is wrong.’
‘Oh, he didn't mean it, my sugar-dumpling,’ said Welma. ‘You could see how tired he looked. How out of sorts …’
‘It's all that Quint's fault,’ Maris went on bitterly. ‘Bringing Father that wretched barkscroll. That's what upset him. That's what made him sh … sh … shou…’ She burst into racking tears. ‘… shout at me.’
‘Come now, Maris,’ said Welma softly.
But Maris was inconsolable. She pushed Welma aside and buried her head in her hands. With a slight shrug, Welma trotted over to the oven and opened the door. Maris heard her gasp, and looked up. Thick, black smoke was billowing from inside.
‘We make a fine pair, we do,’ said Welma. ‘What with all this fuss and to-do, I forgot all about the scones.’
‘They're ruined!’ Maris howled.
‘I could try scraping them,’ Welma suggested. ‘Throw them away!’ said Maris. ‘Quint doesn't deserve them anyway!’
Tears stinging her eyes, she ran from the kitchen and up the stairs. Tweezel was coming towards her, a tray held firmly in his translucent pincer-grip – but Maris ignored his respectful bow and brushed him roughly aside.
‘Young mistress?’ the spindlebug's creaky voice echoed round the stairwell.
Without hesitating, Maris rushed on – not to her bedroom – that would be the first place Welma would come looking for her, and she didn't want to be found – but to the balcony-chamber. Across the wooden floor she sped, behind the lacy curtains and out through the glass doors.
Panting with exertion, she stepped to the edge of the balcony and breathed in the warm, sticky air. To her right was the West Landing with its octagonal turrets; to her left, the Loftus Observatory, and below it – just visible through a narrow gap between the buildings – the Viaduct Steps, teeming with life.
‘Sanctaphrax academics,’ she murmured scornfully as she watched them. ‘Like insects, scurrying here, scuttling there. Making alliances, breaking promises; plotting, sc
heming …’ She sniffed and pushed her hair back out of her eyes. ‘My father, Linius Pallitax, the Most High Academe of Sanctaphrax, is better than the whole lot of you put together.’
· CHAPTER FIVE ·
THE VIADUCT STEPS
i
West Side: 18th Staircase
As the wind increased, a ridge of ribbed cloud sped in from beyond the Edge. The sky darkened. The air chilled. The lone academic with the wispy hair and wild eyes paused mid-sentence and wrapped his flapping gown around him. He straightened up and scanned his scanty audience with a dark, penetrating gaze.
‘And worse than all that,’ he repeated, ‘is the food in the refectory. What exactly is being served from those great stew-pipes every day?’
‘I dunno, but I'm sure you're going to tell us,’ shouted a voice from the back of the small crowd and a group of mobgnomes began sniggering.
‘They tell us it's tilder,’ the academic continued undaunted. ‘They tell us it's hammelhorn. They tell us it's snowbird. But I have it on the highest authority that it is none of these.’ He paused for effect. ‘I can tell you
now, that what we are being served daily is piebald rat, fresh from the sewers of Undertown.’
As one, the audience groaned. They'd heard it all before! If it wasn't piebald rats, it was muglumps from the Mire, or white ravens from the Stone Gardens – or some other creature considered equally inedible by all but the most barbaric citizens of Sanctaphrax. Once there had been rumours that even the recently deceased academics were ending up in the stew-pot. Disappointed that the speaker's revelations hadn't been more original, individuals in his audience began to drift away until only the heckling mobgnomes were left.
‘I work in the kitchens,’ one called out. ‘I see the sides of meat coming in. Huge they are …’
‘Have you seen the size of the piebald rats these days?’ the academic countered.
‘Rats don't have wings, neither,’ shouted another.
‘Down in the sewers, they come in all shapes and sizes,’ the academic shouted back. ‘Some have got two heads. Some have got lungs and live underwater. And some,’ he announced triumphantly, ‘have got wings.’
The mobgnomes looked at one another and shrugged. One of them screwed his finger into his temple. ‘Sky-touched,’ he muttered.
‘As crazy as a square circle,’ another added. ‘The quality of speakers you get on the Viaduct Steps these days is really going downhill.’
They turned as one and trooped off together, ignoring the cries of the academic. ‘Stop! Wait a minute!’ he called after them. ‘I haven't yet told you about the scandal of the Moon Observatory, or how the disappearance of seven fogprobing apprentices was hushed up – or what really goes on at the Convocation of Professors on Grey Thursdays …’
ii
East Side: 18th Staircase
Cursing the ranting buffoon behind him, Seftus Leprix moved away from the top of the Steps and headed down towards the raucous crowd. He needed to hear the odds and the form being called before finally placing a bet on one of the four fighting fromps.
‘… and in the east corner, Bruto the Brave,’ the fight-master – a swarthy lugtroll with a withered arm – was announcing as he scribbled on a blackboard. ‘4–1. In the west corner, Smarg the Mighty. 6–1. And finally, in the south corner, the current favourite, Magno the Claw. 3–1.’
All round the fight-master, a sea of hands reached towards him, each one clutching pieces of gold. ‘Two on Bruto,’ shouted one. ‘Three on Magno!’ demanded another.
Seftus Leprix smirked. If his insider information was to be trusted – and woe betide Jervis, his personal servant, if it was not – then the fromp to bet on was Wilbus the Sly in the north corner. Although untried and untested in Sanctaphrax, it had apparently won several vicious fromp-fights in the taverns of Undertown. And at 18–1, the odds were the best on offer.
With a brief flutter of his hands, he checked that his silver nose-piece was on straight. The ancient ceremonial object with its ornate curlicues and fine filigree mesh had formerly been worn by academics who, for purification purposes, wished to cleanse the air they inhaled. These days it was worn by academics who, for whatever reason, wished to conceal their identity. Seftus Leprix certainly did not want anyone to recognize him. After all, a fromp-fight was not the place for the Sub-Dean of the School of Mist to be caught spending his time and money. But then, old habits die hard.
He re-adjusted the silver nose, raised the hood of his gown and pushed his way through the crowd. ‘Twenty on north,’ he announced.
The gnokgoblin turned and looked at him from under lowered lids. ‘Twenty, eh?’ he said. For a moment, he hesitated; he did not as a rule conduct business with those whose faces he could not see. But then again, gold was gold. His hand darted forwards and seized the pouch of gold pieces being held out to him. He scribbled out a docket, returned it and turned back to the blackboard. The odds on the fromp in the north corner had shortened to 12–1.
When the bell at the top of the Great Hall chimed six times, the gnokgoblin closed the betting. The crowd fell silent. Seftus Leprix, who had remained near the front of the crowd, watched thoughtfully as the four fromps were uncaged. Although Wilbus the Sly looked younger than the others, what it lacked in size it more than made up for in naked aggression as it leapt about at the end of its leash – spitting, screeching, frothing at the mouth, trying desperately to get at the others.
‘You do look fierce,’ Seftus murmured to himself happily. ‘And just as well, since it's too late to change my bet now.’
All four fromps were put on tethers, long enough for each of them to reach the fight-ring in the centre – but not so long that the creatures could get tangled up with one another. On their ankles now were razor-sharp spurs; on their prehensile tails, vicious spikes. Hunger and cruelty had turned the normally affable creatures into vicious killers and the fight would last as long as it took for one of the fromps to triumph over the other three.
‘LET THE FIGHT COMMENCE!’ the gnokgoblin roared, and lowered his raised arm.
Immediately, the air was filled with a cacophony of noise – wailing, screeching, howling. And that was just the spectators. Bruto the Brave from the east corner was the first to succumb as Magno the Claw's left spur sliced across its neck. The next moment, Magno's own neck was cut as Wilbus the Sly's tail-spike found its mark.
‘Come on, Wilbus,’ Seftus Leprix whispered as the vicious fromp turned its attentions on Smarg the Mighty from the west corner and the two of them flew at one another in a blur of bloodied fur and glinting blades.
The gnokgoblin scowled as Wilbus the Sly got the upper hand and glanced round furtively, as if he was preparing to bolt.
‘Oh no you don't,’ said Leprix, seizing the gnokgoblin by the scruff of his neck. ‘You're not going anywhere.’
The pair of them watched the conclusion of the fight. It didn't take long. Within seconds, there was a howl of pain from the vanquished and a triumphant squeal from the victor. Wilbus the Sly had done it. Leprix brought his leering face up close to the gnokgoblin's.
‘It's pay-up time,’ he hissed.
iii
East Side: 9th Staircase
A slanting light fell across the ninth set of stairs of the east-facing Viaduct Steps, also known as ‘the chankers'. This was the place where the sub-deans from all of the Sanctaphrax schools gathered together to discuss matters – for, with the complexities of their job, they had far more in common with one another than with others from the same school. The word itself came from an ancient trog word, shankir, which was the name given to the roosting grounds of the lesser woodowl – cunning Deepwoods nightbirds that would, it was claimed, gather noisily to plan their next hunting trip. Like the woodowls, those academics who became sub-deans also tended to be cunning, intelligent – and noisy.
‘I see Seftus has decided not to attend once again,’ the Sub-Dean of the Raintasters commented.
‘Too good for the likes
of us,’ said the Sub-Dean of Cloudwatching.
‘Like all those other confounded mistsifters,’ the Sub-Dean of Windtouching announced, and sniffed. ‘Ever since Linius Pallitax was made Most High Academe, they've been insufferable.’
‘And they've been even worse since Pallitax moved into the Palace of Shadows,’ a fourth sub-dean added.
‘Lording it over the rest of us the whole time,’ another complained. ‘And the Most High Academe does nothing to stop it, despite all his fine words about how equal we all are.’
‘Equal?’ snorted yet another. ‘That's a good one. The mistsifters get all the best preferments. They're all he cares about. The rest of us never get a look in.’
‘It's iniquitous!’ said the Sub-Dean of Cloudwatching.
‘Invidious!’ said the Sub-Dean of Windtouching.
‘Something,’ said the Sub-Dean of Raintasting darkly, ‘must be done.’
iv
iv
West Side: 12th Staircase
‘Fifty gold pieces, and that's my final offer,’ said the tall, bulbous-nosed apprentice.
‘But, Skillix,’ said the second apprentice, ‘I told you, I haven't got fifty gold pieces.‘
‘Then stop wasting my time, Runt.’ Skillix sneered and, turned away.
Runnet winced. He hated his nickname. However, this was not, he realized, the time to complain about its use. With the important Mistsifting examination only two days away – and himself so ill-prepared – he needed all the help he could get. Skillix, he'd overheard, had come by a copy of the examination paper. If he could just get his hands on it, then he'd be able to prepare the answers – and pass. If he didn't, he'd be thrown out on his ear. And if that happened, his father – a big name in the League – would disown him.
Runnet lunged forwards after the departing apprentice. ‘Don't go!’ he cried, clinging onto Skillix's robes.