The Curse of the Gloamglozer: First Book of Quint

by Paul Stewart

  Maris glanced round to make sure that they were not being watched or followed. Thankfully, few were out and about so early in the morning, and those there were paid them no attention.

  ‘But surely my father …’ Maris began.

  ‘Ssshh!’ Bungus hissed, darting into a dark alcove and pulling Maris in beside him. ‘Guards,’ he whispered.

  The sound of heavy marching boots pounded through the air. Maris peeked out of the shadows to see a detachment of flat-head goblins passing the end of the alley.

  ‘So far as your father's concerned,’ Bungus continued in a low voice, ‘I left Sanctaphrax years ago. He probably assumed I was expelled from the floating city during the last wave of purges.’

  ‘But, as Most High Academe, he could have done something to help you,’ said Maris.

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Bungus. ‘If his association with an earth-scholar – and a librarian to boot – had ever come to light, it would have created a huge scandal. His own position would have become untenable. Indeed, the sky-scholars would never have elected him Most High Academe in the first place if they had known of his youthful studies in the Great Library.’ He paused, and sighed. ‘Oh, Mistress Maris, I had such high hopes for your father. I dreamt that, with his broad education, he might see the wisdom of healing the schism between earth-studies and sky-scholarship.’

  ‘But he does,’ said Maris. ‘That's why he moved back to the Palace of Shadows. That's why…’

  Bungus cut her short. ‘I may be isolated in the Great Library,’ he snapped, ‘but not much happens in Sanctaphrax which passes me by.’ He breathed out noisily. ‘I know he started off as Most High Academe with fine intentions. He was going to reform this and reinstate that … but what happened? He got side-tracked, didn't he? He got distracted.’

  Maris glanced back up the alleyway. The sound of the boots had grown faint and faded away. But Bungus made no move to continue.

  ‘He's been so lost in this “great work” of his,’ he said, his face twisting with contempt, ‘that he's neglected everything else. His hopes, his dreams, his responsibilities…’

  ‘His daughter,’ Maris whispered softly.

  ‘And these days Sanctaphrax is far too treacherous a place for a Most High Academe to allow his attention to stray, even for a moment,’ he said. ‘There are many who would not hesitate to leap at the chance of taking his place.’

  Just then, Maris heard the sound of voices. She looked round to see a pair of sub-apprentices – raintasters, by the look of the fur trim on their robes – entering the alley behind them.

  ‘Someone's coming,’ she whispered urgently. ‘Let's go.’

  Bungus nodded and readjusted his hood, then the pair of them scuttled on down the narrow passageway. When they reached the end, they checked furtively from side to side. Apart from some Undertowners, busy setting up stalls, there was no-one there. They scurried across the broad Central Avenue and disappeared into the shadows opposite.

  Round the back of the College of Cloud they went, down a flight of stairs and beneath a low archway. The Palace of Shadows rose up in front of them. Maris looked up at the windows and groaned.

  ‘The shutters to his bed-chamber are still closed,’ she said gloomily. ‘I hoped he'd be better by now.’

  ‘He soon will be,’ said Bungus, and he tapped the small bag of potions and poultices hanging from his shoulder.

  ‘He was in a terrible state,’ said Maris, shaking her head. ‘Cut, bruised, babbling…’

  ‘All the same, there isn't much I can't heal, cure or revive,’ Bungus assured her. ‘Come, Mistress Maris,’ he said, as he set off up the palace steps for the front entrance. ‘Let us make your father well – and let us also find out, once and for all, what mischief he has been dabbling in.’

  Meanwhile, at the back of the magnificent Palace of Shadows, two other visitors were waiting expectantly by the kitchen door. The first was a powerfully-built flat-head goblin, heavily armed and clad in the helmet and breast-plate of a Sanctaphrax guard. Standing at his shoulder was a tall, slightly stooped figure, wearing a thick hooded cape from which a silver nose-piece protruded like the sharp beak of a white raven.

  ‘Try again, Bagswill,’ he said. ‘And knock louder this time.’

  The flat-head raised his arm and hammered on the door with a massive fist.

  ‘All right, all right,’ came a wheezy voice from inside. ‘I'm hurrying as best I can.’

  The flat-head turned and grinned unpleasantly. ‘Here he comes,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Seftus Leprix, and tapped his bulging pocket. ‘And with a bit of luck this will prove more effective than cutting the chain of that sky cage.’

  Bagswill grunted. ‘I still don't understand what went wrong,‘ he said. ‘I mean, they found his cloak in Undertown, so how did he manage to…?’

  There was the grinding sound of a bolt being drawn, followed by the click of a key turning in the lock. Leprix raised his finger to his silver nose-piece. ‘That's enough, Bagswill,’ he said. The door opened with a soft creak and clouds of steam billowed out. As the air cleared, an angular, almost transparent head appeared.

  ‘Yes, yes?’ he trilled impatiently. ‘Do you not see which signal-banners are flying?’ he said, pointing to the decorated lengths of material fluttering from one of the upper balconies. ‘The Most High Academe is not to be disturbed.’

  The guard smiled warmly. ‘Tweezel,’ he said. ‘How good to see you again – and looking so well.’

  The spindlebug frowned. ‘Do I know you?’ he asked.

  Bagswill laughed. ‘Do you know me?’ he said. ‘We met in the market-place yesterday.’

  ‘We did?’ said Tweezel.

  The guard's face clouded over. ‘Don't tell me you've forgotten,’ he said, ‘otherwise I fear my visit will be in vain.’

  Tweezel clicked and trilled. ‘Remind me,’ he said. ‘I've had a lot on my mind recently.’

  ‘That's precisely what you said yesterday,’ said Bagswill, and laughed again. ‘I was looking to buy tilder sausages,’ he added. ‘You kindly pointed me in the right direction. It was good to see a friendly Deepwooder face.’

  Tweezel looked more closely at the flat-head. His antennae quivered. ‘I do remember,’ he said at last. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘It's more a case of what I can do for you,’ Bagswill replied. ‘You know you were telling me about your master being under the weather and all. Well, one good turn deserves another. I think I've found the perfect answer to your problem.’

  ‘You have?’ said Tweezel.

  ‘Indeed I have,’ said Bagswill. ‘Not half an hour after bidding you farewell, I ran into my old pal … Sef, here.’

  ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ the silver-nosed individual said, and produced from the folds of his robes a cut-glass bottle containing a thick, deep-green liquid. He held it out. ‘I bring you a bottle of sapwine and hyleberry cordial,’ he announced. ‘The finest, most efficacious pick-me-up in all of the Deepwoods. I use it myself.’

  Antennae trembling, the spindlebug eyed the bottle with interest – but made no move towards it. Behind him, he heard a tap-tap-tap coming from the main entrance.

  ‘Take it,’ said the hooded individual, stepping forwards. ‘It'll work wonders. You mark my words.’

  ‘It's very good of you,’ said Tweezel, ‘but I'm not sure about giving the master something I haven't tested…’

  ‘Just a little before he goes to bed,’ Bagswill joined in. ‘That's all it requires. You'll see the difference immediately, Tweezel. Your master will be a new person.’

  ‘All the same …’ Tweezel began.

  The tapping at the front door became louder, more insistent.

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Bagswill understandingly. ‘You have every reason to be cautious.’ He looked round at his companion. ‘Didn't I tell you that he was loyal?’ He turned back to Tweezel. ‘I dare say that master of yours has told you that, as a sky-scholar, he has his
own methods of getting himself well again.’ He snorted. ‘But you and I know better, eh, Tweezel? We Deepwooders know the efficacy of herbs and spices – of the old ways.’

  The spindlebug's wedge-shaped head nodded slightly. ‘Maybe I could give him just a wee drop,’ he ventured.

  ‘You do that,’ said Bagswill. ‘Hand over the sapwine-cordial, Sef.’

  Tweezel took the bottle in his pincer-like claws and inspected it closely. At that moment the knocking at the front door became so loud that even the two visitors heard it.

  ‘You'd best answer that,’ said Bagswill.

  ‘But the drink,’ said Tweezel. ‘What do I owe you for it?’

  ‘Oh, there's no need to worry about that,’ said Bagswill. ‘Call it a gift, from one Deepwooder to another.’

  ‘Very kind, I'm sure,’ said Tweezel.

  ‘Don't mention it,’ said Bagswill. ‘You just answer that door before you get into any trouble.’ He winked conspiratorially. ‘You don't have to tell me what it's like working for a demanding master.’

  Tweezel withdrew his head.

  ‘And you be sure to let me know how the master fares,’ Bagswill called.

  ‘Oh, I will,’ the old spindlebug replied.

  As the door clicked shut, Bagswill turned to his companion, a broad grin plastered across his face. ‘Told you it'd work,’ he said. ‘That simple old fool swallowed my story, hook, line and sinker.’

  ‘Yes, well done, Bagswill,’ came the reply. ‘Though I do wish you hadn't called me by name. ‘ “Sef”, indeed. I just hope he doesn't work out my full name.’

  ‘You worry too much,’ said Bagswill. ‘There's enough hover-worm venom in that cordial to poison a whole school of academics. Tasteless, odourless – and deadly. One sip, and Linius Pallitax will blow up like an inflated trockbladder. It can't fail – unlike the chain idea of yours,’ he added. ‘By this time tomorrow, I will be Head Guard of Sanctaphrax, while you, Seftus, will be its new Most High Academe.’

  The silver nose-piece trembled as its owner chuckled with amusement. ‘When you put it like that, Bagswill,’ he said. ‘Come, let us away. There is still much we have to prepare.’

  ‘I'm coming, I'm coming,’ the spindlebug wheezed as he unbolted the front door and pulled it open.

  He was confronted by Maris's furious face, tight-lipped and blotchy. ‘What in Sky's name kept you so long?’ she demanded. ‘We've been waiting here ages.’

  ‘Apologies, mistress,’ said Tweezel. ‘I was indisposed.’

  ‘Well, it was very inconvenient,’ said Maris, more huffy now than angry. ‘We have important business with my father.’

  The spindlebug turned his head and his gaze fell on the figure in the shabby clothes standing next to Maris. He looked him up and down with some disdain. ‘And who shall I say wishes to have an audience with the Most High Academe?’ he enquired stiffly.

  ‘No-one, Tweezel,’ said Maris, pushing past the bewildered servant, Bungus in tow. ‘I'll introduce him to my father myself.’

  The spindlebug trilled indignantly. ‘But, mistress,’ he protested, ‘this is highly irregular. It's more than my job's worth to allow you to…’

  But Maris was already racing up the first flight of stairs with the mysterious hooded figure following close behind. Tweezel sighed. There was nothing he could do. These days, his joints were far too stiff for him to go chasing around the palace. And the young mistress was so wilful! By the time he reached the professor's bed-chamber she and that vagabond she had brought with her would no doubt already be perched on either side of his bed, chatting.

  ‘That's the trouble with the youth of today,’ he grumbled. ‘No sense of protocol. No etiquette. No decorum…’

  Still muttering to himself, he returned to the kitchen. It was time he took a close look at that sapwine-cordial…

  As they reached the second landing, both Maris and Bungus could hear the sound of raised voices from the next storey. Maris turned to Bungus, her eyes wide with concern.

  ‘Who can that be?’ she said. ‘And why are they arguing?’

  ‘Let's go and find out,’ said Bungus.

  Together, they raced up the remaining stairs. The voices became clearer.

  ‘How dare you do this?’ boomed one.

  ‘Do you not understand the gravity of the situation?’ bellowed another.

  ‘Sky strike you down if anything should happen to him!’ blasted a third.

  ‘You can rant and rave all you like,’ came a fourth voice, more strident than the others yet studiedly calm.

  ‘That's Welma,’ Maris panted as she and Bungus ran down the long corridor. ‘My old nurse.’

  ‘I said “no”, and I mean“no”,’ Welma's voice floated back. ‘None of you are going in.’

  ‘Madam, do you know who I am?’ one of them demanded.

  ‘I don't care if you're the Professor of Darkness himself,’ said Welma defiantly.

  ‘But … but I am the Professor of Darkness!’ came the indignant reply.

  ‘As I say,’ Welma said dismissively, ‘I don't care.’

  There was a gasp, followed by three furious voices all shouting at once. Maris skidded round the corner of the corridor with Bungus – the hood of his papery jerkin down over his face – hot on her heels.

  ‘Welma, what is going on?’ she demanded.

  ‘There you are, Maris,’ said Welma. She was standing, barring the way to the Most High Academe's chamber door. ‘Your bed hasn't been touched. Where have you been all night?’

  ‘Never mind all that,’ said the Professor of Darkness. ‘The Most High Academe remains in great danger. There has already been one attempt on his life…’

  ‘And my spies have uncovered a second plot,’ Sigbord, the Head Guard broke in. ‘Bagswill the flat-head has been recruited by a second renegade – a shadowy figure hiding behind his ceremonial silver nose. It is my duty to protect the Most High Academe…’

  Welma raised her hands. ‘As I keep saying,’ she told them, ‘he's safe and sound. And that's the way he'll stay so long as he remains in his bed, all tucked up and…’

  ‘But he can't!’ the Professor of Light bellowed. ‘How

  many more times do I have to tell you, a Great Storm is imminent. He is to come with us!’

  ‘The Inauguration of Garlinius Gernix must take place immediately,’ added the Professor of Darkness. ‘If it does not, then he will be unsuccessful in his quest for new stormphrax.’

  A dismissive snort emanated from the folds of the brown hood, followed by, ‘Stormphrax, indeed.’ Maris kicked Bungus lightly on the leg and hissed at him to stay silent.

  ‘And the ceremony must be performed by the Most High Academe. If it is not…’

  Bungus spoke up again, louder this time. ‘Strictly speaking, couldn't you do it?’ he said, his voice muffled by the parchment-like material.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said the Professor of Darkness. He stared in disbelief at the gangly, shabbily dressed individual. ‘Who are you, sir?’ he demanded. ‘Show your face!’

  But Bungus had no intention of doing any such thing. These meddlesome academics must not discover who he was.

  ‘As I understand it,’ he went on, ‘in your role as Next-Most High Academe you could perform the ceremony yourselves. Either individually. Or together.’

  The Professors of Light and Darkness turned to one another, eyebrows raised. ‘Could we?’ they asked each other. ‘Should we? Is it legal? Is it constitutional?’

  Certainly it was worth considering, for the great floating rock upon which the city had been built was growing bigger by the day. If the amount of heavy stormphrax in the Treasury was not constantly increased, then Sanctaphrax was always at risk of breaking its moorings and sailing off into open sky. Reaching their decision at the self-same moment, the two professors seized one another by the arm, and marched away.

  ‘First of all, we must consult the Great Tome of Skylore,’ the Professor of Light was saying.

  ‘Ti
me is of the essence,’ the Professor of Darkness reminded him. Their voices grew fainter. ‘Perhaps it would be wiser to consult the great book after we have performed the ceremony.’

  Bungus snorted for a second time. ‘Avaricious old buzzards,’ he muttered. ‘The first whiff of power and they're onto it like a woodcat on a weezit!’

  ‘At least they've gone,’ said Maris. She turned to Sigbord. ‘And since my father won't be leaving his room after all, he will have no need of your services either.’

  The brawny Head Guard looked down at Maris and, for a moment, she was sure he was about to argue with her. But Sigbord bit his tongue. He had learned, and to his cost, that it was always as well to keep the daughter of the Most High Academe sweet.

  ‘Go on, then,’ said Welma. ‘You heard what the young mistress said.’

  Sigbord nodded curtly. ‘I shall send a consignment of twelve guards to surround the palace and watch the doors,’ he said.

  ‘As you wish,’ said Welma. ‘Now, off you go!’ And, flapping her hands at him, she ushered the guard away.

  The moment Welma moved from the door, Maris leapt forwards and seized the handle. She turned it – half expecting it to be locked – but her luck held. The door swung open, creaking as it did so. Welma turned.

  ‘Mistress Maris!’ she shrieked angrily. ‘What did we talk about earlier?’

  But Maris was in no mood for further questions. Pulling Bungus into the bed-chamber behind her, she slammed the door shut and turned the key.

  ‘Maris!’ Welma shouted. ‘Maris, open this door at once.’

  ‘Shan't!’ Maris shouted back. ‘He's my father and I have a right to see him.’

  Welma fell silent. Maris pressed her ear to the door. For a moment she heard nothing, then the sound of her old nurse's footsteps plodding away along the corridor.

  Slowly, nervously, Maris turned round. Why had her father not spoken? Surely he couldn't have slept through all the noise everyone had been making. She peered into the gloom. Apart from a stubby candle flickering from the mantelpiece, the room was in complete darkness.