Clash of the Sky Galleons

by Paul Stewart;Chris Riddell

  ‘Galerider … Galerider…’ the clerk muttered. ‘Ah, yes, here we are …’ He pulled out a barkscroll plan and traced the ink lines with a finger. ‘West Tower …’

  He looked up and Quint, Wind Jackal and Maris followed his gaze. High above, nestling in a sky cradle at the top of the West Tower, was the Galerider.

  Her sails were gone and the rigging - both from the mast and the hull - had been uncleated and taken off. The rudder, the harpoon and the balustrades had also been removed, while at the stern there was a massive hole right through the ship, light streaming in from the other side, where extensive repairs were being made to the hull.

  ‘Considerable cloud-limpet and sky-fungus damage to the stern, brought to a crisis by storm damage,’ the clerk read from the barkscroll in a monotonous voice. ‘Localized storm damage to sails, rigging and winding-ropes … Storm damage to outer timberwork … And to hull-weights and alignment mechanism …’

  The yardmaster smiled his pointy-toothed smile. ‘What in Sky’s name were you doing out at the cliff edge, Captain? You must have realized what damage those winds can do …’

  ‘I had my reasons,’ said Wind Jackal, his brow furrowing.

  ‘No report on the flight-rock, as your stone pilot has refused our shipwrights access at the present time.’ The clerk concluded his report and looked from Wind Jackal to the yardmaster, and back again.

  High above their heads, Quint could just make out the small defiant figure of the Stone Pilot in her tall conical hood, standing on the flight-rock platform with her arms folded in front of her.

  ‘Yes, well,’ said Thelvis Hollrig, tapping his leagues-cane briskly on the ground. ‘Leaving aside the issue of re-boring and trimming the flight-rock, I’m afraid your sky ship needs a lot of work, Captain, which - as I’m sure you’ll understand - will not come cheap …’

  Wind Jackal nodded grimly.

  ‘If you’ll just follow me to my chambers, we’ll discuss the delicate matter…’ The yardmaster smiled and motioned for Wind Jackal to follow him inside. ‘Of payment.’

  As Thelvis and his father made their way to the yardmaster’s chambers, Quint and Maris were left to wander round the shipyard. Far above them, massive cranes and towering derricks, as lofty as ironwood pines, twisted and turned, their luffing-jibs extending and contracting as they swung round. Suspended from their great hooks were gigantic wooden structures and metal casings, which flew through the air as the crane-operators raised and lowered the winch-cables, moving each separate segment of the new sky ships into position with extraordinary accuracy. Then, when a bellowed command from below had confirmed that the pieces were in place, a work team of sky-shipwrights swarmed over the sections, joining one to the other.

  ‘They look like woodants,’ Maris commented.

  Quint smiled. ‘That’s just what I was thinking,’ he said. ‘Only a moment ago …’

  Each sky ship was made up of three main parts. The wooden prow, the metal flight-rock cage and platform, and the helm. It was only when these three parts had been bolted, riveted and dove-tailed together that the final additions could be made. Maris and Quint circled the yard, gazing up at the towers, one by one.

  In one cradle, a bowsprit and figurehead were being added to the prow. At another, a vast rock-sling was being bolted into place above the flying-jib. Further along, a main-mast, complete with rigging-eyelets and caternest, was being secured to the central part of a ship, while at yet another of the towering cradles, the aft-castle and rudder were being mounted simultaneously above and below an impressive helm of finest redoak.

  ‘So many sky ships,’ Maris said in wonder. ‘And each one different.’

  Quint nodded. ‘That’s ‘cause they all have a different purpose,’ he told her. ‘That one there, for instance,’ he said, pointing up to a double-master to his left, ‘must be a league ship. Or rather it will be when it’s finished. See how heavy and low-slung the wheelhouse is. It can hold a huge cargo, and it’s particularly stable in bad weather. And look at the flight-rock cages …’

  ‘There are four of them,’ said Maris.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Quint. ‘For four smaller flight-rocks. Once again, to aid stability. At the expense of speed and manoeuvrability, of course. In fact, this type of league ship is notoriously slow and cumbersome …’

  ‘But doesn’t that make them easy prey for … well, for sky pirate ships?’ said Maris.

  ‘Not necessarily’ said Quint. ‘Look up there, just above the rudder casing - can you see those hooks?’

  Maris nodded.

  ‘They’re for fire-barges,’ he said. ‘Half a dozen of them. Small and fast, and usually packed with goblin “leaguers” - they can be used to fight back if the vessel’s attacked.’ He paused and looked round. ‘And that ship there,’ he said, pointing to a small, sturdy craft with a solid-looking metal sphere where the flight cage should be. ‘That’s your typical tug. Staple of the league fleet…’

  Maris frowned. ‘It hasn’t got a sky cage,’ she said. ‘What’s that huge round casing for?’

  ‘Rubble,’ said Quint. ‘Flight-rock rubble. The bits and pieces from old, broken flight-rocks; chips and splinters … Occasionally robbers will break into the Stone Gardens and take buoyant rocks before they’re ready … Old, new; all the bits end up as rubble, which is put inside the sealed metal cases. No use for a sleek sky pirate ship, of course, but for a league tug, they work well enough. And over there …’

  ‘I was awake last night,’ said Maris, interrupting Quint and changing the subject, her dark-ringed eyes suddenly serious.

  Quint turned to her. ‘You heard … ?’

  ‘Everything,’ she said. ‘I heard both of you. I know all about the fire … About Turbot Smeal …’

  Quint swallowed hard. ‘Then you know why my father came for me. What’s driving him on …’

  Maris nodded. ‘And why he took such a risk with the Galerider out there at the cliff edge,’ she added, gripping Quint’s hands. ‘This hunt for Turbot Smeal,’ she said, ‘it’s forcing him to take terrible risks … Are you sure it’s worth it, Quint?’

  Quint looked down at his feet. ‘He’s my father,’ he said miserably. ‘And I’m his right hand. Where he goes, I must follow.’

  ‘And me, Quint?’ said Maris, forcing him to look her in the eyes. ‘What am I?’

  Quint smiled and returned the squeeze on his hands. ‘You’re my friend, Maris …’

  Just then, there was the sound of the tap-tap-tapping of a leagues-cane and heavy footfalls, and into the sky-shipyard strode three individuals.

  The first was a colossus of a leaguesman, as broad as he was tall. He had a patch over his left eye, a shaved head, the scalp mottled and uneven, and a thick, grizzled moustache. He wore heavy boots, gleaming gauntlets and a broad belt worn so tight it accentuated his huge paunch, and from which hung a collection of weapons - a long-sword, a dagger, a sling, a ball and chain. Over his shirt and breeches, thick leather armour plates protected his neck, his chest, his shoulders and shins.

  Quint gulped. It was none other than the High Leaguesmaster of Undertown, Ruptus Pentephraxis, himself, the highest of the high-hats - even though, on this occasion at least, his head was bare. Quint shook his head unhappily. He knew that Ruptus and Wind Jackal had a history of violence and enmity between them that went back for years.

  Beside the High Leaguesmaster, his companion tapped his long elegant leagues-cane impatiently. Small where Ruptus was large, thin and puny where Ruptus was huge and strong, his pinched face was swarthy, with piercing green eyes and black side-whiskers which had been waxed into sharp points. He was wearing long flowing robes with a high, jagged collar, and had metal spikes at the end of each of his thin bony fingers which glinted menacingly in the sunlight.

  Finger-spikes, Quint knew, were favoured more highly than rings by certain leaguesmasters, and these especially ornate points, glinting in the sunlight, could belong to only one person.

  Imbix Hoth was hi
s name.

  For years Master of the League of Rock Merchants, he had recently also been appointed High Master of the entire Leagues of Flight - although there was some debate as to how this had happened. What was not in question was the fact that in Undertown he was now second in importance only to the High Leaguesmaster himself. Imbix Hoth controlled the trade in flight-rocks. Without his co-operation, no sky-shipyard could survive for long. Behind him stood a weedy, lop-eared goblin gripping a long, forked hat-pole, with which he supported his master’s extremely tall four-pronged hat.

  The two high-hat leaguesmasters strode past Quint and Maris, treating them as if they didn’t exist, before stopping at the chiselled entrance to the yardmaster’s tower. Behind them, the lop-eared goblin delicately prodded his master’s hat, which swayed slightly, and then winked over his shoulder at Quint and Maris. Ruptus Pentephraxis pounded at the tower door with one immense fist, and the startled face of Hummer the clerk appeared.

  Tell your master that the High Leaguesmaster is here, and that I’ve brought someone who can solve that little problem we’ve been having.’

  ‘Yes, sir, right away, sir. Do come in, sir,’ grovelled the clerk.

  The two leaguesmasters entered, the lop-eared goblin tipping off Imbix Hoth’s high hat just in time, and catching it in one hand as he followed them inside.

  ‘High-hats and their hat-tippers!’ said an amused-sounding voice. ‘Don’t you just love them?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Maris. ‘I … Oh!’ she smiled. ‘It’s you!’

  Thaw Daggerslash stood before them, smiling broadly his hands on his hips. ‘It is indeed,’ he said. ‘Mistress Maris Pallitax,’ he said, extending a hand in greeting. ‘It’s so good to see you again.’

  Maris smiled and held out her own hand, which Thaw took and turned over, before planting a light kiss on the back of it. Maris blushed furiously, which made the young sky pirate smile even more broadly. He was wearing a shabby stained apron and torn canvas trousers rather than his splendid embroidered frock coat, and his fair hair was messy, with flecks of sawdust and woodchips in it.

  ‘And Master Quint,’ said Thaw, turning his disarming smile on him and clapping him warmly on the back. ‘Excellent to see you again, too, my young friend.’ He frowned. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘The Galerider is being repaired,’ Quint explained.

  ‘Is it now?’ said Thaw. ‘Little wonder, after the battering she must have taken out there at the cliff edge.’

  ‘You heard about that?’ said Quint.

  ‘The sky-shipyards are abuzz with talk of it,’ Thaw replied, his face suddenly concerned. ‘Whatever possessed your father to sail there?’

  This time it was Quint who blushed, but Maris was quick to come to his rescue.

  ‘And you, Captain Daggerslash,’ she said sweetly. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘Me?’ said Thaw, with an embarrassed laugh, smoothing down his apron and shaking the sawdust from his hair. ‘I have come to take possession of a beautiful sky vessel of my very own. One that, due to a temporary shortage of funds, I’ve had to repair largely by myself!’

  Thaw put two fingers to his lips and gave a short, piercing whistle. The next moment, a small and rather battered sky barge appeared from behind one of the sky-ship cages and slowly descended towards them, the port-side bow markedly lower than the starboard. As it drew closer, a shaggy-haired albino banderbear - little more than a cub by the look of him - peered down.

  ‘Wuh-wuh!’ he grunted, straightening up, and let a long rope uncurl from the side.

  Thaw saluted theatrically. ‘As you see,’ he laughed, ‘the Mireraider is a real beauty! And my crew - all one of him - awaits.’

  He grabbed hold of the rope and pulled himself up on board.

  ‘Farewell, Maris. Farewell, Quint,’ he shouted back as the sky barge rose again. ‘We’re off to seek our fortune as wreck-raiders. Wish us luck!’

  ‘Good luck!’ Maris shouted after him.

  As the tiny craft disappeared behind the rooftops, Quint turned to Maris. ‘He’s going to need all the luck he can get,’ he said. ‘Wreck-raiding is just about the most dangerous thing any sky pirate can undertake.’

  ‘It is?’ said Maris, shaking her head. ‘But he seemed so light-hearted and happy …’

  ‘And brave,’ said Quint. ‘A true sky pirate captain!’

  ‘Talking of true sky pirate captains,’ said Maris, with a little smile, ‘here comes your father.’

  Quint looked across, to see Wind Jackal emerging from the tower. He looked serious, but by no means as grim and troubled as Quint had feared. As Hummer scurried out behind him, Wind Jackal turned to the clerk and shook him by the hand.

  ‘Tell the yardmaster we have a deal,’ he said. ‘I’ll send my quartermaster round to sort out the details.’

  Hummer nodded and returned inside.

  ‘A deal, Father?’ Quint asked tentatively.

  ‘Aye, Quint, lad,’ said his father, a relieved look on his face. ‘Full repairs and refitting of the Galerider in return for a voyage to the Deepwoods for a consignment of bloodoak timber.’

  ‘That’s wonderful, Father,’ said Quint, relieved to hear that Wind Jackal had returned to his sky pirate trade, rather than tormenting himself with thoughts of revenge. ‘And when are we setting sail?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘Just as soon as … Sky above!’ he exclaimed, as a ratbird flew in and landed on his shoulder. ‘Hello, boy!’ he said. ‘I recognize you well enough!’

  ‘Nibblick!’ Quint exclaimed at the sight of his pet. ‘I’ve been wondering where you’d got to. I was afraid we’d lost you to those cliff storms.’

  The little creature chirruped and squeaked and, with a flutter of its wings, flew across from Wind Jackal’s shoulder to Quint’s outstretched finger.

  ‘Look,’ said Maris, ‘I think he’s got a message.’

  ‘He can’t have …’ Quint frowned and looked more closely. Sure enough, sticking out of the little capsule strapped to the ratbird’s leg, was a corner of paper. He unscrewed the top and pulled out the message.

  ‘What does it say?’ asked Wind Jackal.

  ‘… Oh, nothing,’ said Quint, shakily.

  ‘Let me see,’ said Wind Jackal.

  ‘Really, it’s nothing,’ said Quint. ‘It’s …’

  ‘Then let me see.’

  Reluctantly, Quint handed over the message. His father read it out loud, his voice taking on the same cold, vengeful edge as it had had the night before. Bloodoak consignment or no bloodoak consignment, he knew that Wind Jackal would be unable to ignore the mysterious message the ratbird had brought him.

  If you wish to find the one you seek, meet me in the Sluice Tower at midnight.

  A well-wisher.

  • CHAPTER FIVE •

  THE WAIF ASSASSIN

  Quint’s finger traced idly round the letters carved into the table-top. F … O … The tip of his index finger circled it once, twice, before moving on. X. He sighed.

  ‘Rain Fox,’ he murmured, and wondered who he could have been, this long forgotten sky pirate captain who had carved his name on the tavern table. Had he been rich and successful, with a magnificent sky ship and a loyal crew? Or, Quint mused darkly, had he been like most sky pirate captains - short of money, unsure of his crew, harassed, careworn, and continually looking over his shoulder. Probably he’d ended up being ‘festooned’ - left at the top of a Deepwoods tree by a mutinous crew, and replaced by a younger, more ambitious captain.

  Who knows? All that remained of Captain Rain Fox now was a series of deep scratches in the surface of the scrubbed lufwood.

  Quint stared down at the ancient carving, just one of hundreds that covered the tables in the Tarry Vine tavern. Across from him, where Maris sat dozing fitfully, was Quint’s father’s name - Wind Jackal - carved in elegant letters with a curling flourish beneath it. How different from most sky pirate captains his father had always seemed: cheerful, calm and d
etermined, his emotions under control and his actions well thought out and decisive.

  How he had come to admire and depend upon his father’s judgement, Quint thought with a sad smile. It made it all the more disturbing and worrying to see how this search for Turbot Smeal had consumed him with hatred and blinded him to dangers that the great Captain Wind Jackal, who had once carved his own name on this lufwood table, would never have ignored.

  And now this new message, as mysterious as the others, had arrived just as things looked as if they might be getting back to normal. Quint looked down at his lap, where the tiny body of his ratbird lay, stiff and lifeless. He stroked the soft fur between Nibblick’s tufted ears, and tears filled his eyes. The ratbird had died in the sky-shipyard within minutes of delivering its message, from the same slow-acting poison that had killed the first one his father received. It was a common way for gossips and schemers to cover their tracks. ‘Messages of no return’ they were called - but that didn’t make it any easier to bear.

  Quint slammed his fist down on the table. ‘Damn you, Smeal!’ he snarled.

  Maris woke with a start. ‘You’re beginning to sound like your father,’ she said with a yawn as she stretched her arms. ‘Speaking of whom, has he come back yet?’

  No sooner had Quint, Maris and Wind Jackal returned to the Tarry Vine tavern from the sky-shipyard, than his father had left again, ordering the two of them to stay behind.

  ‘Wait here for the crew!’ he’d barked as he strode out, his face drained of all colour. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’