by Paul Stewart
‘Hurry up, down there!” came an irate voice. Tve important business with the Professor of Light.’
‘Coming, sir, a large-eared lugtroll shouted back, as he scurried across the bridge, seized the winding-crank and began turning. ‘At once, sir. Sorry, sir…’
Away from the Great Storm Chamber Library - dry and airy thanks to its wood-burners and wind-turners -the moist air of the tunnels and outer chambers was warmer than usual. It was as if the searing heat of Undertown above had permeated the sewers, making them clammy, sticky - and deeply unpleasant. Apart from the frisky piebald rats who seemed to revel in the higher temperatures, the sewer-dwellers - from the lowliest lectern-tender to the Professors of Light and Darkness themselves - were finding the atmosphere increasingly oppressive.
Just off the Central Tunnel, two junior librarian knights-elect returned to their sleeping chamber. As one, they slumped down on their hammocks.
‘It's so hot, said one.
‘You can say that again, Kern, came the reply. ‘And all these oil lamps don't help, He flapped a hand lethargically in front of his face. ‘Hot, smelly, smoky - and I swear they create more shadows than they dispel…
Further along the tunnel, an arched door led into a long, vaulted sleeping chamber. The air here was thicker and hotter than ever - and laced with the musty odour of warm fur. A piebald rat scurried boldly across the damp stone floor, making no attempt to conceal itself - as if it knew that the occupants of the room were no threat. It sniffed at the claws of a great hairy paw, twitched its whiskers and sank two long, yellow teeth into the flesh. Blood trickled down into its waiting mouth.
‘Wuh!’ grunted the creature, more from surprise than pain, and kicked out half-heartedly.
It was a banderbear; a huge male with a thick scar peeking through the greasy, matted fur across his shoulder - one of four bander-bears, all huddled together in the corner of the chamber. He kicked again, more viciously this time, and the piebald rat ‘ scurried reluctantly away.
‘Wurra wollah weera-weer,’ he groaned. Now the vermin drinks my life-blood. My life here is dark indeed.
His neighbour, a bony old female, groomed him gently - teasing the sewer-ticks from the creases of skin and crushing them between her front teeth. ‘Wuh-wuh-wurruhma, she whispered. Patience. Soon the full moon shall fill your eyes once more.
‘Wuh?’ grunted a third, and shuddered. But when? ‘Weera-woor-uralowa
The fourth nodded, her strange facial markings gleaming in the yellow lamplight. ‘Wurra, she trembled. ‘Wurrel-lurragool-uralowa, Your words are true. If he who took the poisoned dart has fallen, then what is to become of us?
Just then, the doorflap flew open and a young librarian knight burst in, her tear-stained cheeks gleaming, her eyes red. ‘Tell me it isn't true!’ Magda Burlix blurted out.
The banderbears looked up.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Not Rook. It can't be.’
Wumeru, the banderbear female Rook had befriended on his treatise-voyage, climbed to her feet and lumbered towards her. ‘Wuh-wuh-weeralah. Uralowa. Wurra-wuh,’ she said softly.
Magda hung her head. She knew enough of the banderbear language to understand what Wumeru had told her. It only confirmed what she had overheard the High Librarian telling Alquix Venvax.
There had been reports of a young librarian knight losing control of his skycraft while out on patrol. They had plummeted to the ground. Now Rook had been officially listed as missing.
Magda shook her head, and wiped her eyes. ‘I … I can't believe it, she sobbed. ‘I spoke to him only last night. In the refectory-chamber. He's the best flier we have. He'd never lose control of the Stormhornet … He…’
Wumeru wrapped her great furry arms around the stricken girl and hugged her warmly. ‘Wuh-weera-lowaal, she said. Our hearts are also full.
Oh, Rook,’ Magda murmured, her voice muffled by the thick fur. ‘Rook.’
Behind her, the door-covering was drawn back a second time. Magda looked round to see Varis Lodd standing in the doorway, her face sombre.
‘I see you've heard the news,’ she said. She shook her head sadly. ‘I had such hopes for Rook, my finest pupil. It is a terrible loss.’
Magda tore herself away from Wumeru's clutches. ‘You talk as if he's dead,’ she said. ‘You've posted him as missing, Varis; missing in Screetown. Not dead.’
Varis stepped into the chamber and laid a hand on Magda's shoulder. ‘Believe me, I know it's hard when we lose a comrade; a fellow librarian knight … The reports say he was seen struggling to control the Stormhornet as it plummeted to earth.’
‘But nobody saw the crash,’ Magda insisted. ‘We don't know he's dead.’
Varis turned away. ‘I only hope he didn't survive the crash,’ she said quietly. ‘Because if he did, there are many far more horrible deaths that await a librarian knight in Screetown.’
‘No¡ No¡ No¡ ‘ Magda shouted, clamping her hands over her ears and rushing towards the door. ‘I won't believe it's true. He's not dead¡ He's not¡ I haven't given up on him, even if you have!’
Rook opened one eye and looked around. For a moment, he could make no sense of the sumptuous chamber he had woken up in. He was lying on a thick mattress of straw, weighed down by a tilderskin rug. Above him were elegant, fluted pillars, ornate oil-lamps, and gilded ceiling mouldings which glinted in the flickering light. From some way to his left, there came the sound of soft snoring as someone rolled over in his sleep - and everything came flooding back.
He had sat up far into the night talking to his old friend, Felix, telling him of his adventures on the Mire Road, in the Free Glades, and up in the skies above Undertown. He looked over at the figure next to the smouldering fire.
Felix was still asleep, his breathing soft and rasping, and a faint yet familiar smile playing on his lips. Felix had always enjoyed his dreams. Perched by his head on the corner of his pallet was Gaarn, his head tucked under his wing. Rook decided not to waken them. He wished he could go back to sleep but he knew he wouldn't be able to. Already he felt weighed down by the thought of what lay ahead.
They had planned it all the night before, over their bowls of steaming stew. Although it had pained him to leave Felix so soon after their reunion, Rook was still a librarian knight. He had to return to the Great Library and make his report on everything that had happened. After all, the librarians depended on their young knights to keep them informed of life above the sewers. He knew that if Felix helped him to get back to Undertown, he'd be able to find a pipe or an open drain - some entrance that would lead him down into the sewers.
‘I know the sprawling underground network of tunnels better than I know the back of my own hand, Rook had said.
‘You always did, but Fll hate to see you go, Felix had replied sadly. He sighed. ‘But then I suppose if you must, you must. I can get you across Screetown, but you're forgetting one thing, Rook.’
‘What?’ he had asked.
‘The Edgewater River, Felix had replied darkly. ‘If river is the right name for that curdled cesspit. You'll have to swim across it. The sewers are impassable between Screetown and Undertown. I've had to do it myself …’ He had shuddered. ‘I don't envy you, Rook. I don't envy you at all.’
Rook slipped quietly out from beneath the heavy covers, climbed to his feet and stretched. The wine-sap he'd drunk the previous night had left his mouth parched and claggy, and he crossed the tiled floor to the trickling cistern where he quenched his thirst with cold clear water. Behind him, Felix murmured something soft and indistinct; Gaarn ruffled his feathers - but the two of them slept on.
Rook splashed his face with water. Then, taking care to move quietly, he began to explore.
Although now a cellar, it was clear to Rook that the opulent chamber had previously been an upper storey of a magnificent building. The windows, now shut off with rocks and debris, must once have offered fine views over Undertown - before the crumbling Sanctaphrax rock had covered everything in rubble. T
he lofty ceiling - decorated with ornately carved league-shields and creatures in various poses - probably gave clues as to who might once have lived here, but it was too high up for Rook to inspect closely. One thing was certain, quite apart from being buried, the place had also suffered from a terrible fire.
The carved beams were charred, the floor tiles cracked, while the walls, he now saw, were blackened by smoke. It was only the hanging muglump hides that concealed the worst effects of the blaze.
Rook crossed over to the wall and ran his hand across its surface. His fingertips were coated with a powdering of soot, which he wiped away on the muglump-pelt to his right.
As he did so, pulling the spongy grey skin to one side, something on the wall behind caught his eye. He looked more closely and recognized the faint but distinctive shape of a painted sky pirate's tricorn hat. His curiosity aroused, Rook pulled a kerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped away the greasy coating of soot.
Below the tricorn hat was a face - a noble face, framed by curling side-whiskers and a waxed beard. Fascinated, Rook kept wiping. A decorated greatcoat came into view. Were those mire-pearls stitched into the collar? he wondered; were they mire-gems set into the scabbard of his sword? And were those initials stitched into the hem of the garment?
He dabbed at the soot, taking care not to disturb the flaking paint beneath. ‘W.J, he murmured.
Intrigued now, Rook continued across the wall, pulling the great muglump skin away and laying it carefully aside. The proud sky pirate, he soon discovered, stood at one side of a family portrait. His wife stood to his left, tall and elegant. Beside them were six youths, of different heights but with similar faces, each one staring back intently at the artist who had painted them -staring back at Rook.
He continued working on the soot-covered wall, delicately removing every trace of it from their bodies. Their curious old-fashioned waistcoats and baggy breeches were revealed; their high buckled boots. They were standing, Rook discovered, on a tiled floor - the same tiled floor he was now kneeling upon. He exposed it all, little by little, until…
‘What's this?’ he murmured as a painted scroll began to appear directly below the feet of the sky pirate. Scarcely daring to breathe, Rook dabbed at it carefully. The paint was dark - almost as dark as the soot he was removing - but inside the curling frame, picked out in gold, were letters. One by one, Rook exposed them.
Wind Jackal.
Wind Jackal. So that was the name of this prosperous adventurer who had built himself such a fine palace in what was once one of old Undertown's more fashionable districts. Whatever had become of him? Rook wondered.
He returned to the wall, searching for further clues. There were similar plaque-like scrolls painted beneath each of the figures. The wife and mother was Hirmina. The youths, Lucius, Centix, Murix, Pellius, Martilius and, smallest of all, Quintinius. Beneath them all, like a ribbon flapping in the breeze, a painted scroll revealed that this was the FAMILY ORLIS VERGINIX.
It must have been so nice to be part of such a family, Rook thought, to have brothers to play with; to grow up in the busy bustle of old Undertown, free from the tyranny of goblins or Guardians. His gaze lingered on the portrait of the youngest son. There was something about the dark eyes and forthright set of the jaw that seemed oddly familiar.
T wish Fd known you, he mused softly.
Rook reached up and began cleaning the rest of the wall. Now that he'd started, he wouldn't be satisfied until the entire wonderful mural was revealed.
Above the open section of the great family chamber was the roof of the magnificent building it was housed in; a showy array of twisting spires and swollen minarets. All round it were other majestic structures; turrets and towers, mansions and palaces, forming a great townscape on the banks of the Edgewater River. A scroll, hanging from the beak of a painted caterbird, identified the area as the Western Quays - but this was the quays before they had been crushed by falling rocks.
Rook returned his attention to the top of the roof. There was something attached to the side of a minaret which, as he cleaned along it, revealed itself to be a rising length of chain. Link by link appeared as he removed the greasy soot, until he was stretching up as far as he could reach. Abandoning his task for a moment, he seized a nearby stool and jumped onto it. He resumed his feverish wiping - and gasped. For there before him, as the grime fell away, was the most perfectly executed painting of all.
It was an intricately detailed reproduction of a sky pirate ship, accurate to an astonishing degree. He could see every bolt, every lever, every knot of every rope which formed the criss-cross hull-rigging. The sails billowed. The mast gleamed. The brass plate, bearing the name Galerider, glinted in the sun. And Rook found himself staring up at the flight-rock wistfully …
Would such sky-flight ever again be possible in the Edge? he wondered.
‘Waaaark!’ came a loud screech, echoing round the chamber.
‘Whooooaa!’ Rook cried out as his legs trembled and the stool went over to one side.
‘Six hours¡ Six hours!’ screeched Gaarn.
Crash¡
‘What in Sky's name…?’ came a puzzled voice from the far side of the chamber. ‘Rook? What are you up to?’
Rook picked himself up off the floor, rubbed his aching head and righted the stool. Felix came running over to him - then stopped and looked up at the wall.
‘Well I never!’ he said. ‘I never thought to clean the place up.’
‘Beautiful, isn't it?” said Rook, standing back and admiring the wall-painting. ‘It was underneath all that soot and grime. Look at the inscriptions, Felix. They're fascinating. We're standing in what was once the palace of a sky pirate captain called Orlis Verginix, also known as Wind Jackal. This is his wife. And those are his sons…’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Felix. ‘History never really was my strong point. It's all so sort of long ago, if you know what I mean. It's the here and now that I'm interested in, not the past.’
‘But the past moulds us, shapes us,’ said Rook. ‘Look,’ he added, sweeping his arm around the great chamber, ‘it's all around us.’
‘If you say so,’ said Felix, yawning. ‘Now, how about breakfast? I'm starving!’
As they emerged, blinking, into the daylight outside half an hour later, Rook was struck by the intense heat of the shimmering air. It had been pleasantly cool and damp down in the underground chamber. Now, despite the earliness of the hour, it was stiflingly hot and humid.
With Gaarn perched on his left shoulder, Felix expertly charted a path through the rubble and ruins. Following behind, Rook braced himself for what lay ahead.
‘There,’ he heard Felix announce some time later as he reached the top of a great mound of shattered stone. The Edgewater River.’
Rook climbed up beside him and peered ahead. Despite the heat, he shivered. The river looked uninviting: thick and sluggish, with a dense swirling mist dancing on her oily surface. Together, he and Felix picked their way down to her banks. A rank odour, like stagnant vegetable matter mixed with stale perfume, permeated the air.
‘Good luck, and give my love to my father and Varis, Felix told him.
Of course I will, said Rook, then turned to face his friend. ‘It isn't too late for you to come with me!’
‘No,’ said Felix, shaking his head. ‘I … I can't go back. This is my world.’ He jutted his square jaw towards the river. ‘Go now, Rook,’ he said. ‘Swim hard and fast. Soon the river-mist will rise, and then you'll be spotted easily from the banks …’
‘Oh, Felix,’ said Rook, hugging his friend. ‘Take care of yourself!’
Felix pulled away. ‘We'll meet again,’ he said. ‘I'm sure of that.’
Rook nodded mutely, trying hard to stop the welling tears from trickling down over his cheeks. He turned away. The mist swirled; the turgid water slopped at his feet. Gaarn screeched a parting farewell¡ and took to the air.
‘Yes, farewell, Rook, Felix said, clapping his old friend on the b
ack.
Rook glanced back. ‘Farewell, Felix, he said, his voice heavy with sorrow. ‘You are a true friend.’
He looked away and took a step forward. Then another, and another …
• CHAPTER FOUR •
THE MISERY HOLE
Thick mud squelched and bubbled round his boots as JL Rook waded down the steeply shelving incline into the treacherous Edgewater River. He felt round his belt, checking that everything was tightly secured - not that there was much he could have done, even if something had not been. The brown water was up to his knees now; a step later and it was swirling around his waist. There was nothing for it. He would have to swim.
With his arms stretched out in front of him, Rook leaned forwards, kicked out with his legs and thrust ahead into the broad, sluggish river. The water felt warm and oily to the touch, and lapped lazily over the leather of his flight-suit.
Keeping his head up, he took long, powerful strokes, sweeping the viscous water behind him and leaving a stream of tiny bubbles in his wake. Sediment coiled up from the riverbed. The air about him smelled brackish and sweet; the water was gritty between his fingers. Stroke after stroke, he forged on to where he hoped the other side lay - though with the thick mist swirling round his head, it was not possible to be absolutely sure.
Rook had never liked swimming as a youth. The water flowing through the Storm Chamber Library had been too foul to venture into without a raft, and he had always avoided the sessions in the overflow-cisterns which his fellow under-librarians seemed to enjoy so much. Yet at the Free Glades, where the crystal-clear waters of the Great Lake had offered perfect conditions, he had grown to love it. Most mornings, he would get up early, dive in off the edge of Lake Landing and swim twice round the lake before breakfast.
‘Come on in, Magda!’ he remembered calling to his friend. The water's lovely!’
The same could not be said of the Edgewater River. And yet as the young librarian knight battled on - his breathing now regular and softly rasping as he slipped into an easy rhythm - he had to admit that the crossing was not as bad as he had feared. The river was warm, like a tepid bath. And while there was certainly a current pulling to his left, it was so weak that, as an experienced swimmer, he remained confident of making it to the other side without being dragged downstream.