by Paul Stewart
‘You can stop doing the logs, dearie.’ said Hestera hurriedly as she bustled past him. ‘And follow me. I want you to take this up to the master, and mind you don't spill a drop!’
Rook let the log fall to the floor and straightened up. He followed Hestera back to the pulley-lift where she opened the bared teeth of the doorway.
‘Look lively, my loverly,’ she said.
Rook climbed into the pulley-lift and took hold of the rope. Hestera slid the tray in behind him. ‘Ninth floor,’ she said. ‘And be quick about it. Don't keep the master waiting or you'll have me to answer to.’
‘Yes,’ said Rook quietly.
The teeth snapped shut and, in the darkness, Rook pulled hard on the rope. The pulley-lift lurched upwards.
‘One,’ he panted with exertion as he reached the entrance hall. He glimpsed Amberfuce, ears fluttering, gesticulating towards Speegspeel while Flambusia fussed by his side.
Two. The reception chamber. Sweat ran down Rook's back and his breathing was heavy and loud in the confined space. Three, the library; four, the banquet hall; five…
Rook's mind was racing. He'd been fortunate; uncommonly fortunate. There he'd been, wondering how to get to meet Vox Verlix - and now, thanks to Hestera Spikesap, he was about to come face to face with him. He tugged down hard on the rope. Six … Seven … Eight…
‘Nine.’ said Rook. He pulled the brake-lever. The lift came to a halt. Bathed in sweat, Rook was directly in front of the locked hatchway he'd seen the previous day. From inside came the sound of a ringing bell announcing his arrival, followed by whistling and wheezing and the thump thump thump of someone heavy lumbering closer.
There was a jangle of keys, a scraping of metal - and the door swung open. Rook found himself looking out into a vast, shadowy chamber, the candlelit air thick with woodjasmine incense. There were massive dark tapestries covering the walls. Thick rugs and plump silk cushions - one embroidered with a golden tilder - were strewn across the floor. And, in the centre of it all, stood a huge round table made from the whitest marble Rook had ever seen. The next moment, a gigantic figure loomed before him, blocking everything from view.
‘Give it to me,’ rasped a wheezing voice.
Rook picked up the tray and held it out. Two great podgy hands, studded with jewelled rings, seized the tray. As Rook watched, the figure wobbled back from the hatch and into the candlelight. There, with shadows flickering across his vast, bloated features and the gold medallion of high office hanging from his neck, stood Vox Verlix himself. He grasped the jug of oblivion in one massive paw and took a long slurp before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. His eyes glazed over.
‘You can go.’ he mumbled.
Rook was about to say something when the door slammed abruptly shut.
From the other side came a loud burp and a high-pitched, wheezy laugh, followed by the sound of something big and ungainly stumbling into things and knocking them over. Rook hesitated, his ear pressed against the door. He listened and waited …
Finally he heard the sound of heavy snoring. He tried the door but it was no good. The hatchway was locked from the other side.
With a sigh, Rook took hold of the rope, released the brake and the pulley-lift began its long descent. Still, he reasoned as the various hatches flashed by, I know where Vox is now. The ninth floor. And even if the hatchway is kept locked, the pulley-lift isn't the only way to get to the master's chamber …
‘Thank Earth and Sky you're back, dearie,’ Hestera cried as he reached the bottom. ‘What kept you so long? It's perishing down here.’
Rook climbed out into the searing heat of the kitchen. Hestera fussed about him. ‘The fire, dearie,’ she wheedled. ‘You must see to the fire at once, before these cold old bones of mine seize up completely. How can I be expected to sort through my recipes in a freezing kitchen? Look lively, now.’
‘Yes.’ said Rook, and traipsed obediently off to the log he'd dropped earlier. Seizing it with both hands, he swung it up off the ground and into the furnace in one movement, then returned to the pile of logs for another.
Hestera, meanwhile, withdrew to a walk-in cupboard at the end of the kitchen, from which she emerged a moment later clutching a great sheaf of parchments and a large empty ironwood box. Struggling with the awkward load, she shuffled back across the kitchen and sat herself down on a chair in front of the furnace with a soft sigh of contentment. Then with the parchments laid out across her aproned lap and the box before her, she began sorting through the recipes, clucking to herself and muttering beneath her breath.
Rook fetched another log and tossed it into the furnace; and then another, and another - pumping the bellows vigorously after each new addition. The furnace glowed brighter. The kitchen grew hotter.
‘That's the way, dearie,’ Hestera murmured, her eyelids growing heavy. ‘Nice and warm, just the way I like it.’
Rook smirked. The goblin was beginning to nod off. I'll give you nice and warm, he thought. I'll have this kitchen hotter than it's ever been before. He gave the bellows a good pump. Hestera's eyes flickered and closed.
Rook kept on feeding the roaring flames until the furnace was so full that he could fit no more inside. The blast was infernal, hotter even than the great industrial furnaces he'd seen in the Foundry Glade from where he'd rescued Wuralo and the other banderbears. How long ago that now seemed. Dripping with sweat, Rook pumped the bellows one last time.
Behind him, Hestera's head lolled forwards and several sheets of parchment slipped from her lap to the floor. A rasping snore echoed through the air.
Rook smiled. Hestera was fast asleep and he had his opportunity to sneak away. As he passed the snoring goblin, he stole a glance at the recipes strewn across the floor by her feet. Tincture of Ear-ache. Melancholia Salve. Eyeblind Drops and Cramp Linctus … The words were picked out in Hestera's spidery writing. He was about to leave when one parchment in particular caught his eye. Stomach-ache Cordial, it said.
He scanned the page. Pour in the sallowberry vinegar and tildermilk and simmer until curdled … Allow to cool… Add a pinch of dried chundermoss if vomiting is required …
Rook's top lip curled in disgust. In his studies in the Free Glades, Rook had received instruction from gabtrolls and oakelves who had dedicated their lives to the study of the properties of herbs and plants in order to create potions and lotions that would ease suffering and cure pain. But not Hestera Spikesap. The twisted creature was clearly using her arts to cause misery and pain. Rook stared down at the hateful ‘recipes’. He would have liked nothing better than to sweep the whole lot up in his arms and stuff them all into the furnace…
But not now, he told himself, turning away. Now, he had to get out of the kitchen and find the ninth floor.
The sound of Hestera's snoring grew fainter as Rook crept stealthily away. Into the cooler shadows he went, leaving the scorching furnace and the wicked poisoner behind him.
He picked his way through piles of boxes and mountains of sacks, on past long, cluttered tables strewn with pots and pans, jars and glass vessels full of curious liquids. At last, the staircase was before him, its upper steps disappearing into the murky gloom, far above his head. Rook began climbing.
It was only when he was halfway up that a thought struck him. What if the door was locked?
At the top at last, he seized the handle gingerly and turned it slowly, slowly … then pulled. The door -thank Sky - opened, its ancient hinges protesting weakly. Rook slipped out through the gap, closed the door quickly behind him - and fell still.
There, on the other side of the huge entrance hall, shivering in the cold air, his back towards him, stood Speegspeel.
Rook edged forwards and peeked round the jutting leg of a dusty, cobweb-strewn statue. The ancient butler was standing alone by the front door, blowing into his hands. The statue tottered unsteadily and, seizing it with both hands, it was all Rook could do to stop it crashing over.
‘Who does he think he is? High and mighty l
ibrarian keeping old Speegspeel waiting.’ Speegspeel grumbled as he stamped his feet up and down and hugged his arms about him. ‘Speegspeel's cold.’ he muttered sullenly. ‘And hungry … Everybody puts upon old Speegspeel, so they do. Wouldn't even let him finish off his lunch…’ He turned back towards the door, slid a silver spy-hole across and peered out. ‘Where is he?’
With Speegspeel's back turned, Rook emerged from behind the statue and tip-toed across the tiled floor as silently as he could, keeping close to its statue-lined fringes. Darting from statue to statue, Rook made for the great staircase ahead of him, rising up out of the gloom. He was halfway across the hall when the old goblin turned back again. Rook held his breath and froze, blending in with the statues around him.
‘At everyone's beck and call the whole time.’ the butler was complaining, ‘and what thanks does Speegspeel get?’ He sniffed and began pacing back and forth. ‘A kindly word wouldn't come amiss now and again …’ He turned away.
From somewhere above him, Rook heard an ominous low creak. Instinctively he dropped to the ground and raised his arms protectively above his head.
CRASH¡
The sudden loud noise tore through the great hall, and around him the cobwebbed statues wobbled, as if in support of their toppled colleague that now lay shattered on the marble floor. The hall fell silent - until Speegspeel's voice cried out; a mixture of triumph and defiance.
‘You'll have to try harder than that if you want to catch old Speegspeel!’ he bellowed, raising a fist at the statues crowding the alcoves above him.
Rook peered round the plinth of the statue he was cowering behind. The butler kicked at the broken remains of the ancient statue.
‘Thought you'd had me that time, didn't you? Waiting till my back was turned. But Speegspeel was too quick for you, wasn't he? Eh?’ He chuckled as he headed across to the door leading to the kitchen. ‘Now Speegspeel will sweep you up and tip you away. And good riddance!’
The goblin disappeared through the door. Rook seized his chance. Head down, he made a dash for the staircase and, taking the stairs two at a time, he bounded up the first flight and crouched down on the first landing in the shadow of a carved newel post. He looked back to see Speegspeel returning across the great marble floor, a heavy knotted broomstick tucked under one arm. Whistling tunelessly, the goblin set about sweeping the shattered statue into a neat pile.
Important visitor.’ he muttered to himself. ‘Got to make the right impression …’
Turning away, Rook continued up the elegant staircase, dodging the bright beams of sparkling sunlight which sliced down at an angle from high windows; keeping to the shadows. All round him were the statues. They stood on plinths and platforms on every landing and lined the corridors which radiated away in all directions like the spokes of a great wheel. Hundreds of them, like a great stone army lurking in the gloom; watching, waiting…
They're just carvings, Rook told himself. Pieces of rock, no more.
The air was cold, but it wasn't only that which was making him shiver. As he passed them by, the statues creaked and seemed to whisper and sometimes Rook thought he caught them moving out of the corner of his eye - but when he turned to look, they were always standing as motionless as before.
At the sixth landing, the musty air was laced with the mentholated tang of embrocation. Rook heard the sound of distant coughing and Flambusia's disembodied voice - honeyed and sinister - as it echoed down the corridors.
‘If you won't keep still, then I can't rub it in properly,’ she was cooing. ‘And then that cough of yours will never get better.’
Rook hurried on. He didn't stop again until he reached the ninth floor. Pausing for a moment to catch his breath, he looked round.
The landing he was standing on was quite different from the others he had passed. Unlike the patternless marble of the lower levels, the floor here was inlaid with an intricate pattern of tiles. As he looked more closely, he saw that they were not random abstract designs but rather countless creatures - some known, some unknown - all cunningly interlocked.
The ear of a woodhare-like creature formed the mouth of an oozefish, whose dorsal fin in turn provided the space between the broad legs of a banderbear above it. A lemkin fitted together with a snicket, the dark jutting jaw of the one forming the edge of the white wing of the other; a daggerslash mutated into a razorflit; a muglump into a fromp. And so it continued all the way along the single broad corridor which led away from the landing. Just the one corridor, Rook noticed - unlike the other floors which had corridors leading off from the landings in all direction.
At the far end of the single corridor was a high window. A shaft of sunlight streamed through it, slicing along the length of the corridor, striking the crystal chandelier above Rook's head and sending rainbow-coloured darts of light flashing through the air in all directions. They spun and collided; they skidded over the white marble of the statues and sparkled on the tiled floor.
Halfway down the corridor, to his right, a magnificent doorway was set into the wall. The panelled door it framed was emblazoned with the same symbol of high office - a sun-like circle segmented by jagged bolts of lightning - which Rook had seen on the medallion hanging around Vox's neck.
The Master's Chamber,’ he whispered.
He had just set off down the hallway, keeping to the shadows close to the near wall, when a sudden clatter halted him in his tracks. He slipped back into the darkness of a cobweb-filled alcove that must once have housed a statue and watched anxiously. The noise had come from outside - most likely a statue falling down the front of the building.
As the noise died away, it was replaced by another, altogether closer: the low scraping sound of metal on stone. This was followed by a muffled crunch, and the silhouette of a goblin guard in battle-dress appeared at the high window. Rook shrank back further into the alcove and held his breath.
The goblin guard pulled the window open, balanced for a moment on the ledge, looking round - before jumping down onto the floor. As he dropped, the sunlight glinted on the serrated blade of the evil-looking scythe clenched between his teeth. He landed lightly, braced his splayed legs and looked round again. Then, glancing suspiciously about him, he advanced along the corridor, his bare feet pattering softly on the tiles.
Rook watched, horrified. It was clear the goblin had only one thing on his mind.
Murder¡
He swallowed heavily. The goblin was almost at the door now. He could see the individual bristles of his tufted ears; he could smell his unwashed body. The goblin pulled the scythe from his mouth and gripped it tightly in his hand. Then, with a final glance over his armour-plated shoulders, he took a step forward and …
It all happened so quickly. The tile beneath the goblin's feet clicked down as he stepped on it. At the same moment, from up in the shadows of the high ceiling, there came an answering click followed by a hissing swoosh as a long pendulum swung down through the air. The goblin never knew what hit him. Before he could move so much as a muscle, the heavy curved blade at the end of the swinging pendulum sliced through him like butter, cleaving the would-be assassin in two.
Rook stared open-mouthed, scarcely able to believe what had just happened. The goblin was dead; his body twin islands in a growing sea of blood. Rook tore his horrified gaze away. Above his head in the shadows, the deadly pendulum clicked back into place as - at exactly the same moment - the tile did the same, merging seamlessly with the others in the treacherous mosaic.
‘A booby-trap.’ Rook trembled.
He stared at the floor. Each ornate shape now seemed deadly Any one of the tiles, Rook realized, could unleash the hideous pendulum - or worse. He was trapped, paralysed with fear, unable to take a step forwards or back. At his feet was a white tile - snowy white, shaped like the head of a gloamglozer. Its curling horns formed the underbelly of a black serpent coiled above it.
‘Black serpent.’ Rook murmured. ‘White gloamglozer.’ White gloamglozer. Black and white … S
omething stirred in his memory: Keep to the black, not the white, if you want to keep your life.
It was Speegspeel. Rook had heard him singing the little tune over and over up in the Leagues’ Chamber.
Keep to the black, not the white, if you want to keep your life…
Emerging from the alcove, Rook stepped tentatively onto the black serpent, then a black hammelhorn, and from that onto a black lemkin, taking care to avoid the white halitoad between them. So far, so good. Trying hard not to look at the bloodied corpse, he skirted round the snow-white head of a huge rotsucker - via a black tilder and a second black lemkin - and arrived at last at the large, ornate door.
Rook put his ear to the carved wooden panel and listened. He could hear nothing; nothing at all. He reached forward, grasped the door handle and turned it. The door slid silently open and Rook slipped gratefully inside.
Rook found himself in the same opulent chamber he had glimpsed from the pulley-lift. Dark, shadowy and reeking of incense and musky perfumes, it was far larger than he'd imagined - a cavernous hall made to seem smaller than it was by the sheer number of items cluttered within it.
There was a forest of racks and stacks, each one bulging with sheaves of parchment; and tall stands with curling hooks sprouting from their tops, draped with sailcloth, silken ropes and lengths of fine material embroidered with gold and silver. On the floor were the fur rugs and plump satin cushions Rook had seen earlier; on the walls were dark tapestries - while dangling from the ceiling, like a library of hanging scrolls, were countless yellowed squares of parchment suspended from ropes and motionless in the still air.
They must be sticky, Rook realized, for on both sides of every parchment, there were countless creatures fixed to the surface: woodmoths, oakbugs, bees and wasps; snickets and ratbirds in various stages of decay; the skeleton of a dwarf-rotsucker, its parchment skin stretched over bony wings … The traps, it seemed, caught every airborne intruder into Vox Verlix's chamber - though of the master himself, there was no trace.