by Paul Stewart
It had been a masterly plan. Vox's plans always were. Yet it was he, Amberfuce - negotiator, manipulator, deal-breaker - who, as always, had been charged with putting it into effect.
The smile on the ghostwaif's pale face broadened. He had been clever; very clever. He had persuaded the most important leaguesmen of Undertown to use their few remaining ships to carry one last cargo of Deepwoods timber into the city. Then, when the tower's construction had consumed the last of this, he had organized gangs of Undertowners to tear down entire districts to furnish the rest. And of course, while acting for Vox, Amberfuce had been careful to skim off fees and commissions for himself. The work had almost bankrupted the academics, but the Tower of Night had been completed.
From the ante-chamber, there came the sound of liquids being poured and the clinking of a spoon stirring. Amberfuce opened his eyes and glanced round hopefully - but there was no sign of Flambusia, with or without the herb tea. Ahead of him was the window, with the fuzzy outline of the tall, imposing tower seeming almost to mock him from behind the billowing lace curtain.
‘Ah, me, the Tower of Night,’ he murmured ruefully. Our first great masterpiece.’ His voice was soft and rasping. ‘How did it go so wrong?’
Looking back at it, of course, it was perfectly obvious. The earth-scholars had hated the tower from the start, and the Knights Academy had split into sky and earth factions. Once the library had been established, those knights sympathetic to the ideals of the earth-scholars had joined them. Together, they became known as the librarians. They had been opposed by the sky-scholars, who had gathered under the leadership of a wall-eyed, pasty-faced individual by the name of Orbix Xaxis. They had called themelves the Guardians of Night.
Librarians and Guardians; the two sides had prepared themselves for a showdown.
Amberfuce chuckled. He'd never heard such a hubbub¡ Such dark thoughts and high emotion¡ He'd told Vox to side with the Guardians - and had taken a nice fee from Orbix into the bargain.
What a night that had been¡ thought Amberfuce, sitting back in his buoyant chair. The Night of the Gloatn-glozers.
In their new black uniforms, emblazoned with the screeching evil creatures, the Guardians had launched their attack. All those openly loyal to Cowlquape had been swept from power, many paying with their lives -while the Most High Academe himself had disappeared.
Vox, Amberfuce remembered, had declared himself the new Most High Academe, and made him -Amberfuce - his chancellor. It made him tremble just to think of it. A small ghostwaif from the Deepwoods, High Chancellor of New Sanctaphrax and Undertown¡
Where was his herb tea? he wondered, looking back towards the ante-chamber and strumming his fingers impatiently on the arms of the buoyant chair. What was taking Flambusia so long?
Of course it hadn't lasted. The Guardians had seen to that.
‘Accursed ingrates!’ Amberfuce wheezed bitterly.
He should have seen it coming, of course. He should have read Orbix Xaxis's dark thoughts more carefully but, drunk on power, he'd become negligent. It was more by luck than judgement that, on that fateful night when Orbix had made his move and sent Guardians to throw Vox and his chancellor from the high gantry to their deaths, he had been alert…
Orbix had wanted the tower all for himself and had planned to slaughter the increasingly obstructive librarians, always carping and complaining, and blocking his plans. It had been Amberfuce who, sensing that they might yet prove of use, had sent the librarians word, just in time - and together they had all fled to Undertown.
Vox and Amberfuce had taken refuge in the Palace of Statues which, with the collapse of the great merchant leagues, had been abandoned and was lying empty. That was when Amberfuce had first moved into his precious little chamber …
The waif sighed wearily. Where had all the years gone?
At first, the pair of them had prospered in the Palace of Statues. Vox, the new Most High Academe, had been accepted by the Undertowners and, with his chancellor Amberfuce in charge of trade and taxes, the gold had soon been flowing in. The Guardians of Night had kept themselves to themselves, holed up in the Tower of Night and waiting for their blessed storm. A queasy equilibrium seemed to have been established.
But Amberfuce had known that it couldn't last, for Undertown was all but cut off from the Deepwoods. Dealings with the sky pirates had continued for a while longer, but soon - as their sky ships also fell prey to the relentlessly advancing stone-sickness - business in Undertown had ground to a halt. Panic-buying turned to looting. Mobs had taken to the streets. The economy had been on the verge of total collapse …
With noon approaching and the sun high in the sky, the motes of dust in the chamber fluttered like particles of gold in the shafts of light streaming in from outside. Amberfuce felt a tickle in his throat and put his handkerchief to his mouth to filter out the dust, cursing Flambusia for being such a poor housekeeper. The whole chamber needed a good clean. Time was when he would have done it himself - removing every medicine bottle and tincture pot and dusting them with fastidious care. But not now …
Amberfuce sighed, and closed his eyes to the neglected room. Vox¡ he thought. What an incredible talent for invention he had possessed¡
He recalled Vox's face when he'd come to him late one night, his hair all sticking up, and his eyes burning with excitement. He'd pulled a roll of parchment from a tube and flattened it out on Amberfuce's desk, to reveal the blueprint for a long complicated construction, mounted upon stilts.
It's a kind of bridge. It'll extend all the way from the Deepwoods to Undertown. I'm going to called it the Great Mire Road, Vox had explained, his hands flapping about animatedly. ‘Just think of it, Amberfuce. It will be Undertown's connection with the riches of the Deep-woods. I've already enlisted the help of the librarians. They're only too delighted to restore our links with the Deepwoods. We'll need their expertise with wood - you know what they're like; they know everything, from which acorn sprouts in summer, to which part of the ironwood log is strongest…’
‘I hate to pour cold water on this brilliant scheme of yours,’ Amberfuce had replied. It's all well and good building a bridge across the Mire, but how do you propose to get through the Twilight Woods?’
‘The shrykes!’ Vox had exclaimed, his eyes blazing. ‘We'll do a deal with the shrykes¡ They're immune to the effects of the Twilight Woods. They can build a road through them to connect with our bridge¡ And then, Amberfuce, the riches of the Deepwoods will be in our hands.’
‘And in the claws of the shrykes,’ Amberfuce had added darkly.
‘You can do a deal, Amberfuce,’ Vox had replied. ‘If anyone can, you can.’
Vox was right. Amberfuce had done a deal with the leathery, golden-eyed old bird, Mother Feathergizzard. As roost-mother of the vast nomadic shryke flock, she had agreed - admittedly, for a high price - to construct the Great Mire Road through the Twilight Woods. Thereafter, in return, she would be allowed to tax that part of the road.
Everything had gone perfectly, Amberfuce remembered. The Twilight Woods stretch of the new road had been finished within six months, enabling fresh timber to be brought in from the Deepwoods so that the librarians and Under-towners could work on the longer section which crossed the Mire. It had taken three years to complete. Mother Feathergizzard had taken her tax - both in gold and in kind - and Amberfuce, as ever, had skimmed his own fee off the top.
‘Ah, happy days, he sighed, his voice muffled by the handkerchief. ‘Happy days.’
It was only when the final section of the road had been put into place, joining the easternmost point of the road to the westernmost end of Undertown, that Vox had discovered just how high a price he had had to pay for the shrykes’ help. The first wagons had just begun to roll when a shryke army had swarmed down the road and seized the whole Great Mire Road for themselves.
Still, it could have been worse, Amberfuce conceded. The shrykes had taken control of the road to the Deepwoods, it was true, but at least h
e and Vox had still had the citizens of Undertown to squeeze for taxes. And squeeze they had. Amberfuce had become richer than ever, forcing the dealers and merchants to pay duty on the Deepwoods’ materials the moment they entered Undertown; then again before they could take their merchandise - fine cloth, tools and weaponry - from the workshops of Undertown back out of the city By the time they had paid off the shrykes as well, there had been barely any profit left. No wonder they had always been complaining.
Amberfuce had listened to the mutterings, the threats and curses. The mood had grown ugly. There had been talk of rebellion; of revolution; of the Undertowners rising up and overthrowing Vox. And at the head of this mob - inciting an uprising and sowing the seeds of discontent - had been the librarians, Sky curse them¡
Amberfuce's brow furrowed. The librarians had been useful in building the Mire Road certainly, but afterwards they had begun getting above themselves. What was more, still believing in all the nonsense Cowlquape had preached about Undertowners and academics being equal, they had proved themselves to be as dangerous as they were foolish. They had had to be stopped.
Amberfuce gazed from the window at the Tower of Night on the crumbling rock, propped up by the scaffolding of the Sanctaphrax Forest.
It had been a good bargain. Even now, he still believed that. Amberfuce had overheard talk of a great meeting being held at the Chantry Palace; the grand riverside building the librarians had made their headquarters. The leading Undertown merchants would be there, as well as the entire librarian faculty. It was too good an opportunity to miss. The traitorous vermin could be destroyed in one fell swoop … But they would need an army of ruthless killers to carry out the deed.
Amberfuce turned away from the window. Orbix Xaxis and the Guardians of Night, he muttered. Yes, it had been a good bargain. He'd convinced Vox of that.
‘The sacred rock is sinking, he remembered his master saying at that fateful meeting between him and his enemy, Orbix Xaxis. ‘But I can stop it before it touches the earth. Just think of it, Orbix, Vox had said. ‘The thing you fear most; the sacred rock touching the ground - and I'm offering to prevent that.’
‘How?’ the voice had rasped from behind the metal muzzle.
‘By designing a great cradle of wood - the Sanctaphrax Forest - to hold the sacred rock in place. You know I can do it, Orbix … If I so choose.’
‘And if you build such a thing, what price would I have to pay?’ Orbix had growled.
‘Oh, you'll enjoy this, Vox had chuckled, his three chins wobbling - for he had been growing fat even back then, Amberfuce remembered. ‘All you have to do is slaughter the whole librarian faculty and their cronies, the merchants. I trust you can handle that, Xaxis, my dear fellow.’
Amberfuce shivered. Xaxis had handled that. His Guardians had surrounded the palace where the librarians had been holed up three nights later, and there had been a mighty slaughter. The streets around the great building had run red with librarian blood, and yet…
There always seemed to be an and yet, Amberfuce thought bitterly.
And yet, some librarians had managed to fight their way out and had disappeared down into the sewers, where they had remained, like piebald rats, to this very day.
‘Sky bless the librarians, smiled Amberfuce; for even now, they had their uses …
‘Soon be with you, sweet'ums, Flambusia called from the ante-chamber. ‘The pot's just coming to the boil.’
Amberfuce coughed weakly. Herb tea was just what he needed to soothe his parched throat. He looked around. Now, did he have everything he needed? It would be a long journey … Yes, it was all here. Flambusia could sweep all his medicines into that great bag of hers in two seconds. Dear, sweet Flambusia. Of course, she must come with him. He couldn't possibly leave her behind. Oh, no¡ Though there were plenty of others he would be glad to see the back of…
General Tytugg for one.
Amberfuce remembered his first meeting with the wily old hammerhead thug. He'd been introduced by Amberfuce's business partner, Hemuel Spume of the Foundry Glade. Hemuel looked after the Deepwoods side of Amberfuce's operation - and highly profitable it had become, too.
‘Meet Tytugg,’ Spume had smiled. ‘He's visiting Undertown from the Goblin Nations, and I think he might be just what you're looking for.’
Amberfuce had looked at Tytugg's battle-scarred face, ears ragged with sword cuts; tattooed arms and dented armour. He'd been impressed.
Needless to say, getting rid of the librarians hadn't been quite the answer to their problems that Amberfuce had hoped. In fact, even without the librarians’ influence, the population of Undertown had proven maddeningly unco-operative - and the Guardians had been demanding that work on the Sanctaphrax Forest begin at once. There had been walkouts and pay-demands and a downing of tools. It had all been bad for business.
Of course, Vox hadn't seemed to notice. He had been working on his drawings and blueprints, absurdly happy to have another great project underway. No, it had been down to Amberfuce, as usual, to make Vox's plans a reality. There had been only one thing for it…
A small tingle ran down the waif's puny back. ‘Slavery,’ he whispered.
Since the Undertowners hadn't been prepared to work voluntarily, they had to be made to work. They'd had it too easy for too long. Amberfuce had decided to turn them into slaves. To do that, though, he had needed slave-drivers; an army of slave-drivers.
‘I have an army, Tytugg had said, ‘out in the Goblin Nations. And none of your rabble of tufteds and long-hairs either. These are trained hammerheads and battle-hardened flatheads. But I warn you, Mister High Chancellor, sir,’ he'd added darkly. ‘We don't come cheap.’
Oh, there'll be plenty of money for all of us,’ Amberfuce had laughed. ‘Just get your army to Undertown and I promise you healthy profits for your trouble.’
Over the next few weeks, hammerhead and flathead goblins had travelled down the Great Mire Road in twos and threes, disguised as tinkers and tailors, trappers and traders, and merchants of every description. The shrykes had never suspected a thing. The ghostwaif chancellor had been there to receive them all in Undertown, ticking off the numbers. Soon, there had been a great army of the goblins dispersed in every part of Undertown, laying low - until Amberfuce had given General Tytugg the signal to act.
The waif rocked in his chair, rubbing his long spidery hands together as he thought of it. The Week of Blood¡ Over the next seven days, every single Undertowner had been systematically rounded up. Those unable to work -the elderly, the infirm - had been slaughtered on the spot. The rest had been enslaved. They were to be forced to work on the Sanctaphrax Forest - but first, there had been mass graves to dig …
Amberfuce yawned. ‘Ends and means, he muttered, nibbling at a fingernail, more ragged than the rest. He smirked to himself. Vox had been happy with the way things had turned out. And he, Amberfuce, had made a mint¡
And yet…
There it was again. Amberfuce stopped his rocking and let his hands fall limply in his lap. If only Tytugg hadn't been so greedy. He should have detected that greed in the goblin general when they'd first met. It had spoiled everything. Instead of being happy sharing the profits from the sweatshops and foundries, and supplying the Sanctaphrax Forest workforce, General Tytugg had wanted it all.
He had simply cut Vox and Amberfuce out of the loop. Then he had maintained the Forest and run Undertown single-handed. There had been rumours - Amberfuce had heard them - that Tytugg had wanted Vox's chain of office so that he could declare himself Most High Academe.
The cheek of it¡ he thought indignantly. An uncouth hammerhead from the Goblin Nations, Most High Academe¡ It was absurd¡ But he also knew Tytugg wouldn't stop until Vox, and he, were dead. Amberfuce shook his head. Those two goblin assassins had come perilously close …
And so, it had come to this. Vox was a prisoner in the Palace of Statues with a handful of faithful servants to watch over him and a series of traps and murder-holes to keep the gobli
ns at bay. That might be all right for Hestera the poisoner, besotted with her master; and old Speegspeel, stupid but faithful - but not Amberfuce. He had a fortune salted away with Hemuel Spume in the Foundry Glade, and no way to get to it.
Vox was finished. Undertown was finished. It was high time he looked out for himself.
Just then, Flambusia bustled back into the room, a steaming glass of herb tea held in one hand, a plate of wafer-biscuits in the other. She placed them both down on a tall, slender table and pulled Amberfuce's buoyant chair over beside it.
‘There, she said. ‘Herb tea and a little treat. But first you've got to be good and take your special medicine, She pulled a small glass bottle from her apron, un-stoppered the cork and poured out a spoonful of dark red liquid. Then, having returned the bottle to the apron-pocket, she stepped towards him. ‘Open wide!’ she chirped.
I don't think so, Flambusia. Amberfuce's icy thought entered the nurse's head. I need to keep my thoughts clear. So, no special medicine, not today. Understand?
‘Ambey, dear, the nurse protested. ‘Stop it, you know I don't like it when you
Understand, Flambusia? The waif's eyes narrowed and the barbels at the corners of his thin mouth quivered. Clear away the clutter. Empty your mind … completely …
Flambusia dropped the spoon and sank to her knees with a whimper.
Give me the medicine. The waif's thought numbed the inside of Flambusia Flodfox's head. She held out the bottle and a thin, spidery hand took it. Now pack up the rest of my bottles - carefully, mind. Then take me to Speegspeel. I have one last little errand for him. He looked at the medicine bottle in his hand and laughed, darkly.
The nurse's huge head nodded dumbly.
‘Excellent,’ Amberfuce said, smiling. ‘And Flambusia, my sweet…’ The nurse hesitated, her eyes blank and stony. ‘Do hurry, for time is short.’
• CHAPTER FIFTEEN •