by Paul Stewart
You hardly ever saw the Hall Master of High Cloud in the great Lecture Dome these days, thought Quint, leaning back against the padded cushions of the floating bench.
Beside him, Phin's head was drooping over a tattered barkscroll, which was covered with spots and smudges of black ink.
Poor old Phin. Quint smiled. He just didn't seem to be able to get the hang of cloudwatching at all.
‘I mean to say,’ he'd whisper to Quint – protesting as loudly as he dared, given the tell-tale acoustics of the egg-shaped hall. ‘If I'd wanted to stare at the sky all day long, I'd have stayed at the Academy of Wind. At least you could talk there!’
‘Sssshh!’ Quint would hiss in reply. ‘Someone will hear.’
That ‘someone’, they both knew, was Vilnix Pompolnius, hovering high above the others, a solitary figure on a floating bench all to himself. The other squires now shunned him completely, not only in the lecture hall, but also in the Eightways and the dormitory closets.
Not that the sour-faced young squire seemed to care. He was too busy sucking up to Hax Vostillix on those rare occasions when the hall master made an appearance in the lecture hall; or snooping about, eavesdropping on the conversations of the other squires when he wasn't. Indeed, many of them were so convinced that Vilnix was spying on them, searching for signs of earth-scholar sympathies, that they refused to say a single word in his presence. Quint wasn't as certain, but even he thought it best to watch what he said, just in case.
Every day, high professors from the Upper Halls came down to the domed hall to deliver lectures, and the squires’ heads were filled with new equations and fresh formulae, each one more complicated than the one before. Using the sectors and lines etched into the glass dome, they learned of ocular swirls, eddies and flows, drift measures and drizzle patterns. Then, with the long complicated lectures over, they would switch from theory to practice. The high professors would set them navigational problems – everything from mist-shift and billow-swell to graded transits and hover feints. Most afternoons, the only sound to be heard was a faint scratching, as the squires scribbled furiously on their barkscrolls.
There was no let-up. From dusk till dawn they laboured, and often late into the night – so that they might examine the effects of darkness on the increasingly turbulent cloud formations coming in from Open Sky.
Although Phin often grew bored and restive, beside him, Quint found himself swept up in the beauty and mystery of the sky. Some days, it was all he could do to drag himself away from the mesmerizing spectacle unfolding through the crystal panes of the great dome. Yet as he studied the cloud formations, day after day, nagging questions and uncertainties began to drift through his mind, as dark and ominous as the clouds above – until one afternoon, he could help himself no longer.
At the end of a long lecture on low cloud clusters given by High Professor Graydle Flax, Quint raised his hand.
‘Please, Professor Flax,’ he began. ‘There's something that's been bothering me … It's about the Great Storm …’
Around him, several of the squires suppressed nervous giggles, and Phin gasped. Questions were only permitted if a high professor specifically asked for them. Graydle Flax turned from adjusting the buoyant lectern's weights and stared at the squire, his mouth set in a tight, grim line.
‘The mist density of the anvil formations seems far too great,’ Quint said. ‘And, according to my calculations, there's insufficient drift to denote the arrival of a Great Storm. I mean, I know I'm only a Lower Hall squire, but …’
‘But nothing, squire!’ a voice boomed across the lecture hall. ‘How dare you question the considered judgement of the Hall Master of High Cloud?’
The buoyant benches clattered and buffeted each other as the squires upon them turned to see Hax Vostillix standing on a flying-jetty at the entrance to the lecture hall. His face was drawn and tired, and the spider-silk robe was so creased it looked as though the hall master had slept in it.
‘Professor Flax,’ he barked, outraged, ‘what kind of lecture are you running here, where squires are allowed to shout out whatever comes into their heads?’
He swept along the jetty and, brushing the high professor aside, stepped onto the buoyant lectern, which rose back into the air.
‘Now, who amongst you can correct this impudent youth?’ he demanded, and glared round at the squires in front of him.
‘Please, Hall Master Vostillix, sir,’ Vilnix's thin, ingratiating voice sounded from behind Quint's back. ‘As you've already made clear, the increase of sourmist particles in the air shows the build-up of a Great Storm beyond any doubt. And the anvil formations – despite the masking effects of snow and ice – herald its imminent arrival, Sky be praised!’ His eyes narrowed. ‘To believe otherwise is earth-scholar talk!’
His voice sank to a low hiss as he uttered the words ‘earth-scholar talk’, and Quint flinched as he heard them, wishing he hadn't spoken out. The former hall masters weren't the only ones who needed to watch their step in this new charged atmosphere.
‘Excellent, young Pompolnius! Excellent!’ Hax enthused, ‘a Great Storm is imminent!’ Yet as he spoke, the anxious, fretful look on his face showed that even he was having doubts. ‘Squires, dismissed!’ he barked. ‘And you, Quintinius Verginix …’ Hax fixed Quint with an icy stare. ‘The high professors tell me you are clever.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Far too clever, I trust, to be taken in by earth-scholar lies …’
‘N … n … no, sir,’ stammered Quint. ‘I … I mean, yes, sir …’
‘Just watch what you say in future!’ The hall master yanked the lectern round and descended to the jetty, then stormed out.
Quint was just about to return to his studies, when he caught Professor Flax's eye. There was a faint smile playing on the high professor's thin lips and, before Quint could look away, he winked at him. Clearly Quint wasn't the only one with doubts about the Great Storm.
*
High in his tower in the Knights Academy, Screedius Tollinix rose, crossed to the window and threw it open. Outside, dark clouds in anvil formations billowed across the sky, but at least the blizzard of the past three weeks seemed to have abated.
His green eyes scanned the sky, noting every detail. His nostrils flared. There was definitely sourmist in the air, and stronger than ever. Yet, something wasn't right. Was it the cloud density, or the lack of cloud drift? He shook his head. Even though he couldn't put his finger on it, something was causing the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Screedius wished he could talk to his friend, Philius Embertine, the old knight academic. He would know what this baffling weather meant … But that was impossible. Philius was delirious in his quarters in the Hall of White Cloud, calling out to his long-dead prowlgrin and reliving his famous stormchasing voyages over and over in his poor, fevered imagination.
No, Screedius had to trust in Hax Vostillix whether he liked it or not. Hax claimed that a Great Storm was imminent and every fibre of the knight academic's being wanted to believe he was right.
He turned away from the window and began the long slow task of buckling himself into his armour, the same ritual that he repeated every day. First the underquilting, then the inner pipework – tightening valves, securing joints. Now the leg-armour, joints greased, clips checked; then the arms – elbow guards, shoulder arches. Next the great breast-plate and backplate, smooth and polished, bedecked in outer pipework and glass-capped gauges. And finally the heavy helmet, lifted into place and firmly secured.
As he lowered the visor, Screedius could hear the sound of his own breath roaring in his ears. And, seen through the eye-plates of twilight-refracting crystal, the world outside turned the colour of golden wood-honey.
He was ready now to descend the three hundred and seventy-two steps of the tower and climb into the saddle of Vanquix, oiled, groomed and waiting for him in the Inner Courtyard. Then it was a short gallop to the Great Hall at the far end of the Central Viaduct, where he would wait for the
bell to toll.
Three weeks had passed since the twin Most High Academes had knighted him with the great curved ceremonial sword. A tap on each shoulder and suddenly he was a knight academic-in-waiting no longer, but instead, a fully-fledged knight academic!
Yet the waiting went on. Hour after hour, day after day. For three long weeks he'd dressed in his armour and waited at one end of the viaduct, while his stormchaser – the Windcutter – waited for him at the other. And still the Great Storm had not come.
Arriving at the Great Hall and urging Vanquix inside, Screedius raised his visor and permitted himself another look at the sky. He checked the drift and swirl of the towering anvil clouds. Perhaps today would be the day …
‘I'm ready,’ he whispered to the sky, his breath a long, wispy plume of mist, ‘whenever you are.’
Out of nowhere, there came a sound, the like of which no-one in the great floating city of Sanctaphrax had heard before – but one that none would ever forget.
It began as a low rumble, more a vibration in the freezing air than an actual noise. The ink-pots and bone-handled quills rattled across the desk-tops of the floating benches, causing the squires to reach out and grab them, before they fell and smashed on the curved walls below.
Then, as the sky rapidly darkened, the rumble turned into a roar. It was coming from above them, out of the depths of Open Sky. Louder it grew, and louder, clattering round the egg-shaped lecture hall like an invisible caged beast.
Quint trembled and clapped his hands to his ears.
Rising in pitch now, shifting from a roar to a shriek to a piercing wail, it sounded as if a thousand sky spirits were laying siege to the towers of Sanctaphrax, which bent and quivered before them. And as the rasping, screeching sky-howl climbed to its terrible crescendo, so the ground trembled, the buildings shook, and in every college and school of the frozen city academics fell to their knees and called for the Sky to protect them …
And then - just as Quint thought he could bear it no longer - something happened. Almost as suddenly as it had arisen, the sound simply died away and the bruised air was left throbbing with silence.
Hax Vostillix burst into the great lecture hall, wild-eyed and dishevelled, and stabbed a finger towards the dome. Quint looked up, and saw a huge anvil-shaped cloud billowing across the sky, churning and curdling everything around it.
The Great Storm!’ the Hall Master of High Cloud cried out in triumph, and let out an unhinged cackle. ‘It has come! Sky be praised!’
At the same moment, echoing through the hallway, came the sound of a distant bell tolling.
‘It's the Great Hall bell!’ someone exclaimed.
‘They're ringing the Great Hall bell!’
All at once, the Knights Academy exploded in a flurry of frantic activity. Doors slammed, voices were raised, and from every corner there came the tramp of running feet as the professors and squires, the gatekeepers, academics-at-arms and hall-servants alike all dashed down stairs and along corridors. Cloaks and capes were grabbed, caps with furry ear-flaps were pulled down over heads, snow-goggles were put into place. And as the vast multitude surged towards the magnificent double doors, which burst open with a loud crash, the tolling bell grew louder still.
Swept along with the rest were Quint and Phin, hurriedly wrapping scarves around their necks and tucking in their quilted vests.
‘What's wrong, Quint?’ Phin asked above the babble of voices. ‘The Great Storm has arrived. Aren't you excited?’
The next moment they burst out from the end of the corridor, like a cork from a bottle of shaken winesap, into the windlashed, snow-covered cityscape beyond. The colour was extraordinary – a malevolent ochre-tinged wash tainting the thick snow; and there was a curious odour to the air. Sour, burnt, almost like toasted almonds.
‘It's just that … The stormcloud …’ Quint began, struggling to keep up with Phin as he peered up at the swirling sky above. ‘There's something not quite right …’
Impelled along the snow-filled streets, their booted feet crunching in the frozen snow, Quint and Phin continued on to the foot of the Viaduct Steps. From every corner of Sanctaphrax, hundreds and thousands of others joined the throng, streaming from the buildings on all sides and converging.
Past the East Landing they went, the creak of the turning treadmill filling the air as the prowlgrins and giant fromps inside it tramped on and on, endlessly raising and lowering the log burner suspended below. Into the bottleneck between the Minor Academies and the Loftus Observatory – grunting with effort as they forced themselves through – and on towards the great squares which afforded the best views of the magnificent viaduct.
‘Over here, Quint, old chap!’ came a voice.
Quint glanced round to see Raffix, his head swathed in a tilderskin hat with thick ear-muffs, standing on a raised plinth waving his arms.
He and Phin struggled towards him, their elbows gouging a route through the dense, surging crowd. As they got closer, Raffix leaned towards them with an arm outstretched and, one after the other, pulled them up on the plinth beside him. As Quint squeezed in beside Phin, he turned – and gasped. For there, high up in the air, secured to the side of the Loftus Observatory was a sky ship.
A stormchaser!
‘What do you think of her?’ said Raffix.
‘She's magnificent,’ said Quint, awestruck by the beauty of the sleek vessel.
‘She's called the Windcutter,’ Raffix went on, and smiled wryly as the icy wind plucked at the ear-flaps on his hat. ‘A fine name for a stormchaser! And here comes her master!’
Just then, from the other end of the Central Viaduct there came a fanfare of tilderhorns. A moment later, high up, just beneath the towering glass dome, the balcony doors flew open. And there, resplendent in shining armour, sat Screedius Tollinix, knight academic, astride his black prowlgrin, Vanquix.
At the sight of the knight and his prowlgrin, the entire crowd erupted with whoops and cheers, which grew louder and more frenzied as the pair of them made their way slowly along the top of the viaduct. They looked so magnificent that, for the moment, Quint forgot his misgivings about the huge cloud that was fast approaching.
With Vanquix and Screedius more than halfway across the viaduct, the sky was looking more threatening than ever. The wind had grown stronger too and, as the crowd stared up at the valiant knight and his prowlgrin mount, so thick feathery flakes of snow began to tumble down out of the sky.
Screedius approached the sky ship, tethered at the far end of the viaduct. He was met by the excited figure of Hax Vostillix, whose white beard was flapping wildly in the wind.
‘The Great Storm is approaching!’ he screamed as the sky blackened overhead.
Screedius raised his visor and turned his green eyes upwards. The anvil-shaped stormcloud was moving swiftly, and the suggestion of a swirl was beginning to spin it. But its formation was dense, and no tendrils of lightning flickered in its depths. Instead, the eddies of snow seemed to be getting thicker.
‘What are you waiting for?’ screamed Hax, almost beside himself with anxiety and excitement. ‘It is a Great Storm. You must not let it get away!’
Screedius turned his intense gaze on the Hall Master of High Cloud and spoke, his low voice almost lost in the swirling snow-filled wind.
‘I shall not fail.’
With those words, Screedius tugged at his reins and Vanquix leaped from the viaduct and landed on the deck of the sky ship. The crowd, shielding their eyes from the falling snow, cried out in jubilation. And their cries grew more excited still as Screedius dismounted and began raising the sails, one by one. First the mainsail, then the sky- and studsails – each one flapping and billowing as the wind caught it. Finally, the loudest cry of all went up as Screedius loosed the tolley-rope and, with a sudden lurch, the Windcutter soared up into the turbulent air.
‘Skyspeed!’
‘Return safely!’
‘Sky protect you!’
The words of encouragem
ent and well-being were whipped away on the lashing wind, and it is doubtful whether Screedius Tollinix heard anything as he struggled to control the sky ship. Battling with the billowing sails while at the same time trying to maintain control of the dangerously buoyant flight-rock, he circled the Loftus Observatory, before setting off into the heart of the storm as it passed overhead and sped on over Undertown and on towards the Mire.
Quint felt his heart racing as he watched the sky ship grow tiny in the raging maelstrom. It looked so fragile, so flimsy. The sails flapped, the flight-rock burners flared on and off and, in the crowd all round him, there were murmured prayers and benedictions, with the more suspicious of those in the crowd fingering the charms and amulets which hung around their necks.
For a second the Windcutter could be seen clearly, sideways on against the mass of turbulent cloud. The next, it disappeared inside. All eyes in the crowd stared unblinking at the spot where the sky ship had entered the storm, but there was nothing more to see as the Great Storm continued inexorably towards the Twilight Woods, with the knight academic and his faithful prowlgrin at its centre.
‘Sky protect you, Screedius Tollinix,’ Quint murmured. ‘Sky protect you.’
•CHAPTER THIRTEEN•
THE BARKSCROLL
LETTER
Are you all right, Quint, old chap?’ called Raffix. He was looking up at his friend from the base of the plinth, a puzzled expression on his red, wind-lashed face.
Already, the crowds on the Viaduct Steps were thinning out as the academics, servants and all the other onlookers hurried back to the warmth and shelter of their schools and academies.
‘I hate to interrupt your daydreaming,’ Raffix persisted, ‘but it's getting rather chilly out here. Or hadn't you noticed?’
Quint turned, realizing with a jolt that Raffix was right. While he had been standing there, staring out at the distant horizon, a fresh blizzard had blown in from Open Sky and the icy air was once again thick with snow.