by Paul Stewart
The contrast between Gart in his weather-stained longcoat and Thorne in his old grey militia jacket, and the elegantly dressed Tillman Spoke, was marked. Cade saw Tillman catch sight of the fisher goblin’s jacket and stiffen, before holding out his hand.
‘We fought on opposite sides in the war,’ he told the goblin. ‘I served in the Free Glade Lancers – but I’m now proud to call Hive my home.’
‘This is Tillman Spoke,’ Cade broke in. ‘He breeds prowlgrins. I worked for him on the skytavern. Rumblix picked up the scent and led me here.’
Thorne and Gart exchanged glances. They both remembered the story they’d been told of Cade’s mixed fortunes on board the Xanth Filatine.
Thorne’s face clouded over. ‘So, Rumblix is yours,’ he said.
Tillman Spoke laughed. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Rumblix has only one master – the first person he saw and imprinted on when he hatched. And that’s Cade Quarter, here.’ He clapped his hand on Cade’s shoulder. ‘But, Cade,’ he said, ‘you haven’t told me what brings you to Hive.’
Cade was about to explain about the mire-pearlers and the threat to Farrow Lake when a look from Thorne stopped him. By his guarded expression, it was obvious that his friend was suspicious of this elegant fourthling from Great Glade.
‘Cade is here to ride Rumblix in the next high-jump,’ Thorne answered for him.
‘By Earth and Sky, another coincidence!’ exclaimed Tillman Spoke. ‘Whisp here is entering the next high-jump too!’
· CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN ·
CADE CROSSED THE courtyard, his feet sinking deep into the straw that covered the cobblestones, and made his way round the strange contraption in the middle of the small square.
Three large wagon wheels were mounted horizontally on vertical axles above a high-sided metal tank of water. Overhead, a pipe snaked up from the tank, ending in a broad downward-pointing nozzle, like the seedhead of a drooping glade-plant. As Cade passed, droplets of water fell from the nozzle and plinked on the spokes of the wheels, before dripping down onto the surface of the water in the tank below.
Cade reached the zigzag stairs at the back of the roost-house and climbed them to the top walkway, which bounced slightly beneath his feet as he walked along it. And when he went through the doorway at the far end, the smell of prowlgrins – that distinctive mixture of wet fur and meaty breath – enveloped him.
He’d spent the previous night as Tillman Spoke’s guest. Thorne had returned to the Winesap Inn, where his old comrade had provided him with rooms, while Gart Ironside had preferred to sleep in his hammock on board the Hoverworm docked at the Low Town platform. They’d all agreed to meet up at noon the next day at the eastern end of the Sumpwood Bridge. Whisp, the head groom, had settled Rumblix on a perch in the roost-house and then made herself scarce, leaving Cade to have supper with Tillman in his small house on the far side of the courtyard.
They had dined on Hive Pie – a dish of glimmer-onions and diced riverfish, followed by rich, crumbly tilder cheese with small hard-baked biscuits – and had talked late into the night. Cade told Tillman about his simple life in the small lakeside cabin, about meeting Tug and raising Rumblix, and his prowlgrin rides with Celestia in the Western Woods – but was careful not to mention the mire-pearlers.
‘He seems a decent sort, your prowlgrin breeder,’ Thorne had said quietly before leaving. ‘But I’d rather our business was known to as few folk as possible, Cade.’
For his part, Tillman had told Cade about settling into the stables, just in time for the hatching of his prowlgrins; then running into Whisp, when he was about to despair of ever finding a groom who could match his high standards.
‘Her father bred prowlgrins for the Grossmothers up in the stables of the Gyle Palace in the old days, back before the war,’ Tillman had said, cutting himself a sliver of the pungent tilder cheese. ‘But after the Glorious Revolution of theirs, he lost his job and ended his days as a sap-trader here in Low Town. But he taught Whisp well,’ he said. ‘Her real name is Feldia, but my gyle-goblin grooms gave her the nickname, and it stuck.’
‘Why Whisp?’ Cade had asked, trying to stifle a yawn.
Tillman had smiled. ‘I’ll leave you to find that out for yourself.’
Cade looked around at the rows of sleepy-looking prowlgrins on their roost-perches. It was early, and they were still waking up, but already three small goblins with enormous noses and heavy-lidded eyes were hard at work.
These must be the gyle-goblin grooms that Tillman had spoken of the night before, he thought.
To his right, one of the grooms was down on his knees, the empty buckets behind him. Next to him was a basket, its assortment of contents – rags, brushes, currycombs, files, tweezers – spilling out onto the boards. And crouched in front of him was a grey prowlgrin, eyes closed and purring throatily as the goblin massaged one of its feet with what looked to Cade like hammelhorn grease.
As Cade approached, the goblin looked up. He didn’t look pleased to see him.
‘Emblix,’ said Cade, for want of anything better to say. He nodded to the plaque on the prowlgrin’s trough.
‘Ay, Emblix, sir,’ said the goblin, returning his attention to the prowlgrin foot clamped between his knees.
‘A pedigree grey,’ said Cade.
‘Ay, a pedigree grey, sir.’
Cade couldn’t tell whether the grey goblin was being surly or was nervous in his presence.
‘My name’s Cade,’ he said.
The goblin paused, then looked up again. He was frowning, and for a moment Cade thought he was going to ask him to go away. But then he nodded.
‘I’m Glitch,’ he said.
‘Good to meet you, Glitch,’ said Cade. ‘I . . . I’m a friend of Tillman Spoke’s. That is . . . well, I used to work for him. Like you.’ He laughed. ‘The last time I saw Emblix here, he was an egg lying in a tray on a bed of ice. So he wouldn’t hatch too soon,’ he added.
‘She,’ said Glitch.
‘She,’ Cade repeated. He paused, then crouched down next to the goblin. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘that grease there. There’s a minty smell I can’t . . .’
‘Burberry oil,’ said Glitch.
‘I see,’ said Cade. Conversation with the goblin was not proving easy, and he was about to cut his losses and leave, when Glitch turned to him.
‘It strengthens the skin, but doesn’t reduce the sensitivity,’ he said. ‘Important for a racing prowlgrin, that. Strong toes to grip, but sensitive toe-tips to sense slipperiness – which is what you need on a high-jumping gallop down the falls.’
‘The idea is to gallop down the falls as fast as you can, isn’t it?’ said Cade, encouraged by the fact that the gyle goblin had opened up – if only a little.
‘Ay,’ said Glitch. ‘Down the banks of the gorge, from ledge to ledge, against the minute-glass.’
‘I haven’t seen the course yet,’ said Cade. ‘But from what Tillman told me, it’s pretty spectacular.’ He frowned. ‘The prowlgrins go one at a time, is that right?’
‘Ay, one at a time,’ Glitch said patiently, ‘crisscrossing from bank to bank. And then, when everyone has raced, the two fastest go head to head in the grand race-off.’ The gyle goblin switched to the prowlgrin’s other foot. ‘Now that’s quite a sight to see, I can tell you, and a real test of rider and prowlgrin’s skill.’
‘Is it dangerous?’ Cade couldn’t stop himself from asking.
‘Oh, very dangerous,’ the goblin nodded without looking up. ‘Tumbles, broken heads, drownings . . . But the rewards are high, especially for a prowlgrin breeder like Mister Spoke. At least, that’s what we’re all hoping.’
Tillman Spoke had been so excited back on board the Xanth Filatine when he’d talked about setting up his very own prowlgrin stables in Hive, Cade remembered. ‘A new life’, he’d called it.
‘All hopes are resting on Whisp and the old white,’ Glitch was saying. ‘They’re rank outsiders, but if they win the next high-jump, the Hive Milit
ia have pledged to buy all forty pedigree greys we’ve been training. As their roost-marshal said . . .’ Glitch put down the oil and turned to Cade, his eyes wide with excitement. ‘If the Spoke Stables can win the high-jump with an old gyle mount, then the Hive Militia can trust the quality of our training. Mister Spoke’s fortune will be made . . .’
The goblin’s face fell.
‘Of course, if Whisp and the old white fail, then he’ll have to shut the stables. He’s down to his last hiver – not that you’d know it to look at him.’
Just then, from outside, Cade heard a metallic clinking and hissing. Cade climbed to his feet – only for the goblin groom to seize him by the ankle.
‘You won’t say nothing, will you, Cade, sir,’ he whispered. ‘If word spreads that he’s broke, Mister Spoke’s creditors will be round here taking anything they can grab.’
‘I won’t say a thing,’ Cade assured him.
Cade stepped out of the roost-house onto the walkway and looked down. His gaze fell upon the huge wooden contraption that stood at the centre of the straw-covered courtyard. The white prowlgrin was standing on one of the horizontal wagon wheels, with Whisp sitting in the saddle on his back.
She was wearing tight white breeches and a scarlet satin shirt that shimmered in the early-morning sun. On her head, secured under her chin by a black leather strap, was a helmet of burnished copperwood, with a crest of white feathers.
As Cade watched, she reached up and pulled the cord that dangled from the pipe overhead. A cascade of water poured down from the wide nozzle and the wheel at the prowlgrin’s feet began to turn. Whisp took hold of the reins. Cade noticed how she looped them round her thumbs, then leaned forward and, her lips moving, whispered to the white prowlgrin.
The wheel began to move faster, the spokes becoming a blur as the prowlgrin broke into a gallop and leaped over them. With water showering down all round them, prowlgrin and rider jumped across to the second wheel, which moved even more quickly, and then to the third. Almost standing in the stirrups, her legs clamped to the white prowlgrin’s flanks, Whisp was leaning forwards, her chin resting on the top of his head, whispering as she did so.
Faster and faster the two of them went as the wheels whirred. And all the while, the torrent of water poured down around them, creating a halo of spray in the morning light as the prowlgrin galloped over the spinning spokes of the wheels.
Cade smiled to himself. He understood the nickname the grooms had given her now.
‘Whisp,’ he murmured. ‘Short for whisperer.’
· CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT ·
WHAT WAS HAPPENING back at Farrow Lake? Cade wondered, and not for the first time. An emptiness churned in the pit of his stomach.
Above the whirr and clatter of the prowlgrin practice-wheels, and the splish-splash of the cascading water, Cade heard his name being shouted. Leaning over the walkway balustrade, he saw Tillman Spoke in the courtyard in front of the stables. He was sitting at the front of a wheelless open carriage constructed of buoyant sumpwood and pulled by a russet-coloured prowlgrin in harness.
‘I’ve got business to attend to in the Bridge district if you’d like a lift,’ the prowlgrin breeder called up.
‘I’ll be right with you,’ Cade called back.
He stepped into the stirrup, released the pulley rope and descended to the ground past purring prowl-grins, full from their morning feed and awaiting the attention of the grooms.
Tillman shifted along to make room as Cade climbed up onto the wooden bench of the floating carriage, then twitched thereins. The prowlgrin trotted forward. They left the stables and joined the other traffic – more prowlgrin-drawn carriages made of expensive sumpwood, and heavy ironwood wagons with metal-rimmed wheels, pulled by teams of yoked hammelhorns. The wagons were laden with sacks of vegetables, cords of wood and barrels of ale; the ornate floating carriages were driven by uniformed mobgnomes, elegant fourthling matrons peeking out through the curtained windows behind them.
Tillman expertly steered the little carriage through the narrow streets of Low Town, while overhead, funnelled phraxvessels crisscrossed the sky, leaving a latticework of steam trails.
Behind Cade, two large barrels clinked emptily in the open carriage as it weaved in and out of the traffic. He glanced round, to see the words Bartlett Rind & Nephew – Purveyors of Finest Prowlgrin Offal painted on the side of both barrels in a slanting red script. Tillman noticed him looking.
‘Only the best for my pedigree greys. Costly,’ he added with a frown, then smiled, ‘but I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
With his expensive clothes and sumpwood carriage, if Tillman Spoke did have money troubles, thought Cade, he showed no sign of it.
‘How are the stables doing?’ he asked. ‘The prowlgrins look magnificent.’
‘Fine, fine,’ said Tillman, pulling on the reins and taking them down a broad street teeming with traffic. ‘Over there’s the Low Town Meeting Hall,’ he said, neatly changing the subject as he pointed across to a squat bell-roofed building with a Hive flag – a white H on a green background – fluttering at its top. ‘Since the Glorious Revolution, each Hive district has its own individual council.’
Cade remembered the toast that had reverberated through the Winesap Inn the day before. ‘What was the Glorious Revolution?’ he asked.
Tillman laughed dryly. ‘The one good thing to come out of that accursed war,’ he said. ‘The Great Glade Militia defeated the Hive Militia at the Battle of the Midwood Marshes, which was fought for control of the lucrative sumpwood forests. The returning Hive soldiers led a revolt against the clan chiefs – up there.’
Tillman pointed to the great building at the top of the left-hand mountain peak.
‘They threw the lot of them over the gorge in barrels,’ he continued. ‘These days the ordinary Hivers elect their leaders – one from each district council – and very proud of it they are too. If only Great Glade had followed their example,’ he added bitterly, ‘perhaps it wouldn’t now be in thrall to the academics and their merchant cronies.’
‘Oi, watch where you’re going!’ came an angry voice, and Cade looked back to see a woodale-dray drawn by four hammelhorns bearing down on them, its driver, a red-faced cloddertrog, shaking a clenched fist angrily.
Tillman tugged at the reins. The prowlgrin lurched to one side, and the two vehicles grazed one another as they passed, but there was no damage done.
‘The revolution was fifteen years ago,’ Tillman commented. ‘These days, Hive’s on the up and up, and no mistake.’
Ahead of them, the roar of the Edgewater River plunging down over the gorge grew louder as they drew closer. Cade looked down the street for a view of the river itself, but before he could catch sight of it, the air suddenly filled with a rank, metallic odour, and Tillman pulled up in front of two open ironwood gates, the painted sign at the top – Bartlett Rind & Nephew – matching the name on the barrels behind them in the carriage.
‘You can take a shortcut to the Sumpwood Bridge through Fish-Gut Walk,’ he told Cade, pointing across the road to a narrow opening between two grimy warehouses.
Cade thanked him and jumped down, then headed for the alleyway. Glancing back, he saw that a portly, officious-looking goblin in a belly sling had appeared at the gates and was barring Tillman’s way.
‘I’m very sorry, Mr Spoke, sir,’ Cade heard the goblin saying, ‘but until you settle your existing bill, my uncle said no more refills.’
‘You have explained that the Hive Militia has promised to purchase my entire flock, haven’t you, Brinley?’ Tillman answered smoothly.
‘Uncle says, come back after race day, when promises become payments . . .’
Cade turned away and entered Fish-Gut Walk.
The alley was aptly named. It was narrow and slippery underfoot, and smelled of fish, rancid and oily. At the far end, it opened up onto the riverbank – a thin strip of dirty sand, lined with warehouses and cut across by scores of rickety-looking jetti
es, bargeboats tethered to them, and swarming with brawny dockworkers. And, some forty or so strides to his left, rising up from a narrow base on extraordinary buttresses that floated in mid-air, was the Sumpwood Bridge.
Anchored at either end to the river banks, with stairs leading up to a central walkway and buildings on either side, the Sumpwood Bridge resembled a row of mighty skytaverns bolted together, rather than a river crossing. But then this was no mere bridge, Cade realized as he gazed up at it. This was home to the Hive Academy.
The airy towers with their conical light-turrets and gargoyle-fringed rooftops reminded him of buildings back in the Cloud Quarter of Great Glade. And it wasn’t only the architecture that was familiar. There was something else about the place that Cade recognized; the robed academics scurrying this way and that, heads down, lost in thought, barkscrolls tucked under their arms, created an atmosphere that was a curious mixture of feverish activity and hushed reverence.
Cade stopped at the foot of the wooden stairs and looked around him. It was almost midday, but there was no sign of either Gart or Thorne.
On the walkway, Hive folk were crossing the bridge in both directions, going about their daily business. Judging by the crowds, Cade guessed that this must be the main thoroughfare connecting the East Ridge part of the city to the West Ridge part. He climbed the sweeping steps that led up onto the bridge and wandered along the walkway, the wooden academy buildings rising up and towering over him on either side.
To Cade’s left, the School of Buoyant Materials, its name carved into a broad crossbeam above triple doors, was bedecked with floating statues. Ornate sumpwood carvings of winged creatures and galleons from the First Age of Flight bobbed about at the end of chains that were attached to every ledge and cornice of the elaborate front facade. A little further along, the broad latticed doors of the Academy of Water offered him a view of a small inner courtyard where glittering fountains, spirals and columns of water – siphoned from the river below – seemed to defy gravity as they danced in the air. It was an astonishing sight, and a large group of passers-by had stopped to take it in.