by Paul Stewart
‘Give him your axe,’ the taller of the academics demanded. ‘Or make way for those who truly do wish to travel.’
‘This is a phraxvessel,’ the shorter, stouter academic sneered, his nostrils flaring. ‘It’s not as though you’re going to be asked to chop kindling.’
‘Valves approaching full steam!’ The engineer’s voice rang out from high above as the phraxcradle creaked and hissed. ‘Departure imminent!’
With a grunt of irritation the woodtroll placed the hatchet into the outstretched hand of the flathead guard. The other woodtrolls did the same. The two academics barged them aside.
‘Two mid-range berths for Hive,’ they chorused and reached inside their robes for the required fare.
As the steward finally allowed them aboard, a raucous screech echoed behind them, and the two academics turned to see a white raven emerge from a porthole and flap up into the sky. They eyed one another with a look of alarm.
‘The High Professor’s bird!’
‘Then the High Professor knows we’re on board,’ came the reply. ‘He has spies everywhere. We can’t risk staying in our cabins now. We’ll have to find somewhere else to hide out . . .’
Higher and higher the bird flew, its white wings flashing like blades of silver in the bright sun as it rose above the hustle and bustle of the Ledges, with its cranes and docking-cradles and phraxvessels of every shape and size. It flew, in a broad north-easterly arc, past New Lake and Old Forest, with the corn- and barleyfields of the Silver Pastures beyond rippling like water. Far ahead the stilthouses and steam-factories of East Glade stained the horizon with billowing clouds of white and yellow and grey. Then, wheeling round in the sky, and with the opulent town-houses and lakeside manors of Ambristown to its right, the white raven – Kraakan – headed directly over the Freeglades District. It swooped down low over the tower at Lake Landing, then as the lofty towers and turrets of the academies of the Cloud Quarter loomed up far ahead, it soared back into the sky and gathered speed.
Kraakan had learned the hard way that the master’s mood was dependent upon the speed with which it completed a task. With luck, the message it had delivered so swiftly to the lower decks would bring it not only praise but also a saucerful of rat-scraps.
The white raven was flying high above the outskirts of the Freeglades district when the distant sound of the phrax-klaxon echoed out across the sky.
One, two, three times.
· CHAPTER THREE ·
CADE QUARTER TREMBLED. It was time.
There were seven of them now standing at the top of the highest ironwood gantry in the Ledges. ‘The Forlorn Hope’, it was known as. The gantry’s wooden boards sloped sharply down from where Cade and the others stood, ending abruptly in a sheer drop.
Originally used to roll timber down from logging ships into phraxbarges below, the sloping platform had fallen into disuse when a broader gantry had been constructed on the other side of the Ledges. Now it provided the best place for the desperate and penniless to attempt to board a departing skytavern without a ticket – a forlorn hope . . .
Cade glanced around him. Apart from the mobgnome and the young flathead, there were two young pink-eyed goblins, twins most like, the pair of them scrawny and sullen; a lop-ear goblin matron with dead eyes, a withered arm and a tattered basket strapped to her back, and, towering over the rest, a cloddertrog.
Unlike the others, the cloddertrog had no possessions with him to slow him down. He was powerfully built and looked fiercely determined, as if no one was going to get in his way. The scars on his face and arms suggested that he’d had his fair share of fights, and had survived them. As Cade watched, the cloddertrog braced himself, flexing his huge arms and bending his treetrunk legs at the knee.
He looked like he knew what he was doing, and Cade made a mental note to follow him as closely as he could.
As the third blast of the skytavern klaxon faded, Cade steadied himself. He smoothed down the front of his jacket and blew into his hands. He tried to slow the frantic beating of his heart.
He didn’t want to be here at the top of this ironwood gantry. He didn’t want to jump. In fact, he didn’t want to leave Great Glade at all. But he had no choice. If he didn’t get out of the city now, he was as good as dead . . .
At the far side of the gantries, the Xanth Filatine trembled and throbbed at the top of its docking-cradle. Steam poured from its mighty funnel, while a white-hot jet hissed from the propulsion duct beneath. And as the gathered crowds on the surrounding gantries waved and cheered, and the passengers waved back, the crew began unhitching the tolley ropes fore and aft.
Wait for it, Cade told himself.
The skytavern rose slowly from the cradle and inched forward in the sky. The crowds whooped and hollered.
Cade watched intently as the skytavern drifted up from the cradle and began to move slowly above the heads of the crowd, its massive hull with its flight-weights, cargo-hooks, hanging sky-floats and tether-rails casting them in shadow. Slowly, but gathering height and speed all the while, the Xanth Filatine moved past the lower scaffolding and platforms, over the swinging cargo-cranes, and approached the last and highest gantry: the Forlorn Hope.
‘Wait for it . . . wait . . . for it . . .’ Cade muttered, his eyes fixed on the cloddertrog.
Suddenly the lop-ear set off down the slope. Maybe with her withered arm, she felt she needed a head start. Whatever, the next moment, the others were off after her – the pink-eyed goblin twins shoving past the mobgnome, with the flathead close on their heels, while overhead the Xanth Filatine drew ever closer.
Cade hung back with the cloddertrog, who was eyeing the underside of the skytavern as it loomed. He was clearly choosing a spot to aim for; Cade followed his gaze. Below them, the others had reached the end of the ramp. But too soon. One after the other, they leaped and flailed and grasped hopelessly at the smooth snub-nosed prow of the vessel – and tumbled down through the air to their deaths.
And as the despairing screams of the mobgnome, flathead, lop-ear and pink-eyes rang out, the cloddertrog suddenly launched himself down the wooden slope at full pelt. Cade gulped and sprang after him, his boots pounding on the juddering boards as he gathered speed.
Teeth clenched and arms outstretched, Cade launched himself off the end of the ramp, his eyes fixed on the line of tether-rails secured along the underside of the huge vessel. Below him, the treetops were a blur of green. The wind tugged at his backpack as he flew through the air.
Too heavy, he groaned, and cursed himself for loading himself down with all those weighty memories best left behind.
He thrust his arms forward, his hands curved, braced. His fingertips grazed the hard, nubbed planking but, unable to grasp a hold of the tether-rail he’d been aiming for, Cade fell – only to be caught by the wrist in a powerful grip.
He looked up. It was the cloddertrog, who had landed on a ledge below a porthole. His scarred face broke into a smile as he pulled Cade up to join him.
‘Room for one more, I reckon,’ he grunted.
Cade was about to thank him when the porthole abruptly flew open and a studded cudgel emerged. With a loud crack, the cudgel slammed into the side of the cloddertrog’s head. He lost his grip, and with a cry more of surprise than pain plummeted down to the forest below. The cudgel withdrew and a moment later a bony hand with a large gold ring on one finger appeared at the open porthole. It grabbed Cade by the collar and dragged him bodily through the narrow porthole and into the skytavern.
The place smelled rank; a mixture of rancid fat and stale bodies. And it was dark. After the early-morning dazzle Cade was as good as blind. But he could hear well enough as a gruff voice spoke up.
‘I like the small ones. They don’t give no trouble . . . Let’s see what the boss thinks.’
· CHAPTER FOUR ·
‘WHAT WE GOT here, then?’
Cade looked up to see two hefty flathead goblins standing over him. Their brow- and neckrings gleamed in the sputt
ering yellow of an oil lamp that hung down from an overhead beam. With a grunt, the nearer goblin extended a gold-ringed hand and pulled Cade to his feet with such force he felt as though his arm was being pulled out of its socket.
The flatheads Cade knew in Great Glade had adopted the ways of the city. They wore clothes of homespun or serge, with crushed funnel hats on their heads and boots on their feet. They grew up unadorned by neckrings or tattoos. But not these flatheads. These were old school, fresh from the darkest Deepwoods by the look of them. Tilderskin breeches, leather jerkins, fierce-eyed talismans around their necks. Barefoot. Tattooed and ringed. And heavily armed, with studded cudgels and jag-blade knives hanging at their belts. The ornate gold ring on the first goblin’s finger looked out of place.
The second flathead goblin peered at him from the shadows; swarthy and hard-faced. In addition to his other weapons, he had a crossbow slung over his shoulder.
‘Mish-mash by the looks of him,’ he said, his top lip curling. ‘You a mish-mash, lad?’ he demanded.
Cade stared back, confused.
‘A fourthling,’ said the second.
‘Oh . . . y-yes . . .’ Cade stammered. ‘There’s long-hair blood in my family. And slaughterer. And . . . and a bit of grey goblin, I believe, on my mother’s side of the—’
The first flathead goblin cut him short. ‘We didn’t ask for your life history, mish-mash.’ His big hands hovered near the weapons at his belt. ‘You best come with us.’
Cade nodded again. He wasn’t about to argue. His heart was still thumping from the frenzied dash down the slope of the Forlorn Hope. He could still hear the despairing cries of the other leapers, and see the look of horror on the face of the cloddertrog who had helped him . . .
His eyes were growing more accustomed to the smoke-laced gloom of the lower deck, and as he stumbled through the hull quarters, flanked on either side by the savage flathead goblins, Cade took in the strange, shadowy place he’d landed in. Down here in the bowels of the mighty ship, the skytavern was far larger than he’d imagined. Cavernous, in fact – though full to bursting with goblins, trogs and trolls from every part of the city.
Each group of travellers seemed to have its own patch of deck space, dimly lit by the foul-smelling greaselamps and tallow candles which hung from the beams. These makeshift camps were marked out by boxes of belongings or by tilderhides strung up to create makeshift partitions, or sometimes, Cade noticed, just by lines chalked onto the wooden floorboards.
A large family of tufted goblins were seated in a circle, earthenware bowls on their laps, as an old matron with a beaded topknot and filthy leather apron ladled out a thin barley gruel into each bowl from a steaming pot that was balanced upon a glowing brazier, suspended on a chain from the ceiling. One of the young’uns looked up, caught Cade’s eye and grinned. He nudged the goblin seated beside him.
‘A forlorn hoper,’ he said in a guttural whine typical of the eastern districts of Great Glade. ‘Don’t look like he’ll last long,’ he added, and the pair of them laughed unpleasantly.
Cade felt the pointed tip of a loaded crossbow press into his side, and he stumbled on.
Behind one of the hanging tilderhides was a bunch of brutal-looking cloddertrogs. One of them was sharpening the curved blade of his longknife on a pale grey whetstone, the soft noise it made like the hiss of a hoverworm. Another was oiling the parts of a dismantled crossbow, while four more were attaching weights to the outer sides of a large square slingnet. A hipflask of something that smelled like rubbing alcohol was being passed from one to the other and quaffed. No one looked up as Cade and the flatheads passed.
All at once, a whooping line of goblin young’uns appeared from the shadows and cut directly in front of the three of them, causing them almost to trip. Cade thought the flatheads would be angry, but instead they chuckled and waited till the last of the young’uns had dashed past. Then, pushing Cade roughly, they set off again through the dark, shadow-filled world of the lower decks.
To his left, Cade passed an underbiter who was frying up something delicious-smelling in a skillet. To his right, two old woodtroll gaffers sat cross-legged on a woven blanket, deep in conversation and sharing a pipe. And a little way beyond them were a couple of shifty-looking fourthlings, hunkered down and examining the contents of a burlap sack. Cade noticed an embroidered silk kerchief, a handful of gold coins and a gem-encrusted bracelet before the fourthlings noticed him. Then they turned away, scowls on their twitchy faces.
The three of them seemed to be near the centre of the great vessel now, and the goblins led Cade through a series of mast-like central pillars, left then right, then right again. He realized that his heart was still thumping.
Abruptly the flatheads stopped beside a series of pillars that had been sectioned off by ironwood planks. The one with the crossbow turned to Cade and held out a calloused hand.
‘Give me your pack,’ he said.
‘My . . . my pack?’ Cade repeated. He’d forgotten he’d been wearing it, the heavy pack containing his worldly possessions which had almost cost him his life . . .
‘You heard, my friend,’ said the flathead. ‘And take off your boots.’
Cade swallowed uneasily, but did as he was told. He’d never heard the word ‘friend’ used with such menace before.
While the flathead rummaged through his backpack, Cade kneeled down and untied his laces. He pulled the boots from his feet, then stood up. The wood was rough beneath his bare feet.
‘No knives or nothing, then,’ said the flathead. He returned the backpack, slamming it into Cade’s chest.
‘N-no,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think that weapons were allowed on board a skytavern,’ he said, aware, even as he spoke, just how many he’d already seen down here in the depths of the hull.
The flathead paused and surveyed the lowlife all around him as though for the first time: the thieves, the vagabonds, the assassins . . .
‘They’re not,’ he said, and chuckled.
He turned away, raised a bunched fist and hammered on the wall of ironwood planks – which was when Cade noticed the small door set into it. It had no doorknob, no handle. From inside there came a single word that sounded muffled and oddly distant.
‘Enter.’
The flathead goblin shouldered the door and held it open for Cade, who stepped forward. His backpack was slung over one shoulder, his boots dangled from his hand – his head and his heart were clamouring. The flathead goblin shoved Cade inside.
The walls had been whitewashed, and the ornate pewter sconces fixed to them held perfumed candles that gave off a soft light and the sweet fragrance of lemon-grass and woodjasmine. On the floor was a thicktuft woven rug of reds and oranges that was soft between his toes, and Cade understood why the flathead had insisted he should remove his boots. There were shelves lined with labelled boxes, and glass-fronted cabinets, and to one side a tall three-panel screen of bone-inlaid blackwood.
The sound of someone clearing his throat startled Cade. It had come from a floating sumpwood armchair chained to the centre of the floor, its curved back towards him. Slowly the armchair began to turn round.
A hand gripped the arm of the chair. It was slender, long-fingered, with pale, almost luminous skin and manicured nails, filed to points. A finger twitched and Cade felt the flatheads’ hands grip his collar and arms before he was slammed face down onto the rug.
· CHAPTER FIVE ·
‘A FORLORN HOPER,’ growled the first flathead.
‘Trying to hitch a free ride,’ said the second goblin, and laughed.
‘There’s no such thing,’ said a quiet voice, smooth as spidersilk. ‘No one travels for free on the Xanth Filatine. To stay aboard you’ve got to pay the price.’
Cade couldn’t move. The flathead goblins had both his arms twisted behind his back and his face was pressed down into the soft rug. It smelled of scented candle smoke and sumpwood resin.
‘But I have no money,’ he protested, his voice mu
ffled and indistinct.
‘Shall I show him, boss?’ said one of the flatheads.
Cade winced as his right arm was pulled from behind his back and stretched out taut on the rug. The next moment he felt the flathead’s foot pressing down on his hand, squashing it open. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed a glint of metal and then, as the flathead knelt down, the jag-blade knife in his hand. The chain anchoring the floating sumpwood chair twitched. Cade tried to twist his head round to look up, but could not.
‘Always so hasty, Teggtut,’ said the voice. ‘Let him up.’
Cade felt the goblins release their grip on his arms. He climbed slowly to his feet. A youth of roughly Cade’s own age sat in the floating chair looking back at him.
He was unnaturally pale, with greased white hair fashioned into points and sticking up from his skull-like head. He was dressed in a faded smoke-grey topcoat and breeches, and wore a pair of bone-rimmed goggles with green-tinted glass that masked his eyes.
He was a fourthling. Like Cade. Half slaughterer perhaps, or grey goblin. And half . . . what?
‘Drax Adereth,’ the fourthling introduced himself as he climbed from the buoyant armchair, breaking into Cade’s thoughts.
‘Cade,’ said Cade, trying to sound brave, unafraid. ‘Cade Qu-Quarter.’ There was a tremor in his voice.
Cade noticed that the fourthling, Drax Adereth, had a short silver blowpipe in his belt – a weapon, he knew, favoured by the nightwaifs of Riverrise.
Drax smiled. His teeth were small and even. ‘Lucky for you, Cade Quarter, I’m a reasonable kind of fellow,’ he said, nodding as he spoke. ‘You got no money, I’m all right with that.’ His brow furrowed. ‘But to stay on board, there’s still a price to pay.’ His smile grew broader. ‘That’s just the way it is.’