by Paul Stewart
Lying on the floor in the centre of the well-furnished compartment was a large wooden tray. A glass panel was propped against the wall next to it. Inside, the tray had been divided into forty compartments, each one lined with sweethay. There was a squirming jelly-like object lying in each one.
‘They’re prowlgrin eggs,’ the fourthling told him. ‘I’ve been trying to keep them cool, to delay the hatching. But this cabin’s so warm it’s set them off,’ he explained.
Cade nodded, but was unable to tear his attention away from the sight of the quivering eggs.
‘Just keep fanning them.’ The fourthling placed a copperwood-leaf fan in Cade’s hands and motioned an up-and-down movement with his arms. ‘Like this. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
With that, the fourthling gathered his black longcloak about him and rushed out of the door.
Cade felt a draught on the nape of his neck. He looked round. The porthole behind him was open, and he began fanning the fresh air from the opening over the prowlgrin eggs.
The fourthling had mistaken him for a footman and Cade was now alone in his quarters. He scanned the cabin. There was a trunk by the floating sumpwood bed and a valise on the desk next to it. It would be so easy to rifle through them, pocket any valuables and make his escape . . .
But no. Cade couldn’t bring himself to do it. The fourthling had trusted him, and deep down Cade knew that he was no thief.
He continued to fan the eggs rhythmically with the outstretched fronds of the fan. The eggs seemed to be cooling. The top few rows had stopped squirming now, and the others were slowing down.
Maybe, if he did a good job, the fourthling would reward him, Cade thought. It might not be much, but then anything would be better than nothing . . .
Suddenly an egg in the bottom row wobbled and stretched, and with a squelching, popping sound, split in two, a clear, gloopy liquid spilling out onto the bed of sweethay beneath it. Moments later, a tiny prowlgrin pup scrambled out, eyes closed, and mewling and kicking with its hind legs. Before Cade had a chance to react, the little creature propelled itself high in the air, over his head – and out of the open porthole.
‘Oh no,’ groaned Cade.
Watch the eggs, the fourthling had said . . .
Cade crossed to the porthole, reached up and gripped hold of the round window-frame. Then, bracing his legs, he heaved himself up and peered out. And there it was, perched on a tether-rail a dozen strides down the hull. The prowlgrin pup. It had its back to Cade, its wet grey fur gleaming in the afternoon sun.
‘Come on,’ said Cade, leaning out through the opening. ‘Come here, boy.’
But the prowlgrin took no notice. Its body trembled as it readied itself to jump. Pushing the fan into the pocket of the crimson jacket, Cade thrust his arm out of the porthole and, grunting with effort, pulled himself through the narrow opening. It was a tight squeeze, with the frame of the porthole grazing his back and belly as his scarlet topcoat rode up. But he made it through and ended up outside, stooped over, one foot resting on the porthole, one hand clinging onto the frame – the other arm and leg dangling in mid-air as the Xanth Filatine flew on across the Deepwoods.
‘Here, boy!’ Cade shouted, pulling the fan from his pocket and waving it frantically.
The prowlgrin must have heard him. It turned and eyed him through large doleful eyes, thick with rheum, which it blinked away. Despite himself, Cade had to smile.
The air was drying the little pup’s fur, which had a translucent glossy sheen, smoke-grey in contrast to its bright yellow, jewel-like eyes. The creature was beautiful. A pedigree prowlgrin.
But how was he going to catch it?
Cade looked down at the copperwood-leaf fan in his hand . . .
Leaning out as far as he dared, Cade held out the fan horizontally, its leaves rustling in the steady wind. The prowlgrin’s eyes fixed upon it.
‘That’s right, boy,’ Cade urged. ‘Go on. Jump onto the nice branch. You know you want to . . .’
Just then the prowlgrin’s jaws parted, and with a soft, squeaky yelp it took a great leap towards the fan. Cade flinched involuntarily as the creature landed on the handle and held on tight.
Cade looked down. The prowlgrin looked up. Their eyes met, and Cade grinned. Then the prowlgrin pup blinked twice and nuzzled into Cade’s hand, the soft fur, dry now, warm against his fingers. It began purring, loud and throaty and content.
‘Good boy,’ Cade cooed as he carefully climbed back into the cabin, holding the fan level. ‘Good boy!’
The air was cold and, looking round, Cade saw that the fourthling had returned with two buckets of ice scraped from the metal hull of the skytavern’s phraxchamber. The fourthling smiled as he saw the prowlgrin pup clinging to the fan in Cade’s outstretched hand.
‘You’re a natural,’ he said.
· CHAPTER NINE ·
‘IT’S IMPRINTED ON you, Cade Quarter,’ said Tillman Spoke.
‘Imprinted?’ Cade repeated.
‘You were the first creature it saw once its eyes had opened. Now it thinks you’re its mother. Or father.’
The prowlgrin pup purred softly and, still clinging onto the fan in Cade’s hand, looked up at him lovingly. Cade grinned.
‘And since we’ve made our introductions,’ Tillman continued, ‘might I suggest you also give our little friend here a name?’
‘Can I?’ said Cade. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course,’ Tillman Spoke replied with a smile, folding his black longcloak and placing it beside the conical hat on the floating sumpwood desk. ‘But make sure it ends with “ix”. All pedigree prowlgrins have an “ix” at the end of their names.’
The pup purred, loud and rumbling in the back of its throat.
‘Rumblix,’ Cade said, and tickled the little creature under the chin, where there was a smudge of white fur in amongst the grey. ‘I’m going to call you Rumblix.’
Spoke watched the pair of them, his green eyes twinkling. He reached up and raked his fingers through his thick salt-and-pepper hair, frowning thoughtfully.
‘A footman on a mighty vessel like this . . .’ he said. ‘They must work you pretty hard.’
Cade felt himself blushing as he looked down at the scarlet topcoat he was wearing.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, concentrating on the little prowlgrin pup. ‘I’m new to all this . . . Joined the Xanth Filatine in Great Glade,’ Cade added truthfully enough.
‘Well, that makes two of us,’ said Tillman Spoke, and laughed. ‘I’m headed for Hive and a new life. Great Glade has too many memories for me now that I’ve retired from the Freeglade Lancers.’
Cade let out a low whistle. ‘The Freeglade Lancers,’ he repeated, his voice breathless with awe.
Dressed in their traditional green and white checkerboard collars and white tunics emblazoned with a red banderbear, and carrying phraxmuskets and long ironwood lances, the regiments of lancers on prowlgrinback had often marched ceremonially through the districts of Great Glade at the head of the militia.
The Freeglade Lancers were the elite – the toughest fighters and the most skilful riders – and they had a proud history. From the city’s beginnings as a remote settlement in the heart of the vast and hostile Deepwoods, the lancers had patrolled its borders and kept its inhabitants safe. From the skirmishes and raids of the goblin wars a century earlier to the pitched battles of the war with Hive, when Cade was little more than a babe-in-arms, the Freeglade Lancers could be relied on to be at the centre of the fray, where the fighting was fiercest and their skill and courage was needed the most.
‘You were a Freeglade Lancer,’ Cade breathed.
‘I was,’ said Tillman Spoke, crossing the cabin to where the case of prowlgrin eggs lay on a cooling bed of phrax ice. Despite the warmth of the cabin, it had barely begun to melt, tiny droplets of water glistening on its surface. ‘I fought in the war with Hive, took part in the prowlgrin charge that won the Battle of the Midwood Marshes.’ His brow furr
owed at the memory. ‘Lost a lot of good lancers and fine prowlgrins in that fight.’
The fourthling fell silent as he stared down at the eggs nestling on the sweethay beneath the glass. Then he cleared his throat, and when he turned back to Cade there was a smile on Tillman Spoke’s face.
‘After the battle, they promoted me,’ he said. ‘I was made High Equerry of the prowlgrin stables. The well-being of the creatures was my responsibility, from the moment they hatched to the day they were retired, and every moment in between. I was in charge of their feeding, their grooming, their exercise. After all, as everyone knows, a lancer is only as good as his mount.’
Rumblix had stopped nuzzling Cade’s neck and was snuffling about at his hip pocket.
Cade took hold of the pup and tickled him under his chin, behind his ears, at the top of his quivering nostrils. And Rumblix purred like a phraxengine – then wriggled out of Cade’s grasp. Still purring, he began snuffling at Cade’s pocket once more.
‘What’s the matter, boy?’ said Cade. ‘What are you looking for?’
Cade put his hand in his pocket – and a smile spread across his face as his fingers closed around a small paper-wrapped parcel inside. It was his breakfast, stowed there before he’d set off for the Forlorn Hope. He’d forgotten all about it. Rumblix began bouncing up and down, his mouth gaping and saliva dribbling down over his furry chin.
‘Here we are,’ said Cade.
He unwrapped the parcel and, taking a piece of salted tildermeat between his finger and thumb, held it out to the pup. Rumblix sniffed. His eyes widened. Then, with a slurp, he plucked the meat from Cade’s hand and started chewing. A moment later, he was ready for another piece. ‘He must have known it was there,’ said Cade, looking up at the fourthling.
‘He’s a pure-bred grey,’ said Tillman Spoke, nodding. ‘Intelligent, obedient – and powerful jumpers.’ He glanced back at the tray of eggs, with the phrax ice packed beneath it, keeping them cool. ‘That’s why this lot are so valuable.’ He nodded. ‘When I retired as High Equerry, they offered me a pension – but I opted for these instead. Forty pedigree grey eggs.’ He grinned. ‘It was an easy choice.’
‘But what are you going to do with them all?’ asked Cade.
‘I’m going to start a new life,’ said the fourthling, his face glowing with a mixture of pride and excitement, ‘with some old friends of mine in Hive. They have stables and I have the eggs. We’re going to raise and train high-jumpers.’
‘High-jumpers . . . Ouch!’ Cade exclaimed. ‘Don’t nip!’ he told the pup, who backed off shame-facedly for a moment, before turning back and yelping for the next piece of tildermeat more eagerly than ever.
Cade couldn’t help laughing.
‘High-jumping,’ Tillman Spoke explained. ‘It’s the most popular sport in Hive.’
‘I’ve never heard of it,’ said Cade.
‘You wouldn’t,’ said Spoke. ‘Not if you haven’t been to Hive. But the goblins of Hive can’t get enough of it. They have this course that runs down the great waterfall that divides the city. Fifty wooden ledges, fixed to the sides of the gorge at the back of the waterfall. They call them the “branches”. Trained prowlgrins take it in turns to leap from branch to branch all the way from the top of the falls to the bottom, and the fastest one down wins. It’s a nailbiting sport, all right. One slip, one misplaced foot, and you’re a goner.’ He nodded. ‘But there’s a handsome purse for the winner.’
Cade looked down at Rumblix. The little creature was so small it was hard to imagine him with a rider on his back.
‘The thing is . . .’ Spoke fell still.
Cade fed the pup the last of the dried meat and looked up.
‘The thing is,’ Spoke said again, ‘I know you’ve just embarked on a career as a footman on this fine skytavern, so I hardly dare to ask, but . . .’
Cade’s heart was thumping in his chest. Now that the food was all gone, Rumblix had curled himself up into a purring ball, his eyes closed. Cade looked down at him, stroking his fur, scarcely daring to believe his luck.
‘But I’ll just go ahead and ask anyway,’ Spoke was saying. ‘You see, like it or not, the pup has imprinted on you. And he’s a valuable animal. If you just upped and left now, it could cause him irreparable damage – he could become untrainable. So what I’m asking is . . .’
Cade looked up to see the fourthling looking back at him, one eyebrow raised.
‘Cade Quarter,’ he said, ‘I don’t suppose you would be interested in turning in that scarlet topcoat and coming to work for me?’
· CHAPTER TEN ·
CADE WATCHED AS a hefty cloddertrog in a greasy white apron pulled on the rope, hand over massive hand, as he raised the bait log. Moments later, from the open hatch at the cloddertrog’s feet, an ironwood spar at the end of the rope emerged. Cade swallowed as the cloddertrog swung the log onto the great stone slab in the centre of the open kitchen. He felt he would never get used to the sight.
The bait log was crawling with sky creatures – strange, translucent animals borne on the winds, who settled on the ironwood logs which were trailed from the skytavern each night and hauled up each morning. There were spherical mist-barnacles with soft blue shells and trailing tentacles, see-through wind-snakes coiled tightly around the wood, gelatinous hull-crawlers with eyes on stalks and vicious-looking claws, and gossamer-light cloud-spinners; tiny creatures the size of Cade’s thumb, scarcely visible until covered in thick creamy batter.
Gnokgoblins in white conical hats gathered around the slab and began prising the sky creatures from the log. They chopped them up with cleavers and tossed them over their shoulders to others, who caught the chunks, coated them in batter and dropped them into bubbling vats of oil in a single, graceful movement.
Skyfare, it was called. The pieces sizzled and hissed, and Cade’s mouth began to water.
He was sitting in one of the slop halls, the communal dining rooms that fed the ordinary passengers of the skytavern. It was a broad, low-ceilinged chamber with twenty buoyant sumpwood tables fixed to the floor by chains, clustered around a central kitchen. Here was the stone slab and the floor hatches through which the bait logs were lowered and raised, together with a circle of stoves on which pots, pans and fry-vats bubbled, and steam and smoke coiled up and rippled across the roof-beams in a greasy cloud.
On either side of Cade, his fellow diners jostled one another as they clutched the wooden platters they had purchased. A ripple of anticipation made the sumpwood table in front of Cade sway as the aroma of frying skyfare rose from the vats. As well as skyfare, there was an array of brightly coloured sauces to dip the battered pieces into, and cauldrons of snowbird and gullywing stew. And as much as you could eat for ten gladers.
No wonder the slop hall was so crowded, Cade thought.
‘Hold up yer platters!’ the cloddertrog roared and, together with the gnokgoblin cooks, began to circulate around the sumpwood tables with the stew and skyfare.
Cade held his platter up above his head as the cooks passed, then returned it to the table in front of him. The platter was piled high. Already the excited clamour of the slop hall had descended into a low contented hum of slurps and chewing and muttered conversation. Cade took his spoon and knife from his topcoat and began to eat.
The stew was rich and creamy. The sauces were all different – some herby, some spicy, some sweet. And as for the skyfare, it was delicious. Not that some of it wasn’t a bit unusual. Biting into the crunchy skin of a sky-worm, for instance, then sucking out the juicy pulp inside was something quite new to Cade, so different from the meals of tilder steaks and steam cabbage they had served at the Academy School in Great Glade.
Great Glade. Cade remembered his father’s words the night his world had changed for ever, just a week earlier.
‘Pack your things, son. You’ve got to leave the Cloud Quarter tonight . . .’
‘But why?’ Cade had protested, wiping the sleep from his eyes.
His fath
er had looked white-faced and deadly serious. ‘It’s my brother, Nate,’ his father had said. ‘He has returned.’
Cade’s uncle, Nate Quarter, was famous throughout the Edge, although Cade himself had never met him. Nate Quarter had discovered the lost floating city of Sanctaphrax and founded a new city at the very tip of the Edge itself, where the mighty Edgewater River thundered down into the black abyss below. He was considered an enemy of flight by the academics of Great Glade and their leader, the powerful High Professor of Flight, Quove Lentis.
For Nate Quarter was a descender.
In the quest for knowledge he, and others like him, had lowered themselves on ropes down the cliff face of the Edge into the swirling depths where no skyvessel could follow. To Quove Lentis, this was heresy. Nate Quarter had disappeared into the darkness before Cade was even born, and his father – himself an academic in the School of Flight – had never spoken of his elder brother. Until, that is, that final night . . .
‘The High Professor is using my brother’s reappearance to purge the academy of any he suspects of supporting the descenders. And despite the fact that I’ve always made it clear that I don’t agree with my brother’s views, my name is at the top of Quove Lentis’s list. Followed by yours, Cade.’
‘But—’ Cade had protested.
‘No buts, son,’ his father had said quietly. ‘I have made arrangements. There’s a cargo-handler down in the Ledges district who owes me a favour. He’s agreed to put you up with his family until I can sort things out. It’ll take a few days, but I’m sure this will all blow over once I’ve managed to convince the High Professor of my loyalty. In the meantime, take these with you and promise me you’ll look after them.’
His father had thrust a bundle of barkscrolls into his hands.
‘I promise,’ Cade had said.
His father had hugged him. ‘Now, go . . . go!’
Now, here Cade was, sitting in the crowded slop hall of a mighty skytavern. He was no longer wearing the footman’s scarlet topcoat. Folded up, it was serving as a cushion for Rumblix, who liked to nuzzle up contentedly into the soft material that smelled of his master. Instead, Cade was dressed in a smart black topcoat, courtesy of Tillman Spoke.