by Paul Stewart
For the previous six days, Cade had set about making himself as useful as he could to his new employer. Each day he collected fresh ice from the mighty phraxchamber below the skytavern’s steaming funnel and made sure the prowlgrin eggs were sufficiently cooled. He kept the cabin tidy, slept in a hammock in the corner, and looked after Rumblix, the little pup, who followed him around the cabin and fretted and pined whenever he left. Tillman Spoke busied himself with his accounts for hours on end, sitting at the sumpwood desk beside the open porthole, staring out at the passing clouds every so often, lost in thoughts of his new life in Hive.
Right now, though, Cade thought, the prowlgrin breeder would be taking his breakfast in the Grand Salon high above the slop hall. But nothing they served up there could be as delicious as this breakfast he was enjoying.
‘Hold up yer platters!’
The cooks were coming round again, and Cade was about to hold up his platter for more when a hand reached out and grabbed his arm. It was large and powerful and had a large gold ring on one finger. Cade turned round, and found himself face to face with one of the flathead goblins from the Depths, his brow-rings gleaming in the low light. He smiled to reveal two rows of teeth, filed to points.
‘We’ve been watching you, Cade Quarter,’ he said. ‘Drax gave you a week. One day to go.’
The goblin’s grip tightened on Cade’s arm, causing him to drop the platter, which fell clattering to the floor.
‘That fourthling in the fancy cabin up top must have something worth stealing.’ The goblin’s smile faded and his eyes narrowed. ‘A pedigree prowlgrin pup, for instance.’
Letting go of Cade’s arm, the flathead barged his way out of the slop hall, pausing at the doorway to stare back.
‘See you in the Depths tomorrow,’ he said.
· CHAPTER ELEVEN ·
CADE WAS WOKEN by the prowlgrin pup slurping at his face. He opened his eyes to see Rumblix perched above him, his paws gripping either side of the hammock and his head cocked to one side. The low sun was streaming in through the porthole. Two days had passed since Drax Adereth’s deadline, and Cade hadn’t left the cabin once. He hadn’t dared.
‘Hungry, boy?’ he said as he sat up and wrapped his arms round the sleek, grey-furred creature. He tickled him under his chin. ‘Always hungry, aren’t you?’
Rumblix purred and pushed up on his powerful hind legs to nuzzle into Cade’s chest.
‘And growing bigger every day,’ said Tillman Spoke from his seat at the floating sumpwood desk.
Cade swung his legs over the side of the hammock and climbed to his feet. ‘What time is it?’ he said, yawning.
‘The dawn bell’s just sounded,’ said Tillman cheerfully as he tidied the barkscrolls on the desk. ‘I had an early breakfast in the Grand Salon.’
Cade’s stomach gurgled. He would have liked some breakfast himself. Windsnappers in batter. Maybe some kerbiss-broth . . .
But that would have meant leaving the cabin, and Cade didn’t want to risk it just yet. Unlike him, however, Rumblix was not prepared to wait. There was a bucket beneath the hammock. And it contained food. The smell of the pieces of skyfare that Cade had put in there was seeping enticingly through the gap between the top of the bucket and the heavy ironwood lid, driving the prowlgrin pup mad. Head down, Rumblix butted the bucket in an attempt to dislodge the lid, but to no avail, and he squealed with frustration.
‘Here we are, then,’ said Cade, pulling off the lid and laying it aside.
With a little yelp, Rumblix jumped forward and began to purr loudly. He was tall enough now to rest his front paws on the side of the bucket and plunge his head inside. Soon the throaty purring was replaced by slurping and swallowing as the prowlgrin pup gulped down the chunks of meat. Then, when every last piece was gone, he looked up, head cocked, and let out a small questioning chirrup. He was still hungry.
‘Prowlgrin pups need a lot of looking after,’ said Tillman, getting up from the desk and crossing the cabin. ‘Feeding every few hours and regular grooming. Not to mention plenty of love and affection . . .’
He paused to pat the little pup on the head and tickle his nostrils. Rumblix purred appreciatively.
‘But you’re doing a fine job. I’m proud of you, Cade.’
Cade smiled delightedly, then bent down and reached under his hammock. There was a small casket standing next to the bucket. Cade dragged it out, opened the top and stared down at the contents for a moment, before selecting a long coarse file with a polished bone handle.
Tillman pulled up an armchair by the open porthole and settled down to watch.
‘Here, boy,’ Cade said, sitting himself down and patting the floor before him.
Rumblix trotted over obediently and slumped down between Cade’s legs, his back towards him. Cade leaned over the top of the small creature, the file in his hand, and took the pup’s front left paw. Then, one by one, he carefully filed each of the long curved claws to needle-sharp points. And when they were done, he started work on Rumblix’s feet, filing off the ragged edges of his toenails and leaving them smooth and polished.
Cade returned the file to the chest and pulled out an earthenware pot. As he unstoppered the cork with his teeth, a sweet aromatic smell of sagemint, rock-fennel and blackwheat oil filled the cabin. Rumblix bounced up and down on his hind legs, trembling with excitement.
Tillman laughed.
‘You like this bit, don’t you, Rumblix, boy?’ said Cade.
He dipped his fingers into the oily green ointment and started rubbing it into the prowlgrin pup’s feet, while Rumblix’s purrs grew louder and louder.
Tillman nodded in appreciation. ‘You’re beginning to understand just how extraordinarily sensitive a prowlgrin’s toes are,’ he said. ‘And how important it is to keep them supple and healthy with regular oiling.’
Cade nodded.
With their wide-apart eyes, Tillman had explained, prowlgrins could spot branches and perches to leap to, and their feet could sense whether a branch could take their weight, and for how long. In this way, a prowlgrin could gallop through the highest branches of the Deepwoods without ever missing a leap or falling to earth.
‘When we get to Hive, I’ll take you riding through the forest. I tell you, Cade, sitting on a prowlgrin at full gallop is an experience you’ll never forget.’
Cade looked up at the fourthling and, not for the first time, wondered whether he should come clean – tell him he wasn’t a steward, but a forlorn hoper from the Lower Depths in debt to a gang boss . . .
‘Trust a prowlgrin’s leap and you’ll never fall,’ Tillman said with a gleam in his eyes.
Picking up a broad-toothed comb and a stiff-bristled dandy brush, Cade combed away the tangles from the prowlgrin’s thick grey fur and brushed it till it was as sleek and gleaming as burnished pewter.
‘You’ve done a fine job,’ Tillman said, getting up from the armchair and going over to the tray of prowlgrin eggs. ‘And watching you take care of this pup has convinced me that I can trust you to do a fine job as my head groom . . .’
‘Tillman, there’s something I should tell you—’ Cade began.
‘Trust,’ Tillman said, examining the eggs. ‘It is the most important thing there is – without trust, we have nothing.’ He nudged the phrax ice beneath the tray of prowlgrin eggs with the tip of his boot. ‘I think you ought to get more ice from the phraxchamber. This lot’s melting away . . .’ He looked up. ‘What did you want to tell me?’
‘Oh, it’s not important,’ said Cade, his face colouring. ‘I’ve been meaning to get more ice, but I lost track of time.’
‘Do you good to get out of the cabin, get some fresh air,’ said Tillman, sitting back down at the sumpwood desk and opening one of the half-dozen ledgers stacked on its cluttered surface. ‘After all, you’ve been shut up here for days.’
Cade swallowed. Tillman Spoke was right. The trouble was, Cade knew he couldn’t hole up here indefinitely. He looked up at the fourthling.
‘I’ll get some just as soon as I’ve finished grooming Rumblix,’ said Cade.
Tillman smiled. ‘He looks fine to me,’ he said.
‘I haven’t done his teeth yet,’ said Cade. ‘And his harness straps need loosening a bit . . .’
‘First, go and get the ice, Cade,’ said Tillman Spoke. ‘The last thing we want is for any more of those eggs to hatch.’
Cade nodded and climbed to his feet. There was no point in arguing. Reluctantly he pulled on his cap and gloves, and placed the ice-pick in his belt. Then he closed the porthole. The last time he’d gone out and left it open, Rumblix had followed him, tracking him down to the slop hall and leaping delightedly onto his forearm when he’d found him. Cade had been impressed, but had hated to think of what might have happened to the young prowlgrin. He could have been stolen, or even fallen overboard. Needless to say, he hadn’t mentioned Rumblix’s little adventure to Tillman Spoke. Cade picked up the two empty buckets by the door and ventured out into the corridor.
He looked left, then right. The long copperwood-panelled corridor with its line of heavy darkwood cabin doors was deserted. Pulling his cap down low on his head, the peak concealing his face, Cade set off at a trot down the corridor and up the flights of stairs to the uppermost deck. As he neared the top, elegant couples and well-heeled merchants passed him, returning from their breakfasts in the Great Salon. Cade hurried by, keeping his head down. At the top of the stairs, he turned left and hurried along the covered gangway that led to midships.
Here, directly below the phraxchamber, phraxengineers in long white topcoats, and their assistants in triple-waistcoats and shirtsleeves, clustered in groups around the pipes, gauges and levers that sprouted from the walls. They busied themselves with the myriad decisions and adjustments required to keep the great skytavern airborne, checking dials, scribbling on clipboards, releasing pressure valves that hissed and steamed; they paid no attention to the youth in the black topcoat and peaked cap among them.
Relieved, Cade reached the series of steep ladder-like steps that led up to the phraxchamber, and began to climb them. The flight platform above was usually deserted and he’d be able to gather the ice quickly and unobserved.
He could hear the phraxchamber above him, hissing and humming and creaking, together with the roar of the jet of air blasting out of the propulsion duct. A moment later, he emerged onto the flight platform, a broad ring of ironwood which encircled the base of the phraxchamber itself.
Cade stopped to catch his breath, hands on hips, and looked up. The giant metal-plated sphere of the phrax-chamber rose up before him, supported upon crisscross struts of scaffolding. At the top of the chamber was a towering funnel from which huge clouds of ice-cold steam billowed in an unending torrent, while at the back of the chamber was the broad jutting pipe of the propulsion duct, out of which a jet of white-hot air roared, pushing the skytavern through the sky.
In the middle of the phraxchamber was a circular window of dense glass, through which an intermittent flash of light could be seen. Cade climbed the frost-covered steps and peered inside. Somewhere at the heart of the chamber was a shard of phrax crystal – solidified lightning, mined from beneath the Twilight Woods, and now keeping the mighty Xanth Filatine airborne and in flight with a never-ending series of controlled explosions.
Cade smiled sadly to himself. His father had worked for most of his life at the Institute of Phrax Studies – a part of the great School of Flight in the Cloud Quarter. He had explained to Cade how the power of lightning locked up in the phrax crystal could be released, causing the huge chamber to become as buoyant as a flight rock, and intense heat and cold to be generated. The heat propelled the skytavern, while the cold flowed from the funnel as ice-cold steam and formed as ice on the outer casing of the phraxchamber.
As Cade stood in front of the ice-covered metal plates, he shivered. Gleaming pink and pale blue in the early morning light, the frozen rods and rippled curtains of ice resembled some curious miniature winter scene. It was beautiful, but bitterly cold. The ice sucked every trace of warmth from the air. Cade’s eyes watered and the inner membrane of his nose stung and, as he set the buckets down and pulled the hammer from his belt, he was glad he was wearing the cap and gloves.
Tip-tip-tip. Tap-tap-tap . . .
The sound of the small pick hammering at the ice was not loud. But in Cade’s anxious state, the noise seemed deafening. He worked quickly, making do with large chunks of ice rather than breaking them into smaller pieces, and when both buckets were full, he decided to take a different route back to the cabin.
With a bucket in each hand, Cade strode round the flight platform to the port side of the skytavern. He would return to the lower deck on the far side of the ship, then cut through. It was as he was rounding the front of the phraxchamber, and the roaring of the propulsion duct lessened, that Cade heard voices.
They were coming from a small maintenance cabin, half hidden among the scaffolding supporting the phraxchamber. Cade tiptoed down the stairs and past the door of the cabin, which stood ajar. Cautiously he craned his neck and peered inside.
Ice-rakes, phraxtorches, boltdrivers and hex-wrenches hung from hooks on the walls; a barrel of oil stood beneath them. And crouched in the corner, round a glowing lufwood stove, were two figures in dark robes – robes that Cade recognized at once. They were the same as the ones his father used to wear; the robes of professors from the School of Flight.
When one of the academics looked up, Cade ducked back and continued down the steps. Whatever these professors were doing hiding out in a tool shed, it was none of his business. He had bigger things to worry about – such as how to keep all his fingers until the skytavern docked in Hive.
Reaching the corridor that led to Tillman Spoke’s cabin, Cade allowed himself to relax. Things were going to be fine. He’d just proved it. So long as he was vigilant and confident when he ventured out for ice, or food – or for any other task that Tillman Spoke set – then no one would even notice him. After all, the skytavern had hundreds of passengers on board, and scores of crew; it would be no problem to blend in. And Cade was congratulating himself on keeping things in perspective when Drax Adereth’s two flathead heavies suddenly stepped out from the shadows at the far end of the corridor.
Cade froze.
Teggtut, the taller of the two flathead goblins, stepped forward. His eyes narrowed. Cade swallowed, then made a dash for the cabin door. He turned the handle – glancing back as he did so.
The flathead had stopped. He was glaring at him, then he raised a hand and ran a filthy-nailed finger slowly across the base of his throat. Cade swallowed again, and disappeared inside the cabin. He leaned back against the door for a moment, breathing unevenly, waiting for his thumping heart to quieten down.
Tillman Spoke was at his desk, slumped forward, his head resting on an open ledger as he quietly snored. The papers on the desk before him flapped and rustled as the wind came in through the open porthole above his head. Still trembling, Cade stole over to the tray of prowlgrin eggs and arranged the ice around and under it, and he was taking off his gloves when there was a soft knock on the door.
Cade jumped. Teggtut had decided to confront him after all.
He wished he was invisible. He wished the floor would swallow him up. He looked up at the porthole and wondered whether to try and make a run for it – but that would mean deserting Tillman Spoke and the promise of a new life, and that was the last thing he wanted to do . . .
With no other choice, Cade crossed the floor before the flathead knocked again and woke Spoke up. Perhaps he could reason with him. Cade eased the door open a couple of inches.
‘You!’ he whispered, relieved to see Brod the grey goblin standing before him. He opened the door wider. ‘Come in, come in.’
But the grey goblin shook his head. He looked ill at ease. His eyes were wide and darting and unable to meet Cade’s gaze. Perhaps he’d spotted Drax Adereth’s cronies in the corridor . . .
‘Can’t stop,’ said Brod. ‘Things to do. I . . . I just wanted to bring you this.’ He brought Cade’s backpack from behind his back and held it out. ‘It took me a while to track you down . . .’ His voice trailed away. ‘But here it is. Better late than never, and all safe and sound.’
‘Thank you, Brod,’ said Cade, his face colouring. He’d assumed the grey goblin had stolen his possessions, worthless as they were to anyone but Cade. He took hold of the backpack, surprised and grateful that Brod had taken the trouble to return it to him, then reached into his pocket for some of the gladers that Tillman Spoke had given him for his meals. ‘Let me thank you for your help,’ he began.
But the grey goblin raised his hands and stepped backwards. ‘No, no, I couldn’t,’ he said. ‘Really. It was nothing . . .’
And with that, he turned on his heels and scuttled back along the corridor. Cade watched him for a moment, puzzled, then stepped back into the room and closed the door behind him. He crossed to his hammock and, stowing the backpack beneath it, fell into the gently swaying bed with a sigh of relief.
Only another week and a half and they would reach the safety of Hive. Above him, on his perch, Rumblix shifted on his oiled feet and let out an excited little whimper as he leaped from branch to branch in his sleep.
· CHAPTER TWELVE ·
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The pounding at the door shattered the warm, drowsy atmosphere in the cabin.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Rumblix leaped from his perch at the end of Cade’s hammock and scurried off into the shadows in the corner of the room. Cade clambered to his feet and was about to cross to the door, when Tillman Spoke stayed him with a sweep of his hand.