by Paul Stewart
‘Where’s Vilnix?’ they demanded. ‘He’s the cause of all this.’ ‘That sanctimonious scoundrel!’ ‘That accursed usurper!’ ‘That treacherous villain who cannot see beyond the lining of his own pockets!’ ‘Where is he?’
Then, as two figures strode out on to the podium, the questions abruptly changed. ‘What’s the Professor of Darkness doing up there?’ ‘And who is that with him?’
The professor raised his arms and appealed for quiet. ‘Friends,’ he cried. ‘Friends.’ A hush fell. ‘I understand your distress. I share your pain that our beloved Sanctaphrax has been so sorely wounded. And yet,’ he went on, ‘there was no way that it could have been avoided.’
A growl of discontent rumbled round the room. This wasn’t what they had come to hear. Twig stared at the sea of angry faces before him and trembled. If the professor wasn’t careful, the crowd would rip them apart first and ask questions afterwards.
‘What about my laboratory?’ demanded the Professor of Windtouchers.
‘And who’s going to replace the windows of my observatory?’ added the Professor of Cloudwatchers.
‘Buildings can be repaired,’ the professor continued, undaunted. ‘And now there is no further need for chains, there will be hands enough to effect those repairs.’
An anxious muttering started up. ‘No chains?’ everyone was saying to everyone else. What madness was this? Of course they needed chains!
‘No chains save the one ancient Anchor Chain which keeps us from drifting,’ the professor explained.
‘Clarify!’ called the Professor of Cloudwatchers.
‘Elucidate!’ demanded the Professor of Windtouchers.
‘What do you mean?’ a gruff voice shouted from the back.
‘I mean this,’ the professor said. ‘That the crisis which has been hanging over our heads for so long is, at long last, over. Sanctaphrax is once more in equilibrium.’
His words were greeted with absolute silence. Could it be true? they all wondered. Could it really be true?
‘But what about all that jolting and juddering?’ asked the Professor of Cloudwatchers.
‘And the shaking and shuddering’ added the Professor of Windtouchers.
‘That’ said the professor, turning to them, ‘was the rock being weighed down by the cargo of stormphrax.’ He looked up. ‘It will not happen again for as long as any of us shall live. Of that, I give you my word.’
A murmur went round the hall; a murmur which grew louder and louder, until everyone seemed to be talking at the same time. Then a solitary cheer went up from the back. Others joined in. And the next moment, the entire hall was resounding with the exultant whoops and cries of unbounded joy.
‘To the Professor of Darkness!’ someone yelled.
‘Yes, to the new Most High Academe of Sanctaphrax!’ cried the Professor of Cloudwatchers, waving his arms in the air.
‘Or should that be, to the old Most High Academe?’ said the Professor of Windtouchers.
‘Old or new, I would be honoured to resume my responsibilities as the Most High Academe’ the Professor of Darkness announced, to rapturous applause. ‘And yet’ he continued, ‘it is not I you have to thank for all that has taken place. I was not the one who ventured forth to the Twilight Woods and who risked all to return to Sanctaphrax with a cargo of precious stormphrax.’
‘Then who? Who?’ the crowd called out. Surely not the bony youth who hovered by his side.
The professor took a step towards Twig, seized him by the wrist and raised his arm high in the air. ‘Professors, academics, citizens,’ he announced. ‘I give you Captain Twig. He is the person you must thank.’
Twig turned as red as a woodsap as the crowd whooped and whistled and cheered, overwhelmed by the waves of gratitude that washed over him.
‘Thanks to this brave and valiant youth, we will no longer have to lie in our beds, quaking with fear that the floating-rock might break its moorings and fly up into open sky’ the professor said, raising Twig’s arm still higher.
‘Hooray!’ cried the delighted crowd.
‘Thanks to him, we have been freed from our dependence on the greedy leaguesmen for our well-being.’
‘Hooray!’ they bellowed, louder still.
‘By all that is wise, he served us with heart and mind, forswearing all loyalties other than to Sanctaphrax,’ the professor announced.
Twig trembled at the words. Where had he heard them before? he wondered. Why were they so familiar?
‘He dedicated his life to the finding of stormphrax. He chased a Great Storm and did not return until he had completed his sacred aye, Twig, your sacred quest.’ The professor smiled. ‘Kneel my boy’ he said.
That was it! Twig remembered. They were the words used at his father’s Inauguration Ceremony. ‘But… I… you …’ he blustered, and swallowed hard. Then, lowering his eyes to the floor, he dropped down onto his knees.
The crowd fell silent as the Professor of Darkness walked towards the back of the hall and removed the ceremonial sword from the cracked wall. Twig was trembling; he was trembling so badly he was sure everyone must be able to hear his teeth chattering. The next moment, the professor returned with the sword and stood before him. Twig looked up to see the great gold blade coming down slowly through the air as it dubbed him, first on his right shoulder, then on his left.
‘I pronounce you to be an honorary Knight Academic,’ the professor said. ‘Arborinus Verginix be your name. Arise!’
For a moment, Twig did not move. He could not. His legs had turned to jelly. Only when the professor reached down and took his hand did Twig manage to climb shakily to his feet. A mighty, clamouring din was echoing round the Great Hall, so loud it made his head spin.
‘Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!’ the assembled company yelled, and they skipped and jumped and danced for joy, academics with servants, professor with professor, each putting away their grudges and grievances at least for this one wonderful moment.
‘We shall be able to engage in our lofty pursuits once more,’ the Professor of Cloudwatchers exclaimed, and slapped his old rival on the back.
‘We shall be able to indulge our intellect again,’ the Professor of Windtouchers agreed. ‘To calibrate the infinite subtleties of the wind …’
‘And clouds,’ the Professor of Cloudwatchers put in.
‘From the whisper of a zephyr to the roar of a mighty hurricane …’
‘Cirrus, stratus, cirrostratus, cumulonimbus …’
The Professor of Windtouchers drew breath sharply. ‘If it wasn’t for the wind,’ he snapped, ‘your clouds wouldn’t even move.’
‘It is only because of the clouds,’ the Professor of Cloudwatchers replied hotly, ‘that we see the wind blowing at all…’
But the Professor of Windtouchers was no longer listening to his colleague and rival. ‘Look!’ he gasped, and pointed to the front of the hall.
All around the Great Hall, his action was being repeated until the chamber was silent and all eyes were on the tall menacing figure who stalked across the stage and up the steps to the raised pulpit.
There he stood, stooped and angular, his hands gripping the sides of the wooden support. All round him were his personal guards: a dozen hulking flat-heads, legs astride, arms folded. Vilnix tugged at his sleeves, readjusted his skull-cap, and slowly surveyed the gathering from under hooded eyes. His lips curled with contempt.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ he said, his voice soft, yet threatening. ‘Can I not turn my back for a moment?’
The crowd shuffled about uneasily.
Vilnix sneered and leaned out over the pulpit. Then, with his back arched and the skull-cap gleaming, he pointed accusingly at the Professor of Darkness. ‘Will you listen to the lies of this false prophet?’ he roared. ‘This senile old fool who brought Sanctaphrax to the very brink of ruination before, and now seems intent on finishing the job off?’
Twig shook his head. No, no, that wasn’t how it was at all. Yet, with every wor
d Vilnix spoke, the crowd was becoming more restive.
‘In cahoots with renegade sky pirates he was,’ Vilnix said, spitting out the words.
The murmuring in the Great Hall grew louder, more insistent as the mood turned uglier. Eyes glinting triumphantly, Vilnix returned his gaze to the crowd.
‘He and those he has duped into believing in him are traitors, collaborators, knaves. Guards!’ he screamed. ‘Seize him seize them both - these verminous bugs that must be crushed …’
Two of the flat-heads strode towards them.
‘It takes one to know one,’ a shrill voice called out from the back. It was followed by a ripple of nervous laughter.
Vilnix spun round and peered furiously into the shadows. His heart began to pound. ‘Who said that?’ he demanded. ‘Come on, who was it?’ A servant, dressed all in white, stepped forwards. ‘Minulis!’ Vilnix gasped. ‘Is that you?’
‘The Professor of Darkness spoke the truth,’ Minulis shouted defiantly. A muttering went round the walls of the Great Hall. ‘Unlike you!’
‘How dare you!’ screeched Vilnix. ‘Guards, seize him too!’
Two more of the flat-heads jumped down off the stage, and began wading through the crush of bodies. But they didn’t get far. For once the academics worked as one, linking arms, pushing back allowing Minulis to continue.
‘Many’s the whispered conversation I overheard. The crooked deals you struck with the Leaguesmaster. The bribery. The corruption. You are the traitor!’ he cried boldly. ‘I am only sorry that when I was shaving your scurvy head I had not courage enough to slit your scrawny throat!’
White with rage and shaking, Vilnix screamed at him to be silent. ‘Will you let your Most High Academe be slandered in this way?’ he demanded of the crowd.
‘You are not our Most High Academe,’ came a voice. It was the Professor of Windtouchers.
‘Not any more,’ added the Professor of Cloudwatchers.
Vilnix’s jaw dropped. Could he, who prided himself on his manipulation of a situation, have gauged the mood so badly?
‘Guards, guards …’ he cried. Two of the flat-heads took a step forwards, but then stopped. The crowd jeered and booed and hissed. ‘Go on, then!’ Vilnix screamed. But the flat-heads were having none of it. What was more, now that the natural reticence of the academics had been broken, their taunts and accusations came thick and fast. That he had abused his power, colluded with criminals, poisoned the river, desecrated the stormphrax that he had threatened the very existence of Sanctaphrax.
‘He wants stringing up!’ someone screamed.
‘Hanging’s too good for him!’ shouted another.
Vilnix didn’t wait to hear any more. As the crowd surged towards him, he suddenly spun round, hitched up his robes and sped off.
A furious cry went up. ‘After him!’
Down the steps at the edge of the stage, Vilnix ran, with Twig hard on his heels. The crowd raced to meet him.
‘I’ll cut him off’ someone shouted.
‘Oh, no you won’t’ Vilnix muttered as he dodged out of the way of the reaching arms and sped to the side wall. Behind a tapestry was a door. Vilnix was through it before anyone even realized it was there.
‘He’s getting away!’ an angry voice shouted.
Twig was first through the door after him. He looked left. He looked right and there was Vilnix, gown still up around his waist, tearing away down the central avenue. ‘Stop!’ he yelled. ‘Stop!’
Faster and faster Twig ran, with the furious crowd following closely behind. Up an alley, over an arched bridge, through a tunnel and on, they ran. Vilnix Pompolnius knew Sanctaphrax like the back of his hand and, time and again, Twig lost precious seconds as he took a wrong fork or ran past a turning. Yet he was gaining. Slowly, but surely, he was catching up.
‘You can’t get away,’ he bellowed, as Vilnix abruptly jumped down off an overhead walkway, and made a dash for the edge of the rock.
‘Just watch me!’ Vilnix cried, and cackled with laughter.
Twig looked up to see the gnokgoblin from earlier standing next to his basket and beckoning at Vilnix. ‘This way, sire,’ he said. ‘You’ll be down in a trice, so you will.’
Twig groaned as Vilnix strode to the end of the landing stage. He was getting away, after all.
‘Let me give you a hand,’ the gnokgoblin said obligingly.
‘I can manage on my own,’ Vilnix said gruffly, pushing the gnokgoblin to one side. He put his hand on the wicker side and jumped into the basket.
The next instant, there was the sound of tearing. Twig saw a look of horror flash across Vilnix’s face. Then he, together with the basket, disappeared and hurtled down to the ground below.
‘AAAAaaarggh!’ Vilnix screamed, halting everyone in their tracks. Desperate, frenzied, chilling, the cry faded then stopped abruptly.
Far, far below on the ground, the body of Vilnix Pompolnius lay draped across a knife-grinder’s wheeled stall. His arms were outstretched, his legs akimbo, the skull-cap so badly dented it would never be prised from his shattered skull. Millcrop, the knife-grinder, looked into the lifeless face of the former Most High Academe.
‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘If it isn’t old Villy Should have stuck to knife-grinding, like me.’
Back up in Sanctaphrax, Twig reached out for the rope which had broken. Although a few of the strands were frayed, the rest had clearly been sliced through with a knife. He turned, and his gaze fell on the dagger tucked in at the gnokgoblin’s belt. ‘You,’ he said.
The gnokgoblin shrugged. ‘I told you the leaguesmen would see to him.’ He jingled a pouch of coins in his hand before slipping them inside his jerkin. ‘And good payers they are, too,’ he smirked.
Twig climbed to his feet and walked past the gnokgoblin. ‘Vilnix Pompolnius is dead,’ he announced to the crowd.
A shout of joy and derision went up. ‘He’s gone! He’s gone!’ they all cried. ‘And good riddance!’
Twig looked away uneasily. He was as relieved as anyone else that Vilnix Pompolnius was gone, yet the manner of his death disturbed him. It had been an underhand execution, and all the more dishonourable for that.
‘There you are, captain,’ came a voice.
It was Bogwitt. The Stone Pilot was standing beside him. Twig nodded to them. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Let us leave this place.’
•C H A P T E R T W E N T Y-F O U R•
THE EDGEDANCER
In the event, their departure was delayed by the Professor of Darkness who, catching up with them at one of the alternative baskets, tried everything he could to persuade Twig to stay.
‘Where will you go?’ he said. ‘What will you do? There could be such a fine and venerable future for you here, my boy, if only you would take it.’
But Twig shook his head. ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I … I am a sky pirate captain. Like my father, and his father before him. It’s in the blood.’
The professor nodded regretfully. ‘But if you ever change your mind …’ he said, ‘the title of Professor of Light would sit comfortably on so valiant a pair of shoulders.’
Twig smiled.
‘Ah, well,’ the professor sighed. ‘One can but try. Now about the matter we discussed in my study’ he said. He stepped back to reveal two bulging sacks on the ground behind him. ‘I think you’ll find everything in order. Envelopes. Instructions. Crystals. Just as we agreed. And I will see to it that the bell rings every evening. It’s always good to have a new tradition.’ He smiled. ‘Officially, it shall be in honour of your return from the Twilight Woods.’
Twig reached out and shook the professor’s hand warmly. ‘Until the next time, Professor,’ he said.
Back in Undertown once more, Twig found that they had come down within spitting distance of the Bloodoak tavern. Yet a further two days were to pass before they crossed Mother Horsefeather’s threshold. It took that long to assemble a crew.
That first morning, they paid Flabsweat a visit. Unfortunately for the
fat, glistening proprietor, a fresh consignment of creatures had just arrived from the Deepwoods. If Twig had been alone, he might have withdrawn his offer, but the presence of the fierce flat-head and the ominous hooded creature persuaded him to honour the promise he had made.
Just as Cloud Wolf had taken on the Stone Pilot all those years ago to give her back her freedom, so Twig left with three individuals who should never have been in a pet shop in the first place.
The first was Spooler, an oakelf with wide eyes that twitched nervously. Although a fragile-looking specimen, Spooler had valuable experience of skysailing.
The second was Goom, an adolescent banderbear who still bore the wounds of the spiked pit it had been trapped in. As Twig looked the creature up and down, it leaned forwards and touched the banderbear tooth around his neck.
‘Wuh?’ it said questioningly.
‘Wuh-wuh,’ Twig explained.
‘T-wuh-g?’ it said.
Twig nodded. Even though the banderbear was young, it knew all about the boy in the Deepwoods who had once cured a banderbear of toothache.
And the third crew-member … Twig would not even have noticed the scaly creature with its reptilian tongue and fanned ears had it not spoken. ‘You are looking for crew-members’ it hissed. ‘How useful it would be to have someone aboard who can hear thoughts as well as words Captain Twig.’ It smiled and its fan-ears snapped shut. ‘I am Woodfish.’
Twig nodded. ‘Welcome aboard, Woodfish’ he said as he handed him his ten gold pieces.
Six strong, they were now. With a couple more the crew would be complete. Yet with Woodfish now amongst them, the finding of two suitable crew-mates proved difficult.
Every time Twig approached and talked to likely-looking characters in the inns and markets, Woodfish would listen in to their deepest thoughts, and was soon tutting critically and shaking his head. This one was too cowardly. This one, too careless. This one had mutiny in his heart.