The Storm Tower Thief

by Anne Cameron

  “Then we must take comfort from that, at the very least. But what does the message say?”

  “Alabone sometimes overhears careless conversations, whispered plans from those who pass through the dungeons to the experimentation chambers underneath Castle Dankhart,” Jeremius answered quietly. “For some weeks now there have been dark rumors and mumblings. Dankhart is up to something. The icicle storms are coming from him. He’s using the chaos they cause to keep the lightning catchers busy, their resources thinly stretched across the globe.”

  “But what on earth could the scoundrel hope to gain by such a plan?”

  “Dankhart’s intentions are not clear. Still, it wouldn’t be the first time he’s used the weather as a distraction. He’s already done it once before, with the newts and frogs, when he was looking for the lightning vaults, so why not use it again?”

  “And you are positive that Alabone has sent this warning himself?” There was a note of caution in Mr. Dewsnap’s voice now. “Have you considered that it could be a clever forgery, a trick designed to cause yet more chaos?”

  “I have considered it. But Alabone signed the note with a simple sequence of numbers, a code we used as children. No one else ever knew of it. There can be no doubt that the message is genuine. Here, take a look for yourself.”

  Angus edged even closer to the door, desperately hoping to catch a glimpse of the words his dad had written. He could hear Jeremius taking something out of his deep coat pocket. There was a pause, then—

  “He used a Farew’s?” Mr. Dewsnap said, sounding surprised.

  “It was the safest way. If the message had been intercepted before it reached me . . .”

  Before Angus could even ponder what this strange comment might mean, Jeremius was talking again.

  “As you can see, Alabone has also asked me to keep Angus safe. If Dankhart is up to something, Perilous is the only place I can hope to keep him out of harm’s way, assuming I can curb this talent for trouble he seems to have developed.”

  Mr. Dewsnap chuckled.

  “Especially as Dankhart now knows that Angus is a storm prophet. There’s no telling what he might do with such information.”

  Angus frowned, puzzled. Why would Dankhart give two hoots about the fact that he could predict a lightning strike or two, or even ten? What possible interest could it be to a person who could already do extraordinary things to the weather?

  “I was already on my way to the Windmill when Dark-Angel sent a message asking me to help with the icicle storms and bring Angus back to continue his training. But I would have brought him back here in any case, whatever her decision about his future at Perilous.”

  “Rightly so,” Mr. Dewsnap said. “Until we are sure what Dankhart is planning, there can be no better place.”

  “And speaking of Perilous . . .” There was a scraping of chairs as both men stood up. “We really must leave before the weather closes in again and we are forced to stay here another night.”

  “You are more than welcome, old friend. McFanguses will always find a cheery welcome and a bed for the night here at Feaver Street.”

  Angus turned silently on his heel, his head now crammed with a confusion of troubling thoughts, and he crept back down the hall before Jeremius caught him listening.

  The journey back to Perilous was an exceptionally chilly one. They took an ancient open-topped, steam-powered coach, which they caught from the end of Feaver Street. Dougal sat immersed in the Imburology book. Angus watched Little Frog’s Bottom disappearing behind them, and in his mind he went over and over the revealing conversation he’d accidentally overheard. At least he understood now why Jeremius had made such a sudden appearance at the Windmill, after eleven years of silence. From the very depths of the Castle Dankhart dungeons, he’d been sent a stark warning. Dankhart was up to his old tricks once again, this time sending icicle storms out to the far reaches of the world. But why? What was he hoping to achieve? And why had Jeremius kept the shocking news about Angus’s dad’s message to himself? Surely he should have told Angus something so important.

  Angus shivered and pulled his coat tighter. Maybe he should just explain about the accidental eavesdropping and simply ask to see the note for himself? He quickly decided against it. Jeremius was cool and exciting. Angus already liked him immensely. But there was something about him that didn’t quite add up.

  Twenty minutes later they finally reached the foot of the towering rock upon which Perilous sat. The only way to reach the top was via a stomach-churning contraption called a gravity railway. Angus had ridden on this terrifying mode of transportation only a couple of times before, once when he’d been unconscious, but it was definitely his least favorite part of life at the Exploratorium. He kept his eyes firmly shut as the carriage shot upward at a disturbing rate, and he was extremely pleased when they finally reached the top.

  He staggered out of the carriage and stared at the familiar stone building before him. It was enormously grand and impressive. A weather station sat on the flat roof. Ornate steel-and-glass weather bubbles, where he, Dougal, and Indigo had learned about the seventeen different types of fog, burst through the outer walls like enormous soapsuds. Beyond a door in the courtyard wall, there was a set of steep stone steps that led down to the spectacular cloud gardens. Angus grinned. Staying at the Windmill with Uncle Max was brilliant, apart from when he was being attacked by vicious pods, but at Perilous he truly felt like he belonged.

  It was obvious, however, that the whole Exploratorium was in the grip of a deep freeze. Lethal-looking icicles dangled off every roof and window frame, and huge piles of fresh snow were clogging the doorways.

  “Why’s the weather so much worse up here?” Angus wondered aloud as they skidded with their luggage across the icy courtyard and into the entrance hall, to escape the freezing chill.

  “Obvious, isn’t it?” Dougal said, taking off his gloves. “Perilous is higher up than everything else around it, so it gets the worst of the weather first. You’d be freezing, too, if you had your head stuck permanently in the clouds.”

  On the inside, the thick stone walls of the Exploratorium were as warm and welcoming as ever, with huge fires blazing in every grate.

  “Right, you two. I’d better go and report to Principal Dark-Angel.” Jeremius appeared beside them and stamped snow off the bottoms of his boots. “I trust you can make it down to your own rooms without getting into too much trouble?”

  “Yeah, we’ll try.” Angus grinned.

  “In that case, I’ll see you both later.”

  Angus watched as Jeremius headed up the stairs, and then turned quickly to Dougal. All private conversation inside the carriage had been impossible, but now that they were alone, he could finally tell Dougal about the shocking news he’d overheard earlier that morning.

  “Listen, there’s something I’ve got to tell you. I—” His words were cut short, however, by a loud groan coming from Dougal. “What? What is it?”

  Angus stared around the entrance hall, half expecting to see Catcher Sparks marching toward them with a pile of moldy old armpit warmers to scrape before lunchtime. But the only person he could see was a short, plump woman with soft brown curls that bounced on top of her head as she walked. She was wrapped up warmly in thick woolen tights and a sturdy tweed dress. She waved her bag at Dougal, trying to attract his attention. Dougal, however, was now staring determinedly in the opposite direction, pretending to read an angry notice banning all indoor snowball fights.

  “There you are, my lovely.” The woman smiled kindly down at Dougal. “I’ve brought you an extra scarf to help keep out this dreadful chill. I don’t know how I’d ever face your father again if you caught a cold in this drafty old Exploratorium and it went straight to your chest.” She opened her bag, pulled out a long knitted scarf in nauseating shades of peach and mauve, and handed it to a glum-looking Dougal.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Stobbs.” He sighed.

  “And there’s a spare one here for your fr
iend too,” she added, offering a green-and-red-striped scarf to Angus.

  “Er, thanks a lot.” Angus draped it round his neck, grateful for the extra knitwear.

  “If you need any gloves or hats, you know where to find me, my lovely. Now I’d best be off,” she said, snapping her bag shut. “Principal Dark-Angel’s expecting me to polish her furniture this morning, and this weather’s playing havoc with my beeswax.”

  And with one final wave, she disappeared down a stone passageway to the right.

  “Who was that?” Angus asked as soon as she was out of earshot.

  “Mrs. Stobbs, our housekeeper,” Dougal explained, looking uncomfortable. “She works for Dark-Angel most of the time, but she comes round our house twice a week to help out with the housework,” he added quietly. “Dad didn’t cope very well with the ironing and stuff after Mum died.”

  Angus stared at Dougal, who was suddenly avoiding his gaze. Why had he never asked Dougal about his mum before? It was obvious now, though, that something must have happened to her—Dougal only ever spoke about his dad. It was also obvious why most of the rooms in the rambling house at Feaver Street felt unloved and abandoned. Dougal and his dad simply couldn’t fill them on their own.

  “Listen, I’m really sorry. I—I should have asked you about your mum ages ago,” he mumbled awkwardly. And he suddenly felt ashamed of the fact that he hadn’t, especially as Dougal had risked serious injury, even death, to help him uncover the truth about his own parents.

  “Forget it.” Dougal’s cheeks glowed pink with embarrassment. “Mum died when I was really young. Dad doesn’t like talking about it much.”

  “Mrs. Stobbs seems . . . nice,” Angus added, scrambling around for something else to say.

  Dougal shrugged. “She bakes good cakes and stuff, I suppose, but she fusses over things a bit. And she likes to knit,” he said miserably, trying to stuff the scarf into his pocket and out of sight. “Come on, let’s get out of here before she forces me into a pair of knitted earmuffs as well.”

  Before they could even escape the entrance hall, however, their progress was halted yet again by a stern voice.

  “McFangus! Dewsnap!”

  And they spun around to find Catcher Sparks, their master lightning catcher, striding toward them. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun. She was dressed in a long brown leather jerkin that buckled all the way up the front and looked tough enough to stop a stampeding rhinoceros in its tracks. Angus gulped. Catcher Sparks had been responsible for making them do some of the most disgusting work of their training so far, including scraping snot-repelling handkerchiefs by hand. And she was advancing upon them now with an extremely purposeful look on her face.

  “And where, may I ask, have you two been?” she snapped, towering over them with a steely-eyed stare.

  Angus exchanged mystified looks with Dougal. “We—we haven’t been anywhere, miss. We’ve only just arrived back at Perilous.”

  “In that case, you’d better come with me, the pair of you,” she ordered, starting in the direction of the staircase that rose up through the middle of the hall.

  “But, miss, we haven’t done anything wrong,” Angus said automatically.

  “I am aware of that, McFangus. All lightning cubs are being taken straight to the Antarctic testing center in the supplies department upon their arrival back at Perilous.”

  “Er . . . to the what?”

  “I haven’t got time to stand around here explaining. Come along.” She marched them across the hall briskly. “And do something with that thing dangling out of your pocket, Dewsnap; it’s making the place look untidy.”

  “What do you reckon an Antarctic testing center is?” Angus mumbled as they followed her.

  “I don’t know, but anything with the word ‘Antarctic’ in it can’t be good, can it?” Dougal replied, looking worried.

  Catcher Sparks took them up to an impressive marbled hall at the top of the staircase. Angus hadn’t expected to find himself back in the Octagon again until the next morning at the earliest. He stared at the eight familiar doors set deep into the thick walls with a sudden feeling of apprehension. He’d already spent quite some time in the experimental division, where his eyeballs had almost been sucked out of their sockets by a powerful storm vacuum. In the Lightnarium, he’d narrowly avoided being burned to a crisp by some ball lightning, and he’d also discovered he was a storm prophet. He stared at the faded golden fire dragon that had been etched into the door of the deadly department many years ago. It flickered at him, shimmering. He looked away from it quickly.

  The only two doors he’d never set foot inside led to the Inner Sanctum of Perplexing Mysteries and Secrets, which nobody ever entered, and the supplies department. Up until now, he’d always considered supplies to be the least dangerous of all the departments at Perilous.

  “All lightning catchers are exceedingly busy at the moment,” Catcher Sparks explained as she bustled them straight inside. They walked past several closed doors, marked FORECASTING DEPARTMENT SUPPLIES, EXPERIMENTAL DIVISION SUPPLIES, and RUBBER BOOT OVERFLOW. “As I’m sure even you two have noticed, the weather has been behaving in a ferocious manner just lately. Imbur itself is in the grip of a treacherous winter,” she said with an involuntary shiver. “And as a result, extra cold-weather supplies are being issued to each and every person at this Exploratorium.”

  She stopped abruptly outside a door marked LIGHTNARIUM SUPPLIES. She knocked once and let herself in, leaving the door open behind her.

  “Valentine Vellum has asked me to drop off an order form for a dozen pairs of tinted safety goggles,” she said, addressing a startled-looking man inside. “As I was already passing, I agreed on this occasion. But please do not expect me to behave like a carrier pigeon in the future.”

  Angus caught a fleeting glimpse of neatly stacked shelves and boxes through the open door before Catcher Sparks snapped it shut again. She continued down the corridor as if nothing had happened.

  “Not everyone reacts to the cold in the same manner, however, and it is therefore necessary to test your individual thermal capacity. That is why I am taking you to the Antarctic testing center.”

  She shuffled them through a door marked with a single silver snowflake and into a small waiting room. “Wait here,” she ordered, and disappeared through another door at the far side.

  The room was bare and cramped and gave no hint of what might be awaiting them in the testing center. Unfortunately, it was also occupied by two of Angus’s least favorite trainees in the entire Exploratorium, Percival and Pixie Vellum.

  Angus had loathed the hairy, gorillalike twins ever since their very first meeting outside the weather tunnel the previous term. They were watching him and Dougal now, with identical sneers on their ugly faces.

  “What is that hideous thing, Dewsnap?” Percival pointed at the scarf, which Dougal was hurriedly trying to stuff deeper into his coat pocket. “Don’t tell me you and Dungbeetle are knitting your own underwear now? Or is it a Christmas present from Midnight, your girlfriend?”

  “Shut it, Vellum.” Dougal scowled. He shoved his way past the twins and sat on a chair in the far corner with his arms folded.

  “There’s no need to be so touchy,” Percival continued as Pixie snickered beside him. “I was only wondering what you and Dungbeetle got each other for Christmas.”

  “It’s none of your business,” Angus snapped, wishing Catcher Sparks had left them in a different waiting room. He made a move toward the only empty chair left.

  “You’re not sitting anywhere near me, McFangus. I might catch something.” Percival inched away from him, looking revolted. “Everyone knows you’ve got crumble fungus.”

  “Yeah, we don’t want your disgusting germs in this Exploratorium. Dark-Angel should have expelled you,” Pixie added, shuffling to make extra room for her brother.

  “She should expel you two first for being moronic.” Dougal scowled again at the twins.

  But for once Perciva
l didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he stared at Angus with an annoying smirk until Catcher Sparks returned a few minutes later.

  “You two.” She jabbed a finger at the twins. “Come with me.” She watched them suspiciously as they stood up and slouched through the open door. “McFangus, Dewsnap, wait here until we’re ready for you.”

  “Of all the idiots to get stuck in this room with . . .” Dougal moaned as soon as the door was closed. “I’m starting to wish we hadn’t bothered coming back. What kind of a welcome is this?”

  But Angus had more pressing concerns. “Are you sure those two don’t know anything about my mum and dad?”

  “Course not! They’re two of the biggest blabbermouths in the whole Exploratorium. If they knew something that interesting, they’d be telling everyone in sight.”

  “Then why is Percival looking so smug all of a sudden?”

  Dougal shrugged. “That’s just his normal expression. Anyway, I’m more worried about what’s going on behind that door than what’s going on inside Percival Vellum’s brain.”

  Five, ten, fifteen long minutes passed with no sign of Catcher Sparks or the twins. There were, however, some very odd noises coming from behind the closed door. They heard a series of sharp squeals and then a strange whooshing sound that sent shivers up and down Angus’s spine.

  Dougal looked steadily more nauseated as the minutes passed. By the time Catcher Sparks finally came back, his face had turned the same sickly color as the pom-poms on his scarf.

  “McFangus.” Catcher Sparks was now wearing a long coat with woolen gloves and snow boots. “Come with me.”

  Angus followed her through the door, with one backward glance at Dougal. He was hit instantly by a blast of icy air, and he was surprised to find that the entire room was covered in a thick layer of hard, glittering frost. It reminded him of the igloo he’d seen in the projectogram show at the Windmill.

  Thankfully, there was no sign of the Vellum twins anywhere. But he did recognize Doctor Fleagal, a short, stout, chatty man who usually worked in the sanatorium. He was sitting behind a desk with a fat pile of notes in front of him.