Edge Chronicles 10: The Immortals

by Paul Stewart;Chris Riddell

  ‘We can take a webfoot ferry across to East Ridge and then the cliff road above the caves to the Winesap Tavern,’ the Professor told them, scanning the path ahead for any signs of the Bloody Blades.

  ‘What do you think my father was really doing in Hive?’ Eudoxia asked, falling into step with the Professor. ‘If Felftis Brack had already recruited the thousandsticks players for New Lake, my father had no reason to come here himself,’ she said. ‘Unless …’

  ‘Unless what?’ asked the Professor.

  Eudoxia frowned. ‘What if he was here on some other business?’ she said quietly. ‘Such as …’ She hesitated. ‘Supplying the High Council with the phraxcrystals that Great Glade has been denying them?’

  They got to the top of the gorge where the mighty waterfall began its thunderous descent towards the Sumpwood Bridge, far below in the distance.

  ‘Do you think he’s capable of such a thing?’ asked the Professor.

  Behind him, Nate and Slip exchanged glances.

  ‘My father is a good man,’ said Eudoxia slowly, her voice thick with emotion. ‘But he can also be ruthless and ambitious. How do you think he became a mine owner in the Eastern Woods? It’s a tough brutal life, and you have to be strong to survive – do things that you think are necessary … That’s what he always told me.’

  Nate thought of his own father, honourable and scrupulously fair in his dealings.

  ‘And did you agree with your father?’ he asked quietly.

  Eudoxia turned on him, her green eyes blazing. ‘Yes! … No! … I mean …’ Her face crumpled and she buried it in her hands. ‘I don’t know, Nate,’ she sobbed. ‘I just don’t know.’

  • CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE •

  The Winesap Tavern was a shadow of its former glory. Once it had been the most famous tavern in the great city of Hive, a place where traders, travellers, merchants and phraxpilots had rubbed shoulders with the denizens of this, the most diverse of the districts of Hive. In the crowded longhuts and roundhouses of the slopes of East Ridge, some of the oddest and least-encountered goblins had made their homes, and a fair number of them were to be found each evening in the Winesap Tavern.

  There were the so-called wormchins, white goblins from the depths with long glistening tendrils, three feet long, snaking from their heads; snagjaws, tusked goblins from the Western Woods; red and black dwarves, tiny beaked goblins with taloned feet and nervous dispositions – all of them, and a hundred more, to be found nestling at the tavern’s drinking troughs and wine fountains.

  But not any more.

  With the rise to power of High Clan Chief Kulltuft Warhammer and his Bloody Blades, the citizens of Hive had started to avoid public places. And as the trade with Great Glade dropped away, so the tavern had also emptied of merchants and travellers. Then the call up had been announced, and business in this once bustling tavern slowed to a trickle.

  At the splinters table where, in the old days, he’d once played hands of splinters with forty fellow gamblers, the Professor drained his glass. Beside him at the table sat Nate, Slip and Eudoxia, her face streaked with tears.

  ‘Try not to worry, Eudoxia,’ said the Professor. ‘Let’s concentrate on finding your father first, and we can ask questions later.’

  ‘But what if he doesn’t want to be found?’ said Eudoxia, looking down at the untouched glass of squabfruit cordial in front of her. ‘What if he’s changed sides and become a pro-Hiver?’

  ‘Then he can tell you that himself to your face,’ said Nate, ‘when we find him.’

  The tavern was a low-beamed longhut with galleries running the length of one wall and great round wine barrels running along the other. In days gone by, tavern hands had pumped the bellows beneath each barrel to send jets of sapwine bubbling through pipes from the barrels to the wine fountains that stood in front of them. From these, jugs were filled and delivered to the crowded tables in the galleries above. Now, a single low-bellied goblin stood propped up against a barrel in the corner, one foot resting on a pair of bellows as he polished a jug.

  Upstairs in the gallery, Nate and his companions were alone, except for a couple of sharp-nosed treegoblins in the corner, whose mottled greenish colouring blended with the wood panelling, rendering them virtually invisible, apart from their large yellow eyes.

  Just then, the doors to the tavern opened and five bedraggled members of the Hive Militia trooped in, their grey topcoats and breeches crumpled and caked in mud. Calling to the low-belly for jugs of sapwine, they tramped up the stairs and slumped down round a table. With two fourthlings, two grey trogs and a pink-eyed goblin, each one thin, exhausted-looking and footsore, the group was a sorry sight. They shrugged off their knapsacks and stacked their phraxmuskets against the wall. The low-belly placed a jug and five glasses on the table in front of them, and returned to his barrel.

  ‘Here’s to two days’ leave,’ said one of the fourthlings, raising a glass of the golden sapwine. ‘Who knows when we’ll get any more.’

  ‘Two days’ leave,’ the others chorused, and drained their glasses.

  The pink-eyed goblin sat back, his muddy feet perched on the corner of the table. ‘Won’t be long now, lads,’ he said, his pale eyes darting round his companions’ faces. ‘The big one’s coming, and that’s a fact. Why else would those flathead drill sergeants be marching us into the ground?’

  ‘Hush now, Spig,’ said the grey trog next to him, glancing up and catching the Professor’s eye. ‘You know what they says about careless talk. Never knows who might be listening …’

  All five soldiers turned in their chairs and stared at the Professor and the others.

  ‘Time to go, I think,’ muttered the Professor, climbing slowly to his feet and wrapping his oilskin cape around him.

  Nate, Eudoxia and Slip did the same. Crossing to the stairs, they walked down them as casually as they could, Nate aware of the five pairs of eyes boring into the back of his head.

  ‘Lost some of its charm since I was last here,’ said the Professor, opening the tavern door and ushering them out.

  From upstairs in the gallery, loud laughter erupted and raucous calls rang out for more jugs of sapwine. The door slammed shut behind them and the voices became muffled. The Professor gathered his cloak around him and went down the tavern steps.

  ‘Oi! Not so fast!’ came a gruff voice from just along the street.

  The four of them froze, the Professor’s hand going instinctively to the phraxpistol beneath his cloak.

  ‘You said you’d wait.’

  Turning, Nate saw with relief the hammerhead from the hive towers hurrying along the street towards them.

  ‘Do you have any information?’ the Professor asked.

  The hammerhead held out his maimed hand. Reaching into his cloak, the Professor produced two ten-glader notes.

  ‘I asked all round the hive huts,’ the hammerhead told him, taking the notes, ‘and a friend of mine – a thousandsticks trainer by the name of Deggut – did hear something about a Galston Prade. But you won’t find him in the hive huts …’

  ‘Then, where?’ said Eudoxia, unable to contain herself.

  ‘According to Deggut, Galston Prade’s in the Gyle Palace.’ The hammerhead grinned, revealing two rows of sharp yellow teeth. ‘He’s a guest of the grossmothers.’

  • CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO •

  To the east, the sky was deep indigo and studded with stars that sparkled like glister fossils in cliff rock; to the west, the sun had just set below the horizon. As they reached the East Ridge end of the Sumpwood Bridge, the two figures – one huge and shaggy, the other short, wiry and agile – were cast in stark silhouette against the glowing sky.

  The short one looked round and held a finger to his mouth for a moment, before turning back and scuttling off along the bank of the river. His huge companion followed, his body stooped forward as he loped along. Behind them, sumptoads croaked a discordant chorus from the clumps of riverweed at the edge of the turbulent river.

  T
he two figures headed left. They took a track that skirted round the cluster of ramshackle hovels and tumbledown shacks on the edge of the farmland, then up into the main part of Low Town as the moon, full and yellow and low in the sky, appeared above the rooftops.

  ‘Another brazier stone!’ shouted the hulking grey trog as he stretched out in the lufwood tub. ‘The water’s getting cold.’

  His companions, a small tufted goblin and a sallow-faced fourthling, nodded in agreement.

  ‘Nothing like a hot herb bath after a hard day’s drill,’ said the tufted goblin.

  ‘And this is nothing like a hot herb bath!’ retorted the grey trog irritably. ‘Where’s that vat keeper?’

  The three of them were sitting in a large circular tub the size of a sapwine barrel, which was filled to the brim with greyish-blue water. The tub was situated on the edge of a small terrace, with views over the jumble of Low Town rooftops, and the farmland and vineyards beyond. Behind them was a barn-like building, its double doors open wide and a large brazier glowing inside.

  The brazier illuminated the white plaster walls of the building’s interior, which were studded with hooks from which various items of clothing hung; light grey topcoats, dark grey breeches, burnished copperwood helmets and white waistcoats. Below them, three shiny, new-looking phraxmuskets leaned against the wall. From the low roof beams that crisscrossed overhead, bundles of dried herbs hung down in bushy clusters, while in the corner was a pile of smooth round stones the size of dinner platters.

  From the shadows at the back of the building, an elderly mobgnome in a large padded cap and a long apron festooned with small pouches and bundles wrapped in cloth came shuffling forward. She wore large protective gauntlets and gripped a set of fire tongs, which she used to retrieve a glowing stone from the centre of the brazier. Holding it at arm’s length, she shuffled out across the terrace and over to the tub.

  ‘Watch your toes, boys!’ laughed the fourthling. ‘Old Mother Hivewater’s got a present for us.’

  ‘About time, if you ask me, corporal,’ muttered the grey trog as the mobgnome reached over the bathers and dropped the brazier stone into the tub.

  There was a loud hiss, followed by a cloud of aromatic steam, and the greyish-blue water began to bubble. The aged mobgnome wiped her brow on her apron.

  ‘More seasoning, I think,’ she croaked, taking off her gloves and unpinning a cloth bundle from her apron. She untied the string that bound it and sprinkled the contents of the pouch into the bubbling water.

  With a sigh, the grey trog leaned back contentedly in the tub and closed his eyes. His companions did the same. Chuckling to herself, the mobgnome shuffled back inside.

  A few moments later, two figures – one huge and shaggy, the other short, wiry and agile – crept across the terrace. While the large figure stood guard at the door to the building, his smaller companion scuttled inside, re-emerging a few moments later with a bundle of clothes, helmets and three phraxmuskets. Sharing the spoils between them, they slipped away into the night.

  From the steaming herb bath came the deep rumble of snores.

  • CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE •

  The burnished copperwood helmet was several sizes too big for Nate, and its visor kept slipping down over his eyes, making it difficult to see ahead. The phraxmusket on his shoulder also felt heavy and unfamiliar, as did the voluminous grey topcoat. As for the dark grey breeches, they were baggy and uncomfortable and he kept having to hitch them up.

  Pushing back his helmet, Nate glanced round at Eudoxia, who was marching alongside him.

  With her long blonde hair swept up and piled on top of her head, Eudoxia’s helmet fitted perfectly, as did her topcoat and breeches, though she clearly found the phraxmusket as burdensome as Nate found his own. Despite this, Nate had to admit, she looked the part – every inch the fresh-faced recruit to the Hive Militia.

  None of this was surprising, as Eudoxia’s uniform had belonged to a small tufted goblin, while Nate’s had been worn by a much bigger grey trog.

  Ahead of them, perfecting what Nate took to be a military swagger, marched the Professor, in the uniform of a corporal. Stitched to the sleeves of their grey topcoats were lozenge-shaped patches of cloth bearing the words 2nd Low Town Regiment in the heavy curlicued script favoured in Hive.

  ‘Halt!’ ordered the Professor with a bark worthy of a drill sergeant, and Nate suspected that he was rather enjoying his role.

  They had reached the Peak, at the very top of East Ridge, and were surrounded by terrace gardens, fountains and spacious villas built in the Hive style – conical roofs, tall towers and long balconies of carved timber. The rich citizens of Hive passed them by without a glance, exercising milk-white prowlgrins or promenading in gaudy topcoats and gowns at the head of long processions of servants in green livery.

  In front of them, the magnificent Gyle Palace towered up into the morning sky. Up close, Nate marvelled, it was even more spectacular than from the phraxbarge or the window of the Sumpwood Bridge.

  Unlike the black hive huts of the hammerheads, or the carved clan halls of the long-hairs, the glistening pink-tinged palace of the gyle goblins didn’t rely only on timber for its construction. Instead, the Professor had told Nate and Eudoxia on the long march through East Ridge to the Peak, the gyle goblins built in wax – milchwax, to be precise.

  This extraordinary building material, both malleable and incredibly strong, was produced by the huge milchgrubs that fed on the glowing fungus beds in the vast cellar gardens below the palace. As well as this wax, secreted from glands in the creatures’ translucent heads, the milchgrubs produced a sweet, sickly honey on which the gyle goblins exclusively fed.

  As befitted a palace constructed of wax, its magnificent towers, buttresses and high walls had a soft, almost liquid appearance, with intricate traceries of droplets and rivulets seemingly running down its surfaces, collecting on lintels and gables and flowing round doorways. It was as if the Gyle Palace was both growing and melting at the same time. The effect was mesmerising, and it was all Nate could do to take his eyes off it when the huge wooden doors in the great dripping archway at the entrance opened, and a trio of gyle goblins marched out.

  All three of them were of identical appearance; short and thin, with bow legs and long tremulous fingers which they held up in greeting. With their bulbous noses and heavy-lidded eyes, the gyle goblins looked comically sleepy, an impression heightened by their expensive-looking clothes; embroidered topcoats, triple-breasted waistcoats and crushed funnel hats – all of which looked as if they’d been slept in and were stained with honey.

  ‘What be you wanting?’ the first of the goblins asked in a flat voice that betrayed almost no interest.

  ‘We have orders from the High Council to escort Galston Prade to the Clan Hall in High Town,’ the Professor barked, saluting the gyle goblin theatrically.

  He flourished the barkscroll that the archivists had carefully forged in front of the goblin’s bulbous nose. Ignoring it, the goblin turned to his companion.

  ‘The High Council be wanting Galston Prade,’ he said.

  The gyle goblin nodded and turned to the gyle goblin next to him. ‘The High Council be wanting Galston Prade,’ he repeated.

  The third gyle goblin turned to the open doorway and, cupping his hands to his mouth, called in a flat sing-song voice, ‘The High Council be wanting Galston Prade.’

  The cry was taken up by unseen goblins in the halls and corridors inside the palace, passed on one to another until it faded out of earshot. Nate, Eudoxia and the Professor waited. Then, in the distance, but getting louder as it proceeded back along the chain, came a reply.

  ‘Galston Prade, central tower, top balcony.’

  The third gyle goblin stepped aside and ushered them in.

  ‘Galston Prade, central tower, top balcony,’ he said, his heavy-lidded eyes staring expressionlessly.

  As Nate and Eudoxia followed the Professor through the entrance, the three gyle goblins pu
shed the door shut behind them and resumed their positions at three small peepholes.

  ‘Which way?’ asked the Professor, but the gyle goblins, their backs turned, ignored him.

  ‘Never mind,’ he muttered. ‘You two, follow me.’

  They strode off up a long narrow corridor that rose at a gentle incline. It was warm and stuffy in the palace, and the waxen walls gleamed with a flickering light thrown out by the brazier torches that hung down from the curved ceiling above. Nate trailed his hand along the wall and found it soft and smooth to the touch. He held his fingers to his nose, and recoiled at the intense sickly-sweet smell, so overpowering it made him feel light-headed.

  ‘Come on, Nate!’ the Professor muttered. ‘This isn’t a sightseeing trip!’

  After some twenty strides or so, the corridor abruptly opened up into a vast vaulted hall. Towering high above them, and plunging down deep into the depths of the palace, the hall was immense, crisscrossed both above and below with drip-streaked walkways of wax. The corridor split into three walkways which snaked upwards around the circular walls of three huge towers.

  ‘This way,’ said the Professor, taking the central fork along the curved aerial balcony which led up towards the central of the palace’s towers.

  Nate followed Eudoxia and the Professor, a raised hand holding the oversized helmet from slipping, scarcely daring to look down over the edge of the walkway as it spiralled higher and higher round the sides of the tower. All around them, balconies and walkways of glistening wax connected and interconnected, leading to chambers, ledges and alcoves which had been moulded and sculpted from the thick waxen walls. Nate pushed back the visor of his helmet and stared around him.

  There were gyle goblins everywhere. In the chambers, on the walkways, heading up and down slippery stairs; all identical, and all engaged in carrying, sorting through, grading and chopping vast sackfuls of vegetables and fruit. As Nate, Eudoxia and the Professor marched ever higher, lines of gyle goblins would jostle past them, carrying baskets of pulp which they tipped over the balustrades of the balconies and sent spinning down into the palace depths.