by Paul Stewart
‘It’s timber,’ Rook heard Stob telling Magda in that bossy, rather haughty voice of his. ‘Ironwood, by the look of it. No doubt bound for the Sanctaphrax forest,’ he continued. ‘Sheer madness, if you ask me, but then –’ his voice dropped to a low whisper – ‘that’s the Guardians of Night for you.’
‘Ssh!’ Magda warned him under her breath ‘There are spies everywhere,’ she breathed.
Stob’s eyes narrowed. Even though he knew she was right, he didn’t like to be told. And as the third load of ironwood rumbled past, and the departing crowd surged forwards once again, Stob marched ahead, demanding that the others keep up.
Magda turned to Rook, rolled her eyes and smiled conspiratorially Rook increased his pace to keep up with her.
‘The Guardians,’ he whispered. ‘Do you think they know what we’re doing?’
Magda shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ she said. ‘But knowing and finding are two different things!’ she added fiercely.
‘What about the Most High Academe?’ asked Rook. ‘They say he has an army of goblin mercenaries on duty day and night, just to hunt down librarian knights …’
Magda tossed her head back contemptuously. ‘The Most High Academe, Vox Verlix, that great sack of oak-wine – hah! He’s finished.’ She paused. ‘Of course, you know it’s him who’s responsible for that.’ She pointed to the tall towers of the Mire road looming up ahead of them.
Rook gasped. ‘He built that!’
Magda nodded. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘After stone-sickness put an end to sky-trade, he designed and supervised the building of the Great Mire Road so that we humble merchants of Undertown could trade with the Deepwoods. Clever person, old Vox. At least, he was once. Too clever! Mother Scab-beak and the Shryke Sisterhood seized control of it, and there was nothing he could do to stop them.’
‘What about his goblin mercenaries?’ asked Rook.
‘Them? They’re worse than the shrykes. Vox recruited them to guard the slaves he used to build the Great Mire Road, and they ended up holding him to ransom. He has to pay them off constantly. Otherwise they’d throw him out of that fancy palace of his – and he knows it. The goblins and the shrykes have made an alliance to control the trade between Undertown and the Deepwoods, and Vox Verlix, the so-called Most High Academe, is nothing more than their puppet. Anyway, it’s not him we have to worry about,’ Magda added darkly. ‘It’s the Guardians of Night who are really dangerous.’
Rook shivered and adjusted the tool-harness on his back. It suddenly felt very heavy.
Magda shook her head. ‘It was also Vox Verlix who designed the Tower of Night for the Guardians,’ she said. ‘It was supposed to tap the power of a passing storm and thereby heal the great floating rock.’ She stopped and looked over her shoulder. ‘You can see it over there in the distance. Evil-looking monstrosity.’
Rook nodded, and glanced back. There, huge and threatening, was the great wooden structure, towering high above the rooftops of even the tallest Undertown buildings. Its narrow spire – Midnight’s Spike – pointed up accusingly at the sky.
‘And it was Vox,’ she went on, turning back, ‘who, when that same great floating rock began to crumble and sink, was forced by the Guardians to keep it shored up with timbers. Hundreds, thousands of ironwood timbers. The Sanctaphrax Forest.’
‘Yes, I know about that,’ said Rook, remembering his studies. It’s that vast wooden scaffold of pillars and crossbeams that keeps the floating rock from sinking right down to the ground, isn’t it?’
‘Precisely,’ said Magda. ‘According to many scholars, that must never be allowed to happen. If the floating rock touches the ground, they say, it would mean that the power of the storm would pass straight through the stricken rock to the ground beneath, failing to heal it. Hence the so-called forest – which, unlike the Tower of Night and the Mire road, will go on being built for ever,’ she added, ‘for the lower the rock sinks, the more timbers are needed to support it. Stob is right. It is madness – Careful, Rook!’
Too late. Rook walked slap-bang into an oncoming tufted goblin. There was a thud, followed by a crash, followed by the sound of round objects clattering over the cobbles and loud, angry swearing. Rook, who had been looking back at the angular Tower of Night silhouetted against the darkening sky, spun round. The goblin was lying on his back, dazed and cursing loudly, with Magda crouching down next to him. The crate he had dropped had upturned and its contents – a consignment of choicest woodapples – were rolling noisily over the cobbled street in all directions. As for Stob, he was nowhere to be seen.
Rook’s heart began to pound. He was meant to be travelling as inconspicuously as possible, yet here he was drawing attention, not only to himself, but also to Magda. A small crowd had collected round the ranting goblin. If the guards were to get wind of what was going on, he ran the risk of sabotaging the entire trip before they even got properly started.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said as he scurried about, retrieving the woodapples. ‘It was entirely my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.’
‘Yeah, well,’ said the tufted goblin, making a great show of dipping his finger into the soft red flesh of a shattered woodapple. ‘That’s all very well, but what about the fruit what’s got smashed up? I’m just a poor fruit vendor …’ He left the words hanging in mid air.
‘I … I’ll make good the loss, of course,’ said Rook uneasily. He looked up at Magda. ‘Won’t we?’
Without a word, Magda reached into her cloak and pulled out a leather pouch. She loosened the drawstring. ‘Here,’ she said, placing a small gold piece into the goblin’s palm. ‘This is for the damaged fruit.’ The goblin nodded, his eyes glinting craftily. ‘And this,’ she said, as she added a second coin, ‘is for any bumps or bruises suffered.’ She stood up, yanked the goblin to his feet and smiled fiercely. ‘I trust the matter is settled, then,’ she said.
‘Y-yes, I suppose so,’ the goblin stammered. ‘Though—’
‘Excellent,’ Magda announced. She turned and, with Rook in tow, strode back off into the crowd.
‘You handled that very … confidently,’ said Rook.
Magda tossed her plaits back and laughed. ‘I have three older brothers,’ she explained. ‘I’ve had to learn how to hold my own.’
Rook smiled. He was growing to like this travelling companion. Although at first she had seemed imposing, abrupt – abrasive even – now he was beginning to see her in a different light. She was practical, she was forthright, she spoke her mind and acted decisively. Rook realized, now, why she had been selected to go to the Free Glades. In comparison, Stob seemed cold, aloof, bookish … He frowned. ‘Where is Stob?’ he wondered out loud.
Magda shook her head. ‘That’s what I was just asking myself,’ she said, and looked round. ‘We must stick together.’
They were, by now, almost at the entrance to the Great Mire Road, with the gateway towers reaching far up above their heads. If everything went as planned, then someone would make themselves known to them – someone who would guide them safely through the toll-gate. Rook fingered his bloodoak tooth and searched the crowd for anyone wearing something similar.
Stob was nowhere to be seen, and the large square in front of the tollgate was thronging. The noise was colossal, and the smells! Everything from the sour stench of pickled tripweed barrels to the overpowering sweetness of vats of barkcat-musk perfume. Here, where the in-trade and out-trade converged, were merchants and pedlars, prowlgrin-riders and hammelhorn-drivers, carts, carriages and cargo of every description.
There were armed guards and tally-shrykes, smugglers and slavers, food vendors, bar-tenders, entrepreneurs and money-lenders. There were creatures and characters from every corner of the Edge – lugtrolls, gabtrolls, woodtrolls, cloddertrogs and termagants, nightwaifs and flitterwaifs, and goblins of every description. And there, standing in the shadows of a tall loading-derrick, his body half turned away, was Stob Lummus himself.
‘He’s tal
king to someone,’ Rook hissed. His voice dropped. ‘It must be our contact.’ And he went to step forwards, only to find Magda’s firm grip on his arm holding him back.
‘I’m not so sure,’ she said. ‘Listen.’
Rook cocked his head to one side and concentrated on the gruff voice coming from the depths of the shadows. ‘What was that? Bloodoak what?’ the voice complained tetchily. ‘You must speak up!’
‘I said,’ he heard Stob replying in a sibilant stage-whisper, ‘that is an interesting charm you’re wearing.
Bloodoak tooth, if I’m not mistaken—’
‘What?’ demanded the voice, and Rook caught the flash of something metallic. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’
Magda shook her head. ‘Surely that can’t be our contact,’ she said.
‘Indeed it’s not, missy,’ came a sing-song voice behind her. ‘I am.’ Both Magda and Rook turned to see a dumpy gnokgoblin wearing a long cape and head scarf, and carrying a covered basket on one of her stubby arms. Around her neck glinted an ornate pendant, the centre-piece of which was a glistening red tooth.
‘My name is Tegan,’ she said. ‘Your friend has made an unfortunate, not to say foolish, mistake—’
‘He’s no friend of mine,’ Magda cut in sharply.
‘Friend, companion, fellow-traveller,’ said Tegan, ‘the precise nature of your relationship is unimportant. All that matters is that he is in danger.’ She shook her head and tutted with concern. ‘This could be serious,’ she said. ‘Very serious. You must go and get him before he gives all of us away. Quickly, now.’
Neither Magda nor Rook needed to be told twice. They darted across the square, dodging through the streaming crowds, and into the shadows at the bottom of the loading-derrick.
‘There you are, Stob!’ cried Rook, grabbing one of his arms. ‘We’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ said Magda, as she took hold of the other. ‘Off we go!’
‘No, no,’ said Stob urgently, and tried to shake them off. His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I’ve found our first contact,’ he said.
Rook and Magda glanced round at the old woodtroll who was standing beside them. He was plump and bandy-legged, and the plaits in his beard had turned white. He had a brass ear-trumpet raised to one ear, while round his neck were clustered trinkets and lucky charms of all shapes and sizes. A dullish brown tusk on a leather cord nestled in the white whiskers.
‘No, you haven’t,’ said Magda.
‘Trouble is,’ Stob said, ‘he’s a bit deaf.’
‘I heard that!’ said the woodtroll indignantly.
‘So are you, Stob!’ Magda said in a clipped whisper. ‘I’m telling you, he’s not the contact. Now, come on.’ With that, she and Rook tightened their grip and frogmarched Stob away.
‘Here!’ the woodtroll called after them. ‘What’s this all about?’
Magda turned to Stob questioningly Stob shrugged. ‘Didn’t you see it?’ he said. ‘The pendant – a bloodoak tooth on a leather strip—’
‘That was no bloodoak tooth,’ said Magda. ‘It was a whitecollar woodwolf fang.’ She tutted. ‘Call yourself a librarian scholar!’
Even as he heard her accusing words, Rook realized that he, too, might just as easily have been fooled. At a glance, in the jostling crowd, the wolf fang could easily be confused with a bloodoak tooth. Stob’s big mistake had been to approach the old woodtroll rather than wait to be approached.
‘You made it, then,’ the gnokgoblin said to them when they arrived back by her side. ‘Well done. I was beginning to worry’
‘Yes,’ said Magda. ‘Though no thanks to—’
‘Who is this?’ said Stob, butting in. He was feeling both foolish and resentful. ‘Can we trust her?’
Tegan nodded sagely. ‘You are wise to be sceptical,’ she said. ‘For “Trust no-one” is as good a motto as any for you to stick to on your long journey’
‘You still haven’t given us a reason for trusting you,’ said Stob rudely.
Without saying a word, the gnokgoblin reached forwards and fingered the carved bloodoak tooth round his neck, then nodded towards the two others. ‘Rather a coincidence for three travellers to be wearing the same earth-studies talisman, don’t you think?’ she said. ‘Unless Fenbrus Lodd is now handing them out to all and sundry’
‘No,’ Stob conceded. ‘So far as I know, they are given only to librarian knights elect, and their supporters.’
‘Then nothing has changed,’ said Tegan. She opened the front of her cape to reveal her own ornate talisman.
‘You?’ said Stob, surprised. ‘You’re our contact?’
‘You seem surprised,’ said the gnokgoblin. ‘Over the years I have done my best to be useful to scholars and academics of every persuasion. Acting as a counsellor here, a guide there …’ Her voice took on an icy edge. ‘Anything, rather than allow the Edge to slide into the dark oblivion those cohorts of the Tower of Night would foist upon us all.’
‘Well said,’ Magda agreed.
The gnokgoblin looked around anxiously. ‘We have already been standing here for too long. It’s not safe.’ She turned back to them and her face broke into a smile. ‘The three of you have got a long and difficult journey ahead of you, but with a little luck and a lot of perseverance, I just know you’re going to succeed.’
Rook suddenly felt buoyed up by the gnokgoblin’s confidence, and grinned from ear to ear. He could hardly wait to get going.
‘Right, then,’ said Tegan. ‘It’s high time we saw about your tally-discs. Keep close together – and let me do all the talking.’
As they approached the Great Mire Road, Rook saw that there was a row of tally-huts and barriers strung out in a line between the huge towers. Individual queues led to each one. The gnokgoblin led them straight to the tally-hut closest to the left-hand tower.
Ahead, on an ornately carved throne, sat a large shryke matron, bedecked in jewels and rich fabrics. On either side of the throne sprouted enormous carved claws which barred the way through. The shryke eyed each trader with yellow, unblinking eyes, before scrutinizing the tattered, much-thumbed papers handed to her.
‘Pass!’ Her voice rasped out as she flicked the lever at her side with an evil-looking talon. The carved claws clicked open and the trader walked through. ‘Next!’
‘Pass!’ Click. ‘Next! Pass!’ Click. ‘Next!’
Rook jumped. To his surprise, he realized that Stob and Magda were through. It was his turn. His heart leaped into his mouth.
‘Remember,’ Tegan whispered in his ear. ‘Let me do the talking.’
‘Next!’ The shryke’s voice was shrill with irritation. Tegan pushed Rook forward. Somehow, Rook made his legs work. With a trembling hand, he offered up his false documents, trying not to look at the yellow eyes that seemed to be boring into his skull. What if there was some mistake with his papers? What if the shryke asked him about his so-called line of business? What did Rook know about knife-sharpening? A cold panic began to build in the pit of his stomach.
‘Knife-sharpener?’ The shryke cocked her large head to one side. The feathers at her neck ruffled, the jewels clinked, her terrible curved beak came towards Rook’s down-turned face. ‘Don’t look old enough to play with knives, do he?’ the shryke cackled nastily. ‘Well, sonny? Goblin stolen your tongue?’
Tegan stepped forward. ‘It’s his first time,’ she smiled. ‘Obviously he’s overcome with the beauty of your plumage, Sister Sagsplit.’
The shryke laughed. ‘Tegan, you old charmer. Is he with you?’
Tegan nodded.
‘I might have known,’ said the shryke. ‘Through you go.’
The talon flicked the lever. Rook took his papers and tally-disc, and stumbled through the opening claw-stile. Magda and Stob were waiting on the other side.
‘What kept you?’ Magda sounded panicky.
‘Stopped for a chat, no doubt,’ said Stob smugly.
‘Shut up, Stob,’ said Magda. She clasped Rook’s hand
. ‘Are you all right? You look very pale.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Rook shakily. ‘It’s just, I’ve never seen a shryke before. They’re so … so …’
‘You’ll see plenty more on the Mire road,’ said Tegan, motioning them forward.
‘You? Don’t you mean we?’ said Magda.
‘Yeah, I thought you were coming with us,’ said Stob.
‘My place is here,’ Tegan explained. ‘My role is to get travellers safely through the tollgate tally-huts and onto the Great Mire Road. Others will make themselves known to you along the way’ She gave them each a brief, but heartfelt hug. ‘Take care, beware and well may you fare, my dears,’ she said. And with that, she was gone.
The three young librarian knights elect suddenly felt very alone. From behind them, there came the loud noise of clattering and chattering as a contingent of rowdy mobgnomes lugging a vast range of ironware products, from buckets and bellows to wrought-iron railings, drew closer and overtook them. Without saying a word to one another – but instinctively aware that there was safety in numbers – Stob and Magda attached themselves to the back of the group, and Rook brought up the rear.
Ever since the young under-librarian’s name had echoed round the high vaulted ceiling of the Great Storm Chamber, Rook Barkwater had felt he was in a dream, scarcely able to believe the events unfolding before him. Now, as he stared ahead at the magnificent raised road, with its ironwood pylons and huge floating lufwood barges; with its look-out posts, its toll-towers and its blazing beacons snaking away into the distance far ahead, his head reeled and his body tingled with excitement.
‘This is it,’ he whispered softly. ‘There’s no turning back now. The greatest adventure of my life has already begun.’