Stormchaser (12 page)

White ravens, already scavenging. Black deeds. Monstrous deeds.

With his leather bag full of bloody booty clasped in his bony hand, Screed Toe-taker picked his way across the Mire. Far away in front of him, the moon glinted on the wreck of a sky ship which lay half-buried in the mud like a giant skeleton. Unblinking, Screed kept his eyes fixed on the glinting ribs of the broken hull. Closer and closer
he came. Not once did he falter. Not once did he look back.

‘At last,’ Screed muttered as he made it to the wreck. He glanced round for any tell-tale sign of intrusion and, when he was satisfied there was no-one and nothing there, he scuttled into the shadowy recesses of the lopsided shipwreck.

If some intruder
had
taken the opportunity to investigate the place during its owner's absence, he, she or it would have been left shaking with disbelief at the horrors the ship concealed. The dank air, for a start, was thick with the pungent stench of death. And then there were the walls – studded their length and breadth with mummified toes, nailed to the wood.

There were big toes, small toes, hairy toes, scaly toes, toes with razor-sharp talons, toes with claws, toes with webbing – all of them shrivelled and black. And these
were just a fraction of the total number – the select few – for at the far end of the hull in a massive wedge-shaped drift, were thousands upon thousands more.

Screed sloshed his way along the sky ship. He didn’t register the gory trophies lining the walls, neither did he notice the awful stench; to Screed Toe-taker, the wreck of the
Windcutter
simply smelled of home.

He hung the lantern on a hook above a huge chest of ironwood and glass, opened the lid, crouched down and set to work. One by one he pulled the severed toes from his bag and, like an insane manicurist, scraped beneath the nails with a small file. Tiny particles of dust – some glistening white, some tinged with sepia – dropped down into the chest with the rest. And when he was satisfied that every speck had been removed, he tossed the toes on to the great heap with the others.

Finally done, Screed stared down with dreamy contentment into the chest. It was more than three-quarters full of the toe-nail scrapings. ‘Oh, my beea-oootiful looty-booty,’ he whispered. ‘One day you will fill the chest, right up to the top. One day soon, Sky willing. And on that wondrous day, then maybe – just maybe – shall my quest be at an end.’

Screed stood up, slammed the lid shut, and stepped outside. The long night was over. To his left, the tell-tale purple clouds of a gathering storm were rolling in from the retreating darkness. To his right and far away in the distance, was a sky ship, silhouetted against the rising sun.

Both were coming closer.

• CHAPTER SEVEN •
A
SSENT AND
B
ETRAYAL

M
other Horsefeather watched uneasily as the ancient figure approached Cloud Wolf. She knew from bitter experience that it could be disastrous to allow the different parties – the supply and demand, so to speak – to meet. Far better to remain in the middle: fixing the deal, pulling the strings. And yet, as Forficule had pointed out, since she had singularly failed to persuade Cloud Wolf to embark on the journey, the newcomer was their only hope.

He leaned forwards and tapped Cloud Wolf with his staff. ‘Arise, Quintinius Verginix,’ he said.

Twig watched his father climb to his feet and look up. He saw his eyes gleaming with reverence, with respect, and at that moment, Twig knew with absolute certainty who the old, shabbily dressed person must be. It was his father's erstwhile patron and mentor, the Professor of Light.

‘It has been a long time, Quintinius,’ he said. ‘The finest Knight Academic in a hundred generations, you were – yet…’ He paused and looked at Twig, seeing him for the first time. ‘Who is this, Horsefeather?’ he demanded.

‘The lad is with me,’ Cloud Wolf answered for her. ‘Anything you have to say to me can be said in front of him.’

‘Are you sure?’ the professor asked.

‘Quite sure,’ said Cloud Wolf, polite yet firm.

The Professor of Light nodded resignedly. ‘We failed you, Quintinius Verginix. I appreciate that. Now, we come to you, cap in hand. We need your help.’

Watching his father shuffling about under the professor's penetrating gaze, Twig was reminded of himself. And when Cloud Wolf spoke, it was his own faltering tones that Twig heard in his voice.

‘I … errm … that is … Mother Horsefeather has already outlined the … the problem.’

‘Indeed,’ said the professor, surprised. ‘Then you will understand the gravity of the situation – or should that be the
lack of gravity
of the situation,’ he added, chuckling at his little joke.

Cloud Wolf smiled weakly. ‘Sanctaphrax is truly in danger then?’ he said.

‘It could break free of its moorings at any moment,’ the professor said. ‘We must have fresh supplies of stormphrax.’

Cloud Wolf listened in silence.

‘The windtouchers and cloudwatchers have already
confirmed that a Great Storm is imminent,’ the professor continued. ‘By the time it arrives, someone must be ready to chase it to the Twilight Woods so that he might retrieve the stormphrax it creates. And that someone, my dear Quintinius Verginix,’ he said, ‘is you. There is not another soul alive equal to the task. Will you help us or will you see Sanctaphrax cast for ever into open sky?’

Cloud Wolf stared back impassively. Twig couldn’t begin to guess the thoughts spinning round his head. Yes? Or no? Which was the answer to be?

Then Cloud Wolf gave the slightest of nods to the Professor of Light's proposal. Twig's heart pounded with excitement. No matter how minimal the response, his father had accepted.

They were to go stormchasing.

On the other side of the door with his ear pressed against the wood, someone else was excited to hear of the proposed voyage to the Twilight Woods. It was Slyvo Spleethe, the
Stormchaser's
quartermaster. He listened carefully to the plans being made, memorizing each and every detail mentioned. There were those who would pay well for such information.

At the sound of chairs being pushed back, Spleethe pulled away from the door and slipped back into the bar-room. He couldn’t be caught eavesdropping now. The good captain would discover soon enough that his plans had been overheard.

By Undertown standards, the Leagues Chamber was luxurious – that is, there were floorboards rather than trodden earth underfoot and there was glass in the majority of the windows. Most of the room was taken up with a giant ring-shaped table, at which were seated all the senior leaguesmen who had been available at such short notice.

In the circular hole at the centre of the table was a swivel stool. And upon this sat Slyvo Spleethe.

Simenon Xintax, the Leaguesmaster, rapped loudly on the table with his gavel. ‘Order!’ he bellowed. ‘Order!!’

The Leagues Chamber fell silent, and all eyes turned towards him. Xintax arose from his chair.

‘Tricorn mitres on!’ he said, and there was a flurry of activity as each of the leaguesmen picked up their headgear and put it into place. Xintax nodded approvingly. ‘I declare open this emergency session of the Undertown League of Free Merchants,’ he announced. ‘Let the questioning commence.’

The leaguesmen remained silent, waiting for Xintax, as chairperson, to frame the first question, the most important question – the question that would set the tone for all subsequent questions. For truth, as the leaguesmen were well aware, was a slippery thing. It
had to be approached with care if it was not to change into something completely different.

Xintax took his seat. ‘If we were to ask you, Slyvo Spleethe, whether you be – an honest individual,’ he began, in the contorted form that tradition demanded, ‘how would you verily reply?’

Spleethe gulped. Now that's a difficult one, he thought. Certainly he intended to answer the leaguesman's questions honestly. But as to whether he himself was honest, well, an honest person would not have been eavesdropping in the first place. He shrugged, and wiped away the droplets of sweat from above his top lip. ‘It's like this, you see…’ he began.

‘You will answer the question with a yes or a no,’ Xintax interrupted. ‘You will answer
all
questions with a yes or a no. Nothing more, nothing less. Is that quite clear?’

‘Yes,’ said Spleethe.

Xintax nodded approvingly. ‘So, I repeat. If we were to ask you, Slyvo Spleethe, whether you be an honest individual, how would you verily reply?’

‘No,’ said Spleethe.

A ripple of surprise went round the table. Then all the leaguesmen thrust their arms up into the air. ‘I. I. I. I,’ they called, each one trying to grab the chairperson's attention.

‘Leandus Leadbelly, Gutters and Gougers,’ he said.

Leandus, a short angry-looking character with one dark eyebrow which ran the width of his heavy brow, nodded towards Spleethe. ‘If we were to ask you whether you have information concerning your captain, Cloud Wolf, the former Quintinius Verginix, how would you verily reply?’

Spleethe swivelled round to face his questioner. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Farquhar Armwright,’ said Xintax. ‘Gluesloppers and Ropeteasers.’

‘If we were to ask you whether the
Stormchaser
was currently skyworthy, how would you verily reply?’

‘No,’ said Spleethe, swivelling back again.

‘Ellerex Earthclay, Melders and Moulders.’

‘If we were to ask you whether, should the need arise, you would be prepared to kill one of your fellow crew-members, how would you verily reply?’

Spleethe breathed in sharply. ‘Yes.’

And so it continued. The leaguesmen put their questions and Spleethe answered them. One after the other after the other. There was no order to the questions – at least, if there was, then Spleethe was blind to it. As far as he was concerned it would have made far more sense if he’d been allowed to tell them precisely what he’d overheard. But no. The interrogation continued, with the questions coming thicker and faster as the time went on.

Little by little, the entire story was revealed – and not just the bare facts. By pursuing the information so obliquely, the leaguesmen managed to build up a picture, complete in every single detail – and, with it, the knowledge of precisely what to do.

Simenon Xintax arose for a second time. He raised his arms. ‘The questioning be concluded,’ he said. ‘If we were to ask you, Slyvo Spleethe, to swear allegiance to the Undertown League of Free Merchants, forswearing all other ties and pledging obedience to our will, how would you verily reply?’

Spleethe's head was in a whirl. From the questions they had framed, he guessed that untold wealth was on offer. Plus a sky ship of his own.
Plus
, most important of
all, league status. But he also knew precisely what was expected of him – and for such a feat, Spleethe wanted more than wealth. He wanted power.