The Curse of the Gloamglozer (15 page)

At a high lectern, suspended on silver chains hanging from the tall ceiling, sat a fussy little individual in ornate robes and a tasselled cap. It was Professor Wordspool. Eyebrows raised, he peered over the top of his half-moon spectacles at the latecomer.

‘Master Quint,’ he said, with a little sniff. ‘So good of you to spare some of your precious time for our humble little gathering.’ He gave a short, high-pitched laugh.

‘Yes, Professor Word-spool,’ said Quint, feeling his cheeks redden.

The other students gazed down at him with dull, uninterested eyes. Nothing, it seemed, could rouse them from the numbing torpor of the class.

What was it this morning? Quint wondered as he made his way up the wooden ladder to the upper ledge. Mist-tracing?

Rain-grading? He sighed. Before he'd started at the school, Quint had imagined that he would be spending his days immersed in fascinating studies. Instead, every lesson was filled with the constant repetition of text that Wordspool would recite from the ancient
Great Tome of Skylore
.

When Quint reached the top of the ladder, several heavy-set youths in costly robes moved aside for him grumpily. A bottle of ink slipped from a tray and fell with a dull thud to the greasy floor below.

Cloudcraft! Of course, thought Quint. Today it was cloudcraft: endless lists of measurements to be memorized and repeated, and accompanied by just the right nods of the head, movements of the hand, low bows and eye-blinks. What
was
the point?

‘The point of cloudcraft – when you're quite ready, Master Quint!’ said Wordspool, his thin, reedy voice piercing the classroom's thick gloom, ‘is not
what
is said but
how
it is said. A wattle cloud rising at three strides by quarter sight, obscurity grade high, for instance, must always be stressed with the third finger and an oblique nod, like so.’

The professor waved a bony finger past his left ear and wagged his head sharply to one side, like a demented shryke pecking at an ironwood trunk.

Quint looked across at the girls' ledges and tried to catch Maris's eye. He still wanted to know why she hadn't woken him. Had she simply forgotten? Or was she angry with him? Did she
know
he had been out with her father last night? It was impossible to tell. Blud Oakcross – a fat mobgnome student – was snoring gently next to him. Quesling Winnix, he noticed, was passing notes to Lod Quernmore and grinning nastily, while Ambris Ambrix looked as though she'd been crying. Maris turned her head and stared at him. Her face was expressionless. Quint turned back to the professor.

‘… storm rain at three and a half, semi-log at branch range building to good.’

His finger jabbed at his right ear, his right eye winked meaningfully. Quint thought of the portrait outside and smiled.

‘Open sky,’ he murmured.

‘Master Quint?’ Wordspool was looking straight at him with a nasty glint in his eyes. ‘You wish to share something with us?’

‘N … no, Professor,’ said Quint, staring down at his desk tray and fidgeting with a quill.

‘No?’ said Wordspool, his voice higher and thinner than ever. ‘No? Come, come, Master Quint. An exalted sky pirate like you?
Open sky
, you said.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Quint miserably.

‘I am attempting to teach the finer points of cloudcraft and you interrupt me, Master Quint, with talk of open sky! Open sky, Master Quint!’

‘I … I …’ said Quint, stumbling to find the words.

‘Open sky, indeed! We are sky-scholars here, Master Quint. Sky-scholars study the sky from the glorious spires of our beautiful city. We study
High
Sky, Master Quint, while those of us less – how shall I put it? – less
gifted
, study Low Sky or Middle Sky. But open sky, Master Quint. Open sky! The audacity of it all. The presumption. Only in death do we turn to open sky.’

‘But …’ Quint began, only to be airily dismissed by a wave of the professor's hand. He turned to the others in the room.

‘We do not study open sky because it is
out there
, while
we
are
here
! The sky comes to us, my dear students, never forget that.’ The professor was shaking with excitement, the tassels on his cap fluttering uncontrollably. ‘I fear, Master Quint, that you are fit only for the lowest of Low Sky study. Why, you might as well find a low-sky cage right now. I obviously have nothing to teach you!’

‘But, sir,’ said Quint, ‘I didn't mean…’

‘Get out,’ squeaked Wordspool, his voice high, almost hysterical. ‘Get
out
!’

‘Professor Wordspool!’ All heads turned. Maris stood, eyes blazing down at Wordspool from the high ledge. ‘Professor Wordspool, you forget yourself!’ she said coldly.

There were titters and shooshes from behind her.

‘My father has let it be known that all study – high and low, sky and … earth–’ There were gasps of astonishment. ‘Sky
and
earth,’ Maris repeated, ‘is to be welcomed in Sanctaphrax. Your outburst would sadden him, Professor, should he …’ Maris paused for effect, ‘should he ever get to hear of it.’

Wordspool was speechless. His knuckles were white as his grip tightened on the lectern. ‘Why, why, why …’ he blustered, ‘why should he get to hear of it, my dear young student?’

‘Master Quint can be trusted to be discreet, Professor.’ Maris smiled across at Quint. ‘If
you
can.’

Wordspool was sweating.
‘Of course, of course. I was hasty, Master Quint. Hasty. When I said “get out” I meant in fact…
errm
… I meant … Class dismissed!’

A cheer went up from the ledges as the students scrambled down the ladders and made for the heavy ironwood doors. Only two of the apprentice-students did not join in the riotous exodus: Quint and Maris. They turned towards each other and their eyes met. Maris raised an eyebrow and jerked her head towards the door. Quint nodded. The pair of them climbed to their feet.

Outside, there were cries of laughter as a crowd gathered round the professor's portrait. ‘Open sky!’ the chant went up. ‘Open sky! Open sky!’

‘Thanks,’ said Quint simply.

‘What for?’ said Maris, with icy calmness.

‘For coming to my aid,’ he said. ‘When Wordspool was picking on me.’

‘That's all right,’ said Maris. ‘Anyway, I didn't do it for you,’ she added hurriedly. ‘I was defending my father's honour.’

‘I know that,’ said Quint. ‘Nevertheless, you helped me out, too.’

Maris nodded. ‘I did, didn't I?’ She turned to him. ‘We must talk, Quint,’ she said.

‘Talk?’ said Quint. ‘What about?’

‘I think you know,’ said Maris pointedly. Her voice was harsh.

Quint swallowed nervously. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But not here.’

They – along with several others – were standing under cover at the bottom of the Fountain House, waiting for the rain to ease off. The birdfish were splashing about in the moat at their feet, twittering for food. The rain was heavier than ever.

‘You want to walk back in that?’ said Maris.

‘If you want to talk about what I think you want to talk about,’ Quint replied, ‘then we'll have to.’

He glanced round at the others meaningfully. Maris looked over her shoulders too. ‘All right, then,’ she said. ‘Let's go back to the palace.’

The pair of them went down the steps and across one of the bridges which spanned the moat. Anyone watching them, huddled together against the rain, would have assumed they were close friends. Yet as he hurried after Maris, Quint was still confused. Did Maris hold him to blame for her father's condition?

As they reached the Patriot's Plinth, Maris abruptly spun round, unable to contain herself any longer. ‘I hate you!’ she shouted, hammering on his chest. ‘Hate you! Hate you! Hate you!’

Quint froze, refusing to retaliate. Maris's blows became weaker and weaker until her arms fell limply to her side and her fists unclenched. Tears welled in her eyes and mingled with the raindrops on her cheeks. She looked up. Quint stared back.

‘How could you have let it happen?’ she said, her voice low and quavering.

Quint turned away. ‘You saw your father this morning, I take it,’ he said.

Maris nodded. ‘It was the worst I've ever seen him,’ she said. ‘Pale. Grey. Trembling. He could barely speak…! And then Tweezel told me that you had been with him.’ She sniffed, and pushed the lank wet hair from her face. ‘That was why I didn't bother to have you woken when you failed to appear for breakfast. I wanted to get you in trouble…’

‘I'm sorry,’ Quint admitted. ‘It was one of those tasks…’

Maris saw the confusion in those indigo-dark eyes of his and swallowed. ‘I'm sorry, too,’ she said. ‘I love him. I want to look after him. And instead, he chooses some … some apprentice to confide in, to share his work with.’ Her eyes blazed. ‘An apprentice who brings him back to Sanctaphrax half-dead! I mean, what
did
happen down there in Low Sky? And don't try and pretend you didn't go down in one of the sky cages. I
know
where he goes at night!’

Quint shook his head. ‘I don't know what happened to him,’ he said.

‘Don't know?’ Maris thundered incredulously. Quint looked round furtively in case any passers-by were listening. With the rain still lashing down, however, the streets were deserted. ‘What do you mean you don't know?’ she went on. ‘You were both in the same low-sky cage, weren't you? How could you
not
know?’

‘He … he wasn't in the cage the whole time,’ said Quint quietly.

Maris's jaw dropped. ‘He wasn't?’ she said. ‘Did you go all the way down to the bottom? Did something happen in Undertown?’

Quint shook his head.

‘Then, where?’ Maris demanded.

Quint frowned. ‘He told me not to breathe a word of this to anyone,’ he said, ‘so you mustn't tell…’

‘Sky above, Quint!’ Maris shouted indignantly. ‘I was born and raised in Sanctaphrax. You've hardly been here any time at all and yet you presume to tell me about the dangers of watching what one says…’

‘I promised Linius Pallitax,’ Quint butted in irritably. ‘The Most High Academe. Your
father
…’

Maris looked at him. Her anger melted away and her eyes brimmed with tears. ‘Forgive me, Quint,’ she said. ‘I'm just so worried about him.’ She hesitated. ‘Please, tell me what you know. Tell me everything.’