Stormchaser (35 page)

Then the wind struck. The jolt ran through Twig's body. He gasped with pain – but the tattered sails billowed. The old
Windcutter
gasped with Twig, and dragged itself back towards the Edge.

‘Raise the starboard hull-weights,’ Twig instructed himself, as he dashed back to the helm. ‘Lower the port weights. And align the stern- and peri-hull-weights. That's it. Now raise the studsail a tad – easy does it, gently, and…’ The heavy boom swung wildly round. Twig looked up nervously. The broken mast was hanging on; the makeshift sails were holding.

They were going to make it. Limping, splintered; tattered, cracked and wind-battered. But they were going to make it.

• CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO •
T
O
T
HE
H
EART OF
S
ANCTAPHRAX

T
wig moved forwards in his chair. ‘You have no choice!’ he said. ‘I have something you need – and you have something I need.’

Mother Horsefeather permitted herself a little smile. The youth was certainly bold.

‘You are your father's son,’ she said, and clacked her beak. ‘Coming here in that creaking wreck of a sky ship, giving ultimatums.’ Her beady yellow eyes glinted. ‘Might I remind you that if it hadn’t been for my backing, the
Stormchaser
would never have set sail in the first place.’

‘I know that,’ said Twig, ‘but …’

‘Now you tell me that it is lost. With Cloud Wolf aboard. Yet there you are, shouting out your demands. It is
I
who should be making demands of you,
Captain
Twig,’ she said.

‘No, I …’ said Twig uncertainly.

‘Fifteen thousand it cost, plus interest. As you know, I’m not in the business of giving money away. I want a return on my investment…’

At that moment the Stone Pilot who, back inside her protective disguise, had been standing patiently at Twig's shoulders, strode forwards. She slammed her gloved hand down on the table.

‘Hold your beak, bird-woman!’ she roared. ‘Let the captain speak.’

Mother Horsefeather clucked nervously, and smoothed down the ruffled feathers around her neck. She fixed Twig with a fearsome glare. ‘Your father,’ she sniffed, ‘was a gentleman.’

Twig nodded and swallowed noisily. ‘This is what I want,’ he said. ‘One, all debts incurred by my father, Cloud Wolf, are to be written off. Two, you are to supply me with a new sky ship, packed with supplies and ready to sail. I shall call it
Edgedancer
.’

‘
Edgedancer
?’ Mother Horsefeather sneered.

‘And three,’ Twig continued without a break, ‘you will pay for a crew of my choosing to sail her. I’ll take a pouchful of gold now, as a sign of your good faith.’

Mother Horsefeather's expression darkened, ‘you ask a great deal, Captain Twig,’ she said, thrusting her beak towards him. ‘And what do you offer in return that is worth so much?’

Twig sat back in his chair and twiddled with his hair. ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he said. ‘I will give you the secret of safe phraxdust production.’

Mother Horsefeather's jaw dropped. A curious chirruping sound rattled at the back of her throat. ‘But but but…’ she gurgled. ‘You mean … But I’ll corner the water market,’ she squawked.

Twig nodded, and stared at the bird-woman in disgust as her face contorted with joy and villainy and naked greed.

‘I’ll control it all!’ she cackled. ‘I’ll be more powerful than that glutinous Leaguesmaster, Simenon Xintax.
And
the odious upstart, Vilnix Pompolnius. I’ll be more powerful than the whole lot of them put together.’ She turned on Twig suspiciously. ‘You are sure you know the secret?’ she said.

‘I am,’ said Twig. ‘And when you fulfil my demands I shall prove it to you. You shall become powerful. And rich beyond your wildest dreams.’

Mother Horsefeather ruffled her feathers and fixed Twig with cold unblinking eyes. ‘You have a deal, son of Cloud Wolf,’ she said, pulling a leather pouch of gold coins from the pocket of her apron and tossing it across the table. ‘But remember this, Captain Twig. If you double-cross me, I shall personally see to it that the leagues hear of your impudence.’ Her beady eyes narrowed. ‘The League of Torturers will be particularly interested to hear that they have a new subject to study – and at such great length!’

It was late afternoon by the time Twig left the Bloodoak tavern. With the Stone Pilot, he returned to the boom-docks, lugged the heavy chest up from the hold of the
Windcutter
and, together, the pair of them set off through Undertown.

The narrow, dirty streets were hot and sultry, and many of the stall-holders and shop-keepers had shut up
their premises and retired for an afternoon nap. They would open again at sundown. One establishment, however, had not closed and, as Twig and the Stone Pilot struggled past with the chest of Stormphrax, its fat and glistening owner emerged from inside.

‘Oy! It's you!’ Flabsweat cried, and made a lunge at Twig.

Without even thinking, Twig drew his sword. ‘Back off,’ he said calmly, ‘or it will be the worse for you.’

Flabsweat retreated, fear in his eyes. ‘I … I didn’t mean no offence…’ he blustered.

Twig stared at the frightened shopkeeper uneasily. Is this what the quest had done to him? Is this what he had become? He looked down, removed the gauntlet from his hand and held it out. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Take it.’

Flabsweat reached forward. ‘Wh … what is it?’ he said.

‘A trophy from the Twilight Woods,’ said Twig. ‘It is coated with phraxdust – enough to produce fresh water for you, your family and all your animals for the rest of your lives.’

Flabsweat traced his finger over the liquid-like sepia dust. ‘Phraxdust,’ he gasped. ‘Why, thank you. Thank you.’

‘I trust that you will now consider the matter with the caterbird closed,’ said Twig.

‘Oh, quite closed, absolutely closed, completely and utterly closed,’ Flabsweat babbled. Twig turned to go. ‘And if there's anything I can do for you,’ he said. ‘Any of the more
exotic
species you might like me to procure … I can get hold of anything. As a gift. Just you say the word.’

Twig paused and looked back. ‘I might hold you to that,’ he said.

Twig and the Stone Pilot continued on their way and, as Sanctaphrax came nearer, Twig's heart beat furiously. He didn’t know whether he was nervous or excited. Only when they were at last directly beneath the massive floating rock did Twig look up. He saw a large basket suspended far above his head. ‘Is there anyone up there?’ he called. ‘I wish to visit Sanctaphrax.’

The small, angular face of a gnokgoblin appeared at the edge of the basket, and peered down. ‘At whose invitation?’ he said.

‘We are to visit the Professor of Darkness,’ Twig replied.

The gnokgoblin's eyes narrowed. ‘The Professor of Darkness, eh?’ he said. The basket began to descend.

Twig turned to the Stone Pilot and smiled. ‘So far, so good,’ he whispered.

The basket came to rest just in front of them and the gnokgoblin looked them up and down. ‘I hope that chest's not too heavy.’

‘Nowhere near as heavy as it will be,’ Twig said. ‘But we could do with a hand.’

Together, the three of them hefted the chest into the basket and jumped in beside it. Then the gnokgoblin bent down, grasped the winch-handle and began turning. The basket wobbled and lurched, and rose slowly up into the air.

‘Interesting individual, the Professor of Darkness,’ the gnokgoblin said, his voice nasal and whining. ‘Never abandoned his opposition to the Most High Academe.’ He looked askance at Twig, gauging his opinion before continuing.

Twig snorted. ‘A usurper is a usurper,’ he said.

The Stone Pilot shuffled about uneasily. There were spies everywhere in Sanctaphrax.

‘Well, he
is
,’ Twig snapped.

‘’Tis the mind of many in the venerable floating city,’ the gnokgoblin said, nodding sagely. He looked up and met Twig's questioning gaze. ‘I’m not one to listen to rumours, you understand,’ he said, ‘but word is that the days of Vilnix Pompolnius are numbered.’

Twig listened in silence.

‘’Course, it's his own fault. How did he expect the leagues to react when he cut off their supplies of phraxdust? Eh?’

‘Perhaps he has no more to supply them with,’ Twig offered.

‘Which is my point entirely. If he's no use to the leaguesmen
nor
the academics, then how much longer can he cling on to power? Eh? You tell me that.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘If you ask
me
, it’ll be those leaguesmen who get to him first. Don’t like being double-crossed, they don’t,’ he said, and ran his finger sharply across his exposed throat. ‘If you take my meaning?’

Twig nodded, but offered no comment. It occurred to him that if Vilnix Pompolnius ever got his hands on the stormphrax in the chest, not only would his current problems be over, but his position of corrupt power would become unassailable.

They continued in silence to the top, where the gnokgoblin leaped onto the landing stage to help Twig and the Stone Pilot with their heavy cargo. ‘Just follow that path to the very end, and then turn left,’ he said. ‘The old Raintasters’ Tower is straight ahead. You can’t miss it.’

‘Th…thanks,’ Twig said, and shook his head. The splendour of the city which spread out before him was overwhelming.

For a start, what the gnokgoblin had called a path was in fact a wide avenue, paved in intricate patterns with red, black and white tiles and bordered on both sides
with towers that gleamed like gold in the light from the sinking sun. And what towers!

Each one was different yet equally as wonderful as its neighbour. Some had minarets, some had spires; some were domed with intricate mosaics of mirrors and semi-precious stones. Some had clock towers, others belfreys. One had large windows, paned with crystal; another had clusters of diamond-shaped openings. One was so slender it swayed in the wind; another was squat and robust.

The design of each tower, of course, depended on which faculty or school it belonged to. As did the various instruments and pieces of paraphernalia attached to the sides. There were pin-wheels and wind-socks and cantilevered scales on one; sun-dials, weather vanes, plumb lines and brass calibraters on another. While on a third, an intricate system of suspended bottles – each one a different shade of blue – tinkled in the breeze.