Clash of the Sky Galleons (29 page)

Next, muttering under her breath, she reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a flint-stick, which she struck. The hissing flame illuminated the room with a watery pale-green light. Sister Screechscale leaned forward again and touched it to the tallow wick. It spat and sparked, before settling down to a soft golden flame.

‘So what was I saying?’ she clucked, as she settled herself back down on her perching-stool.

She picked up the whetting-stick, running it down the
talon of her first finger, slowly, rhythmically. Once honed, her already vicious hooked, yellow claws would be razor-sharp weapons that could stab a wilful prowlgrin-mount in its haunch or slice through an impudent goblin slave’s neck with the careless ease of a hot blade through tilder-grease.

‘You were telling me about the new candles, my supreme bliss,’ cooed the tiny mottle-feathered shryke-mate, hopping onto a lower perch beside the tally-hen.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Sister Screechscale, inspecting the talon she’d been filing under the light. It glinted malevolently. She lowered it to the table, tapped three times on the surface, then scored a line through the already scratched wood, before setting to work on the second talon.

Outside the small wickerwork tally-lodge, stretching out through the treetops like the web of some monstrous spider, were the wooden walkways, hanging-cages, domed turrets and shingled cabins of the Great Shryke Slave Market. Far beneath the lofty canopy, where the sun could not penetrate, lines of lanterns provided the only light - an oily, smoke-stained half-light. Here, like insects stuck in spider-silk, were razorflits, rotsuckers, fromps and quarms, lorrels and lemkins, peering from between the bars of crowded cages. Here, too, amid shrieks and howls and a constant stifling stench, auctions continued through the night on the great canopied platforms suspended from the trees.

Goods of all kinds could be traded here, from mire-pearls to tallow candles - but the commonest currency was life itself. Trogs, trolls, waifs, oak-elves and goblins sold as slaves to trogs, trolls, waifs, oakelves and goblins who were not. To enter this savage web, and not be ensnared, the trader of whatever type needed one thing - something only a tally-hen like Sister Screechscale could provide …

A precious white cockade: a fresh briar lily whose petals slowly turned from white to yellow to brown, before crumbling to dust in three days. Unless replaced, the wearer could be enslaved, which meant -as the Great Slave Market hustled and bustled - that Sister Screechscale’s cockades were in constant demand.

Despite the dangers, the Great Shryke Slave Market was popular. After all, where else could a leaguesmaster find his pampered wife the pet lemkin she’d been pestering him for? Where else could a rogue slaver buy himself a hammerhead bodyguard? Where else could ill-gotten marsh-gems and mire-pearls be traded for an illicit banderbear pelt, no questions asked? And where else could you gamble on how long any creature might last in the terrible Wig-Wig Arena?

Inside the glowing tally-lodge, the tally-hen started work on her third claw, the whetting-stick gliding softly round the curve of the talon as she carefully manicured it.

‘Well, anyway’ Sister Screechscale clucked, ‘it’s like I said. There’s something afoot, mark my words, Feckle. They’re up to something, those Undertown leagues - all the gossip and rumours, I’ve been hearing. All the tittle-tattle. Besides, I can feel it in my tail feathers, Feckle. They’ve got it in for those sky pirates …

‘Not that that’s anything new. But what is new is how these high-hat leagues types have been buying up spider-silk, timber and foundry goods like their lives depended on it. Only the finest quality, mind, not the usual rubbish they’re content to sell to those whey-faced Undertowners back there at the Edge. No, they’ll only buy the best. And when you ask them what they need triple-woven spider-silk or seasoned bloodoak for, they clam up tighter than a mire-clam.

‘Still, as long as they keep supplying the market with slaves, then who am I to complain?’

She tapped the table-top with the third nail. Then, not quite satisfied that it was as sharp as it could be, resumed the painstaking filing. Her eyes narrowed.

‘It’s the other stuff I object to - stinking candles, shoddy cooking-pots, glittery fabric that rots in a season … I mean, do those high-hat leaguesmen think we hatched in an Undertown back alley? Downright cheek, I call it!

‘Not like the goods the sky pirates bring. Always the finest quality … But then, they take pride in their trade. Take this candle, for instance - beautiful quality, as fragrant as a forest glade and twice as golden! The only trouble with sky pirates is they won’t deal in slaves - not even if their lives depended on it. It’s well known. So you can imagine my amazement when this young sky pirate captain taps on the tally-lodge window the other day, and tells me he wants to sell a banderbear!’

Sister Screechscale tapped the third talon down on the table once more. This time, the sharpened point punctured the varnish with ease. She squawked with satisfaction and moved on to the fourth and final talon.

The thumb-claw of her right hand. Her favourite!

It was the talon that had seen more action than all the others put together. More, even, than the battle-spurs on her powerful feet. If ever she was troubled during her work - when a visitor to the tally-lodge got belligerent, or a guard called to her to help out
with some disturbance on the hanging-walkways, then the thumb-claw of her right hand was always at the ready.

Not for her the jointed flails or hooked staves beloved of the other shrykes. No! With her left hand gripping her adversary - and to the accompaniment of an ear-splitting screech - she would slash out with that right-hand thumb of hers, splitting her victim open from sternum to sacrum, before devouring the steaming guts that spilled out…

She used it now to scratch an irritating itch buried deep in the ruff of feathers at her neck.

‘At least, he
looked
like a sky pirate captain. Tall, strong-looking and handsome, with a fine frock coat and polished bicorne hat, he really dressed the part. Blond hair and flashing blue eyes, he was a real charmer. Introduced himself as Captain Daggerslash - Thaw Daggerslash, out of Undertown. Tells me this story about how he’d run into trouble mire-pearling over the mud-dunes, and it was all he could do to get his crippled sky barge to within five hundred strides of the market. Came the rest of the way on foot - though you wouldn’t have thought it to look at him. Reckon the half-starved banderbear cub he had in tow had carried him most of the way …

‘Anyway, he gives me this flashing smile and says he’s looking for a very good friend of his, Captain Wind Jackal of the
Galerider,
who, he has it on good authority, is running a shipload of the finest tallow candles into the market. Have I seen him?
he asks. I say no, but as every sky pirate knows that Sister Screechscale gives them special rates on white cockades, I says I’m sure he’ll enter the market through my tally-lodge, and no mistake.

Then he tips his hat to me, all respectful-seeming, leans in close to the tally-lodge window and whispers in my ear-feathers so his banderbear can’t hear.

‘“How about taking Hubble, here, off my hands, sister?” he says. “Fine albino banderbear. One cockade and thirty gold pieces. What do you say? Help a poor sky pirate down on his luck?”

‘ “One cockade and
ten
gold pieces,” I reply, quick as a flash. I knew that I’d get a good price for the banderbear down at the Wig-Wig Arena - and an albino one would go down well with the crowd, even though the wig-wigs would be sure to rip it to pieces.

‘You could tell he didn’t like my offer, but there was nothing he could do. I had him over a barrel.

‘“It’s a deal,” he says with a little smile, then he looks all concerned and caring, and whispers, “Only don’t let on to poor old Hubble that I’ve sold him. It’ll hurt his feelings. I’ll tell him to stay with you until I
come and fetch him, and he’ll be as meek as a tilder fawn.”

‘ “It’s all the same to me,” I say, and hand him a cockade and ten gold pieces.

‘Captain Daggerslash whispered in the banderbear’s ear. Then, giving me another of those dazzling smiles, he sauntered off into the market as if he hadn’t a care in the world.’

Sister Screechscale resumed the filing, carefully honing the two sides one stroke at a time, so that the point of the claw wouldn’t end up off-centre.

‘Sure enough, later that day, who should appear at my tally-lodge window, but none other than Captain Wind Jackal and his crew. And what a sorry-looking bunch they were, to be sure. There was a dark-haired girl and a young sky pirate who looked like the captain, both with haunted, dark-ringed eyes; a worried-looking harpooneer and his young mate, together with a ragged gnokgoblin who said he was going back on board to look after their stone pilot, who was ill.

‘The captain himself had a face like thunder, but was polite enough. I sold them all cockades, and mentioned that Captain Thaw Daggerslash was looking for his good friend, Captain Wind Jackal.

‘At the sound of his former master’s name, the banderbear jumped to his feet, and dashed forward from where he’d been sleeping behind the tally-lodge, only to find that I’d tethered his left leg to the gate-post while he slept. He began to make a terrible fuss, waving his arms and yodelling in that way that
they do. I should have taken him off to the arena straight away, but I’d been so rushed off my feet all morning, and you, Feckle, were off having your neck-ring repaired …’

Sister Screechscale exchanged the whetting-stick for a buffing-pad - a stuffed pouch of wild tilder leather dipped in blackwheat oil - and began to polish the freshly honed claws vigorously, one after the other.

‘Well, blow me to Open Sky, if Captain Daggerslash doesn’t come running down the walkway!

‘Just as well. I was about to call the guards to deal with the banderbear … I’m embarrassed to admit that I hadn’t sharpened my talons in a while, and I didn’t like the look of those tusks.

‘The young sky pirate and the girl are trying to calm the banderbear while Captain Wind Jackal says, all high and mighty-sounding, “What’s the meaning of this! This banderbear is a sky pirate. Not a slave!” and draws his sword.

‘It’s all threatening to turn pretty nasty, I can tell you. And here’s me with blunt talons and not a guard in sight.

‘Well, I know as well as the next shryke how touchy these sky pirates can get about slaves, but the fact was I’d bought the banderbear fair and square, and I was about to say as much when Captain Daggerslash arrives, out of breath and blowing like a beached oozefish.

‘ “Captain Wind Jackal!” he exclaims. “Thank Sky I’ve found you! Hubble and I were sky-wrecked some five hundred strides or so from here. I left Hubble here while I went in search of fellow sky pirates, only for some wretch to sell him to this fine upstanding shryke-sister when my back was turned!”

‘As he said this, the handsome rogue winked at me. Wind Jackal lowered his sword.

‘ “Sister,” Daggerslash said, catching his breath and giving me a theatrical bow. “I have no doubt you purchased my loyal shipmate in good faith, and I would reimburse you this instant if I hadn’t lost a small wager in the Wig-Wig Arena. But if my friend here, the great Captain Wind Jackal, is willing to purchase Hubble’s freedom, then he shall earn my undying gratitude.”