Midnight Over Sanctaphrax (27 page)

‘Bloodlust,’ said Spooler. ‘Look for bloodlust in the faces of the crowd.’ He continued scanning the milling groups of trogs and trolls, goblins and gnomes, leagues-men and sky pirates. ‘There!’ he said at last, and pointed at a gaggle of goblins. ‘That looks a likely group. Look at the purpose in their stride. The violence in their gestures. The glint in their eyes.’ He sniffed the air and shuddered. ‘I can
smell
their lust for blood, oozing from every pore. Oh, they're heading for the Wig-Wig Arena, all right,’ he said. ‘I'd stake my life on it.’

‘That's good enough for me,’ said Twig. ‘We'll follow them. And Sky willing we will find the crew-member the waterwaif saw there. Come on, Cowlquape. Before we lose sight of those goblins.’

They set off in pursuit. Ahead of them the group of goblins was becoming increasingly rowdy and, as that happened, so the numbers heading in the same direction increased as more and more, attracted by the noise, came to swell their ranks. Twig, Cowlquape and Spooler surrendered themselves to the stream. Past a tattooing-stall they went, a whip-merchant's, a leech-doctor's; past a corral of roosting prowlgrins, a flock of tethered vulpoons - impelled ever onwards by the excited crowd. They couldn't have escaped the forward surge now even if they'd wanted to.

Til say this for the roost-mother,’ a shrill gnokgoblin piped up. ‘She certainly knows how to put on a spectacle.’

His companion nodded vigorously. ‘Nothing beats a contest with a banderbear pitted against the wig-wigs,’

he said. ‘It's an absolute classic!’

Twig gasped. A banderbear? Pitted against wig-wigs!

‘Wasn't there a banderbear on board the
Edgedancer?’
Cowlquape said in Twig's ear, whilst all the time fighting to keep up in the jostling scrum. ‘You think it might be the one that the waterwaif saw, don't you?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Twig. ‘I cannot leave until I know one way or the other.’

‘Still,’ Cowlquape went on, as he stumbled forwards. ‘A big strong creature like a banderbear can defend itself against wig-wigs, surely?’

Twig shook his head seriously. ‘I once saw what a pack of wig-wigs can do to a banderbear.’ He pulled a pendant from the folds of his jacket and held it up for Cowlquape to see. It was a tooth. ‘This is all that is left of that banderbear,’ he said.

‘But…
Whoooah!’
Cowlquape exclaimed as the crowd abruptly squeezed in on him from all sides and surged forwards. He was carried towards a narrow archway.
THE WIG-WIG ARENA,
he read, in gold letters, as he was swept beneath the arch and on to a broad platform. He looked round. His mouth fell open.

‘Amazing, isn't it?’ said Twig.

‘Unbelievable,’ said Cowlquape. ‘The architecture, the planning - the
size …’

They were in a bright clearing, encircled by huge trees. Tier upon tier of curved terraces had been suspended from the branches above to form a vast amphitheatre. At its centre, far below them, lay a deep torch-lit pit, ringed by mesh-like netting.

‘Move along there,’ came an irritated voice from behind them. ‘Move right down into the arena.’

Cowlquape recognized the shrill tone of a guard shryke at once. His head buzzed with fear as, without turning round, he did as was told, stepping down off the platform and onto the first of the circular terraces that extended far down below them. Twig and Spooler followed him.

Down, they went; one terrace after another. Cowlquape took it all in, as they picked their way through the countless groups of chattering goblins and trolls.

The Wig-Wig Arena was like a giant funnel rising up from the forest floor at the bottom, where the bloody contests would take place, to the forest canopy at the top. One tree, even more massive than its neighbours,
dominated the arena. It was directly opposite the terrace where Twig, Cowlquape and Spooler found themselves jostled into seats - a colossal ironwood tree, its black, spade-like leaves in sharp relief against the blondwood steps rising up behind it. Cowlquape looked more closely.

Attached to the tree's sturdy branches were several constructions: square platforms for the armed guard shrykes dotted here and there; a small, squat building beside a raised stage; cogs, pulleys and winding gear; a plank jutting out from the main trunk, leading nowhere. Further up the tree was a broad podium, with the brightly-coloured roost-sisters standing along its balustrade in a row. And above this - suspended from a network of heavy ropes - was an ornate royal-box. Inside it sat a solitary figure.

It was the roost-mother herself: Mother Muleclaw. She was resplendent in her crested head-dress, her firebug jewels and a diaphanous silver cloak which hung loosely over her rainbow plumage. No finery, however, could conceal the wickedness in her eyes. From her box, she had a perfect view of every inch of the arena.

As she cast her malevolent gaze round Cowlquape quaked, and his hand shot up to conceal his wilting cockade. Twig noticed the movement.

‘Cowlquape,’ he said gently. ‘Calm yourself.’ He swung his arm round in a wide arc. ‘There are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of individuals here,’ he said. ‘They're not interested in us when there's so much money to be made.’

He nodded towards the slate-grey tally-hens already scuttling about taking bets from the growing swell of spectators. Cowlquape watched them for a moment.

‘No, I suppose not,’ he said hesitantly. ‘All the same…’ He looked across the arena and shuddered. ‘There's someone in there,’ he said, pointing to the squat construction below the podium.

Twig looked. He saw fingers clutching the bars at the locked door. Some poor wretch was about to meet his death - yet it was not a banderbear …

At that moment, a fanfare of trumpeting cut through the air. A roar of approval went up round the crowd. Cowlquape looked up into the ironwood tree to see a dozen striped shrykes perching in the upper branches, with long tasselled horns at their beaks. The fanfare was repeated. This time, the crowd fell still. All eyes fell on the royal-box.

Mother Muleclaw arose slowly. Her beak clacked noisily. ‘We are gratified to see so many here,’ she announced. ‘We know you will not be disappointed by this evening's contest. It isn't every night we get to see a banderbear in battle.’

The crowd roared its agreement. Mother Muleclaw raised her multicoloured wings for quiet.

‘Before the main event, we have a little surprise for you. The appetizer, so to speak,’ she said, and her beak clacked with amusement. She leant down from the box. ‘Release the prisoner,’ she demanded.

The guard shryke saluted with its tawny wing and stepped forward to unlock the door of the prison

beneath the podium. A portly individual appeared at the doorway and looked round with obvious confusion.

‘What? What? What?’ he blustered.

Cowlquape stared in disbelief - at the ornate jacket with its marsh-gems and mire-pearls, at the tricorn hat with the purple vulpoon feather, at the waxed moustache, the arched eyebrows, the pink, pudgy hands. ‘Thunderbolt Vulpoon,’ he breathed, and clutched hold of Twig's arm. ‘This is what he had planned for us!’ he whispered, his voice low with dread.

‘If I'd known,’ said Twig, ‘I'd never have handed him over to the shrykes. Not even a slave-trader deserves this.’

The crowd watched in silence as the guard shryke cracked her flail and drove the sky pirate captain towards the plank jutting out over the pit below. The yellow torchlight gleamed on his quivering features as he looked up at the hanging royal-box. ‘Why?’ he cried out. ‘For the love of Sky, why are you doing this?’

Mother Muleclaw squawked with irritation, and the shryke's heavy flail cracked Vulpoon around the head.

‘We had promised you a leaguesman from Undertown for your delectation,’ said Mother Muleclaw, addressing the crowd.

The crowd cheered happily.

‘Or perhaps even a Sanctaphrax academic,’ she said.

The cheering of the crowd grew louder still.

‘Unfortunately, due to circumstances beyond our control, this will not now be possible …’

The crowd booed and hissed. Mother Muleclaw
glared down at Vulpoon. ‘All I can offer you is this miserable specimen. Still I am sure he'll put on an excellent show for you,’ Her voice became a raucous screech, that echoed round the arena. ‘I give you Thunderbolt Vulpoon, the sky pirate captain.’

A deafening roar went up. Cowlquape looked round in disgust at the rapt expressions on the spectators’ faces as they watched the hapless Vulpoon being prodded forward with a sharp pike onto the plank. A chant started up, and was soon echoing all round the arena.

‘Down! Down! Down! Down!’

Vulpoon stumbled forwards. For an instant, his body hung there at the end of the plank as if held by invisible ropes. Then there was movement again, and Thunderbolt Vulpoon was toppling forwards -

before landing in a bed of soft moss at the bottom of the pit. The crowd roared its approval.

For a moment, the sky pirate captain didn't move. Then, with a shake of his head, he climbed to his feet and drew his sword and dagger. He looked round - at the heavy curtain of netting that enclosed the pit; at the small holes cut into it every ten metres, allowing access from the forest floor outside. The crowd looked too, scrutinizing the shadowy openings for that first tell-tale flash of orange.

There!’ someone screamed. ‘Over there!’

It was the first of the wig-wigs. It dashed across the arena floor, looking no more frightening than an orange floor-mop. Until the creature opened its mouth! The crowd gasped as one as the powerful jaws snapped wide open to reveal the rows of razor-sharp teeth.

All round the arena, the arrival of the first wig-wig had prompted a flurry of betting. Tally-hens and tote-fledgers darted among the crowds, shouting out ever-changing odds and exchanging gold pieces (each one, checked with a sharp clack of the beak) for betting-slips.

‘Twenty-five on twelve minutes!’

‘Fifty on forty-seven dead wig-wigs.’

‘A hundred that he's got a maximum of ten seconds left!’

Sickened, Cowlquape turned away and buried his face in his hands.

At last, a roar went up.

‘
YES
!’

Louder and louder it became, until the terraces themselves were trembling with the noise. Above the uproar came the trumpeting of the horns. And still the clamour did not abate. One of the tally-hens trotted to the iron-wood tree and a message was passed up to the roost-mother.