The Winter Knights (13 page)

‘I like your style, Quint Verginix,’ said Raffix Emilius, slapping Quint on the back as they rounded the corner of the College of Rain. ‘That was quite a fight you and your chums put up.’

‘Thanks, Raffix,’ said Quint, trying to stop his teeth from chattering. ‘You didn't do too badly yourself.’

‘I shall allow you to call me Raff,’ said the Upper Hall squire with a laugh, ‘since I now consider us to be friends. And that goes for you too, Phin.’

‘I'm honoured, Raff,’ said Phin, bowing low with mock solemnity, ‘and you can save me a place in line for the stew-cart while you're about it!’

‘That reminds me!’ said Quint, quickening his step. ‘It's almost evening gong. We'd better hurry if we don't want to be late for the banquet!’

That evening, as the crowded tables and benches of the Eightways resounded to the laughter and songs of the squires celebrating Treasury Day, Quint shared a banquet of roast snowbird and tilder pie with his three friends. Phin, always with a ready smile and an encouraging word, sat next to him, complimenting the grey goblin, Stope, on the fine workmanship of the breast-plates he'd made for the treasury-guards.

‘Sssshh!’ Stope said, smiling delightedly. ‘That's all meant to be a secret! I didn't mean to say anything, Squire Phin! Honest!’

‘To the finest forge-hand in the Academy!’ Phin toasted Stope with a tankard of woodale.

On the other side of him, Raffix, the Upper Hall squire, joined in the laughter. ‘If only I'd known what good company you keep down here on the lower benches, I'd have joined you sooner. Here's to you, Stope!’ He raised his tankard.

‘Thank you, Squire Raff, sir.’ Stope beamed, raising his tankard in reply.

Quint smiled and raised his tankard to join the others. ‘Here's to all of us!’ he grinned.

In the far corner, hunched over his wooden platter, Vilnix Pompolnius glared over at the happy group of squires. They all thought they were better than him – all of them, even that little upstart forge-hand. He could see it in their eyes. Especially the sky pirate brat, Quint.

Well, he'd show them. He'd show
all
of them.

He had avoided that stupid snowball fight organized by the snooty Upper Hall Squire … Raff! What a ridiculous name.

Vilnix smiled to himself. Instead of throwing snowballs like an idiotic young'un, he'd visited the Viaduct Towers – or rather, one viaduct tower in particular. The one with a vulpoon skeleton hanging outside. And a very useful little trip it had turned out to be.

He patted his pocket and then raised his tankard of woodale with a sarcastic sneer.

‘Here's to all of you!’

•CHAPTER NINE•
THE HALL OF GREY
CLOUD

Q
uint couldn't sleep. Outside, an icy wind howled through the turrets and towers of Sanctaphrax like an angry white-collar wolf, rattling windowpanes and threatening to tear shutters and awnings from their hinges. He was inside his dormitory closet and should have been warm and snug. But even though he'd pulled the lufwood door tight shut and drawn his snowbird-down quilt up over his head, Quint could still feel the cold draught which was sweeping up the central staircase.

Light and airy, the buildings of the great floating city had not been built to withstand such intense winter cold. Unable to stop shivering, Quint abandoned his attempts to sleep before the dawn gong sounded and, bleary-eyed, began to pull on his clothes.

He was slipping his arms into the long-sleeved tunic when he first heard something rustle. He paused. The rustling stopped. It was probably just the little ratbird, he thought.

Leaning forward in the darkness, he fumbled for his lamp, lit it, and held it up. But the creature was still fast asleep in her cage, her head tucked under a furry wing. Puzzled, Quint hung the lamp back on its hook and started dressing again - only to hear the rustling once more. This time he realized where the sound was coming from.

He reached into the side pocket of the tunic - and groaned. There, still rolled and fastened with a black spider-silk ribbon, was Maris's letter, unopened and unread.

‘Earth and Sky,’ he muttered. ‘How
could
I?’

From the cage there came a soft, questioning trill. Quint looked round at the tiny ratbird whose beaklike snout was now poking out and sniffing the air.

‘Oh, Nibblick,’ said Quint as he pushed a small piece of barley bread through the bars. ‘ forgot all about Maris. Fine friend
I
am!’

Unrolling the letter with half-frozen fingers, Quint held it up to the yellow light and began to read.

Dear Quint,

It is so cold down here in Undertown that, as I write this, I can hardly stop my hands from shaking. My guardian, Heft, is so mean that he only allows one fire to be lit a day, and that is a small one in his and Dacia's personal apartments. The rest of
us – Grewlock the cook, the little mobgnome maid who cries the whole time, Pule the old goblin butler and me – all have to freeze!

I know I shouldn't be ungrateful, but, oh, Quint, it's so miserable and boring down here. My room is small and poky and has bars at the window. Heft and Dacia are so security conscious that they keep practically every door in the place locked! I swear they even lock my door at night. I'm sure I've heard a key in the lock after I've turned the lamp out. Where on earth do they imagine I'm going to run off to?

The only good thing about my room is the view it has of the market-place in Western Quay Square. Most days I wave to Welma from my window, and sometimes I call down to her – but I have to be careful because Dacia considers such behaviour unbecoming to the daughter of a High Academe.

I miss Father so much, Quint, and our old life up in Sanctaphrax. What adventures we had! Down here, Dacia never allows me out of her sight, and all I seem to do is sit here in my room or stand beside her chair when boring old leagues-men and their wives come to visit. I have to curtsy, and only talk when I'm spoken to – which is practically never – and listen to Heft rattle on and on …

You wouldn't believe the stories he tells, Quint. From the things he says, you'd think he was Father's most trusted friend, and that Father never did anything without consulting him first. It's all just boasting, of course, and completely untrue, but I know that if I say anything he'll lose his temper and fly into one of his rages – rages he usually takes out on the servants.

Just the other day, he flew into a terrible tantrum and all
because I wouldn't sign some silly barkscroll he waved under my nose. Father told me never to sign anything without reading it first, and I told him so. He got very angry and red in the face, but I wouldn't give in, so he stormed off and told Dacia that I wasn't to leave my room for a week! He's nothing but a big bully!

But listen to me! Moaning on! How are you, Quint, up there in your Knights Academy? I bet you'll look splendid in your squires’ robes on Treasury Day! Do you remember last year? It seems so long ago now. Don't forget me, down here, Quint, and try to drop me a line sometime when you're not too busy.

I must stop now, because the Leaguesmaster is coming to visit, and Heft is insisting that I be there – still, at least I'll get to stand next to the fire and warm up a bit!

I'll slip this letter to Welma in the market-place the next time old fromp-face lets me go out!

Your friend,

Maris

Quint rolled the letter up and carefully tied the spider-silk ribbon. He didn't like the sound of Maris's guardians one little bit. He looked at the ratbird nibbling on the barley bread.

Should he send word to his father? he wondered.

He reached for his tilderleather satchel with its barkscrolls and ink-pot, then hesitated. After all, what would he say? Maris isn't allowed out much? Her guardians are too mean to heat their apartments properly? They keep their doors locked?

Perhaps he should wait – go down and see Maris and her guardians first, before worrying his father. In the meantime, he'd send Maris a nice long letter full of news, to cheer her up …

Tap! Tap! Tap!

‘Hey, Quint! Are you awake?’ It was Phin's voice, calling up from the sleeping closet below.

Quint leaned over and opened his door, an icy gust of air making his teeth chatter. ‘I w-was … j-j-just … about to write a l-l-letter … before th-the dawn gong …’ he said, shivering uncontrollably.

Phin climbed out of his sleeping closet and onto the dormitory ladder. He was clad in three sets of robes and had a large untidy turban wound round his head.

‘Do you like it?’ he asked Quint with a laugh. ‘I got it from an ice-scholar the other day. It certainly keeps the cold out!’

‘
I
like it,’ smiled Quint, ‘but I'm not sure the Hall Master of Grey Cloud is going to.’

Phin's face fell for a moment. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘We start in the Hall of Grey Cloud today!’

Below them, the sound of the dawn gong drifted up the central staircase.

‘You'll have to write that letter of yours later, Quint,’ he said, smiling again. ‘If Fenviel Vendix is as strict as they say he is, we don't want to keep him waiting!’

Twenty minutes later, after a hurried breakfast of hammelhornmilk and semmelseed cakes in the Eightways, Quint and Phin joined the group of squires milling about in front of the entrance to the Hall of Grey Cloud. From behind the tall, narrow doors, the low grunts and piercing squeals of prowlgrins could be plainly heard, and Quint felt a shiver of excitement. After all the dry, theoretical work of sky-ship construction and sail-setting, and the endless hours of armour naming, now, at last, they were about to work with living, breathing creatures.

Ever since entering the Knights Academy, Quint had taken every opportunity to watch the prowlgrins being exercised by their grooms and knights-in-waiting in the Inner Courtyard. Despite the restricted space, they were so fast and so agile, and he'd marvelled as they leaped high into the tilt trees that stretched in an avenue across the paving stones, always elegantly poised and perfectly balanced. Now, at last, he was going to get the chance to ride a prowlgrin himself.

The doors opened slowly, their heavy hinges protesting, and a warm blast of scented air filled the corridor outside. A deep expressionless voice from within barked a single command.

‘Enter!’

Quint took a deep breath and followed the other squires through the doorway and into the Hall of Grey Cloud. The smell that greeted them was unmistakable   —  straw, both damp and dusty, mingled with the musty odour of chopped meat, while underneath, the sweet, earthy smell of prowlgrins themselves pervaded everything. Occasionally, when he'd been lying in his sleeping closet, Quint had caught a whiff of the place. But now, walking through the tall arched doors, the mix of scents was intoxicating.

Before him, situated at the top of tall, square pillars which stretched the length of the hall at regular intervals, were the prowlgrin roosts. There were pegs hammered in from the bottom to the top for the ostlers and grooms to scale – on occasions also used by those old or weary prowlgrins that were unable to leap up from the ground. Halfway up were great metal byres, stuffed with straw and used to catch the prowlgrin droppings. Above these, extending both to the left and the right, all the way up to the high vaulted ceiling, were thick, horizontal roost ‘branches’.