Midnight Over Sanctaphrax (11 page)

It was even darker outside than it had been inside and, away from the noise of the refectory, far more forbidding. Purple-edged black clouds twisted and swirled overhead like bubbling wood-tar. The wind was sulphurous. And even though he could not know how the sense-sifters were glowing orange, Cowlquape felt an unfamiliar tumult of emotions within him: anger, exultation, and a nerve-tingling fear as chaotic and swirling as the weather around him.

Chicker-chacker-cheeeesh.
Crimson lightning darted this way and that across the sky, and the thunder which followed crashed all round the floating city, shaking it to its very core.

Head spinning, Cowlquape set off for the refuge of the Great Library He kept to the shadows as he hurried silently across the greasy tiles. Around a corner, he halted. He looked back and forth. The coast was clear. From the guard turret to his right to the landing-stage far away on his left, the place was deserted.

As he set off again the sky lit up for a second time, and Cowlquape caught a sign of movement out of the corner of his eye. He spun round and squinted into the dim light. There was the young sub-professor. He was standing atop the stone balustrade of the landing-stage, legs apart, head up, arms outstretched and palms raised. All round him, the lightning cracked and splintered.

‘Twig!’ Cowlquape bellowed. He didn't know whether it was his own inner confusion or simply the madness of the weather that made him call out the professor's name. Could he really be going to jump? ‘Stop! Stop!’

His urgent cries were drowned out by a second rumble of thunder. Twig tottered on the edge of the balustrade, flapping his arms.

‘
NO
!’
Cowlquape yelled. He raced forwards, heart in his mouth, and seized the hem of Twig's waistcoat.
‘Ouch!’
he cried, as the hammelhorn fur turned instantly to sharp needles which pierced his skin. Droplets of blood welled up on his fingertips.

The lightning flashed again. The thunder rolled. And, as the wind grew stronger, a light sparkling rain began to shower down. All over Sanctaphrax, the mood changed to elation. Cheers echoed from the refectory. Cowlquape, gripped by a sudden feeling of intoxicating strength, grasped Twig's arm and pulled him off the balustrade. Twig fell to the ground.

‘Forgive me, Professor,’ Cowlquape whispered. ‘I thought you were going to jump.’

Twig stumbled to his feet. ‘You spoke?’ he said.

Cowlquape's jaw dropped.
‘You
spoke!’ he said. ‘They said you were dumb …’

Twig frowned and touched his lips with his fingers. ‘I did,’ he whispered thoughtfully. He looked round, as if seeing for the first time where he was. ‘But… what am I doing here?’ he said. ‘And who are you?’

‘Cowlquape, Professor,’ came the reply. ‘Junior sub-acolyte, if it pleases you.’

‘Oh, it pleases me well enough,’ said Twig, amused by the young lad's formality. Then he frowned. ‘Did you say…
Professor?’

‘I did,’ said Cowlquape, ‘although Sub-Professor would have been more accurate. You are the new Sub-Professor of Light - at least, if the rumours are to be believed.’

A look of bemusement passed over Twig's face. ‘This must be the Professor of Darkness's doing,’ he said.

‘He was the one who brought you to Sanctaphrax,’ said Cowlquape. ‘From the Stone Gardens, they say. He …’

‘The Stone Gardens,’ said Twig softly. ‘So I didn't imagine it.’ Looking lost and bewildered, he turned to Cowlquape. ‘And yet…’ He frowned with concentration. ‘Oh, why can't I remember … ?’ He scratched his head slowly. ‘It's as if I've been in a dream. I remember my crew, the voyage, entering the weather vortex and then … Nothing!’ He paused. ‘Until just now, when you obviously stopped me from throwing myself to my destruction.’ He smiled. ‘Thank you. What did you say your name was?’

‘Cowlquape,’ said Cowlquape, ‘and I don't know what came over me. I shouldn't have saved you at all.’ He stared down at the ground disconsolately. ‘I should have joined you. I have nothing to live for!’

‘Come, come,’ said the young professor gently. He laid his hand on Cowlquape's shoulder. ‘You can't mean that.’

’I do,’ said Cowlquape, hanging his head. ‘I'm an Undertowner. My father is dead and I have no fees to pay for my apprenticeship. When they find me, they'll throw me out of Sanctaphrax. What have I got to live for?’

Twig looked at the bookish young acolyte. ‘You saved me,’ he said simply. ‘I think I ought to repay the debt. You say I'm a Sub-Professor of Light.’

Cowlquape nodded.

‘In that case, I hereby appoint you as my apprentice, Cowlquip.’

‘Cowlquape,’
said Cowlquape excitedly. ‘Do you really mean it?’

‘Of course,’ said Twig, smiling. ‘I'll need a smart young apprentice to look out for me now that I've finally woken up. I've got a lot to do.’

‘I'll look out for you, professor,’ said Cowlquape. ‘You see if I don't.’

• CHAPTER SEVEN •
THE SHOOTING STAR CHART

C
owlquape strode out of the Great Library, brushing the dust from his fine new robes. The costly black material showed up every speck, and the fur trim seemed somewhat extravagant - but the clothes fitted splendidly. He clutched the ancient barkscrolls to his chest and hurried towards the School of Light and Darkness.

Turning into a narrow alley next to the Windtouchers’ Tower, he stopped. There, blocking his way, stood Vox, the cloudwatcher, his face pasty with woodsalve.

‘Alone at last,’ the tall apprentice snarled.

Two more cloudwatcher apprentices appeared behind Cowlquape. He was trapped.

‘I believe you and I have some unfinished business, barkworm,’ said Vox, producing a mean-looking cudgel from the folds of his gown. He swung it through the air, catching Cowlquape a glancing blow to the side
of the head, and sending him sprawling.

‘Vox!’ he gasped. ‘You great big bully …
Unnkhhl’

‘Where's your so-called professor now, Undertowner, eh?’ Vox sneered. ‘Where's brave Captain Twig, saviour of Sanctaphrax?’

‘Right here,’ said Twig, seizing Vox's upraised arm and twisting it neatly up behind his back.

‘Aaarghl’
yelled the apprentice, dropping the cudgel.

Twig shoved him away. ‘I believe my valued apprentice, Cowlquape, needs a hand,’ he said.

‘Y … yes, sir,’ stammered Vox, cowering before the young professor.

‘And dust off his robes while you're about it.’

Vox clumsily helped Cowlquape to his feet and brushed him down.

‘Now be on your way,’ said Twig. ‘And don't ever let me catch you bothering him again or you'll find yourself on a one-way basket trip to Undertown. Do I make myself understood?’

Vox nodded sullenly and sloped off. His friends had long since fled.

‘Thank you, Professor,’ gasped Cowlquape.

Twig smiled. ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ he said. ‘Call me Twig.’

‘Yes, Prof … Twig,’ said Cowlquape.

‘And Cowlquape.’

‘Yes, Twig?’

‘You dropped this.’ The young professor handed the crumpled barkscrolls to his apprentice. ‘And don't get bark dust all over your nice new robes.’

‘No, Twig,’ said Cowlquape happily; and followed the Professor towards the School of Light and Darkness.

Twig's study was situated at the top of the west tower in the School of Light and Darkness. It was a small room, yet with its soft hanging armchairs and blazing stove, a comfortable and cosy place. The wall was lined with shelves brimming over with rows of leather-bound books, stacks of papers tied up with ribbons, and intricate light-orientated scientific apparatus. A furry layer of dust covered it all.

Twig watched Cowlquape as his young apprentice sat with his nose in a barkscroll, reading avidly in front of the open-doored stove that glowed with purple flames. It must be lufwood he's burning, Twig thought, and was once again taken back to his childhood with the woodtrolls, when he would sit on the tilder rug before the fire listening to Spelda - his adoptive mother - as she recounted her tales of the dark Deepwoods.

The lufwood logs gave off a lot of heat but, being buoyant when burned, they had a tendency to fly out when the door to the stove was open. Every
so often, Cowlquape would look up and nudge back into the stove a blazing log which threatened to escape.

‘What's that you're reading?’ Twig didn't hide the boredom in his voice. It was plain to his young apprentice that Sanctaphrax, and the stuffy confines of the School of Light and Darkness in particular, stifled the young sky pirate captain.

‘An old barkscroll, Professor,’ said Cowlquape. ‘I found it in the Great Library - it's fascinating …’

‘Call me Twig,’ he said impatiently. Then, in a gentler voice, ‘I envy you, Cowlquape.’

‘Me, Twig? But why?’

‘You can pick up a barkscroll and be transported off to goodness knows where. I've watched you sit there for hours, poring over some scrap of bark, half eaten by woodmoths and barkworms, as if in a trance. You're a born academic, Cowlquape. Whilst I…’ He paused. ‘I'm a sky pirate!’

Twig climbed to his feet, crossed the stuffy study and flung open the window. Icy rain splashed down on his upturned face and trickled down the back of his neck. ‘That is where I should be,’ he said, pointing beyond Sanctaphrax. ‘Out there. Sailing the skies as captain of a sky pirate ship. Like my father and his father before him. It's in the blood, Cowlquape - and I miss it so.’

Cowlquape put down the barkscroll and caught an escaping lufwood log with the fire tongs.

‘Oh, Cowlquape,’ Twig continued, his gaze still fixed on the endless expanse of sky outside. ‘You have never
heard the wind singing in the rigging, or seen the world laid out below you like a map, or felt the rushing air in your hair as you sail across the sky If you had, you would know what misery it is to be stuck in this poky study. I feel like a bird whose wings have been clipped.’

‘I love Sanctaphrax,’ said Cowlquape. ‘I love its towers, its walkways; the Great Library -
and
this poky study. But I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you.’ He looked down, suddenly embarrassed. ‘And I'd follow you anywhere, even…’ He gestured to the open window. ‘Even out there, into open sky’

Twig flinched. ‘There were others who followed me there,’ he replied quietly.

‘Your crew?’ said Cowlquape.

‘My crew,’ Twig whispered sadly. He could see them all now, the diverse yet loyal bunch he had assembled: the flat-head goblin, the slaughterer, the oakelf, the waterwaif, the Stone Pilot, the banderbear and the bespectacled quartermaster. They had believed in him, followed him into open sky - and had perished there. ‘I don't know how, but I killed them all, Cowlquape. You see how dangerous it can be putting your trust in me.’

‘Are you sure they're dead?’ said Cowlquape.

‘Of course they're dead,’ said Twig irritably. ‘How could they possibly have survived?’

‘You
did,’ said Cowlquape. Twig fell still. ‘I mean, did you actually see what happened to them?’

‘See?’ Twig repeated. ‘I can't remember!’

‘Can you remember
anything
of that fateful voyage into open sky?’ he prompted.

Twig hung his head. ‘No,’ he admitted glumly.

‘Then how do you know they're dead?’ Cowlquape persisted. ‘How many were on board the
Edgedancer
when you set sail?’

‘Eight, including myself,’ said Twig. ‘But…’

‘The Professor of Darkness said eight shooting stars were seen flying through the sky,’ Cowlquape blurted out.

Twig frowned. ‘Cowlquape, what are you saying?’

‘I've said too much.’ Cowlquape stumbled over the words. ‘The professor told me not to talk to you about your former life. He said that it would only upset you …’

‘Upset me? Of course it upsets me!’ Twig stormed. ‘If I thought for an instant that any of them were still alive, I'd leave this place right now and find them, whatever it took.’

Cowlquape nodded. ‘I think that's what the professor is afraid of,’ said Cowlquape. ‘Forget I spoke, Twig.’

‘Forget!’ Twig turned on him. ‘I can't forget! Eight shooting stars, you say. One for each member of the
Edgedancer.
Cowlquape, think now, did the professor say where these shooting stars landed?’