Midnight Over Sanctaphrax (17 page)

Twig looked around him. Unlike the rundown boom-docks
to the east, where only the lowliest of tug ships moored, the western quays were well-heeled. This was where the leaguesmen's sky ships were docked, and the shore behind was lined with their buildings - solid constructions with faqades that were more than merely functional. Each one bore the coat of arms of the league it housed: the crossed sickle and chisel of the League of Gutters and Gougers, the piebald rat and coiled rope of the Gluesloppers and Ropeteasers, the pot and pliers of the Melders and Moulders …

Behind them all stood the lofty Leagues’ Chamber, where the High Council of the Merchant League of Undertown sat. Always the most impressive building in the boom-docks, it looked more striking than ever at the moment, surrounded as it was by an intricate framework of scaffolding. Twig nodded towards it.

They must be seeing to the roof,’ he said.

‘Mm-hmm,’ Cowlquape mumbled again. He licked his finger and, without looking up, turned to the next barkscroll.

Twig turned back and stared at the river, flowing weakly past The rising sun bounced oozy blobs of red over its crumpled surface.

The trouble was, their search for the fourth crewman in the leaguesmen's district had proved as unrewarding as their searches everywhere
else in Undertown. The bustling streets, the noisy markets, the industrial quarter, the northern heights - Twig and Cowlquape had been to them all. Yet no matter how many taverns they visited, how many individuals they spoke to, how many enquiries they made, they had discovered nothing whatsoever about a falling shooting star or the sudden appearance of someone acting oddly.

‘Perhaps the time has come for us simply to abandon our search here in Undertown and set forth for the Deepwoods,’ said Twig.

‘Mm-hmm,’ said Cowlquape, his brow furrowed.

‘Cowlquape!’ said Twig. ‘Have you heard a single word I've been saying to you?’

Cowlquape looked up, his expression puzzled, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

‘Ever the studious academic, eh?’ said Twig. ‘You've been lost in those barkscrolls ever since we got here.’

‘Oh, but it's … they're … just let me read you this,’ he said. ‘It really is absolutely fascinating stuff.’

‘If you must,’ said Twig resignedly.

‘It's more about
The Myth of Riverrise,’
said Cowlquape eagerly. ‘About the Mother Storm …’

Twig started as, for a fleeting moment, a memory from the fatal voyage into open sky flashed inside his head. ‘The Mother Storm,’ he muttered, but even as he said the words the elusive memory slipped away again. He looked up. ‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘Tell me what it says.’

Cowlquape nodded and found the place with his finger.
‘For as I write, it is now the commonly held belief that the Mother Storm has struck the Edge not once, but many
times, destroying and recreating with each return,’
he read out.’
I
…’

‘
I
?’ said Twig. ‘Who wrote these words?’

Cowlquape glanced up. ‘They are a transcription of the original bark-writings that date back to the Time of Enlightenment in the Ancient Deepwoods,’ Cowlquape explained. ‘This version,’ he said, stroking the scroll affectionately, ‘was written down by a lowly scribe several hundred years ago. But the originals were much, much older.’

Twig smiled. The lad's enthusiasm was infectious.

‘The Time of Enlightenment!’ said Cowlquape. ‘Oh, it must have been such a wonderful time to be alive. A glorious age of freedom and learning - long before our magnificent floating city of Sanctaphrax was even dreamed of. The Deepwoods emerged from darkness under the visionary leadership of Kobold the Wise. How I would love to have known him! He banished slavery. He united the thousand tribes under the lordly arms of the Trident and the Snake. He even oversaw the invention of the written word …’

‘Yes, yes, Cowlquape,’ said Twig. ‘Very interesting. Is there a point to all this?’

‘Patience, Twig,’ said Cowlquape. ‘All will soon be revealed. The Time of Enlightenment was abruptly snuffed out like a candle, Kobold the Wise's Union of a Thousand Tribes broke up, and the whole region descended into the barbarity and chaos that has reigned in the Deepwoods to this day’ He returned his attention
to the barkscroll. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘this is what the scribe writes.’

Despite himself, Twig remained silent and listened attentively as Cowlquape read from the curled and yellowed scroll.

‘Kobold the Wise grew old and weary. Madness walked the market glades and deep meadows. Tribe turned upon tribe, brother upon brother, father upon son, for the Sky had grown angry and stole the reason of all who dwelt beneath it.

‘Thus did representatives of the Thousand Tribes gather at Riverrise, and say, “Kobold, you who see further into Open Sky than the greatest of us, tell us what to do, for, in our madness, we are devouring each other and the sky turns our hearts black.”

‘And Kobold raised himself up from his sick bed and said, “ho, the Mother Storm returns. Her madness shall be our madness. Prepare yourselves, for time is short

Cowlquape paused. ‘There's a bit of a gap in the text here,’ he explained. ‘Wood-weevils have devoured the original bark.’ He looked down again. ‘This is how it continues.

‘…
The Mother Storm, she who first seeded the Edge with life, shall come back to reap what she has sown, and the world shall return to Darkness,’
he said, emphasizing every word. ‘Do you see, Twig? Kobold the Wise was describing
The Myth of Riverrise
and predicting the return of the Mother Storm - a prediction that came all too true, for the Deepwoods did indeed return to darkness. And now it is happening all over again.’

Twig turned away and stared up into open sky where
the Mother Storm had held him in her terrible grasp.

‘The madness described is with us again,’ Cowlquape said solemnly, ‘blown in on the weather from beyond the Edge. The mad mists and heart-breaking rains - the terrible violence. What was it I read out?’ He found the place again.’…
in our madness we are devouring each other.
Don't you see, Twig. It isn't a myth at all. The Mother Storm is returning.’

‘The Mother Storm is returning,’ Twig repeated quietly. The words chimed with familiarity. But how? Why? He shook his head with frustration. Something important had undoubtedly happened to him out there in the weather vortex far away in open sky. Why couldn't he remember what it was? Would he ever remember?

He looked at his troubled young apprentice. ‘Come, Cowlquape,’ he said. ‘I think we can safely leave such matters to the academics of Sanctaphrax. For ourselves, it is time we abandoned - or at least postponed - our search for the fourth crew-member of the
Edgedancer,
and set forth into the Deepwoods. Let's go to the posting-pole and find ourselves passage on board a sky ship.’

Somewhat reluctantly, Cowlquape rolled up his precious barkscrolls, pushed them back into the bag and climbed to his feet. Then, together, he and Twig headed off along the quay to the central embarkation jetty. It was there that the posting-pole was situated.

The posting-pole was a tall, stout pillar of wood to which those sky ship captains with spare berths to announce would nail advertisements, written out on
squares of shimmering cloth. It was the easiest way for those with no means of transport of their own to travel from one part of the Edge to another.

As Twig and Cowlquape reached the end of the embarkation jetty, the sun wobbled up above the horizon, crimson and majestic. Ahead of them, silhouetted against the sky, stood the posting-pole. With the countless fluttering pink-tinged scraps of material nailed along its length, it looked like a curious tree, its bark covered in blossom.

‘I only hope that one of them is offering something suitable,’ Twig muttered as he walked forwards.

Cowlquape went with him. ‘How about this one?’ he said a moment later, and read from the square of cloth.
‘Ruggers and Royners Leagueship. Departing for the Deepwoods this afternoon.
They've got a double berth spare. And the price seems fair.’

But Twig shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, it's not quite …’ His voice drifted away as he raised and read announcement after announcement.

‘What about this one, then?’ said Cowlquape. ‘A tug-master bound for the ironwood copses of the barktrolls is leaving later this morning and needs an extra two pairs of hands.’

But Twig paid him no attention as he continued to read down the list of vessels and their destinations. The
Stormfinder,
destination: the slaughterer camps.

A voice in his head said,
‘No.’

The
Cloudeater,
destination: the Great Hammelhorn Fair.

‘No.’

The
Luggerbrill,
destination: the Goblin Glades.

‘No.’

On down the list he went.
No, no, no,
until…

‘Yes, this is the sky ship you must take,’
the voice said, softly but clearly.

‘Of course!’ Twig exclaimed. ‘Cowlquape, this is it. This is the one. Listen.

Twig looked up. ‘What better place to resume our search?’

Cowlquape nodded uncertainly. His father, Ulbus Pentephraxis, had told him terrible stories about the Great Shryke Slave Market. ‘Won't it be a bit dangerous?’ he asked warily.

Twig shrugged. ‘Undertown can also be dangerous,’ he said. ‘We must visit a place where creatures from all over the Deepwoods congregate.’

‘Yes, but…’ Cowlquape said. ‘I mean, couldn't we go to that Great Hammelhorn Fair you mentioned. Or, look,
there's a sky ship heading for the Timber Clearings of the woodtrolls. Wouldn't that do instead?’

‘Cowlquape,’ said Twig, ‘there is no place in the Deepwoods like the Great Shryke Slave Market. Its denizens travel from every corner to be there. It is the obvious place to start our search.’ He glanced down at the announcement once again and smiled. ‘Thunderbolt Vulpoon,’ he said. ‘Now there's a name to conjure with.’

Cowlquape shivered. ‘He sounds horrible,’ he said. ‘Isn't a vulpoon one of those vicious birds with a serrated beak?’

‘It is,’ said Twig.

‘And Thunderbolt!’ said Cowlquape. ‘What kind of a monster would take the name of a bloodthirsty bird of prey
and
the most terrible and unpredictable feature of the weather?’

Twig snorted. ‘A vain and foolish one,’ he said.
‘Name wild, captain mild,
as my father used to say. Those who select the most ferocious of names are without exception the ones least worthy of them.’ His eyes misted up. ‘Whereas the more gallant and valiant call themselves by less ostentatious names.’

‘Like Cloud Wolf,’ said Cowlquape quietly.

‘Yes,’ said Twig, Tike my father, Cloud Wolf, the most gallant and valiant sky pirate captain of them all.’ He glanced back down at the announcement. ‘Sky above!’ he exclaimed.

‘What?’ said Cowlquape, alarmed.

‘The departure time!’ said Twig. ‘The
Skyraider
is due to set sail in less than a quarter of an hour.’

*

‘This is hopeless!’ Twig cried out. ‘Where is it?’