Midnight Over Sanctaphrax (21 page)

‘Listen,’ he said, turning away from the porthole.

Cowlquape looked up from his hammock. ‘What?’

‘That noise.’

‘What noise?’

Twig motioned Cowlquape to be silent. He crouched down on the floor and placed his ear against the dark varnished wood. His face clouded with sorrow.
‘That
noise,’ he said.

Cowlquape rolled off the hammock and joined Twig on the floor. As his ear touched the wooden boards, the sounds became clearer. Groaning. Howling. Hopeless wailing.

‘The cargo?’ Cowlquape whispered.

‘The cargo,’ said Twig. ‘The mobgnomes, the flat-head goblins, the cloddertrogs … the sound of misery and despair - the sound of slavery. Thank Sky we are forewarned and know what the captain is planning …’

His words were shattered by a bare-knuckled rapping at the door.

‘Quick,’ said Twig. ‘Into your hammock. Pretend to be asleep.’

A moment later, Twig and Cowlquape were curled up in their hammocks, eyes shut and mouths open, snoring softly. The rapping at the door came a second time.

‘We're asleep, you idiots,’ Cowlquape muttered under his breath. ‘Just come in.’

‘Sshhh!’
Twig hissed.

The door-handle squeaked as it was slowly turned. The door creaked open. Twig rolled over with a grunt and continued snoring, though he sneaked a peek into the cabin from the corner of one eye.

Two heads peered round the cabin door. One was Teasel's. The other belonged to an individual Twig had not seen before: a burly cloddertrog. The pair of them were frozen to the spot, anxiously watching to see if
Twig was about to wake up. He obliged them with a snoozy murmur, and settled back down.

A cloddertrog, he thought unhappily.

‘I think they must have drunk it,’ said Teasel, crossing the room. He sniffed at the goblets, and peered into the jug. ‘Yeah, all gone,’ He looked at the two hammocks. ‘Sleeping like babies, so they are,’ he giggled. ‘Right, then, Korb. You tie up the little'un. I'll see to this one.’

The pair of them pulled lengths of rope from their shoulders and advanced to the two hammocks. Cowlquape trembled as the foul-smelling cloddertrog came close. He quaked as the great looming creature tossed the end of the rope over his feet. He was about to be tied up inside the hammock. Rigid with fear, he felt the rope bite as it was pulled tight around his ankles.

‘Easy there,’ said the mobgnome. ‘The captain said
no marks.
And you know what happens if you cross the captain …’

The cloddertrog scratched his head. ‘I don't want him wriggling free when he wakes up though.’

‘Don't worry,’ the mobgnome assured him, as he went to secure his own rope around Twig's neck. ‘He'll be out till …
Aaaaarghl’
he wailed as a sharp elbow slammed
into the base of his nose with a sickening crunch. Blood gushed in a torrent. The mobgnome clutched his hands to his face and staggered backwards.

Twig sat up, swung round and leapt forwards, sword drawn. ‘Drop your knife first,’ he shouted at the clod-dertrog. Then your cutlass.’

The cloddertrog stumbled back in surprise. The mob-gnome was still on his knees, clutching his nose. Cowlquape loosened the rope around his legs, climbed off his hammock and stood by Twig's side.

‘Knife, Cowlquape,’ said Twig, nodding to the hammerhead's dagger. Shakily, Cowlquape drew it from his belt. ‘And you,’ Twig told the cloddertrog. ‘Just use your thumb and forefinger.’

‘Thumb and forefinger it is,’ he said.

Twig watched. The blade of the knife appeared from its sheath. ‘Now, drop it!’ he said.

The cloddertrog glanced down at his hand.

‘Drop it!’ shouted Twig.

‘All right, all right,’ said the cloddertrog. His knuckles
whitened. ‘I just…’ As he spoke, he flicked his wrist and the knife spun through the air.

Twig recoiled. Too late!
‘Aaarghl’
he screamed as the spinning knife sank its razor-sharp point into his side. His sword clattered to the floor.

As Twig toppled backwards the cloddertrog drew his evil-looking cutlass and lunged forwards.

Twig!’ shouted Cowlquape, leaping on the cloddertrog's back.

The heavy cutlass splintered the wooden wall, inches above Twig's head.

‘Geddoff me!’ roared the cloddertrog, tearing the lad from his shoulders and tossing him aside.

Cowlquape went flying back across the cabin and crashed into the still kneeling Teasel. The mobgnome was knocked senseless.

The cloddertrog sneered. ‘I don't care what the captain says,’ he said. ‘You're going to get what's coming to you!’ He raised the fearsome cutlass high above his head and …

BOOF
!

Cowlquape brought the heavy earthenware jug down with all his strength on the cloddertrog's skull. The cloddertrog keeled forwards, landed heavily ^ on the floor and lay still.

‘Now that's what I call a sleeping draught,’ said Cowlquape with a shaky smile.

‘Thank you, lad,’ said Twig, as he struggled to his feet. Although his hammelhornskin waistcoat had prevented the knife penetrating too far, the wound was throbbing. He hobbled across to his sword, picked it up and turned to Cowlquape.

‘Come, Cowlquape. We have an appointment with Captain Vulpoon.’

Taking care not to make a sound, Twig and Cowlquape made their way through the sky ship. They passed storerooms and stock-cupboards, the galley, the sleeping berths. At each door and corridor they came to they paused, looked round furtively and listened for any sound. Apart from a low snoring from the crew's quarters - where Jervis and Stile were sleeping - there was nothing.

They were about to make their way up to the helm itself when Cowlquape noticed a narrow, black and gold lacquered staircase set back in an alcove. He looked at Twig questioningly

Twig nodded and stepped forwards. He began climbing the narrow stairs. ‘Well, well, well!’ he exclaimed a moment later as he stepped into the room above. ‘We've struck lucky’

Cowlquape joined him. He looked round the ornate chamber with its gold trappings, luxurious carpet and inlaid woodwork, its huge mirrors and crystal chandeliers - its vast, sumptuous four-poster bed.

‘We must be in Vulpoon's quarters,’ he said. It's … magnificent!’

There's certainly profit to be had from the misery of others,’ said Twig sourly

He began opening the mirrored doors to the many wardrobes which lined the room, and rifled through the gaudy clothes which packed every inch within. From the third wardrobe, he pulled out a particularly foppish jacket. Long and quilted, it was a deep magenta colour with navy and gold brocade. There were feathers around the collar and at the cuffs. Semi-precious stones, set into the embroidered threads, sparkled enticingly. Twig slipped the jacket on.

‘What do you think?’ he said.

‘Well, it's …’ Cowlquape started. He shook his head. ‘I don't know what we're doing in here.’

Twig laughed. ‘You're right, Cowlquape,’ he said. ‘It's time we left. Come on.’ And with that he strode across the room and back down the stairs. Cowlquape followed close behind.

Up on deck at last, Twig breathed the crisp, cold air deep down into his lungs. A broad grin spread across his face.

‘Ah, Cowlquape,’ he said. ‘Fresh air. A following wind. The sheer exhilaration of soaring across the endless sky.’

Cowlquape laid a hand on Twig's arm and pointed up the wooden staircase to the helm. The captain and the brogtroll, Grimlock, were silhouetted against the grey-ness of the sky. Twig nodded and raised his finger to his lips.

They advanced, keeping to the shadows cast by the low moon on their port bow. Around the skirting-deck, they went. Up the stairs. Slowly. Stealthily. All at once, the whole sky ship was bathed in purple light.

‘Waah!’
Grimlock cried out.

Twig and Cowlquape froze.

‘Fire!’
the brogtroll bellowed. ‘Grimlock see fire!’

‘Be still, you fool!’ the captain cried. ‘It's not fire. It's the signal flare.’

‘Signal flare?’ said Grimlock blankly.

The captain groaned. ‘Oh, Grimlock, Grimlock, there really isn't a lot going on in there, is there?’ he said, waving his lace handkerchief at the brogtroll's head. ‘The
signal flare alerts the guards at the slave market that there are slaves on board!’ He rubbed his plump pink hands together. ‘And what a lot of slaves we've got. Mother Muleclaw will be so pleased with me.’

‘Mother Muleclaw,’ Grimlock growled. He remembered her well enough. Beaten him, she had. Beaten poor Grimlock when he'd once strayed from the ship.

‘Aye, the roost-mother herself,’ said Vulpoon. ‘She's the one our two fine young gentlemen are going to.’ He chuckled. ‘I wonder if they'll last any longer than the last lot?’

Twig's eyes rested on the finery of the captain's clothes - the elegant embroidered silk frock coat with its intricate pattern of costly marsh-gems and mire-pearls, the highly-polished knee-length boots, the ruffs at his collar and cuffs, the fluffy purple vulpoon feather in his tricorn hat. He was a dandy. A fop. Twig had never seen a sky pirate captain like him before, and it turned his stomach knowing how this unpleasant individual had come by such wealth. ‘So when is our estimated time of arrival in the slave market?’ he asked, stepping from the shadows.