Midnight Over Sanctaphrax (26 page)

‘Lot Nine,’ the auctioneer cried. ‘A waterwaif.’

Twig started. A waterwaif? He'd seen no waterwaif. He turned round and stared back at the stage. And sure enough, there - cowering behind the cluster of cloddertrogs - was a slight, scaly creature with fanned ears and
a darting, reptilian tongue. One of the tawny shrykes jabbed him sharply in the back. The waterwaif groaned and hobbled wearily to the front of the stage.

‘I thought we were going,’ said Cowlquape.

‘Wait,’ said Twig.

He stared at the individual before him, then at Spooler, then back at the waterwaif - then back at Spooler.

‘Well?’ he said.

‘I … I'm not sure,’ the oakelf replied. There was excitement in his voice. ‘It
could
be …’

‘Could be what?’ said Cowlquape.

‘Not what, but
who,’
said Twig. ‘It could be Woodfish.’

‘From your crew?’ said Cowlquape.

Twig nodded.

Just then, the auctioneer's bidding got underway. ‘Ten!’ she announced. ‘Who'll offer me ten.’ Twig raised his hand. The auctioneer glanced at him. She nodded and turned away again. ‘Fifteen,’ she said. ‘Do I hear fifteen?’ ‘Fifteen,’ came a gruff voice.

‘Twenty?’ said the auctioneer, turning back to Twig.

Twig glanced round at the character who had bid against him - an evil-looking individual with a metal eye-patch, who was leering at the waterwaif with his one good eye and licking his lips ominously.
From the emblem embossed into his heavy leather coat, Twig could see he was a leaguesman - though the symbol was none he recognized. He raised his hand a second time.

The auctioneer nodded again. ‘Twenty-five?’ she said. ‘Do I hear twenty-five.’

Twig glanced around again. This time, his gaze met that of the one-eyed leaguesman, who was glaring back at him furiously. ‘Twenty-five!’ he bellowed.

‘Thirty!’ shouted Twig.

‘Thirty-five!’

‘Fifty!’

The leaguesman hesitated for a moment, then - as Twig looked round - his mouth cracked open and his gold teeth glinted in the glow from the imprisoned firebugs. ‘S all yours,’ he sneered.

‘Sold to the individual in the hammelhornskin waistcoat for fifty,’ the auctioneer announced. ‘Come forward to pay the tally-hen and lot number nine is yours.’

Twig stepped up onto the stage. Cowlquape held his breath. Was the waterwaif the crew-member Twig was searching for or not? The next moment, the air resounded with a screech of surprise.

‘You want to do
what?’
the tally-hen demanded, her voice loud and incredulous. ‘You want to buy it a cockade?’

Cowlquape's heart leapt. So it
was
Woodfish after all! He moved closer to the stage, the better to hear what was going on.

‘I think you'll find the amount correct,’ Twig was
saying as he handed over a cluster of gold pieces. ‘Fifty for the purchase and an extra two for a white cockade.’

The tally-hen glanced up at the auctioneer questioningly.

‘If he wants to waste his money on fine gestures …’ she sniffed, and her beak clacked with contempt.

The tally-hen shrugged. Fifty-two gold pieces were fifty-two gold pieces after all. She slipped the money into the chest, reached inside the pocket of her pouch and removed a white cockade.

‘Here,’ she said.

Twig took it and handed it over to the waterwaif. He smiled. ‘For you, fellow free-citizen,’ he said.

‘Th … thank you,’ the waterwaif said uncertainly.

‘Even though you are not the one I hoped you would be,’ said Twig quietly.

Cowlquape gasped.
Not
the one? What did he mean?

The waterwaif frowned, and listened in on Twig's thoughts. ‘Oh, I see,’ he said. ‘You thought I was your missing crew-member, Woodfish.’ His fan-like ears fluttered. ‘I'm sorry to disappoint you.’

Twig shrugged. ‘It's not your fault,’ he said. Then, smiling grimly, he reached out and shook the scaly hand of the waterwaif.

‘Lot number ten!’ the auctioneer bellowed above the rising swell of angry voices in the crowd. She looked down impatiently. ‘Will those involved in the previous sale kindly leave the stage.’

Cowlquape and Spooler helped the still somewhat bewildered waterwaif down onto the platform. Twig
jumped down after him. The four of them slipped back through the crowd.

On the other side, Twig turned to the waterwaif. ‘Anyway,’ he said, Tm glad to have been of help. Live long and fare well,’ he said formally, and turned away -to be confronted with the furious face of the thwarted leaguesman pressed closely into his own.

‘What do you think you're playing at?’ he said.

‘Playing at?’ said Twig.

The leaguesman seized him by the shoulder and pulled him close. ‘You heard me,’ he spat. ‘Do you realize how long I've been searching for a waterwaif?’ the leaguesman hissed into Twig's ear. His breath was warm, moist and made fetid by the rotten meat trapped between his gold teeth. ‘Thirty-six cockades-worth!’ he said. ‘Thirty-six dumping cockades-worth! This was the first I'd found. And then you come along!’

With that, he drew his dagger. Twig stumbled. The blade glinted. Crying out, the waterwaif leapt between them. The knife plunged into his chest.

A curious look of serenity passed over the waterwaif ‘s face as he tumbled back to the wooden platform. It had all happened so quickly, but he had read the leagues-man's murderous thoughts in an instant. His eyes misted over; his ears fell still.

Astonishment turning to rage, Twig drew his own sword. But as he stepped forwards, half a dozen of the tawny shryke guards brushed him aside and fell upon the leaguesman.

Shrieking with fury - eyes glinting and feathers erect - they tore the cockade from his lapel and seized him in their vicious claws. The leaguesman struggled in vain as he was bundled away.

‘It was him!’ he protested. ‘Let me go!’

‘Oh, we'll let you go, all right!’ came the gleeful reply. ‘We'll let you go under the auctioneer's hammer.’

‘No, not a slave,’ the leaguesman shouted, and struggled all the more desperately. ‘You can't sell me as a slave. Do you not realize who I am … ?’ His voice was drowned out by the sound of scornful laughter as the shrykes dragged him away.

Twig shakily approached the dying waterwaif. He crouched down. ‘I'm so sorry,’ he said tearfully. ‘Ending up a slave would have been better than … than this.’

The waterwaif's ears fluttered weakly. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘Nothing is worse than that,’ he said. ‘You saved my life, and I am happy I was able to save yours …’ His eyes widened abruptly as a spasm of pain racked his body. ‘And there is one last service I can do you …’

As Cowlquape and Spooler watched on, Twig lowered his head and listened intently.

‘You are looking for the missing crew of the
Edgedancer,’
the waterwaif whispered hoarsely. ‘I read it in your thoughts.’

‘Yes,’ said Twig.

The waterwaif clutched at him weakly. ‘One of those you remember in your thoughts, well… I have seen him here … in the market.’

‘You have?’ Twig exclaimed. ‘Who is it? And where can I find him?’

‘He … he …’ His voice gurgled. Twig held the waterwaif up and put an ear to his mouth. ‘The Wig-Wig … Arena,’ he whispered, and his body juddered. There was a gasp. A whimper. And the light in his eyes flickered and died.

Twig laid the waterwaif back down and closed his eyelids. Cowlquape and Spooler crouched down beside him.

‘It wasn't your fault,’ said Cowlquape.

‘Yet he's dead, for all that,’ said Twig. He sighed. ‘What should we do with the body?’

‘The shrykes will take care of it,’ said Spooler. ‘Come, captain. There's nothing more you can - or may - do here.’

With heavy-troubled hearts, the three of them left. Cowlquape, who was last in line as they crossed over the nearest hanging walkway, glanced back to see that the tawny guard shrykes had returned to the scene. Two of them hoisted the dead body onto their feathery shoulders, and all six of them scuttled off. Cowlquape turned away.

On the far side of the hanging walkway, Twig stopped and looked round him. More than ever, he felt that the Great Shryke Slave Market was nothing less than an evil wood fungus, sucking the life out of its host, the Deepwoods, and all who dwelt in her. He couldn't wait to leave. He looked at Cowlquape and Spooler and knew that they felt the same way. But they couldn't leave. Not yet.

‘The Wig-Wig Arena,’ he said to Spooler. ‘Does that name mean anything to you?’

The oakelf's dark eyes widened with unmistakable fear. ‘Oh, yes, captain,’ he said, his voice trembling. ‘It certainly does. I know all about the Wig-Wig Arena.’ He shuddered. ‘I only wish I didn't.’

• CHAPTER FIFTEEN •
THE WIG
-
WIG ARENA

C
owlquape suddenly looked up, breaking the silence that had followed the oakelf's words. His face was deathly pale. ‘Twig,’ he trembled. ‘It's started.’

‘What's started?’

Cowlquape lightly touched his woodthistle-shaped rosette. ‘My cockade,’ he said miserably. ‘The material is starting to wilt.’

‘Are you sure?’ said Twig. ‘It looks all right to me.’

Cowlquape shook his head angrily. ‘Look!’ he said. ‘It's gone all limp at the edges. I can't believe we've been here long enough for that to happen.’

‘That tally-hen did warn us to keep track of time,’ Twig reminded him.

‘Yes, but three days!’ Cowlquape exclaimed hotly. ‘We can't possibly have been here for three days. It's all a con, a trick to enslave more unsuspecting free citizens …’

‘Cowlquape, calm down,’ said Twig. ‘It hasn't rotted away yet. And anyway, what's done is done. We must look forwards.’ He turned to Spooler. ‘Time's running short,’ he said. ‘This Wig-Wig Arena,’ he said. ‘Can you take us there?’

The oakelf nodded and looked round about him slowly, thoughtfully. ‘By reading the signs in the market crowds, I can,’ he said. ‘Look over there at those merchants. See the greed in their faces? Follow them and they'll lead us back to the Grand Central Auction. Whereas over there, those gnokgoblins. See the way they stop, look around, then go on a few steps? They're browsers. They'll lead us to the livestock-traders and trinket-sellers.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Twig impatiently. ‘But what about the Arena? How do we know who to follow there?’