Sargasso Skies (3 page)

J
ack gave the two captives a sympathetic look as he placed the tray on the floor between them. “You don't look too comfortable,” he said. “It must be rotten to be imprisoned down here while there's so much exciting stuff going on.”

Esmeralda gave him an irritated look. “It is!” she said. “And how come you aren't down here with us?”

“That's simple,” chuckled Jack, lifting a mug to Trundle's lips and tilting it so he could drink. “I agreed to help Count Leopold.” He picked up a hunk of bread. “Care for a bite?”

“What do you mean, you agreed to help Count Leopold?” growled Esmeralda. “Who is Count Leopold? And what exactly are you helping him do?”

“Oh, it's building and decorating work, mostly, at the moment, along with a spot of practicing,” said Jack, popping a chunk of bread into Esmeralda's mouth. “I've joined the count's orchestra, you know. Second rebec, that's me.”

“Is there any way you can get us out of here?” asked Trundle.

Jack tutted. “If you two hadn't been so uncooperative, you'd be a lot better off right now.” He looked at Trundle. “You, waving your sword about, and Esmeralda being rude and sarcastic. I'm not surprised the count's people took offense.”

“Would it help if we said we were sorry?” asked Trundle.

“It might,” said Jack. “He's a decent sort of fellow, really. I think if you apologize and tell him you're willing to work for him, you'll be out of here in a trice!”

“Then we'll apologize,” said Trundle.

“We won't!” insisted Esmeralda. “Tell him to release us right now! Tell him we have an important quest to be getting on with!”

“I will if you like.” Jack sighed. “But if you insist on being stubborn, you'll be left down here permanently. And what about the quest then, eh?”

Trundle gave Esmeralda a stern look. “We will apologize,” he said. “We will be polite and charming and pleasant. Won't we?”

“Yes,” huffed Esmeralda. “Anything to get out of this putrid place!”

“Excellent,” said Jack, getting up. “I'll go and tell the turnkey, and he'll let you loose.” He smiled. “And then after you've eaten, I'll take you up to meet the count. You'll be impressed, I can assure you. He's quite a character!”

 

As Jack had promised, Trundle and Esmeralda were soon freed from their shackles. After a bite to eat, the merry squirrel led them up rickety stairs and along low walkways illuminated by candles set in iron sconces. Trundle got the impression that they were moving through a number of different wrecks, all knocked through and joined together. At last they came to a large pair of ornate carved doors.

Organ music filtered out from beyond.

Jack opened one of the doors a fraction and beckoned the others to follow him. They entered a long wood-paneled room lit by scores of candelabra. The music was much louder now—a frenzied, frantic tune that chased up and down the keyboards and shook the floor beneath their feet.

At the far end of the room, surrounded by clouds of white mist, they could see a cloaked and wild-haired figure playing a mighty steam organ. Twisting and spiraling pipes jutted out from the back of the huge musical instrument, riveted together at odd angles, their joints wrapped in knotted rags and spouting steam and puffs of cloud.

The musician's hands rose and fell furiously, and his head tossed from side to side as he played. The music sounded odd and very complicated to Trundle. He liked music a person could tap his foot to. This sounded like music that might drive you out of your noodle if you listened to too much of it.

“The count plays brilliantly,” Jack whispered as he led them along a moldy and ragged old carpet toward the shuddering organ and its berserk player. “He's a real master!”

“I wish he'd stop,” mumbled Trundle. “It's giving me a headache!”

“Shhh!” hissed Jack. “He'll hear you!”

The frantic music came to a crashing climax and stopped. The organist's arms went limp, and he let out a long, deep sigh.

Jack cleared his throat as the last of the pipes ceased rumbling and the floor became still under Trundle's feet. “Count Leopold, I have brought you two new willing workers,” Jack announced.

“And will they my bidding do?” growled the count, without looking around.

Jack gave Esmeralda and Trundle a hefty nudge, nodding toward the cloaked figure in its clouds of white mist.

“I suppose so,” mumbled Esmeralda.

“Absolutely we will!” said Trundle, trying to sound enthusiastic even though the count gave him the collywobbles. “We're really looking forward to it!” he babbled. “We're just waiting for you to tell us exactly what you'd like us to do.”

“And how long it will take,” added Esmeralda. “You see, we're on a bit of a quest, and . . .”

Her voice faded away as the tall, cloaked figure turned on the seat.

Trundle let out a gasp. Count Leopold was a lion.

Trundle had never met a lion, although he had seen pictures of them in books and had read descriptions of them that suggested they could be very dangerous—especially if you annoyed them.

Count Leopold's face was long and gaunt and haggard. Like the other animals they had met here, he was an albino, with pure white fur and with a white mane that exploded in all directions from his head. He stared morosely down at them, one of his fierce red eyes made oddly larger by a gold-rimmed monocle.

“You would know what task ahead of you lies?” said the count, his eyes glazing over. “I shall it you tell.” His voice rose to a boom. “It is part of the greatest artistic endeavor to be the Sundered Lands ever have witnessed!” He stood up, his cloak billowing, the mist swirling around his thin shoulders. Trundle found it a little tricky to understand exactly what the count was saying—he kept putting the words in the wrong places!

“You will assigned to a hulk be, and you will in the morning to work begin!” The count raised a paw. “Now, gone be! I have also work to do! Great music write does not itself!”

So saying, the great lion turned away and sat down again. His arms lifted, and a few seconds later the room was full of manic music.

Jack led Trundle and Esmeralda away.

“My opinion is that the count is a misunderstood genius,” Jack said as they made their way back down the vibrating carpet with the organ music ringing in their ears.

“He's a misunderstood loony,” said Esmeralda, staring back at the frenziedly playing lion. “That big white mane and those red eyes.” She shuddered. “He gives me the screaming heebie-jeebies!”

Jack ushered them out of the room and closed the door behind them. Some of the silent albino creatures had gathered in the corridor, staring at them with their unfathomable pink eyes.

Trundle began to feel a little sorry for the strange animals. They seemed rather sad and forlorn in their long white robes, standing around like shreds of cloud that had lost the sky.

“Creepy creeps!” muttered Esmeralda as they passed through the ranks of the albino creatures.

“You might try to be a little more understanding of them,” chided Jack as he led them away. “They can't help the way they were born.”

“I'll be more understanding all right,” Esmeralda remarked. “I'll understand them to pieces once we're out of here and back aboard the
Thief in the Night
.”

“That might not be so easy,” Jack said. “The whole of Sargasso Skies is overrun with those nasty lizards. In fact, this is the only place they keep away from. They can't stand the music.”

“I don't blame them,” said Trundle. “It certainly gives me the willies!”

Jack frowned at him. “The count's music isn't easy, I'll grant you,” he said. “But it's really wonderful, if you only give it a chance and really listen to it.”

Esmeralda eyed him. “Ever heard the phrase ‘Life's too short'?” she asked.

Jack shrugged. “Either way, you'd be crazy to try to escape,” he warned them. “You'll get eaten for sure. Those lizards are as savage as savage can be, so I'm told!”

“So we're stuck here,” said Trundle.

“I'm afraid we are,” Jack agreed. “So you might as well make the most of it. That's what I'm doing.”

“Yes, I can see that,” said Esmeralda. “You've gotten yourself in with the count, all right.”

Jack looked a little shamefaced. “I know it seems like that,” he said awkwardly. “But . . . well . . . I'm a musician at heart, you know. And the count really is an extraordinary composer and player, whether you realize it or not. He has a great vision . . . something entirely new and amazing that will astonish everyone in the Sundered Lands.” He frowned. “Look, I have to be at rehearsals soon. I'll show you to your quarters. I'm told the hulks are quite comfortable, really.”

“And where will you be sleeping?” asked Esmeralda.

“Oh . . . um . . . the orchestra has its own dormitory in the opera house itself. You'll see it in the morning. You'll be impressed, really you will.”

Esmeralda gave Jack a deeply suspicious look. “I intend to get out of here at the very first chance,” she said. “Will you be coming with us or not?”

“Of course!” Jack declared. “But until then, we should all make things as easy for ourselves as we can.” He gestured for them to follow. “The workers' hulks are really very pleasant, so I'm told,” he said. “Come along. It's not far. There's hot food and warm beds.”

“And is it out of earshot of that organ?” asked Esmeralda.

“It is,” said Jack.

“Well, that's something, at least,” she said. “Lead on, Jack, my lad. Lead on!”

J
ack led them out under the gloomy sky. While Trundle and Esmeralda had been chained up, night had fallen over the dire and dreadful Sargasso Skies. Broken-backed hulks wallowed all around them in the darkness, joined by a network of crisscrossing planks. Pale lights glimmered from portholes. Between the wooden walkways, the ground was oozy and unpleasant.

They came to a wreck with a rough doorway cut into its hull. Jack knocked, and the door was opened by an elderly and very shabby frog clutching a flickering yellow candle.

The first thing that struck Trundle was the fact that the frog was not an albino; in fact, he looked to be a perfectly ordinary animal, except for his downcast features and his ragged and grubby clothing.

“Newcomers in need of a bed,” Jack informed the frog. Then he turned to Trundle and Esmeralda. “Sleep well,” he said. “I'll see you in the morning.” Before they could reply, he pattered off and disappeared into the night.

“The name's Nigel Leaply,” the frog told them in a voice so gravelly it made them want to clear their own throats. “But you can call me Hopper. Come on in. Keep your voices down—there's people in here what need their sleep.”

Hopper led them into a long, narrow dormitory room lined with double and triple bunks, each of which contained a bundled-up and snoring form. It was quickly apparent, from the snouts and ears and tufts of hair that could be seen poking out of the blankets, that none of these animals were albinos either.

They tiptoed to the far end of the dormitory, where there were a few spare beds and where a saucepan of food was steaming on a black iron stove.

Hopper offered them tin bowls and began ladling out a thick and lumpy gruel. “Your mate the squirrel fell on his feet, all right,” he growled. “The count is always on the lookout for more musical types for that orchestra of his.” He gave a resigned shrug. “They get treated better than the rest of us. We all have to bunk in together and live on nothing but gruel, gruel and more gruel.”

Trundle tried the thick gloop and was quite surprised to find it tasted better than it looked, although that wasn't saying much.

“What exactly is the count up to here?” asked Esmeralda.

Hopper eyed her thoughtfully. “He comes from the land of Umbrill,” he began. “Of noble birth, by all accounts. But when he was born his folks didn't like the look of him at all—not when they saw how
white
he was. I don't blame 'em! They put him in a special kind of
home
and forgot all about him.” Hopper picked a lump of something out of the gruel and chewed at it for a few moments. “He went off his nut, so they say—spent all his time writing music and playing the organ.” He nodded solemnly. “He's a dab hand at that, I have to say, weird as he looks. Well,” he continued, “long story short, he escaped from the asylum and nicked a windship and went sailing off all over the Seven Hundred Skies, searching for other animals who looked like him and who wanted to join up with him in his Great Endeavor.”

“But why would he choose to live in such an awful place?” asked Trundle.

“He ain't here a' purpose,” Hopper explained. “His windship got caught in the whirlwinds, just like the rest of us!” He shook his head. “Once in, there's no way out, chums.” He gave them a curious look. “At least, not for the likes of us.”

“And the Great Endeavor?” asked Esmeralda.

“He's writing a grand opera,” said Hopper. “It just sounds like a horrible racket to me, but apparently it's very popular in some places . . . where people are more
sophisticated
.” Hopper shrugged again. “Me, I like a tune you can dance to—something with a good rhythm.”

“Me too,” agreed Trundle.

“The steam moles are absolutely crazy for grand opera, apparently,” Hopper continued. “That's why they're helping him.”

“There are steam moles here?” asked Esmeralda in sudden excitement.

“A few of 'em,” said Hopper. “They keep the steam organ running, and they're setting up a steam engine under the stage in the opera house to work a revolving platform and suchlike. And of course there's Alphonse Burrows—he's the bloke in charge of the steam moles' investment company. It's called Tunnel Vision Enterprises. Mr. Burrows and his associates have agreed to help the count for fifty percent of the profits, once the show goes on tour.”

Trundle and Esmeralda looked at each another. This was the best news they'd heard since the sky squalls had dragged them down into this miserable place.

“How exactly are the steam moles going to help?” asked Esmeralda. “Do they have a way of getting out of here?”

“That they do,” said Hopper. “They come here all the time in their strange iron windships, looking for flotsam and jetsam to take back home with them. Proper scavengers, they are. Their windships have steam-driven engines, so they can power their way through the squalls, unlike the rest of us poor souls.” He gestured at the ranks of sleeping animals. “Some of us have been here for months and months,” he said. “Sucked in by the winds and then attacked by those dratted lizards. Working for the count is no joke, I'll admit, but it beats being eaten alive!”

“But if the steam moles could get us all out of here, why don't they do it?” asked Trundle.

“That's 'cause they're waiting,” Hopper said with a slow wink. “They don't do nuffin' for nuffin', if you know what I mean. They're waiting till the opera house is finished and the grand opera is ready to perform. Then they're going to send in a steam tug to tow the whole contraption off out of here.” He waved his arms. “They plan on towing the opera house all over the Sundered Lands while the count and his company perform his opera to paying customers.” He nodded. “It's all about the profit with them steam moles, you know. They might love Grand Opera, but the bottom line for them is hard cash.”

“And how long before the opera house is finished?” asked Esmeralda.

“That's a tricky question,” grumbled Hopper. “The way things are going right now—about twenty years, and that's a fact!”

“How
long?” gasped Trundle.

“We're building the opera house out of scrap and debris,” explained Hopper. “Except that none of us are architects nor nothin', so things keep falling down and having to be built up again. Proper dispiriting, it is.”

Trundle was about to ask exactly how long they had been working on building the count's opera house, when a trapdoor burst open in the floor close to where the frog was sitting. Trundle gave a startled jerk, and a spoonful of gruel went flying.

The head of a shaggy, floppy-eared terrier dog appeared, topped off by a rather tatty military cap.

“Evening, Hopper, old boy,” snapped the dog, emerging to reveal a frayed and threadbare army uniform. He gave Esmeralda and Trundle an appraising look and saluted smartly. “The commander wants to see the newcomers immediately,” he barked.

“The name's Snouter, by the way. Lieutenant Snouter. Follow me!”

And with that, the terrier dived back down through the trapdoor.

Trundle and Esmeralda stared in astonishment at the dark hole.

“You'd better do as he says,” suggested Hopper. “Best not get on the commander's bad side.”

Snouter's head popped up again. “Come along!” he snapped. “No dawdling!”

“We may as well,” said Esmeralda, wiping Trundle's gruel out of her eye. “It's not like we have any prior engagements.”

The two hedgehogs slipped down through the trapdoor and followed the lieutenant through a series of twisting and turning underground tunnels, lit by small candles stapled to the walls.

“So, who is this commander of yours?” asked Esmeralda as they trotted along in Snouter's wake.

He replied without pausing or looking around. “He was the captain of our windship, the
Bellman
—part of the Hernswick flotilla. We were in convoy with the rest of the fleet, but we got lost in cloud and the Sargasso winds caught us. The commander got us off the wreck safely, but we were almost done for by those blasted lizard chappies. Managed to construct a redoubt and fight them off, although it was touch and go. Then we met up with the Count and his people. Rum-looking bunch, the lot of them, if you ask me. Hardly ever speak. Glum as the Goills. Uncanny, I call it. Anyway, we thought the count was one of the good chaps at first, don't y' know, but we soon discovered he's barking mad! Made us prisoners here, just like you chaps. But the commander is working to get us all out. And he'll do it, too—military genius, he is.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Esmeralda, grinning at Trundle. “This commander fellow could be our ticket out of here.”

“Let's hope so,” agreed Trundle.

Lieutenant Snouter came to a sudden halt under another trapdoor. He lifted a paw and began to knock.

Th
ump. Thump-thump. Thump. Thumpetty-thump-thump. Thump.Thumpthumpthumpthump-thump. Thump-thump. Thumpetty-thump. Thump.

He looked back at them. “Security, you know,” he said. “You can't be too careful.”

“Apparently not,” said Esmeralda, hiding a smile behind her paw.

Lieutenant Snouter gave them a hopeful nod, peering up at the trapdoor every now and then.

“Maybe there's no one home?” suggested Trundle.

“Impossible!” snapped Snouter. “I'll give it another try.” He was about to raise his paw again when a series of complicated knocks resounded from above.

Bonk. Bonk-bonk-bonk. Bonketty-bonk-bonk. Bonk-bonk. Bonkety-bonketty-bonketty-bonk. Bonk. Bonk-bonk. Bonk.

Snouter gave a single thump in reply, and the trapdoor was thrown open.

“Lieutenant Snouter reporting with the newcomers.”

“Permission to enter,” barked a voice. Snouter vanished up the hole, swiftly followed by Esmeralda and Trundle.

They found themselves in a long, dark room very similar to the one they had just left. It was smaller, they saw, and it was inhabited entirely by various species of dogs, all wearing ragged and grubby uniforms.

A heavyset bulldog sat at a rough trestle table, apparently waiting for them. The chest of his jacket was covered in medals, and he wore a peaked cap with five tarnished gold stars around the brim.

He stood up and extended a solemn paw. “Welcome to Escape Central,” he growled, his heavy jowls shaking as he spoke. “Under my command, the Hernswick Hounds are the only group in this whole benighted place working to escape.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Esmeralda. “What's the plan, matey?”

The commander gave her a stern look and coughed in a disgruntled kind of way. Trundle guessed he wasn't used to being referred to as “matey.”

“Take a seat and I'll tell you everything you need to know,” growled the Commander. They sat opposite him while Snouter stood stiffly at their backs and the other dogs looked on from the crowded bunk beds.

The commander gave Trundle and Esmeralda a severe look. “We intend to get away from that Count Leopold fellow as quickly and as efficiently as possible,” he said. “He's quite mad, you know.” He gave them a rather stiff smile. “I'm sure two fine, upstanding young hedgehogs such as yourselves will do your duty and help us to escape.”