Stormchaser (10 page)

The tavern was like a miniature version of Undertown itself, reflecting the incredible diversity of the place. There were flat-head and hammer-head goblins; oakelves, mobgnomes, black-dwarfs and red-dwarfs; trolls and trogs of every shape and every size. There were leaguesmen and sky pirates, tinkers and totters, raggers and royners, merchants and mongers … It seemed to Twig, as he stared in through the open door, that there was not a single Edge creature, tribe or profession not represented in the throbbing room.

The cloddertrog on the door recognized Cloud Wolf at once. He informed them that Mother Horsefeather was ‘somewhere hereabouts’ and waved them through. Sticking close to him as Cloud Wolf carved a route across the room, Twig tried hard not to knock anyone's drinks as he went. Flat-heads were notoriously volatile and throats had been slit for far less than a tankard of spilled woodale before now. Jostled and crushed in the sweaty, steaming surge of bodies, it occurred to Twig that
the Bloodoak
was exactly the right name for the tavern after all.

The owner of the tavern was over by the rear exit. She looked up as Cloud Wolf approached.

‘Mother Horsefeather,’ he said. ‘I trust I find you well.’

‘Well enough,’ came the guarded reply.

She turned and stared down at Twig questioningly.

‘Ah yes,’ said Cloud Wolf. ‘This is Twig. Twig, Mother Horsefeather. I want him to sit in on our meeting.’

Twig trembled under the ferocious gaze of the creature
in front of him. Of course, he’d seen Mother Horsefeather before, but always at a distance. Close up, she was imposing, intimidating.

As tall as Cloud Wolf himself, she had beady yellow eyes, a sharp hooked beak and a ruff of crimson feathers around her neck. Her arms, too, were fringed with feathers which, since she was standing with her taloned hands clasped together, hugged her like a purple and orange shawl. Twig found himself wondering whether, under the voluminous yellow dress, her whole body was covered with the same magnificent plumage.

All at once, he became aware of someone sniggering to his right. He turned. And there, perched on a bar-stool, was a slight, almost luminous creature, grinning from ear to huge bat-like ear.

Mother Horsefeather raised a feathery eyebrow and glared at Twig menacingly. ‘This is Forficule,’ she said, and returned her unblinking gaze to Cloud Wolf. ‘He, too, will be present during our little talk,’ she told him.

Cloud Wolf shrugged. ‘It's all the same to me,’ he said, then added as if Forficule were not there, ‘What is it? Looks like the runt of an oakelf litter.’

Mother Horsefeather's beak clacked with sudden amusement. ‘He's my little treasure-weasure,’ she whispered. ‘Aren’t you, Forfy? Right then,’ she announced to the rest. ‘Follow me. We’ll find it much easier to talk in the quiet of the back room.’ And with that, she turned on her talon-toes and disappeared through the door. Cloud Wolf and Twig followed her, with Forficule bringing up the rear.

The room was hot, airless, clammy; it smelled of decay. And as Twig took his place at the small, square table, he felt increasingly uneasy. To his left was his father; to his right, Mother Horsefeather; while opposite him sat Forficule, eyes shut, ears trembling. The fur of his hammelhornskin waistcoat prickled beneath Twig's fingers.

Mother Horsefeather placed her scaly hands in front of her, one on top of the other, and smiled at Cloud Wolf. ‘Well, well,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Here we are again.’

‘Indeed,’ said Cloud Wolf. ‘And may I say how hale and hearty you are looking tonight, Mother Horsefeather – and how much yellow suits you.’

‘Oh, Wolfie!’ she said, preening despite herself. ‘You old flatterer!’

‘But I mean every word,’ Cloud Wolf insisted.

‘You, too, are as dashing as ever,’ Mother Horsefeather clucked admiringly.

Twig looked at his father. It was true. In his ornate sky pirate regalia – with its ruffs and tassels and gleaming golden buttons – Cloud Wolf looked magnificent. Then, with a sudden shiver, Twig recalled how angry his father's face had turned when he had let go of the helm; when the
Stormchaser
had gone into a downward spin. How he had cursed when their precious cargo of ironwood had tumbled down out of the sky.

He looked up. Forficule was staring at him intently.
Be careful what you say – or even think
, that was what his father had told him. Twig stared back at the quivering-eared nightwaif and shivered with anxiety.

‘The rudder-wheel, eh?’ he heard Mother Horsefeather saying. The pleasantries were clearly over. ‘It sounds important.’

‘It is,’ Cloud Wolf agreed.

‘And therefore costly?’

Cloud Wolf nodded.

‘Well, I’m sure we can come to some agreement,’ she said brightly. ‘So long as the quality of the ironwood lives up to my expectations.’

Twig felt the blood drain from his face as the enormity of what he had done suddenly struck home. Because of him, the
Stormchaser
would never fly again. His heart pounded loudly. And when Forficule leaned across and whispered to Mother Horsefeather behind his hand, it pounded louder still.

The bird-woman's eyes gleamed. ‘So, Wolfie,’ she said, ‘
will
it live up to my expectations, do you think?’ She leaned forwards and thrust her beak into his face. ‘Or is there something you’d like to tell me?’ she demanded, her voice suddenly clipped and hard.

‘Tell you? I…’ he began, scratching behind his eye-patch. ‘That is…’ He glanced round at his son. Twig
had never seen him look so weary, so
old
before.

‘Well?’ Mother Horsefeather demanded.

‘We did have rather an unfortunate set-back,’ Cloud Wolf agreed. ‘But nothing that can’t be put right on our next voyage…’

‘You seem to forget,’ she interrupted brusquely, ‘that you owe me ten thousand already. And that's before interest. Plus, of course, the cost of a new rudder-wheel…’ She paused dramatically, and began preening her neck feathers carelessly. ‘I’m not sure there should
be
a next voyage.’

Twig shrivelled up inside.

‘Unless,’ she went on slyly, ‘it is on my terms.’

Cloud Wolf did not flinch. ‘And those terms would be?’ he said calmly.

Mother Horsefeather pulled herself to her scaly feet and turned around. She clasped her hands behind her. Cloud Wolf and Twig stared at her back expectantly. A half-smile played over Forficule's lips.

‘We go back a long way, Cloud Wolf; you and I,’ she said. ‘Despite your current, unfortunate financial problems, you are still the finest sky pirate captain there is – after all, it was hardly your fault that the
Stormchaser
became riddled with woodbugs.’ She stepped forwards. ‘Therefore it is to you that I come with what will surely prove to be your greatest challenge. If you are successful, your debts will be cancelled at a stroke.’

Cloud Wolf eyed her mistrustfully. ‘And what's in it for you?’

‘Oh, Wolfie, Wolfie,’ she said, and cackled with
laughter. ‘You know me so well.’ Her beady eyes glinted. ‘A great deal, that's all I am prepared to say for now.’

‘But…’

‘Save your questions until I have explained,’ Mother Horsefeather interrupted sharply. She breathed in. ‘I have been approached,’ she said, ‘by the P…’

Forficule coughed loudly.

‘… by … a Sanctaphrax academic,’ Mother Horsefeather continued. ‘He wishes to get his hands on some stormphrax – lots of it – and he will pay handsomely for the privilege.’

Cloud Wolf snorted. ‘If he needs stormphrax, then why doesn’t he simply raid the treasury,’ he said. ‘From what I’ve heard, everyone else does these days.’

Mother Horsefeather stared at him impassively. ‘It is to replenish the depleted stocks in the treasury that the stormphrax is needed,’ she said. ‘Too much has been taken for phraxdust already,’ she continued, glancing down at the silver medallion around her own neck. ‘Not that anyone has actually been successful – but if nothing is done, then the floating rock will break its moorings and Sanctaphrax will drift off. Into open sky. For ever.’

‘Pah,’ Cloud Wolf spat. ‘Sanctaphrax. What good has that place ever done me?’

Mother Horsefeather clucked with irritation. ‘Sanctaphrax is an integral part of all our lives,’ she snapped. ‘Its scholars are the weather-diviners, the map-makers, the sifters of mists and phantasms that come in from beyond the Edge. It is they who read the patterns which bring order from chaos. Without them,
Undertown itself could not exist. You, of all people, Wolfie, should understand this.’

‘I know only that Sanctaphrax stole the years of my prime and then cast me out,’ Cloud Wolf said.

Mother Horsefeather's eyes sparkled. ‘You felt cheated – you still do,’ she said. ‘And rightly so.’ She paused. ‘That is why I offer you now the possibility to avenge yourself on the usurpers.’

Cloud Wolf stared back at her, as it finally occurred to him what the devious bird-woman was after. ‘You mean you want me to sail to the Twilight Woods in search of fresh stormphrax,’ he said.

‘I
mean
,’ said Mother Horsefeather, ‘that I am giving you a second chance. You will be able to utilize all that training you were given in the Knights’ Academy; you will show that Cloud Wolf is more than a mere cut-throat and outlaw. At long last,’ she said as she puffed out her breast feathers, ‘the magnificent
Stormchaser
will be used for the purpose it was originally built. Not lugging ironwood around like some glorified tug-ship. But stormchasing!’

Twig's heart thrilled at the sound of the word. Stooorm-cha-sing! he whispered, savouring every syllable. He smiled excitedly.
Stooooooorrm-cha-sing
.

The next moment, any dreams he might have had were shattered. ‘Out of the question,’ Cloud Wolf snapped.

‘Oh, but Wolfie,’ Mother Horsefeather wheedled, ‘think of the acclaim that will be heaped upon your head when you arrive back triumphant, with enough stormphrax to weigh down the floating rock of Sanctaphrax for a thousand years. Think of the glory – think of the
power
,’ she added softly.

Twig willed his father to agree. Cloud Wolf shook his head.

‘For, of course, with the treasury weighted down once again,’ Mother Horsefeather went on, ‘the accursed link between the raintasters and the leaguesmen will at last be broken.’ Her eyes glinted. ‘New alliances will have to be forged – a new hierarchy established. Think how high in the pecking-order you could find yourself. You and me, Wolfie. Just you and me, up there at the top.’