Stormchaser (17 page)

He strode across the room to the mirror – the new mirror – and looked at himself. Unlike its predecessor, this mirror had not been hung. Instead, it leaned up against the wall at an angle. It was safer – it was also more flattering. His reflection smiled back at him.

‘Oh, no,’ he chided. ‘That will never do. Whatever should the nightwaif think if I entered the Hall of Knowledge in so effervescent a mood? Prepare yourself, Vilnix,’ he said dramatically, and let his dressing-gown fall to the floor. ‘Make yourself ready.’

And doing what he always did before an important encounter, the Most High Academe of Sanctaphrax dressed himself up in the specially fashioned garments of high office – clothes which would help focus his mind, heighten his senses and darken his mood.

First, he pulled on the hair-shirt over his bare, scaly skin. Then, wincing as the protruding nails dug into the soles of his feet, he stepped into his sandals and bound them tightly. Next, he rubbed a stinging unguent over his freshly shaven head, and lowered the steel skull-cap onto his head until the internal spikes pressed into his scalp. Last of all, he took his shabby roughspin gown, swung it over his shoulders and raised the hood.

With each item of clothing he put on, the Most High Academe's good humour gradually drained away. By
the time the rough material of the hood grazed the back of his red-raw neck, his mood was as dark as the Sanctaphrax treasury itself and he, himself, capable of any cruelty.

He returned his gaze to the mirror and glared approvingly at his reflection. Seldom, if ever, had Vilnix Pompolnius looked so gaunt, so imposing. He arched one eyebrow.

‘So, Forficule, my little messenger bird,’ he said. ‘I am ready for you now. How I am looking forward to hearing you sing!’

The Hall of Knowledge – as the interrogation chamber was euphemistically known – was situated at the top of a tower in the west-wing of the vast palace. The only access was through a concealed door in the upper corridor, and up a circular stone staircase.

With every step he climbed, the nails in his sandals dug sharply into his feet. By the time he reached the top, Vilnix Pompolnius was cursing under his breath. He threw the door open and strode inside. ‘Where is the
horrible little pipsqueal, then?’ he demanded.

Minulis trotted over, closed the door and ushered the Most High Academe across the room. Despite its airy position, the windowless chamber was as dark and dank as any dungeon. The only light came from the two flaming torches fixed to the wall, and a golden glow which gleamed on the array of polished pokers, pincers, and pliers laid out ready.

Forficule himself was seated in an upright chair, so large it seemed almost to be swallowing him up. His ankles were bound, his wrists had been tied to the arm-rests, and his neck secured to a head-support by a leather strap: he could not move. As Vilnix Pompolnius approached him, Forficule glanced up. An icy shiver ran the length of his body.

‘Ah,
there
you are,’ said Vilnix. ‘So good of you to drop by.’ He sneered. ‘I trust you’re sitting comfortably.’

As he moved closer, Forficule shuddered. Behind the harmless words were thoughts no person should ever have.

‘I understand you are a nightwaif,’ Vilnix continued.

‘No, no,’ said Forficule, and laughed nervously. ‘Many have made the same mistake. I am an oakelf,’ he said. ‘The runt of the litter.’

Vilnix Pompolnius sighed as the spikes of the steel skull-cap bit into his scalp. ‘You will have noticed the interesting design of the chair,’ he continued, running his fingers over the concave bowl of burnished silver which was fixed over Forficule's head. ‘It amplifies sound,’ he said, and flicked it lightly.

The metal chimed and Forficule, whose head had been secured at the point where the sound waves collided, winced with pain.

‘I would advise you
not
to lie to me,’ said Vilnix, and flicked the metal bowl a second time.

‘I … I don’t understand. Why have you brought me here?’ Forficule trembled as the ringing in his ears slowly subsided. ‘I came to Sanctaphrax from Undertown, in all good faith, to inform you about the tragic death of the Professor of Light…’

‘Forficule, Forficule,’ Vilnix purred. ‘This is not good.’

He turned away and selected a pair of pincers. Forficule quivered with horror as he overheard precisely what the Most High Academe was thinking of doing with them. Worse and worse the imagined tortures became, until Forficule could stand it no more.

‘Stop it!’ he pleaded, his ears fluttering with distress.

Vilnix spun round, pincers in one hand, tapping them in the other. ‘Oakelf, eh?’ he said.

Forficule sniffed. ‘I
am
a nightwaif,’ he confessed.

Vilnix Pompolnius nodded. ‘That's better,’ he said,
and added – in his thoughts alone – from now on, I want the truth and nothing but the truth. He brandished the pincers, and imagined them smashing hard against the metal bowl above the chair. Do you understand me?

‘Yes,’ said Forficule simply.

‘Now, who sent you?’

‘I came of my own accord,’ said Forficule.

Without saying a word, Vilnix strode up to him, and struck the bowl sharply. Forficule howled with pain.

‘No, no,’ he whimpered.

‘Then tell me who?’ barked Vilnix.

‘Mother Horsefeather,’ said Forficule. ‘She thought you ought to know – the professor being an academic of Sanctaphrax, and all. He … he was in her tavern – the Bloodoak – when he had a … a seizure. Keeled over, he did. We did everything we could to revive him.’

‘But, nevertheless, you failed,’ Vilnix said.

‘Sadly, yes,’ said Forficule.

Vilnix narrowed his eyes. ‘And where is the good professor's body now?’ he asked.

‘I … errm … that is, with it being so hot and all, Mother Horsefeather thought he should be buried as soon as possible.’

‘You have interred a professor of Sanctaphrax in the ground?’ Vilnix gasped. ‘Do you not know that it is the right of every academic of our great floating city to have his body ceremonially laid out in the Stone Gardens, where the white ravens will pick his bones? How else is his spirit to rise up to open sky?’

‘I … we…’

‘But then, of course, the situation will not arise,’ said Vilnix thrusting his head forwards into Forficule's face until his shining skull-cap grazed the tip of the nightwaif's nose. ‘Because he isn’t dead. Is he?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Forficule. ‘He is.’

Vilnix straightened up abruptly, raised the pincers and slammed them against the metal bowl. ‘Lies! Lies! Lies! Lies!’ he screamed in time to the deafening hammer blows. ‘And more and more and
more
lies!’

After seven blows, he let his arm fall limp. ‘Now will you tell me the truth,’ he said.

Forficule didn’t answer. Although he had seen the angry lips move, he hadn’t heard a single word above the pounding, crackling, screeching cacophony of noise inside his head. It was several minutes before he could make out any sounds again, and even then, the echoing din continued in the background.

‘
THIS IS YOUR FINAL CHANCE!
’ Vilnix was bellowing.

Forficule lowered his gaze. He shivered miserably. There was a saying among the fragile nightwaifs.
Better dead than deaf
.

‘All right,’ he whimpered. ‘I’ll tell you everything I know.’

And that was what he did. He told Vilnix every detail of the meeting which had taken place in the back room of the Bloodoak tavern. Of the entrance of the Professor of Light, and how the sky pirate captain had fallen to his knees. Of the plan the three of them had hatched up. Of the Professor of Light's decision to accompany the sky pirates on their quest to the Twilight woods.

‘The treacherous cur,’ Vilnix spat. ‘And this captain?’ he said. ‘Has he a name?’

‘Cloud Wolf,’ said Forficule promptly. ‘Though the Professor of Light addressed him by a different name.’

‘Which was?’

‘Quintinius Verginix,’ came the reply.

Vilnix nodded. ‘Now, there's a name to conjure with,’ he said thoughtfully.

The nightwaif's thorough, if belated, confession had proved very interesting to Vilnix Pompolnius. Not only did it confirm what he suspected about the Professor of Light, but he now also knew that Xintax had lied to him the night before.
No-one
could forget the name of Cloud Wolf – the sky pirate captain was infamous. The Leaguesmaster himself must be planning something underhand.

Vilnix chuckled to himself. There were many other ambitious leaguesmen who would be only too happy to
strike a deal with the Most High Academe.

He turned back to Forficule. ‘And this youth you mentioned,’ he said. ‘This Twig. What is he to the assembled gathering?’

Forficule swallowed. Although he hadn’t known Twig long, he had liked what he heard in the boy's head. His thoughts were decent and honest, loyal and true. He would hate to think that something he said might mean that the boy came to harm.

Vilnix dangled the heavy pincers in front of his face. Forficule nodded, as much as the leather strap would allow, and continued. ‘He is a crew-member on board the
Stormchaser
,’ he said.

‘And?’ said Vilnix Pompolnius, sensing he was on to something.

‘He was born and raised in the Deepwoods,’ he said.

‘And?’

Forficule shuddered. If he made it clear that Twig was not relevant to the plan, perhaps the youth would be left in peace. ‘He is not to accompany the pirates on this particular trip,’ he said. ‘He is to stay with Mother Horsef…’

Vilnix cut him short. ‘There is something you’re not telling me,’ he said, and raised the pincers threateningly.

Forficule looked down. Tears welled up in his eyes. He was not a bad creature – but neither was he brave. The pincers hovered in the torchlight next to the metal bowl. Better dead than deaf.

‘He … he is…’ he faltered. ‘That is … Cloud Wolf is his father.’

Vilnix breathed in sharply. ‘A son,’ he hissed. ‘Quintinius Verginix has a son. And he has left him behind,’ he smirked. ‘How very careless.’ He turned to Minulis. ‘We must introduce ourselves to the lad forthwith,’ he said. ‘We shall invite him back here to Sanctaphrax, to await the return of his valiant father.’

He turned back to Forficule. ‘What a splendid little bargaining chip you have given us,’ he said, as he returned the heavy pincers to the shelf. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful we are.’

Forficule felt wretched. His attempt to protect Twig had failed, and now the youth was in mortal danger. And yet – Sky forgive him! – he couldn’t help but be relieved that the Most High Academe seemed so pleased with the information.

‘Am I free to go, then?’ he asked.

Vilnix looked round at him, and smiled. Forficule stared back, hoping. With his head still echoing from the deafening noise of metal crashing on metal, he was unable to hear the dark thoughts lurking behind the Most High Academe's smiling face.

‘Free to go?’ Vilnix Pompolnius said at last. His eyes twinkled. ‘Oh, yes. Quite free.’

Forficule gasped for joy.

Vilnix nodded to Minulis. ‘Unbind him and throw him out,’ he said. Then, as the hair-shirt itched and the spikes and nails dug into the Most High Academe's head and feet, he added, ‘But first, cut off his ears.’