The Flight of the Griffin (5 page)

‘What by the Source is…’ started Pardigan, but was stopped as both the blue stone on the knife, and the cat’s eyes glowed a bright flashing blue. ‘Whooww,’ cried Pardigan, falling back to the floor again.

‘Where did that come from?’ asked Quint, and the cat swivelled to regard him. It let out a loud ‘
Meow,
’ and sat beside the book, turning its attention from one to the other of the startled boys. As they stared at the cat, Loras stumbled back down the ladder.

‘We’re booked!’ he cried excitedly. ‘We leave in an hour.’ He walked over to the table and held out his hand. ‘Where did you get the cat?’ he asked happily. It stood up to let him to stroke it and pushed its head into his
outstretched hand.

The boys all got to their feet, glancing from Loras to the cat, which Loras had now picked up.

‘Can we keep it?’ he asked expectantly.

‘I think it may have already decided to keep us,’ said Quint, ‘...or you anyway. Just try your best to keep it under control and find out if it’s connected to the magic book, will you?’

‘Magic?’ exclaimed Loras. Tarent filled him in on what had just been happening and Loras was obviously impressed. ‘My own magic cat,’ he mused. He sat down and started talking quietly to the cat as Quint, Tarent and Pardigan took another look at the book. A slot in the book’s spine held the knife while it was read. As they hunched over trying their best to decipher the script, Pardigan glanced over at Loras.

‘I’m sure I’ve seen that cat before,’ he muttered.

‘Well it’s not likely that you’d forget something like that in a hurry,’ whispered Tarent, peering nervously over as it purred contentedly on Loras’s lap.

They returned to the book, now held by Tarent. Running his hand over the cover, he passed his finger over the title then opened it. The other two waited expectantly.

‘Come on Tarent,’ urged Pardigan, ‘what does it say? Can you read it?

‘Oh my’ said Tarent, ‘oh my, oh my, oh my.’

****

Chapter 3

The Book O
f Challenges

Bartholomew Bask was never one to frequent the bars and coffee shops of the city; he’d always associated them all with riff raff and the general flotsam of humanity. It was therefore an uncomfortable Bartholomew Bask who found himself on the waterfront, at one of the least probable establishments that he might ever wish to visit.

‘Blake’s,’ Bartholomew muttered, scowling up at the sign that hung crookedly over the street. He shuddered and held a scented handkerchief over his nose. Casting a look about, more in case someone he knew saw him than from any worry of robbers or cutthroats, he entered and quickly scanned the room.

It was past early evening and the place was filling up. Several groups were sat at tables, while others stood close to the serving counter, almost everyone seemed to be talking or shouting noisily. Several barmaids were working the tables, carrying tankards, bottles and trays of food. He stopped one long enough to whisper in her ear; she shook her head and nodded towards the bar.

‘Talk to Blake,’ she muttered - then she was gone, disappearing back into the crowd.

Bartholomew made his way to the bar, excusing himself politely as he navigated his bulk through the crowd, which only made several people laugh and caused one toothless old woman to slap his backside.

‘Oh yer lordship, I’m so sorry,’ she shrieked as he span around with a squeal, bringing howls of laughter from her fellow drinkers.

Bartholomew hurried on.

Blake was sitting on a stool at the corner of the serving counter, a position where he could keep an eye on the drinkers, the barmaids
and
the cashbox, all at the same time. He was a large man but not a fat man; Blake was the kind you wouldn’t want trouble with. The years had added a comfort layer and a big belly, but it was stretched across a large muscular frame. Bartholomew made his way over and tried to introduce himself.

‘Mr Blake, good evening to you, my name is…’ he faltered, as Blake cast him a quick look before returning to his task of watching the room.

‘What do yer want and wot’s it werf?’ growled the innkeeper in a low voice.

‘I merely seek…’ started Bartholomew.

‘Speak up, man,’ growled Blake peering down at Bartholomew with disgust. ‘If yer got something to say then out with it and let me be, I’ve a business to run or can’t yer tell?’ he gawped at Bartholomew. ‘Well…?’

Bartholomew was sweating more than ever by this time and simply wanted to be done and gone from this awful place. He stared into Blake’s dark eyes then summoned a little courage and a lot of voice. ‘I seek the Hawk!’

Conversation stopped at several tables around them, and Blake quickly pulled Bartholomew to the side. ‘Shhh, not so loud with yer 'awk business.’ He glanced around Bartholomew’s shoulder at the room and, satisfied that his girls were all working and a fight hadn’t broken out in the last few heartbeats, he turned back to Bartholomew.

‘You better ’ave a real good reason for asking for the ‘awk’ in ere, my fat friend, a real good reason.’ He leaned closer and belched softly. Rank, stale breath wafted over Bartholomew, who blinked and held his handkerchief to his nose. ‘Well? …And not so loud, all right? What do yer want with the ‘awk?’

Bartholomew started to feel a little ill. ‘Oh dear…well…’ he started.

A short while later Bartholomew found himself being seated into what Blake described as a ‘private nook.’ A tankard of Elder ale was set down messily in front of him and Blake walked away. Bartholomew started to wipe down his shirt where the ale had splashed, and then noticed that he wasn’t alone. The nook was quite dark and the other occupant had been sitting well back in the corner saying nothing. Bartholomew couldn’t tell if the fellow was staring at him or even if he was awake. Was this the Hawk?  He dabbed at the sweat on his upper lip and cleared his throat. ‘My name is Bartholomew Bask, Merchant by trade,’ he glanced around nervously, then peered into the corner, trying to make out more of the dark shape. Whoever it was, he was wearing a cloak with the hood up and Bartholomew couldn’t see whom he was addressing, which disturbed him.
‘I seek The Hawk,’
he managed to hiss, then sat back and drank thirstily from the tankard.

The stranger slowly leaned forward, his face briefly caught in the dim light. Bartholomew could just about make out the features of a man - he blinked. A large nose was the first thing to emerge from the hood, closely followed by two gleaming eyes. The Hawk folded his hands upon the table and stared at Bartholomew.

‘For what…and for why…’ rumbled the Hawk, in a deep gravely voice ‘…do you seek Matheus Hawk…Mr. Bask?’

It took a moment but once recovered; Bartholomew presented a lengthy heartfelt description of his problem, how little he had to go on and what a travesty of justice it was that strange criminals could be allowed to wander the streets at night taking advantage of…

Matheus Hawk stopped Bartholomew with a slap of his hand on the table. ‘
Enough
of your prattle…I’m expensive,’ he growled, ‘but I can find your goods, if found they can be, and I can skin the hides from the thieves and hang them out for the crows if that is your wish?’

Bartholomew smiled; now this was much more like it. Those thieves, whoever they were, would indeed wish they had never heard the name Bartholomew Bask. He gazed across at the Hawk and shivered. He detected something exceedingly strange about this Hawk person and Bartholomew was grateful that it was to
his
side that he was now recruited.

Matheus Hawk had been a sergeant in the King’s Guard - an army known for its brutish, violent behaviour, yet he had been discharged for having too heavy a hand. A big man, Matheus had loved to fight and inflict pain from a young age and had taken to war readily. He was cruel, and took a sadistic pleasure in the pain and suffering of his victims. The army wanted none of this. After receiving a number of complaints from the rest of his company, Matheus was court-martialled and imprisoned; but no prison could hold him and he escaped. He’d spent several years as a highwayman, robbing coaches and travellers, until one day he chanced upon a coach carrying two wizards.

The wizards had defended themselves well. Matheus had been badly beaten, and in risk of his life, but a lucky crossbow shot from Matheus had killed the driver and the frightened horses had run off, taking the coach with them. With nobody driving, the coach had careened off the road and into a ravine. Both horses and one of the wizards had died straight away, yet the other had survived for several weeks while Matheus tortured him until he gave up the secrets to his spells. The wizard had eventually died and Matheus had used his new-found skills to act as a bounty hunter and tracker. He’d made a name for himself, not only with the people, but also with the King’s Guard. They now saw him as someone to arrest upon sight for continued acts of terrible violence. Matheus Hawk was not a pleasant man, but he was the best tracker in the entire kingdom, and Bartholomew always wanted the best.

Bartholomew handed the few pieces of evidence over to the Hawk and wished him well with his endeavours. ‘How shall I contact you?’ he enquired.

‘You shan’t,’ growled the Hawk, sliding back into the shadows once more. ‘If I want you or have news, then I shall contact you. Now leave me to my work.’

Bartholomew wiped his face and stood up. He wasn’t used to taking orders, especially from someone in his employ, but thought better of mentioning anything to Mr Hawk on this first meeting; maybe next time, when they knew each other a little better.

He hurried back through the crowded bar and out into the night, confident that he had done what he could and that the matter was now in capable hands.

Outside on the slightly cooler street, Bartholomew thought again of the hands that the Hawk had crossed in front of him on the table. Long and thin with sharp nails like…like talons…like a Hawk for goodness sake! Bartholomew shivered in the warm evening air, then waved as he saw a carriage that was empty. I almost pity the thieves; he chuckled to himself as he clambered in and settled back into the carriage seat, but then again…maybe I don’t. He was giggling as the carriage set off, back up to the ‘better part’ of town.

****

The barge left on time with Loras on deck waving back to Pardigan. Much to his dismay, the cat hadn’t wanted to go with Loras, preferring to stay on
The
Griffin
with the knife and book. Pardigan returned the wave as the barge left the harbour, slowly creeping out into the open sea.

Quint had gone off to purchase a few more supplies and to try and find out what the word on the street was about the robbery. If the watch were tracking the thief, they had to find out where they were searching and what they had to go on. Pardigan took a last look around at the other boats and the few people walking on the jetty, then made his way down below. At the bottom of the ladder, he peered around the gloom of the hold waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. The book was on the table and the cat was curled up not far from it on a pile of sacking. It lifted its head and watched him as he came down into the room, making him feel awkward. Trying his best to ignore it, he crossed to the table and sat down so that he could read in the small square of sunlight that came in from the hatch. Touching the papers with the knife made the stone flare bright blue and the book once more transformed into the slim leather-bound volume they’d seen before. He studied the cover once more, his finger slowly following the words, his brow creasing in concentration as he read.

The title had appeared written in gold script and below this, was now a picture of a wizard, not the knife, and more tiny words that Pardigan could only just make out, but at least it was written in low speak.

Hmm, interesting, thought Pardigan. I wonder if that’s Magician Ignacius Pew? He doesn’t look particularly happy. He opened the book to the first page, which was an introduction of sorts, from Magician Pew.