The Last of the Sky Pirates (8 page)

‘Felix,’ he said as a figure appeared. ‘At last! I was beginning to think …’ He fell still. It was not Felix at all.

‘Come on, Rook,’ said Stob Lummus impatiently. ‘Aren’t you ready yet?’

‘We’ve been waiting for simply ages,’ added Magda Burlix, and pursed her lips primly. ‘There’s still a lot to be done before we can depart.’

Rook pulled the backpack shut and swung it up onto his shoulder. As he did so, he noticed something shiny which had been lying on the hammock beneath his backpack. Rook gasped. It was Felix’s ceremonial sword.

‘Thank you, Felix,’ he whispered, as he belted it round his waist and trotted after the others. ‘And fare you well, wherever you may be.’

t was late afternoon before the three young librarian knights elect were ready. First, they had to be fitted with their respective outfits. A long, flowing cape for Magda Burlix, with little bundles of bright materials hanging in bunches amidst clusters of shiny pins and thimbles of all sizes.

‘Finest silks from the workshops of Undertown,’ she smiled, turning to look at herself in the mirror. ‘Something to suit every shryke-matron. How about you, madam? Can I interest you in twenty rolls of this very fine spider-silk?’

Rook smiled, but Stob Lummus, the other librarian, turned away. ‘It won’t be so funny when you’re on the Mire road surrounded by shryke guards, Magda,’ he said sharply. Stob adjusted the tall, conical hat of a timber trader, and pulled the rather moth-eaten tilder coat on over the heavy sample-laden waistcoat he wore.

‘As for you!’ He turned to Rook, contempt plain in his dark brown eyes and curling upper lip. ‘Don’t encourage her,
under
-librarian!’

Rook turned away, his face burning, and fumbled with the straps of his tool harness.

‘What a natural knife-sharpener you make,’ sneered Stob. ‘Must run in the family’

Rook didn’t rise to the bait. As Felix had so often told him, ‘You’re equal to any and better than most.’ Good old Felix!

Rook sighed as he thought of his old friend. He wouldn’t like to guess how many times Felix had come to his aid over the years, defending him against overbearing professors and aggressive apprentices – for bullies came in all shapes and sizes.

‘Ready?’ It was the Professor of Darkness. He looked strained and tired. ‘Here are your papers. Stob, you are a timber merchant from the Foundry Glade. Magda, you are a silk trader carrying samples to the Eastern Roost. And you, my boy,’ said the professor, laying a hand on Rook’s shoulder, ‘you are a lowly knife-sharpener and tool-mender. Slip away quietly now – and look out for the bloodoak pendants. Those who wear them are friends to the librarian knights and will protect and guide you. The first of your contacts will make themselves known to you at the tollgate to the Great Mire Road. Sky speed, and may Earth protect you.’

Stob stepped forwards.

‘No,’ said the professor. ‘Rook, you lead the way. You know the tunnels better than anyone.’

Stob shot Rook a black look.

‘It’s this way,’ Rook told the others some time later as he led them through the labyrinth of underground sewage tunnels. He was heading for an overflow pipe in the boom-docks which, in times of heavy rain, emptied directly into the Edgewater River. It was not the closest to the Great Mire Road tollgate but, being so well concealed by the overhead jetties, it was considered by the Professor of Darkness to be the safest.

One after the other, the three of them emerged into the eerie half-light of shadows and setting sun. The air was cold, and took Rook by surprised. He swallowed it in great greedy lungfuls. Compared with the stale, tepid atmosphere of the sewers they had left behind, it tasted wonderfully fresh – even here, on the muddy shoreline of the sluggish river.

To their right stood a tall pillar. A single piece of cloth, nailed to its side, fluttered in the rising breeze.

‘Look at that,’ Rook murmured.

Stob frowned. ‘I believe it’s a posting-pole,’ he said. ‘I’ve read about them somewhere. Before the Edge was blighted with stone-sickness, sky ship captains with berths to spare would advertise—’

‘Not that,’ Rook interrupted. He nodded past the pillar at the huge sun, deep crimson and pulsating.
‘That
,’ he murmured in awe. ‘It’s been so long …’

Magda, who had herself been standing with her mouth open, shook her head. ‘It’s incredible, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘I mean, I knew the sun was up there above us the whole time, but actually to see it – to feel it—’

‘But you mustn’t look at it directly,’ Stob interrupted stiffly ‘Ever. I read that it can blind you if you stare for too long, even when it’s this low in the sky …’

‘The colour of the clouds,’ Rook whispered reverently ‘And the way they glow! They’re so beautiful.’

‘They make my spider-silk samples look dull in comparison,’ said Magda, nodding.

‘What nonsense,’ said Stob. ‘Sunsets are just dust particles in upper sky …’

‘Read that somewhere, did you?’ said Magda, lightly.

Stob nodded. ‘If you must know, it was in an old sky-scholar scroll I uncovered in—’ He heard Magda’s sigh of irritation and stopped himself. ‘We should be making tracks,’ he said. He strode off, not looking back.

Magda followed. ‘Come on, Rook,’ she called back gently. ‘We mustn’t get separated.’

‘Coming,’ said Rook. Reluctantly, he dragged himself away from the dazzling evening sky.

Rook’s senses were on fire and, as he followed the other two up a rotting wooden flight of stairs to the quayside promenade, along a winding alleyway and onto the main thorough fare which led to the beginning of the Great Mire Road, he was bombarded with sights, sounds, smells – and distant memories which tugged at his feelings. The cool caress of night air coming in from open sky. The smudge and twinkle of the first emerging stars. The smells of roast meats and strange spices from the ramshackle stalls they passed. Goblins shouting down to passing cloddertrogs, timber wagons creaking along narrow alleys and boots clattering on the cobbled streets. By the time the massive lamplit towers of the Great Mire Road gateway came into view, Stob, Magda and Rook were walking in the midst of a large and growing crowd, streaming both to and from the road’s great entrance.

‘Busy ’ere this evening, innit, Maz?’ said a voice behind them.

‘You can say that again,’ came the reply.

‘I said, it’s busy here this evening …’

‘Oh, Sisal, you are a one!’

Rook glanced round to see two grinning mobgnomes with a bundle of costumes, robes and frock coats on hangers draped over their left arms, hurrying past them. To their left was a gnokgoblin sitting astride a prowlgrin
which was pulling a low cart, laden with boxes labelled
FINEST PEWTER CUTLERY
. Behind him an officious-looking lugtroll was shouting out orders at half a dozen cloddertrogs who were staggering along beneath the weight of a long, heavy roll of red and purple tapestry. And following them, a contingent of gyle goblins bearing pallets of gleaming flagons, goblets and urns above their heads …

Nobody paid any heed to the sullen timber merchant, the young silk-seller or the lowly knife-sharpener who followed close on their footsteps. Rook felt overwhelmed yet exhilarated to be a part of all this great activity. From every corner of Undertown, merchants and dealers were converging on the Great Mire Road. For though some of the more heavy industry had shifted to the Foundry Glade, where wood-fuel was cheap – and labour cheaper still – the majority of manufactured goods were still produced in the traditional workshops and factories of Undertown. On the other side they would barter and sell their wares in the Eastern Roost.

‘Mind your backs!’ roared a rough voice from near the gateway. ‘Coming through.’

Ahead of him, Rook saw the crowds part as an approaching hammelhorn-drawn wagon rolled into view. It was long and flat – and followed by two others. On the bench at the front of each one were two seated leaguesmen and a swarthy flat-head goblin, who stood on the driving platform, holding a knot of reins with one hand and cracking a whip with the other. Rook craned his neck to see what load was being carried beneath the huge tarpaulins. Raw materials of some kind, that much
was certain, for everything manufactured in Undertown – from bracelets to bricks – was made from materials brought in from outside.

‘It’s timber,’ Rook heard Stob telling Magda in that bossy, rather haughty voice of his. ‘Ironwood, by the look of it. No doubt bound for the Sanctaphrax forest,’ he continued. ‘Sheer madness, if you ask me, but then –’ his voice dropped to a low whisper – ‘that’s the Guardians of Night for you.’

‘Ssh!’
Magda warned him under her breath ‘There are spies everywhere,’ she breathed.

Stob’s eyes narrowed. Even though he knew she was right, he didn’t like to be told. And as the third load of ironwood rumbled past, and the departing crowd surged forwards once again, Stob marched ahead, demanding that the others keep up.

Magda turned to Rook, rolled her eyes and smiled conspiratorially Rook increased his pace to keep up with her.

‘The Guardians,’ he whispered. ‘Do you think they know what we’re doing?’

Magda shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ she said. ‘But knowing and
finding
are two different things!’ she added fiercely.

‘What about the Most High Academe?’ asked Rook. ‘They say he has an army of goblin mercenaries on duty day and night, just to hunt down librarian knights …’

Magda tossed her head back contemptuously. ‘The Most High Academe, Vox Verlix, that great sack of oak-wine –
hah!
He’s finished.’ She paused. ‘Of course, you
know it’s him who’s responsible for that.’ She pointed to the tall towers of the Mire road looming up ahead of them.

Rook gasped. ‘He built
that
!’

Magda nodded. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘After stone-sickness put an end to sky-trade, he designed and supervised the building of the Great Mire Road so that we humble merchants of Undertown could trade with the Deepwoods. Clever person, old Vox. At least, he was once. Too clever! Mother Scab-beak and the Shryke Sisterhood seized control of it, and there was nothing he could do to stop them.’

‘What about his goblin mercenaries?’ asked Rook.