Midnight Over Sanctaphrax (16 page)

‘Sleet!’ he yelled. ‘He's glowing! He's glowing like us!’

‘Don't you recognize me, Bogwitt?’ said Twig, trying to sound calm as the barge rocked dangerously beneath his feet. ‘It's me, Twig.’

‘I recognize you,
Captain
Twig,’ came the voice from above. ‘Though I never thought to see you alive again, least of all in the sewers of Undertown.’

Twig looked up. There in the entrance of a wide, gaping pipe stood a gaunt figure dressed in the heavy longcoat and tricorn hat of a sky pirate. He, too, was
bathed in the same luminous glow.

‘Sleet!’ cried Twig, almost losing his balance. ‘Wingnut Sleet!’

But the former quartermaster of the
Edgedancer
had already turned away and disappeared into the pipe.

‘Don't you mind him, captain,’ said Bogwitt, clambering awkwardly from the boat, his right leg dragging behind him. ‘I'm sure he's more pleased to see you than he's letting on. And as for me, I couldn't be happier.’

‘Nor I, to see you,’ said Twig. ‘I can scarcely believe what's happening.’

He followed Bogwitt up the iron holds in the wall to the entrance of the pipe, high above. Unlike all the others, no foul water spewed from it. Cowlquape and Tarp followed them close behind. Then, pushing back a heavy hide curtain at the other end of the pipe, they found themselves in a wide chamber.

Wingnut Sleet stood to one side, his face half turned away. ‘Welcome,’ he said softly.

Cowlquape looked round in amazement. The place was a veritable smuggler's cave, stacked from top to bottom with boxes and crates overflowing with an array of costly items. There were rugs on the floor and hangings on the walls. There was furniture: two armchairs, a table, cupboards - and a small, ornately carved writing-desk. There were pots and pans, bottles and jars, crockery, cutlery, cruet… and the mouthwatering smell of tildermeat sausages.

‘It used to be a water cistern,’ Sleet explained. ‘Now it is where we are forced to live.’

Twig nodded. ‘I feared you might not be living at all,’ he said.

‘Aye, well, perhaps it would be better if I weren't,’ Sleet muttered under his breath as he turned and crossed the cistern to where a skillet was sizzling on a stove.

‘But Sleet…’ Twig began.

‘Oh, him and me get by all right down here,’ Bogwitt broke in. ‘We've been here weeks now. We forage and
filch - and you'd be amazed at the stuff we find in the nets some days … though we always take any creatures back to the surface - after relieving them of any valuables they may be carrying. And with light no problem …’ He nodded towards Wingnut Sleet's back, hunched over the stove. ‘So long as the two of us stick together.’

‘The glowing, you mean?’ said Twig.

‘It was the same with us two when the cap'n found me,’ said Tarp. ‘And now here's the four of us all aglow.’

‘Something must have happened out there to cause it,’ said Twig. ‘But I remember
nothing.
How about you, Bogwitt? Can you remember what happened to us out there in open sky?’

The flat-head goblin shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We set off after the caterbird in search of your father, we entered the weather vortex - and then, not a thing.’ He grimaced as he pointed to his right leg. ‘All I know is that I was injured somehow.’

‘And you, Sleet?’ said Twig. The hunched figure remained silent. Twig frowned. The quartermaster's surliness was beginning to irritate him. ‘Sleet!’ he said sharply.

Sleet stiffened. ‘Not a thing,’ came the sullen reply. He laid down his spatula and turned slowly round. ‘I know only that it did this to me.’ He removed his tricorn hat.

Cowlquape gasped. Tarp Hammelherd turned away. Twig, eyes wide with horror, started back. ‘Y… your face!’ he breathed.

The hair was gone, as was the left ear - and the skin down that side looked as if it had melted like wax.
A white, sightless eye nestled in the molten folds. The quartermaster's hand moved up to the hideous scarring. This?’ he scowled. This is how I bund myself on my return from open sky. Not a pretty sight, eh?’

‘I… I had no idea,’ said Twig. Sleet shrugged. There is no reason why you should,’ he said.

‘But you blame me for taking you inside the weather vortex?’

‘No, captain,’ said Sleet. ‘I agreed W to accompany you. It was my choice.’ He paused. Though I confess to being disappointed that you don't know how we made it back to the Edge either.’

‘I know only what I was told,’ said Twig regretfully, ‘that we looked like eight shooting stars as we sped back across the night sky. At least, that's how the Professor of Darkness described it.’

Sleet's one good eye narrowed. The scarred flesh quivered. The Professor of Darkness?’ he said.

Twig nodded. ‘Some he saw landing in Undertown -you, Bogwitt, Tarp Hammelherd; perhaps one other as well. The others travelled further. They came down somewhere in the Deepwoods. I vowed to find you all. And look, I've found three of you already. It's more than I'd ever dared hope for.’

‘Hope,’ said Sleet bitterly. ‘I've learnt to live without it. After all, hope isn't going to heal this.’ He ran his fingertips gently down the terrible scars.

Cowlquape turned away.

‘I could bear neither the staring eyes …’ Sleet glanced at Cowlquape and Tarp Hammelherd, ‘nor the averted gazes of those who are repelled by my appearance. So I came down to the sewers, to hide myself away. And Bogwitt - to his credit - accompanied me.’

‘Where he goes, I go,’ Bogwitt growled loyally.

‘We look out for each other,’ said Sleet. ‘It is necessary down here,’ he added darkly.

‘Like the professor - sorry, Twig - looks out for me,’ said Cowlquape, turning back. ‘It's sometimes necessary, even in Sanctaphrax.’

‘Sanctaphrax,’ said Sleet, more softly. His eyes misted over. ‘I too once nurtured dreams of finding a position in the floating city of academics. But then, with that place, it isn't
what
you know, but
who
you know.’ He sniffed bitterly. ‘And I knew no-one.’

From the back of the chamber came the smell of burning. Bogwitt limped across the floor and seized the skillet from the stove. ‘Supper's ready,’ he announced.

Tildermeat sausages,’ said Sleet.

‘My favourite,’ said Twig, suddenly realizing how hungry he was.

Bogwitt shared out the sausages, sliced up a loaf of bread and returned with five plates balanced in his arms. He handed them out.

‘And there's a flagon of excellent sapwine I've been saving for a special occasion,’ said Sleet. ‘Bogwitt, our finest goblets if you please.’

‘To the crew of the
Edgedancer,’
Twig announced when each of them had a brimming glass in his hand. ‘To those found and to those still to be found.’

The others chorused the toast in hearty agreement and everyone sipped at the sweet, golden liquid.

‘Aaahl’
sighed Tarp Hammelherd, wiping his whiskers on the back of his hand. ‘Exquisite!’

Even Cowlquape appreciated the warm spicy flavours of the sapwine and a little later, when they were all tucking into the succulent tildermeat sausages he too realized just how hungry he'd become.

‘Delicious,’ he spluttered, tearing off a chunk of sausage and a hunk of bread. ‘Absolutely deee-licious!’

Twig turned to his scarred quartermaster. ‘I must say, Sleet, you've done well given the awful situation you found yourselves in. And you, too, Bogwitt. Very well. But you can't stay here in this terrible place, especially as you have both been injured on my behalf. One day I shall have a new ship and you shall be my crew again. But for now I must find out what has happened to the others.’

‘We will go with you,’ said Sleet.

Bogwitt nodded enthusiastically. ‘Where you go, we go, Captain Twig,’ he said.

‘Not this time, Bogwitt,’ Twig replied gently. ‘Your leg needs time to heal, too.’

‘Then we must stay here,’ said Sleet sullenly. He nodded towards the vaulted roof. ‘For there is nothing for us
up there.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Twig.
‘Sanctaphrax
is up there.’

‘S … Sanctaphrax?’ said Wingnut Sleet. ‘But…’

‘As you so rightly said, Sleet, it isn't what you know, but who.
I
know the Professor of Darkness. And
you
know me.’

Wingnut Sleet's mouth dropped open.

‘I shall write you a letter which you will deliver to the professor himself.’ He glanced round. ‘I assume you have the means to do so,’ he said.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Sleet. ‘Paper and ink of the highest quality, and the finest snowbird quills. Something I picked up on one of our foraging trips.’

Twig smiled. ‘You will stay in my study in the School of Light and Darkness and await my return,’ he said. ‘I would guess that the professor might wish to conduct a couple of experiments on you, concerning the way you glow - but otherwise, you will be left alone. How does that sound?’

‘It sounds very good, captain,’ said Wingnut Sleet. ‘Very good indeed.’

‘Indeed,’ Bogwitt echoed.

‘Yes, Bogwitt,’ said Twig. ‘As you once worked there as a guard, you must know Sanctaphrax like the back of your hand. Take the hidden alleys and secret passages on your way to the Professor of Darkness. Let's try and keep those gossipy academic tongues from wagging.’ He turned to the slaughterer. ‘Tarp,’ he said, ‘you must go with them.’

‘Me?’ Tarp cried out. ‘Accompany them to Sanctaphrax?’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘But I want to go with
you,
cap'n. I'm fit. I'm strong. You need someone like me on such a perilous quest.’

‘I'm sorry, Tarp, but only Cowlquape can travel with me.’

‘But why, cap'n?’

‘Think about it, Tarp,’ said Twig gently. ‘How far do you think we'd get, glowing like tilder lamps? Whenever it is dark, we would begin to glow if together - and the fear of others would not help in our search.’

‘But we could cover up,’ Tarp persisted. ‘We could wear thick hooded cloaks to conceal the light and …’

‘And end up more conspicuous than ever!’ said Twig. ‘No, I must do this without you. Together, we would only fail - and that is something I must not do.’

The slaughterer nodded under standingly. ‘You're right, Cap'n Twig,’ he said. ‘I should have thought.’

‘Thank you, Tarp,’ said Twig gratefully. He turned to Bogwitt and Sleet. ‘It is agreed then. You three will await my return in Sanctaphrax, while Cowlquape and I journey on to find what has become of the rest of my missing crew.’ He frowned with pretend impatience. ‘So where is that paper and pen?’

• CHAPTER ELEVEN •
THE WESTERN QUAYS

T
wo weeks later, Cowlquape and Twig found themselves on the dockside of the western quays. Their previous night's lodgings had been infested with vicious dustfleas and, having been bitten half to death, they'd decided to cut their losses before sunrise and leave the filthy dormitory Outside now, the first deep red feathers of sunrise were tickling the horizon. Twig yawned, stretched and rubbed his eyes.

‘May this new day bring us the information we require,’ he said, and sighed. ‘Oh, why is the fourth crew member proving to be so elusive?’ he wondered out loud.

‘Mm-hmm,’ mumbled Cowlquape. He was sitting on the jetty by Twig's feet, his legs dangling over the side. His nose, as always, was buried deep in one of the precious scrolls he kept in the bag slung over his shoulder.