Clash of the Sky Galleons (12 page)

‘Yes, Captain,’ the quartermaster muttered. ‘I pledged to follow you wherever you led until I could repay the debt I owe you … You have my loyalty, Captain.’

Wind Jackal nodded and sat back in his chair. ‘Good,’ he said. He twisted the end of his moustache thoughtfully. ‘As you’ve heard, I have received another message, and I have engaged the services of a waif to help.’

As he spoke, a small individual dressed in a hooded cloak stepped out of the shadows and approached the table. He stood at Wind Jackal’s right side.

‘This is Menisculis,’ said Wind Jackal.

The sky pirates looked at the waif before them with a mixture of fascination and revulsion. There were many waifs living in Undertown,
and of all kinds - ghostwaifs, nightwaifs, flitter-waifs; waterwaifs, with their green-tinged skin and webbed fingers; pale, mottled greywaifs, dangling barbels hanging down from the corners of their wide, fleshy mouths … The thing they all had in common was that they could read the minds of other creatures - apart, strangely, from other waifs who did not wish their minds to be read. It was their mind-reading abilities that made waifs so valuable, and yet so mistrusted. Menisculis was - as they could all tell from his large eyes and fluttering, almost transparent, ears - a night-waif; the best mind-readers of all.

‘This morning,’ Wind Jackal told them, ‘while I was at the sky-shipyard, I received a message of no return.’

Quint swallowed hard.

‘Despite what some of you may want…’ He glanced at Maris and Quint. ‘… I am not going to let the matter rest. I intend to get to the bottom of this business once and for all. And Menisculis, here, should ensure that.’

‘Indeed I shall.’
The waif’s whisper sounded in every head gathered round the table.

‘I hate it when they do that,’ grumbled Steg to Tem in a half-whisper.

‘I must check this message out,’ continued Wind Jackal, ‘and I’m going to need all of you to do it.’ He looked round. ‘Are you with me?’

The crew climbed to their feet and looked their captain steadily in the eye as the tiny waif’s ears twitched and trembled.

‘They’re with you, Captain,’
Menisculis’s voice sounded in everyone’s head.

The captain motioned for everyone to sit down, and picked up his tankard of woodale.

‘So, Steg,’ he said, his eyes sparkling. ‘What exactly is that you’re wearing?’

Maris turned to Tem as the last of the crew followed Wind Jackal out of the tavern, her eyes moist with frustration.

‘When he said he was going to need all of the crew, I thought he meant it!’ she said with a gasp of exasperation.

Tem looked at her uneasily. ‘But … but the captain said he needed us to stay here,’ he told her. ‘To send help if they didn’t return …’

Maris snorted. ‘And you believed him!’ She shook her head. ‘Don’t you see, Tem? He’s trying to protect us … Well, if he thinks we’re just going to sit here and do nothing, he’s got another think coming!’

Tem swallowed. ‘He has?’

‘Certainly’ said Maris. ‘Grab that new hat of yours, Tem. It’ll keep your ears warm! …’

Oh, Maris! Maris! Maris! Quint thought as he followed his father down the foggy street outside the Tarry Vine tavern. Please don’t do anything stupid!

He’d noticed that look in her eyes when he’d turned at the tavern door to wave her goodbye - a look he’d seen so many times before. In the Palace of Shadows when her father, Linius Pallitax, had made her promise not to go down inside the Sanctaphrax rock … On board the
Cloudslayer
when he himself had suggested Maris be dropped off before the vessel journeyed out into Open Sky … It was a look - not of defiance exactly but of absolute determination. A look that appeared compliant, but which Quint knew was saying, ‘You may think I’ve heard and understood and will do as I am told, but sadly you are wrong.’

Still, there was nothing Quint could do about it now. They made their way down to the riverside, through the thickening fog and crossed the Edgewater in one of the huge, nameless river-coracles that plied their trade both day and night. Wind Jackal, Quint and the waif, Menisculis, sat at the front; Steg Jambles, Spillins and Ratbit in the middle; while Filbus Queep and Sagbutt sat at the back, either side of the ferry-pilot. Stout and surly, and with a large growth on the side of his pointed chin, the lugtroll pilot spoke not a single word as he slowly but steadily winched his passengers across.

At the far side, Wind Jackal settled up, then led his crew away from the riverbank and into the filthy sprawl that was East Undertown. Once, the area had been relatively thriving, with tenement-towers and back-to-back shacks shooting up to offer cheap housing for those who worked in the factories and foundries nearby. Now, decades later, those same buildings had fallen into disrepair, and as the thick air squeezed its way down the narrow street, there was a neverending succession of curious noises - creaking timbers, slipping roof-tiles and groaning foundations - as though the fog itself was eating away at the buildings and hastening their decay.

For the fogs that rolled in from the Mire on the westerly winds were notoriously dense. What was more, as they passed over the foundry district, they gathered up the smoke and soot and noxious fumes belching out from the chimneys, and churned the whole lot into a foul-smelling miasma that dirtied every window, stained every stone a poisonous shade of yellow and filled the eyes and lungs of everyone unfortunate enough to live there. As Quint strode after his father, over ground that turned from cobblestones to mud - his eyes streaming and jacket pulled up over his mouth in an attempt to filter out the foul air - he became aware that all around them, the foggy night was filled with the sound of coughing.

‘It’s this way.’
The nightwaif’s voice, clear as a bell, sounded in the crew’s heads.
‘We turn left at the end of this alley, just after the building with the broken windows.’

Behind Quint, Filbus Queep and Ratbit shuddered and muttered under their breath about ‘nasty, creepy little waifs’, while ahead, Wind Jackal strode on.

From far off at the top of a distant tower - maybe in the Western Quays, or possibly even up in Sanctaphrax -there came the muted sound of a heavy bell chiming quarter off the hour.

‘Fifteen minutes till midnight,’ said Wind Jackal, a hint of anxiety in his voice.

‘It’s all right,’
the waif’s voice sounded in Quint’s head.
‘We’re here.’

‘Thank Sky for that,’ Quint heard Wind Jackal mutter, while behind him, the rest of the crew were
whispering, outraged by the intrusion in their heads.

‘Turn left
.’

They did as they were told. A moment later, as they rounded the corner, the air abruptly cleared as the currents swirling up from beneath the jutting rock caused the fog to fray and peel away from the Edge itself. Here the city of Undertown met the edge of the cliff and disgorged the filth and foul waters of its industry from sewer pipes, down into the void below. Just ahead, stark against the night sky, was the dark silhouette of the building that housed the biggest sewer pipe of all: the Sluice Tower.

The broad, squat tower was divided into three main floors - the upper two, studded with numerous windows.

The topmost rooms were set inside the steep, tiled roof; the lower ones were behind plastered walls which had chipped and peeled so many times they looked like badly blistered skin. The third and lowest part of the building consisted of the foundations that hugged the edge of the jutting rock, and out of which the vast sewer pipe emerged. Normally, a mere trickle of water and waste ran from this ancient
sewerage conduit, but on occasions, when storms had threatened to flood Undertown, the gates inside the Sluice Tower were opened and a mighty torrent would gush from the pipe until the waters had subsided and the danger of flooding passed.

The Sluice Tower and the great pipe it was built over stood at the entrance to the dark, verminous world of the sewers of Undertown. Here, desperate denizens - the lowest of the low - eked out a filthy existence alongside muglumps and Mire vermin of every description. In such a world, the impoverished Undertowners who inhabited the dank, fetid rooms of the Sluice Tower were considered fortunate.

Wind Jackal raised his hand and the crew behind him came to a halt. All, that is, except for the waif, who crept forward and crouched down beside the Sluice Tower’s outer wall. The little creature pressed its long thin fingers to the blistered wall and began fluttering and twitching its ears as it listened.

‘Take up positions. I want the Sluice Tower sealed,’ Wind Jackal ordered. ‘Sagbutt, the front entrance. Queep, the back. Steg and Ratbit, I want you to watch the drain-covers - I want no nasty surprises coming up from the sewers. And Spillins, an overview. Get yourself up onto the roof. If you see anything amiss - anything! -I want you to sound the alarm.’ He turned to Menisculis.

The waif glanced back at him with its huge eyes. ‘Many voices,’ he said. ‘I can hear the thoughts of a trog female, who is with child and hungry, but terrified that her father might find her …’

His ears swivelled round.

‘And here, a pair of gnokgoblin brothers. They were in service to a leaguesman …
Ha!’
he cried. ‘Ruptus Pentephraxis, no less! And they have stolen from him. A sizeable amount of gold …’ He paused and shook his head. ‘But wait. One is planning on blaming it all on the other and making off with the lot…’

The ears trembled and swivelled some more.

‘Oh, and here. Up on the top floor … Sad, sad thoughts. A lugtroll, fresh to Undertown. She believed the streets were paved with gold, yet now she has to forage in the rubbish dumps just to find enough to live on …’ He paused. ‘She misses her mother, back in the Deepwoods. Her grandmother.’ He gasped. ‘Her daughter…’

‘Keep listening,’ Wind Jackal said, ‘for dark thoughts; perhaps murderous …’

The waif raised his hand, and hissed. ‘Wait, Captain,’ he whispered. His ears swivelled round, so that both of them were pointing downwards. The fluttering increased.

‘Down in the sewer pipe itself,’ the waif said. ‘Dark thoughts … Evil thoughts, Captain … There is one waiting, brooding on the past but with plans for the future … But the hate … It is powerful, Captain … Making it hard for me to read his thoughts.’

Wind Jackal drew his sword and motioned for the crew to take their places. He then looked hard into the waif’s eyes for a moment. Menisculis nodded slowly. Turning away, Wind Jackal whispered to Quint tersely.

‘Follow me.’

They crept over to the boundary wall beside the Sluice Tower and climbed it. Standing on top, Quint looked down into the yawning abyss on the other side.

‘How far does it go down?’ he wondered out loud.

‘For ever,’ said Wind Jackal, as he eased himself down onto the far side of the wall. ‘So you’d better not slip!’

Heart thumping, Quint followed his father and the waif down the outer wall, picking out handholds and footholds by the shadows cast by the low moon. Then, shifting across to his right, he grasped hold of the lip of the huge sewer pipe, and swung round inside, landing with an echoing splash at the bottom. His father was waiting for him. The waif, Menisculis, was nowhere to be seen.

Quint drew his sword as quietly as he could and followed his father inside. Somewhere ahead in the gloom, he knew, the mysterious message-sender was waiting. Wind Jackal’s waif had heard him. He’d heard the hatred in his thoughts; hatred so intense that it could only belong to Turbot Smeal, couldn’t it? Quint touched the small furry body of his ratbird in his greatcoat pocket, and felt a surge of hatred of his own.

All around them, water dripped, the sound echoing round the cavernous pipe. Far ahead of them, glowing in the moonlight that bounced its way along the tunnel, were the bars of the sluice-cage, glinting like teeth, the odd branch or plank wedged between them like trapped food. And behind that, black and heavy, the sluice-gate itself, closed - all except for a tiny gap at the very bottom through which the tiny trickle emerged.

From above their heads, filtering through the air-ducts and pipework, they could hear low conversation, laughter, snoring, as those in the upper storeys far above whiled away the long night.

‘Captain Wind Jackal, at last!’ came a strange lisping voice from the shadows ahead. ‘I have a message for you …’

Just then, from behind him, there was a flurry of movement, and a waif threw himself at Wind Jackal from a shadowy recess, high above their heads. As he dropped down through the air, Quint caught sight of the dagger in his hand glinting …

‘Father!’ he cried out.

But Wind Jackal had already seen his attacker. A fraction of a second before the waif would have landed on his back

and embedded the blade in his throat, the sky pirate captain leaped to the floor and rolled over, dragging his son with him. As he fell, Quint heard something whistle over his head.