Sargasso Skies (5 page)

“Very nearly finished,” he announced. “Then, all those workers who are with us will be let aboard in dark of night—and we'll sail out of here before the count and his followers can do a thing to stop us!” His eyes gleamed. “What do you say to that, eh? Impressive, or what? What?”

“I have two questions for you,” said Esmeralda. She pointed to the mainmast. “The powerstone basket is empty,” she said. “How do you plan to set sail with no powerstone aboard? And question number two—how are you going to get it out of here? The dome is solid—there's no way through!”

The commander frowned deeply at her. “Harrumph.” He coughed. “That's all in hand, young lady. All information is given on a need-to-know basis, and you don't need to know, don't you know.”

“No, I don't know,” said Esmeralda. “That's the whole point. I'd
like
to know.” She glanced at Trundle. “Because right now, your great escape plan looks like a total non-starter!”

“Non-starter?” exploded the commander, his face thunderous. “I say! Hold on there, young lady! I'm not used to being spoken to like that. Slip of a girl! Comes up here! Making comments to undermine morale!” His face was by now poppy red. “Never heard the like! Disgraceful! I'd court-martial you if you were one of my chaps! Dashed malcontent!”

“I'm sure she didn't mean to suggest you don't know what you're doing,” Trundle said, trying to defuse the situation before the commander blew a gasket. “It's . . . er . . . it's a very nice windship indeed.” He hooked a paw under Esmeralda's arm. “Come along, Es, we've got work to do. Let's leave the nice commander alone with his lovely windship.”

“Yes, but . . .”

Trundle didn't give Esmeralda the chance to annoy the commander even further. He pushed her through the trapdoor and followed her down the ladder.

“It's a stupid plan,” Esmeralda said, as they climbed back down to the stage. “Where are they going to get a powerstone from? And even if they manage that, and somehow get through a solid wooden dome without anyone noticing, there's still the winds to deal with. How are they going to get past them in one piece?”

“I have no idea.” Trundle sighed. “But there's no need to antagonize him!”

“Excuse me, but there's every need!” grumbled Esmeralda. “He's a total loony and a complete waste of our time!” She paused at the head of the final steep stairway to the stage. “Listen, my lad,” she said. “It's up to you and me and Jack to get ourselves out of here.”

“How?” Trundle asked mildly.

“I don't know. Maybe we can convince the steam moles to help us after all. Come on, Trun, we need to go and talk to Jack.” She winked at him as she began to climb down the steps. “Top secret, you know! Maximum security! Mum's the word!”

Chuckling to himself at her perfect imitation of the commander, Trundle followed her down into the unending chaos of the opera house.

A
s they came down to ground level again, they heard a piercing shriek and saw Sheila go plummeting by into the orchestra pit. There was an odd
booomoiiinnnggg
sound, rather like a stoat hitting a drum. Sheila rose up again, her arms and legs flapping. She lost momentum and fell, accompanied this time by the sound of a drum skin tearing apart.

“My drum!” someone yelled. “Get her out of it!”

“Gurrrgh . . . urrrgh . . . wurrgh . . .” Sheila gurgled as several pairs of helpful hands lifted her out of the broken drum and carted her off while the drummer sat by, his face in his paws, sobbing quietly to himself.

Trundle and Esmeralda made their way down to the side of the orchestra pit. Jack was there, the musical score spread out across his knees. He was perusing it with a furrowed brow while adding some rosin to the bow of his rebec.

His face cleared as he saw his friends approaching. “My, but this is good larks!” he said with a grin. “It's total mayhem, of course, and I can't make head nor tail of the opera the count has written. But it's such a treat to be among other musicians—I've really missed that, you know.”

“Well, I'm glad someone is enjoying himself,” said Esmeralda. “But there's still the Crown of Wood to be found, Jack! We can't stay here forever. I know we've outrun Aunt Millie and the pirates for now, but they're never going to give up looking for us. I'm sorry if I'm spoiling your fun, but we need to get out of this place as soon as possible.”

“I agree,” said Jack, unperturbed by Esmeralda's tone. “We were told to seek for the crown in Hammerland, were we not?”

“We were,” agreed Trundle.

“Well, just take a guess where the first performance of the count's opera is due to take place?” Jack's grin stretched even wider. “I'll give you a clue. It begins with an H and ends in “ammerland”!”

Esmeralda gaped at him. “Truly?” she gasped.

“Absolutely!” nodded Jack. “First stop, Hammerland.”

Esmeralda gave Trundle a slap on the back. “Didn't I tell you not to lose heart, Trun, my lad?” she declared, although so far as Trundle could remember she had said no such thing. “I knew the Fates wouldn't let us down!”

“So, if we stay with the opera house, we'll get taken to Hammerland,” said Trundle. “That's marvelous . . . if the place ever gets finished, that is.”

“Hmm, good point,” said Esmeralda. “Someone needs to take this lunacy in hand, and quickly, too!” She stared around herself, rolling up her sleeves. “Us Roamanys have been putting on shows and erecting big tops for five hundred years!” she announced. “I'll show 'em how to get organized.” She fixed a determined eye on a crowd of goats failing to raise a timber beam. “And I'll start with
that
useless bunch!”

Trundle and Jack watched as she marched over to the fumbling creatures and started shouting orders. Within a few moments, she had sorted them into separate gangs, and it was not long before they had completed their task.

All around the auditorium, other animals were watching, and the moment the beam was slotted into place, a great cheer went up.

Esmeralda dusted her paws together and headed for the next bunch of workers.

Again, it was only a few minutes before order emerged from chaos, and another task was completed to general cheering and applause.

“Us next!” called other gangs. “Do us next!”

“She's astounding,” breathed Jack.

“Isn't she, though?” said Trundle.

“It looks like the count thinks so, too,” Jack added, pointing to the stage.

Count Leopold was staring at her, his monocle screwed tight into his eye. “Who is that woman?” he called.

Trundle was quick to scramble up onto the stage. “She's my friend Esmeralda,” he told the count. “Scary, isn't she?”

“Totally on the contraryness!” declared the count. “She is wonderful! I appoint her my works manager as.” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Make so carry on, Ermintruda!”

“It's Esmeralda, mate!” she shouted back. “And don't you worry—I've got everything under control.”

“Glorious! Truly magnificent!” said the count. He peered down at Trundle. “And what can you for me do, my little spiky friend?” he asked.

“Oh, I'm not really sure,” Trundle stammered, feeling rather queasy under those strange red eyes. “I know all about lamplighting and . . . er . . . I'm a dab hand at cabbage soufflé . . . and . . . um . . . I do enjoy a good book . . . but . . .”

“Ahh! A literary gentleman!” boomed the count. “Exactly you are the person who my papers a little organize can.”

“Papers?” gasped Trundle. “Umm . . . what papers?”

“With me come!” With a sweep of his great cloak, the count led Trundle off the stage, poor Trundle needing to trot to keep up with the lion's long strides.

Off into the wings they went, and through a door and up a staircase, and through another door and along a corridor and this time up a spiral staircase. Through small windows dotted along the winding stair, Trundle could see that they were rising high above the swampy ground. He guessed they were in one of the towers.

The count came to a doorway at the top of the stairs. He flung it open and led Trundle inside.

Trundle found himself in a smallish circular room with curved windows and a pointed wooden ceiling. Filling the middle of the room and groaning under the weight of a vast disorderly mass of ink-stained papers was a solitary desk.

“This is my composing chamber,” said the count. “Here are the words of my opera written—many words!” He put a great paw on Trundle's shoulder and guided him to a chair. “Sit!” he said. Trundle sat. “All that you to do I wish is the words of my opera put into the correct order,” said the Count. “Such things to me are not of interest, but the people who to watch and to listen come, like a story in the right order told.”

Trundle stared aghast at the towering piles of scribbled-on paper. There were even several dozen sheets strewn across the floor.

“I will have to you later on some food brought,” said the count. “Until the task completed is, can you here sleep.” He pointed to a straw mattress that lay against the wall. “It is most comfortable. You will sleep fast like a stone, yes?”

Before Trundle could say a word, the count swept to the door again. “A call you me give when you finished are!” he said. “I will you in lock so not disturbed will be.”

The door slammed at the count's back. A key turned with a sharp
click
. There were the sounds of retreating feet on the stairs. Then silence. Trundle blinked at the door, and then at the mountain of papers.

“Oh, my!” he gasped, taking a sheaf of densely written pages from the pile. A small avalanche of paper slid forward, burying him to the knees.

“Oh, no!”

He blinked again at the closed and locked door.

With a deep, deep sigh, he brought the first sheet of paper up to his snout and began to read.

A
ll through that day, Trundle worked like fury among the count's papers. From below he heard the occasional thump or scream or thud or clank, and every now and then a high-pitched whistling noise that he assumed was something to do with the steam engine under the stage.

Twice, a silent albino brought him food and drink. Trundle was too nervous to say anything, and too busy with the papers to do more than take the odd bite and sip while the disorderly mass of the Count's opera began to make some kind of sense.

Night came, and Trundle lit candles and set them all around the floor.

“Twilight of the Dogs
,” he muttered as he placed a final sheet of paper on the first of seventeen stacks. “Funny kind of name for an opera.” He smiled as he regarded the fruits of his labors. “Not that I know anything about operas,” he added. “But at least I've got it all in the right order, although whether an opera should have
quite
this many parts is another matter!”

Trundle was suspicious that if the count's entire story was performed,
Twilight of the Dogs
would last for several days!

Feeling a little drowsy, Trundle went to one of the small windows and pushed it open. He leaned out into the cool, murky night, breathing in the mildly stinky air, hoping it would keep him awake long enough to sort the few final papers still on the desk.

Fingers of mist coiled along the ground, sneaking between the dormitory hulks that lay below the tower. He looked up—and was surprised that from here he could see the faint glimmering of starlight through the clouds. The sight cheered him, reminding him of other, nicer lands out beyond the whirling winds.

There was a crash at his back, and a hearty voice called out.

“How's it going, Trun, my lad?” called Esmeralda. “I've brought you some cocoa.”

Trundle stared as a draft of air snatched up the topmost layers of his seventeen neat piles and sent the pages swirling around the room like a startled flock of white birds.

“Arrgh!” he screamed. “Shut the door! Shut the door!”

“Oh! Okay. I'll leave you to it, then.” Esmeralda placed the mug of cocoa on the desk, then beat a hasty retreat, slamming the door behind her.

The papers settled gently to the floor.

Trundle slumped down at the desk and banged his head a few times on the blotter.

 

Several weary hours later, Trundle placed the final sheet of paper on the final pile again. He glared at the door, daring it to open again. It didn't.

He was quite worn out. The small straw mattress looked very inviting. But first he tottered over to the window to close it and shut out the eerie Sargasso Skies night. He took a last glance over the sea of wreckage; it looked sad and gloomy in the weak starlight.

He was about to close the window when the sound of distant drums caught his ears. He stared out and spotted some long, thin figures scrambling about among the debris just beyond the farthest of the hulks.

He rubbed his eyes, thinking he recognized those stooping, gangly shapes.

“Lizards!” he hissed, alarmed to see the savage brutes so close to the opera house.

But there was something odd about the way the lizards were moving. Instead of skimming low along the ground as they had done when they had chased him and his friends, they were moving in long leaps and bounds. And each of them was clutching a largish bundle in its arms.

“How odd,” he said aloud. He yawned, tired to the bone and far too sleepy to know what to make of what he was seeing.

“I hate those lizards,” he grumbled, shutting the window and firmly turning the latch. Half asleep on his feet, he stumbled across the room and was snoring almost before he hit the mattress.

 

He awoke early the next morning and for a moment wondered where he was. Then he remembered.

“Twilight of the Dogs!” he muttered to himself, sitting up and knuckling his eyes. “And today I'm going to try and make some sense of the story . . . if it
has
any sense to it!”

Truth be told, Trundle was almost enjoying himself among the count's teeming papers. There was something oddly satisfying about creating order out of all that chaos, and he had even discovered in the desk a pen and an inkpot and some sheets of blank paper on which he made notes in his large, round handwriting.

He had lost track of how long he had been working when he heard a soft rustling sound at his back. He turned and saw that a silent albino rabbit had slipped in through the door, carrying a tray that held a steaming cup of tea and a plate of glazed buns.

He blinked uneasily at the red-eyed creature as it glided forward and placed the tray on the corner of the desk.

“Thank you very much,” Trundle said.

With a slight nod, the albino rabbit turned to leave.

“I say,” Trundle added. “How are things going downstairs? Esmeralda's got them all jumping, I bet!”

The white face remained blank, but the red eyes widened as the rabbit moved to the door and slipped through quickly.

Trundle frowned after the pale creature. “You know something?” he said out loud to himself. “I sometimes get the impression that those animals are more frightened of us than we are of them.”

 

Trundle spent another entire day up in the tower room. But he had the feeling that his labors had not been in vain. Lighting candles as the evening darkened, he walked slowly around the desk. The seventeen original piles of paper had been reduced to three; the discarded writings heaped like a snowdrift against the wall.

Twilight of the Dogs
was starting at last to work as a story. And Trundle found that it wasn't such a bad story, after all. There was plenty of action, with swordfights and fearsome dragons and kings and queens and evil monsters and dastardly schemes and handsome imperiled heroes and beautiful gallant princesses who rode about on unicorns to save them.

He stretched and yawned. “I must be the only silly soul awake in this entire place!” He sighed, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes.

Yawning, he opened the window, remembering the drums and the lizards from the night before. Would they be there again? he wondered. And if so, what were they up to? Nothing good, he felt sure of that.

He heard the faint boom of the drums. Maybe it was some kind of communication system among the lizards?

“Like someone banging a gong to let you know it's dinnertime,” he said with a shudder. “And there they are again!”

Sure enough, a band of lizards was bounding along clutching wrapped-up bundles—moving in the same weird way as they had the previous night.

But then something else took his attention. A large hatch opened among the debris, close to the back of one of the hulks. The heads of several dogs appeared. They scrambled out, and Trundle saw that they were all dressed in military uniforms.

“It's some of those Hernswick Hounds,” Trundle mused aloud. “I suppose the commander has his soldiers patrol the perimeters, just to be on the safe side!” He frowned. “Those lizards are in for a bit of a surprise! There'll be a big punch-up now, and no mistake!”

As Trundle watched, the lizards bounded closer to where the dogs were gathered. There were about as many hounds as there were lizards. Trundle bit his lip—this was going to be nasty!

But to his amazement, the two groups met face-to-face without so much as a single punch being thrown or a single tooth being gnashed. Trundle stared in puzzlement as the lizards calmly handed their bundles over to the hounds. Almost immediately the hounds zipped back down through the hatch and closed it behind themselves.

Then the lizards turned tail and went scuttling off until they vanished into the creeping mists. But they were no longer leaping and bounding—they were moving along quite normally.

Trundle closed the window and went and sat on his mattress. This needed thinking about!

Despite feeling so sleepy, he racked his brains, trying to understand what he had just seen.

Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “Got it!” he crowed. “Those bundles must contain scraps of powerstone—that's why the lizards were leaping along like that. The buoyancy of the powerstone made them much lighter. Somehow the commander has done a deal with the lizards—and he's using them to collect enough powerstone to fly his windship!”

Of course. That made perfect sense.

One thing troubled Trundle as he stretched himself out on his mattress with his arms behind his head.

“I can see what the commander is getting out of the deal,” he said to the pointed ceiling. “But what's in it for those darned lizards? I can't imagine them helping the commander out of the kindness of their hearts.” His eyes narrowed. “I wouldn't trust them, that's for sure!” he said. “I wouldn't trust them in a million years!”

 

Trundle was awakened by a rough paw shaking him by the shoulder and by a horribly cheery voice chirruping in his ear.

“Come on, you slugabed!” Jack said. “I've brought you a cup of tea with an optional bun!”

Trundle sat up, glad to see his friend despite the boisterous nature of the merry squirrel's wake-up call.

He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “How's it going down there?” he asked.

“Esmeralda has worked miracles,” Jack said. “Things are very nearly finished on the stage and in the auditorium. It looks a treat.” He sat down with a sigh. “But the music is a real problem. It's wonderful stuff, but there's so much of it. It goes on forever, and I can't make ears nor tail of the plot of the opera—if it even has one!”

“Ah, but it does!” said Trundle. “It's been hard work, and I had to get rid of some truly awful stuff—mostly to do with people moping about because they're in love with other people who are in love with someone else. Really ghastly! There were pages and pages of it.” He pointed to the heap by the wall. “I dumped the lot! I can't stand that whiny smoochy drivel.”

“And is the rest any good?” asked Jack.

“Surprisingly, it is,” declared Trundle. “Very good, most of it, now I've got the whole thing in the right order. Count Leopold writes like he speaks—with everything back to front and inside out and upside down!”

“But you sorted it?”

“I did,” Trundle said quite proudly, gesturing toward the single neat stack of papers left on the desk. “It's rather exciting, actually.” He frowned. “I just hope the count will agree with the cuts and the changes I've made.” He stood up and trotted over to the desk, where several spread-out sheets of paper were pinned together on the blotter. “Look,” he said. “I've made a flowchart of the acts and scenes, showing where they ought to come and how the whole story should work.”

“Amazing!” said Jack, leaning over the chart. “Ahh! I see. Yes. It makes perfect sense to have Bruinhilda's aria there, leading into the battle between the bad dogs and the noble bears. And there's the ‘Ride of the Volekyries'—that's got a really good bit of music to it! Stirring stuff. And you've put the coronation of the king right at the end, just where it ought to be!” Jack slapped Trundle on the shoulder. “You're quite the editor, my lad.” He beamed. “This is splendid work!”