Snowbone (13 page)

They traveled on. To the west they saw the huge bulk of Ashenpeake Mountain, brooding on the horizon like a sulky giant, snowcapped, immovable, timeless. To the east, endless forests. Broad-leaves and pines, evergreens and ashen trees, cold and close in troubled times, snow falling from their heavy boughs in a symphony of sighs.

And then, one day, the tiddlins caught a familiar scent on the wind.
Salt.
Soon there were gulls screaming overhead. A
fresh breeze was singing in from the south. And when they climbed a slippery ridge, they found the sea.

Snowbone closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The air was cold, charged, tingling with the energy of the ocean. And with that single, pure breath, all the grime of the journey was washed away. She sighed happily.

“There's a path,” said Blackeye.

Snowbone opened her eyes.

He was pointing along the cliff. “See? Leading down to the beach.”

“So what are we waiting for?” said Snowbone.
“Run!”

And off she went, sprinting along the cliff top, with the others scrabbling and screaming behind her. But suddenly—
whoosh!
—Manu overtook her so fast, he was nothing but a blur. Snowbone stopped running. She wanted to watch. Manu was running at an incredible speed, with apparently no effort. He was down the path faster than a greyhound, running toward the sea while the tiddlins were still on the cliff. And when he reached the waves, he somersaulted, turned a cartwheel, kicked off his shoes and started paddling.

“That boy can run!” said Figgis.

Snowbone simply nodded. She was too stunned to speak.

The tiddlins made camp on the beach, and that night, as they gathered round a fire to talk, it almost felt like home.

Figgis had drawn a map of Ashenpeake Island in the sand. “I reckon we're about here,” he said, marking a spot on the coast. “The Southern Peninsula is here and Spittel Point is right down here, at the tip. So if we follow the coast all the way, we can't miss it. Two or three days and we should be there.”

“What will we do when we get there?” said Two Teeth.

“Start looking for the slavers,” said Snowbone.

“Where?” said Fudge.

“In the taverns,” said Figgis. “That's where they meet. I imagine there'll be a bit of a harbor, with taverns all along the seafront. You won't be able to come with me—it's no place for tiddlins. And before you tear my tongue out, Snowbone, that's not me talking! It's the landlords. They won't let you in, believe me. And anyway, we don't want to draw attention to ourselves.”

“Won't they recognize you?” said Manu.

“I doubt it,” said Figgis. “Why would a tinker from the north be drinking in Spittel Point? Besides, they left me for dead.”

“But won't it look strange—your being in a bar when you're not a trader?” said Mouse.

“No,” said Figgis. “I'm sure strangers turn up all the time. Sailors looking for work, people like that. And besides, it's a regular port. They're not all rogues. Most of them are dealing in honest cargo. But it's out of the way and the slavers like that. If they used Kessel, on the west coast, everyone would see their business.”

“What will we do if we find the slavers?” said Tigermane.

“There's no
if
about it,” said Snowbone. “We'll stay there until we do.”

“And what then?” said Mouse.

Snowbone said nothing. But a smile passed over her lips, cold as the waves beyond.

hen the tiddlins awoke the next morning, they found a thaw had begun. Icicles were melting. Water was running in rivulets down to the sea. The clouds had disappeared and the sun was lazing in the sky like a comfy cat. Even Manu had to admit it was a glorious day.

By mid-morning, the snow had almost completely disappeared. All that remained were long, thin fingers of white, lurking in the shadows beneath the bushes.

“D'you see them?” said Figgis, pointing them out to Snow-bone. “Do you know what they're called?”

Snowbone shook her head.

“They're called ‘snowbones.’ They hold on, clinging to the land, defying the sun, even when the rest of the snow has long gone. And that reminds me of someone I know. What do you think?”

Snowbone said nothing, but she couldn't hide her smile. For once it was warmer than the winter sun. And, deep in her heart, she thanked the sailor who had given her such a brilliant name.

∗  ∗  ∗

On the third day, the path began to rise, still following the contours of the coast. Jutting out into the sea ahead was a sharp promontory with ferocious cliffs that fell away beneath.

“Spittel Point must be on the far side,” said Figgis. “We can cut across land. No need to go all the way round.”

Snowbone agreed, but she could see it would still be a long, arduous climb.

They labored on under the midday sun. Higher and higher they went, seeing nothing ahead of them but sky. And they were just nearing the summit when they heard something: a low rumble that seemed to set the earth quivering. Then it became a rush and a roar, and the tiddlins fell to their knees and covered their heads as a dragon soared up over the cliffs and screamed away over the land. Snowbone felt the downbeat of its wings. Heard the screech of its tongue. Felt the tip of its tail sweep by. Like the other tiddlins, she stayed curled up in a ball until she was sure it had gone. Dragons meant just one thing:
fire!

But when she dared to open her eyes, she saw Figgis calmly sitting beside her, gazing to the north with a smile on his face.

“Wasn't that grand!” he said. “I've never seen a flying machine so close!”

Snowbone followed his gaze and saw it wasn't a dragon at all. It was a man-made traveling machine. Like a flying ship, but instead of sails it had something spinning round and round, high above the deck.

Blackeye was already on his feet. “It's trailing a mooring line!” he laughed, still able to see the machine in detail though it was powering away. “I felt something brush by and I thought it was a scaly tail!” He pounced on Mouse and she squealed.

“Where did it come from?” said Snowbone.

“I don't know,” said Figgis. “But I think we'll soon find out.”

The tiddlins scrambled to the top of the slope and stopped just in time. The ground ahead fell away into a great sweeping basin of a bay. Directly below was a shelf of land, covered in grass, and on it … flying machines. Strange, wondrous, wooden flying machines. Ten or more, tethered like goats. The grass was crisscrossed with mooring lines. The machines hummed tunelessly as the wind whistled through their rigging, while the sun glistened on their magnificent feather blades. It was blades like these that Blackeye had seen spinning round and round on the departing ship. Here the blades were motionless but curiously tense, as if they were living, breathing things. Like watchful ravens, clinging to the masts, waiting to take flight.

To the left of the airfield, a wide sloping road led down to the town. Spittel Point was a jumble of houses locked between the cliffs and the sea. Every house was a different color: paintbox pink and custard cream, downy peach and daisy green; blue and lilac, red and yellow, cool and calming, warm and mellow. The houses jostled against one another, nudging their neighbors closer to the harbor, where a dozen sailing ships waited for cargoes, crews, tides.

Snowbone was buzzing like one of the flying machines. The thrill of the hunt, the view of the sea. Oh! It was a heady brew. They were close now. So close.

She turned to Figgis. “You'll go in tonight?”

Figgis nodded. “I will. And wherever those scummy dogs are hiding, I'll find them.”

t seemed the gods were protecting the slavers. Night after night, Figgis and Manu went into Spittel Point, but they couldn't find them. A black-haired man, a blue-eyed lad … Hour after hour, Figgis sat in smoky taverns, waiting for them to enter. Hour after hour, Manu watched the street outside, waiting for them to walk by. But they never did.

A week passed. The tiddlins were staying in a deserted barn outside the town. Every morning, Figgis and Manu reported back to Snowbone. She would hear them coming up the path and, just by listening to the drag of their boots, she could tell it had been another fruitless night. Snowbone was in a frenzy of frustration, but nothing more could be done. Figgis and Manu had to watch, she had to wait. It was as simple as that.

It was a cold night. A gibbous moon hung low in the sky, silvering the rigging of the silent ships. Figgis sat on the quay, smoking his pipe.

“It's getting late,” said Manu, appearing from the shadows as if by magic.

Figgis nodded. He was tired. He longed for his bed in the barn. “One more,” he said. “One more, then we're off.” He tapped out the embers of his pipe, slipped it into his pocket and they started walking.

Along the seafront, the tavern signs were hanging limp as lettuce. The Whistling Dog? Figgis had been in there earlier. The Three Cockles? Too rough this time of night. The Galley Boy? Figgis peered in through the window. No one there. They walked on.

Suddenly they heard laughter. In one of the side alleys, a door had opened, splashing golden light onto the cobbles. A sailor stumbled out. He saluted to his friends still inside. Swayed. Turned. Walked unsteadily toward them, his forehead corrugated in concentration. When he reached them, he stopped, while his brain worked out how to get past.

“Evenin',” said the sailor.

He burped, and the stink that escaped was so strong, Figgis could taste it: a rich, wet stew of tobacco and spit and spice and ale. It went up Figgis's nose and slid down his throat like an oyster.

“Evenin',” said Figgis.

They stepped round the sailor and headed for the light. It came from a tavern Figgis hadn't noticed before, the Hangman's Hood. The sign showed a fearsome individual leering through a black hood. Behind the terrifying eyeholes, the orbs were blood-red, and a noose dangled from his fingers.

“Wait here,” Figgis told Manu. “Hide yourself.” He went in.

The bar was crowded, but not so busy that he couldn't see everyone. The slavers weren't there. Figgis ordered a glass of beer, found a table in a far corner and sat down.

Time passed. His glass was half emptied. A sailor at the bar
was getting rowdy. His mates were trying to calm him, but he was violently drunk. Beads of sweat glistened on his bald, fleshy head.

Figgis fished in his pocket for his pipe. “Where is it?” he muttered, and then, as he bent to look, the room exploded around him.

Fists and feet and flying sailors! The drunken sailor was throwing people across the room.
Hweeeeee!
One of them flew through the air and landed square on Figgis's table:
doof!
He lay there, sprawled on a bed of splinters where the table used to be.
Hweeeeee!
Now the sailor was throwing someone else.

But the landlord was having none of it. He came out from behind the bar brandishing a bottle, swung it high in the air and brought it down—
boof!
—on the bald head. The drunken sailor fell to the floor like a bag of coconuts.

“Get him out of here,” growled the landlord.