Stormchaser (36 page)

Twig stared round him, open-mouthed. The finery, the elegance, the perfect proportions – wherever he looked. It was too much to take in. A line of ornate pillars. An intricately carved portico. The statues, the fountains – how
did
you make water fly like that? The sweeping staircases. The curving passageways. The delicately arched bridges.

‘It's incredible,’ he sighed.

All round him, the gowned academics were scurrying this way and that. Over the bridges, up and down the stairs, in and out of the towers they went: some alone, some in twos, some in huddled, whispering groups – all
with their heads down, engrossed in their own concerns and as oblivious to the sumptuousness of their surroundings as they were to the presence of the youth and the hooded character who struggled slowly past them with the heavy chest.

Twig had expected Sanctaphrax to be a subdued place of learning, reserved and reverent – yet the professors and lecturers and readers were behaving anything but. Sanctaphrax was thronging. The atmosphere was charged with secretive intrigue, with furtive anticipation and, as the academics passed him by, he caught snatches of troubled conversation.

‘… perilously near the end…’ ‘… chains won’t hold much longer.’ ‘Vilnix Pompolnius, he's the one to blame…’ ‘I shall put your suggestions to the Professor of Fogprobing, perhaps…’ ‘Open sky – for ever…’ ‘Something must be done…’

‘Something
is
being done,’ Twig muttered as he and the Stone Pilot finally made it to the end of the long, curving avenue. They turned left. Before them stood a dilapidated tower.

Untouched since that darkening evening when Vilnix, the then apprentice raintaster, had carried out his fateful experiment, the residence of the Professor of Darkness was all but in ruins. The right side of the tower had been blown clean away, leaving staircases exposed and chambers permanently open. What remained pointed accusingly up at the sky.

Twig and the Stone Pilot stumbled over the shattered paving-stones which led up to the door. They went
inside and lugged the chest up the stairs. There was a light fanning out across the landing of the second floor. Twig walked towards it. A modest plaque nailed to the door confirmed that they had come to the right place.

Twig knocked softly.

‘Oh, what is it
now
?’ came a weary voice. ‘I’ve already told you all I know.’

‘Professor,’ Twig called urgently.

‘I am old and frail,’ the voice complained. ‘And so so tired. Just leave me alone.’

‘Professor, we must speak,’ Twig persisted and tried the door. It was not locked and, despite the professor's continued protests, he and the Stone Pilot entered. The moment she was inside, Maugin abruptly dropped her end of the chest and sat down on the lid with an exhausted grunt. Twig lowered his end, looked up at the person behind the desk – and gasped.

Apart from the fact that he was wearing black robes, rather than white, the Professor of Darkness was the Professor of Light's double.

‘Who in Sky's name are you?’ he demanded, and leaped to his feet. ‘I thought it was the guards back again.’

Twig smiled. ‘You don’t seem so old and frail now, Professor.’

‘Bwuh … bwuh … bwuh…’ the professor blustered, totally at a loss for words.

Twig stepped forwards. ‘I am Twig,’ he said. ‘This is the Stone Pilot. Together we have completed the quest upon which my father, Quintinius Verginix, was recently sent.’

The professor's jaw dropped. ‘I … that is, you…’ His eyes twinkled. ‘You mean to tell me…’

‘We have returned with stormphrax,’ said Twig.

The professor leaped to his feet and hurried across the room towards them. ‘Stormphrax!’ he said. ‘Are you certain?’

‘Quite certain,’ said Twig. ‘Your colleague, the Professor of Light, confirmed it.’

‘Bah, that old buffoon!’ he said gruffly, but Twig noticed the wateriness in his eyes. ‘What's the bally-buzzard up to, anyway?’ he asked.

Twig looked down. ‘I’m afraid the Professor of Light is dead,’ he said gently.

‘Dead!’ the professor gasped.

‘His dying words were that I should tell you about the stormphrax,’ said Twig. ‘That I can … trust you.’

‘My old friend, dead,’ the professor said sadly. He smiled weakly. ‘Come, then. Let's see what you’ve got there.’

The Stone Pilot climbed wearily to her feet and limped to one side. Twig stepped forwards and raised the lid. The Professor of Darkness looked inside. ‘Why, the old woodgoat!’ he squealed with delight. ‘It
is
stormphrax! This is wonderful! Quite wonderful! But how in Sky's name did you come by so much? And why are the crystals all so small?’

‘It's a long story,’ said Twig.

‘And one I look forward to hearing,’ the professor said. ‘But first we must get the stormphrax to the treasury…’

‘No, Professor,’ said Twig firmly. ‘First there is something else I must show you. It is time to put an end to this phraxdust madness, once and for all.’ He glanced out through the window at the sun, already deep orange and low in the sky. ‘But we must be quick. I’ll need a mortar and pestle.’

‘But…’

‘
Now
, Professor,’ Twig insisted. ‘Please!’

The professor pointed him towards a marble work-surface at the far end of the chamber. ‘You’ll find everything you could possibly need over there,’ he said. ‘But…’

‘Thank you,’ said Twig.

He seized a metal beaker and hurried back to the chest. As he passed the professor, he nodded towards the window. ‘How long to go until twilight?’ he asked. ‘
True
twilight.’

‘Ah, true twilight,’ the professor said dreamily. ‘That mystical moment between light and darkness. So fleeting. So fine … It was the only aspect of our studies about which the Professor of Light and myself could ever agree upon…’

‘Professor!’ Twig snapped, as he passed him on his way back. ‘How long?’

The professor marched towards the window and performed a quick calculation in his head. ‘One and a half minutes,’ he said huffily.

‘Less time than I thought,’ Twig muttered. He hurried over to the bench and selected a mortar. ‘Gently, gently,’ he whispered to himself as he poured some crystals down into the bowl. Next, he picked the heaviest pestle from the rack, and raised it above his head. ‘Professor,’ he called out, ‘you must tell me when that moment of true twilight occurs. Do you understand?’

The professor looked round. He saw Twig standing above the bowl of stormphrax with the pestle raised above his head.

‘No,’ he gasped. ‘Are you mad? You’ll blow us all to open sky!’

‘Have faith, Professor,’ Twig said. ‘And keep your eyes to the sky. Remember, not a moment too soon and not a moment too late.’

The chamber throbbed with silence for what seemed
like an eternity. Twig's arm began to ache – and doubts to niggle. What if the Professor of Light had been wrong after all? The shaft of golden light pouring in through the window shifted a shade.

‘Now!’ the Professor of Darkness cried out, shattering the awful silence.

Twig held his breath and brought the pestle down as hard as he could into the waiting mortar. There was a thud. A crunch. A sparkling brilliance. But no more. And, as the golden light at the window turned to amber, Twig looked down at the bowlful of sepia powder sliding round like liquid.

‘It worked,’ he whispered. He spun round to the professor. ‘It worked!’

The Professor of Darkness trotted towards him, beaming with delight. He looked down into the bowl. ‘First stormphrax! Now phraxdust! Wait, I must pinch myself to check I’m not dreaming.’

‘This is no dream,’ said Twig. ‘The stormphrax will restore equilibrium to Sanctaphrax and the phraxdust will purify the drinking water once more.’ He turned and stared boldly into the professor's eyes. ‘And now I know it works, there is something else to do, Professor,’ he said, his voice hushed and earnest. ‘I have a plan to ensure that the secret of safe phraxdust production shall never fall into the wrong hands. But I’ll need to ask for your help if it is to work.’

‘Ask away, Twig, my boy,’ said the Professor of Darkness. ‘Ask and it shall be done.’

With darkness falling, Twig and the Stone Pilot followed the professor from his chamber. Back down the spiral stairs they went, grunting and groaning as the heavy chest bumped against the walls. At the bottom, instead of going out through the door, the professor took them down a further flight of stairs, through a narrow archway and on into a tunnel. It was dark and dank there, with only the dim light from the lantern in the chest to show them which way to go.

‘Daren’t risk lighting the torches in case it destabilizes the stormphrax,’ the professor called back.

On and on they walked. This way, that way, down stairs and ramps, gradually making their way to the very centre of the floating rock. Behind him, Twig could feel
the Stone Pilot getting slower and slower. He knew that she was nearing the end of her strength.

‘Is it much further to go?’ asked Twig.

‘We’re almost there,’ said the professor. ‘Just round this next corner and…’

‘
HALT! WHO GOES THERE?’

The professor stopped in his tracks. Twig – who was finding it difficult to see the black robes in the dark tunnels anyway – walked slap-bang into him. Maugin grunted with alarm and dropped the chest – onto her foot – and grunted again, this time with pain. Out of the confusion came the professor's frail voice.