The Curse of the Gloamglozer (2 page)

‘Where are you, master? Where are you?’ he murmured to himself.

He cocked his wedge-shaped head to one side. The antennae quivered impatiently. They picked up the soft murmur of voices throughout the vast building: the inconsequential chatter of the old woodtroll nurse, the soft humming of a girl – the young mistress – intent on some absorbing task, and there, unmistakable, from up in the master-study, a dry cough.

‘I hear you, master,’ the creature responded. ‘I'm sure you could do with a little pick-me-up to go with the news I bring,’ he trilled to himself. And with the goblet clinking against the bottle, he began the long climb up the staircase.

It was a staircase the spindlebug knew well – but then he knew every single nook and cranny of the sprawling Palace of Shadows well: its hidden chambers, the murder holes, the corridors that led nowhere, the great balcony from which, for centuries, High Academes had stood to address the plotting, scheming academics below. What was more, the creature knew all the palace's secrets, his antennae picking up the whispers, the gossip, the rumours and cries.

He stopped at the first landing, wheezing heavily, breathlessly aware that he wasn't getting any younger. Indeed, even for a spindlebug, he was old. A hundred and eighty years had passed since he had first hatched out in the underground gardens of a gyle goblin colony,
far away in the Deepwoods. So long ago, so very long ago…

The slavers had come. They'd destroyed the precious fungus beds and enslaved the spindlebugs who tended them. But not Tweezel, oh no. He was a young bug then, fast, quick-thinking. Hearing the slavers breaking through the walls, he had hidden himself away, making himself invisible in the shadows. Then he had fled into the Deepwoods, keeping to the shadows; always listening, always on his guard. Shadows were his friend.

Tweezel reached the second landing, the place where he'd first laid eyes on his new master – Linius Pallitax, the youngest Most High Academe anyone could remember – and his young wife. She had been standing by the entrance to the robe-chamber, Tweezel remembered, laughing at her husband's ill-fitting new robes and the Great Seal of High Office round his neck. Big with child, and so pretty and full of life, she had seemed out of place in the dusty old palace.

Tweezel stopped.

But soon after had come that terrible night, when her cries of joy became cries of pain. He didn't like to think about it: the woodtroll nurse running back and forth, the terrible screams from the birthing-chamber, the sobs of the young master. Pitiful sounds. Terrible sounds. And then, silence.

Tweezel shook his head and climbed to the third landing. He still remembered how long the silence had seemed to last and how impenetrable it had been. Despite his sensitive antennae, he had had no idea what had happened. The seconds had ticked past, one after the other … And then all at once, shattering the deathly silence, had come the most wonderful sound of all – the sound of a baby crying. The sound of the young mistress.

Linius Pallitax had suffered a terrible tragedy: he had lost his wife in the throes of childbirth, yet he had also brought life back into the Palace of Shadows. It had been, Tweezel thought, almost like the old days when he'd first come to the great floating city, and the palace had been a noisy, bustling place, bursting with life.

Back then, the academics of Sanctaphrax had been primarily earth-scholars, fascinated by the flora and fauna of the Deepwoods. Why, even he, Tweezel, had been considered a marvel! The High Librarian himself – the greatest earth-scholar of all – had found him starving in the slums of Undertown and brought him up here to the palace. Oh, happy,
happy
memories!

In those days, of course, the Palace of Shadows had been known as the Palace of Lights and, with its countless windows of coloured glass which bathed everything
inside in jewelled light, it had been the most magnificent building in all of Sanctaphrax. And he, Tweezel, the strange creature seemingly made out of glass, had been appointed its custodian.

The ancient spindlebug reached the fourth landing and paused to catch his breath. But times had changed. The sky-scholars had begun to take over. Earth-study was no longer fashionable, it seemed. All over Sanctaphrax, the towers of sky-scholarship had begun to sprout; taller and taller they grew, reaching high into the sky. With the completion of the College of Cloud, the Palace of Lights had finally been surrounded totally, and thrown into deep shadow.

The Great Purges had begun soon after; earth-scholars had been expelled from Sanctaphrax in wave after wave, and Tweezel's magnificent palace had become the Palace of Shadows. Tweezel sighed. There had followed the lonely years. The old librarian had died and a sky-scholar had been elected new Most High Academe. He had chosen to live in one of the magnificent new towers, and Tweezel had been left on his own to look after the empty palace as best he could.

But shadows were his friend. He had stayed, and listened, and waited.

And then – some sixty years later – Linius, the young Professor of Mistsifting, had become the Most High Academe. Just another sky-scholar, Tweezel had thought. But he'd been wrong. Linius was different. He respected the old ways. He had moved back into the palace, stood on the balcony and called for an end to the
rivalry and faction fighting, and the beginning of a new era where earth-studies and sky-scholarship would complement one another, rather than compete.

The sky-scholars hadn't liked that one bit – then or now. They muttered, they plotted – Tweezel heard them – but what could they actually do? Linius was the Most High Academe.

Tweezel stopped at the door of the master-study and knocked three times.

‘Come in, Tweezel,’ came a weary voice.

‘I bring news of Wind Jackal, master,’ said Tweezel, entering the smoky room. ‘He sends word of his estimated time of arrival.’

‘Which is?’ said Linius.

‘Three hours, master.’

‘Wherever are you taking me, Maris?’ Linius chuckled as, still blindfolded, he found himself being steered across the floor by his daughter, his injured left leg dragging slightly as he went.

‘Stop!’ his daughter commanded, and Linius felt her little fingers teasing at the knot behind his head. The silken scarf fell away. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘You can open your eyes now.’

Linius did as he was told. He rubbed his eyes and looked down to see a half-finished mosaic spread out on the table before him. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

A soft beam of muted yellow light swept across the shadowy room as the great floating rock turned. Maris held her breath.

Would he like the picture she had made with the fragments of sky-crystal, or would he have preferred her to do something original?

When she'd started out, making a copy of the ancient Quadrangle Mosaic had seemed like such a good idea, and Maris had spent several hours the previous day down in the airy marble square in front of the Great Hall taking detailed measurements of the intricate design. The circumference of the concentric circles. The angle of the lightning bolts. Getting the irregular series of calibrations just right. Later, she had turned the figures into a sketch, which she was now using to make as accurate a reproduction as she could.

Her father picked up the sketch, glanced at it, laid it aside and returned his attention to the incomplete mosaic. ‘It's …’ He hesitated, his brow furrowed.

Maris swallowed anxiously. She
should
have done something original. A caterbird, perhaps. Or a league ship – no, a sky pirate ship, soaring over the Sanctaphrax spires. Or maybe the white ravens circling the towering Loftus Observatory…

‘It's
wonderful
!’ he breathed. He leaned across the redoak table and tousled his daughter's hair. ‘You're a clever girl, Maris.’

Maris smiled. It was all she could do not to purr out loud and her hand trembled as she tried to decide exactly where to place the piece of yellow sky-crystal she was holding.

‘What about over there?’ Linius suggested, and pointed to a gap in one of the zigzag lightning bolts.

Maris slipped it into place as, from outside, there came the sound of a bell chiming five. She looked up and smiled shyly – but her father had turned away and was staring out of the tall glass balcony-doors, a puzzled frown on his forehead.

‘It fits perfectly,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’

‘What? I …’ Linius muttered absentmindedly. Then, turning back, he noticed the completed lightning bolt. ‘Oh, I see.’ He paused. ‘Tell me, Maris, why
did
you decide to make your mosaic in the shape of the Great Seal?’

‘The Great Seal?’ she repeated, surprised.

‘Yes, child,’ said Linius, a little impatiently. He raised the heavy chain of office which hung round his neck and let the medallion it supported swing back and forwards in front of her.

‘Oh,
that
,’ said Maris. ‘Yes, it does look similar. But my picture is of the Quadrangle Mosaic.’

‘I can vouch for that,’ a voice piped up from the other side of the great room. ‘Three hours we spent there yesterday. Blowing a gale it was, and so
cold
!’

Linius turned round and peered into the shadows. ‘Welma Thornwood,’ he said, ‘is that you?’

‘No, it's the Queen of the Wodgiss Parade,’ the voice replied sarcastically.

Linius smiled. How different from the academics Deepwooders were. No airs, no graces, no false compliments that became whispered insults the moment your back was turned. With Welma, the old woodtroll nurse, what you saw was what you got.

‘Mind you,’ Welma went on, ‘far be it from me to complain. If three hours of standing around in the bitter wind is what it takes for a daughter to get her father's attention, then so be it.’ She cleared her throat quietly. ‘No offence intended,’ she added.

‘None taken,’ said Linius. He knew there was truth to her words. The time-consuming responsibilities of high office had driven a wedge between a father and daughter who, before, had always enjoyed such a close relationship.

The floating rock of Sanctaphrax turned once more, sending the shadows darting round the vast room. Welma Thornwood was briefly bathed in the dim yellow light. She was seated in a hanging-sofa with her embroidery frame on her lap and Maris's pet wood-lemkin on her shoulder.

‘Of course, the mosaic will look even better when it's
finished,’ she said, without looking up from her needlework. The shadows swallowed her up once more. ‘And since Maris has promised to complete it as soon as possible, it would be so nice if you didn't leave it
too
long before your next visit.’

‘Quite, quite,’ said Linius, who hadn't heard a word. With his stave back in his hand to support his weight, he was looking over his shoulder at the balcony-doors. The long, lace curtains fluttered in the breeze. ‘Curious,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I could have sworn Tweezel said three…’

At that moment the lemkin on Welma's shoulder began jumping about on its leash and shrieking furiously: a high piercing cry followed by a staccato cough which – had it been back in the Deepwoods rather than in this floating palace – would have alerted others of its kind to imminent danger.
Waa-iiiii – kha-kha-kha-kha-kha
…