The Curse of the Gloamglozer (21 page)

‘He'd talk to me, though,’ said Maris. ‘I know he would. He…’

Welma slipped out and closed the door behind her. ‘My little sugar-dumpling,’ she said, stroking Maris's cheek affectionately. ‘He especially said that I was not to let you in yet.’

‘Oh,’ Maris gasped. A lump formed in her throat. ‘Doesn't he … doesn't he love me any more?’ she whispered. Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes.

‘Love you? Of course he loves you, you daft thing.
That's
why he doesn't want you to see him the way he is now. His face is all scratched and bruised, and there's a horrible gash to his ear …’ Her brow creased up. ‘Come to that, Maris, you don't look too good yourself. Your nose is red and your eyes are all bloodshot and puffy.’ She pulled a large spotted handkerchief from the pocket of her apron. ‘Here,’ she said.

Maris took the handkerchief, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. ‘I'm sorry,’ she said. ‘I'm being silly. Besides, Father's probably tired now.’

‘Sleeping like a baby,’ Welma confirmed.

Maris smiled bravely. ‘Thank you for looking after him,’ she said. ‘I know he couldn't be in better hands. Just tell him from me, tell him …’ She leant forwards and planted a kiss at the end of her old nanny's rubbery nose. ‘Tell him I love him, no matter what,’ she said.

‘Of course I will,’ said the old nurse.

As Welma watched her young charge walk off down the corridor, she felt a pang of guilt. She had never liked lying to Maris. Yet, with the best will in the world, Welma could not have described the true state the Most High Academe was in. The great blood-soaked bandage which swaddled his head was bad enough, but even if she had wanted to – which she didn't – she had not words enough to describe the haunting terror in his unblinking eyes.

For Linius Pallitax was not asleep, as Welma had claimed. He was sitting up in bed – rigid, taut, coiled, staring with abject horror at something he alone could see.

‘She's late,’ Quint murmured.

An hour after sunset, she'd said. The sun had disappeared down below the horizon at five after seven hours, yet the bell at the top of the Great Hall was about to chime nine. Quint looked for her anxiously up and down the West Landing.

‘Where are you, Maris?’ he muttered.

With the onset of darkness, the temperature had swiftly dropped and it was bitterly cold once more. Quint stamped his feet and swung his arms in an effort to keep warm. Back and forth he paced, back and forth…

Although he'd tried to avoid eye-contact, Quint knew that he was arousing the suspicions of one of the landing-guards – a hulking great flat-head with a deep, menacing scar that passed through his brow and down his left cheek. Finally, the guard came across to him.

‘You've been hanging about here for nearly two hours now,’ he said. He pressed his face into Quint's.‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

‘I … I'm an apprentice,’ Quint explained, his breath coming in little clouds. ‘The apprentice of the Most High Academe,’ he added, in the hope that the mention of such an eminent academic would encourage the guard to leave him in peace.

It did.

But Quint couldn't help but notice the look of interest which flashed across the guard's face as he'd turned to go. He chewed into his lower lip uneasily, knowing that he'd been a fool to say so much. In Sanctaphrax, it was unwise to volunteer
any
information. After all, what would the guard do with this piece of news? Who might he tell?

Quint looked round to see where the guard was heading – but the flat-head had already disappeared into the swathes of dark, wispy mist. The landing was busy with much coming and going, yet Quint was unable to see him anywhere. He did, however, spot one familiar face.

‘I remember you,’ he murmured. It was the character with the silver nose-piece whom he'd met on the Viaduct Steps. Quint was on the point of saying
hello
– and apologizing for his rapid departure – when something made him pause. There was something deeply suspicious about how often the man glanced furtively around him. Was he looking for someone? Or trying to avoid someone looking for
him
? Quint didn't wait around to find out. He raised his hood and took refuge between a couple of the local traders' wooden stalls.

The bell chimed nine hours. ‘That's it,’ said Quint to himself. ‘Something must have happened. I'm not waiting
here a moment longer.’ And with his hood still raised, he turned and walked slapbang into someone wrapped up in a great cape hurrying from the opposite direction.

‘Sorry,’ said Quint, ‘I …’ He paused and looked at the heavy cape in front of him. It was familiar. ‘Professor?’ he said softly.

A sleeved arm was raised, the hood was opened and a pair of startled green eyes stared out. ‘Quint,’ came a muffled voice.

It was Maris.

‘You!’ Quint shouted. ‘Where have you been?’

‘I … I was …’ Maris began. The lantern she was holding trembled in her hand; her face crumpled. ‘Don't be angry with me.’

Quint frowned. It was unusual to see Maris looking so distressed. ‘I've been waiting here for ages,’ he said, more gently.

‘I'm sorry, Quint,’ said Maris quietly. ‘I went to see my father. I wanted to…’

Quint pulled her back into the shadows between the two stalls. What with the flat-head guard and the suspicious character with the silver nose-piece both hanging about, he and Maris would have to be careful.

‘How
is
your father?’ Quint whispered. ‘He was in such a bad way this morning.’

‘Sleeping,’ Maris replied. ‘I … I didn't want to disturb him.’

Quint nodded. The three-quarter moon glinted on the crystals of salt which streaked her cheek. She'd clearly been crying.

‘Come on, then,’ he said softly. ‘Let's go and see for ourselves what he has discovered.’ As Quint reached forwards to take her by the arm his hand closed round something cold and hard. ‘What‘s that?’ he hissed.

Maris lifted the voluminous folds of her father's cape to reveal a thick iron pikestaff with a vicious-looking hook that she had concealed there. Quint's eyebrows shot upwards with surprise.

‘Just in case,’ Maris said in a low voice. ‘After all, we both saw what the creature did to my father. For whatever reason.’

Quint said nothing. This was another side to Maris he hadn't seen before: fierce, determined, almost ruthless, but behind it, somewhere in those green eyes, fear. Quint couldn't help but admire her bravery. He gripped the handle of the knife at his side. ‘Just in case,’ he repeated.

Keeping to the shadows, Quint and Maris scurried back along the West Landing. A cold spiral-wind had got up, sending the wisps of mist dancing over the boards and chilling the night-air still further. Along the length of the landing, the oil-lamps swung from their hooks, the haloes around them brightening and dimming, the flames inside flickering, flaring, and sometimes blowing out.

The closer they got to the far end of the landing, the
larger the thronging crowd about them. Shouts and cries echoed round the crisp night-air. ‘Mind your backs!’ and ‘Going down!’ and ‘Step right this way!’ as the basket-pullers ferried a constant stream of merchants, servants, guards and academics up and down between Sanctaphrax and Undertown. Not one among them seemed to notice the two youngsters picking their way between them and moving on towards the low-sky cage berths – yet the uncomfortable feeling that they were being watched persisted.

‘Stand back,’ said Quint. He uncleated the tolley-rope, brought the cage down and opened the door for Maris. As she clambered inside, the cage swung wildly.

Maris let out a small cry and clung on to the bars. ‘I don't like this,’ she said.

‘You'll soon get used to it,’ said Quint. ‘It always takes you earthlubbers time to get your sky-legs. Of course,’ he added cockily, ‘I've spent so many years sky-borne that I can keep my balance in the wildest of storms.’

‘Yes, well, while I am getting my so-called
sky-legs
, I may as well light the lamps.’ She glared at Quint. ‘Or would
you
rather?’

Quint smiled weakly. The palm of his hand, though healed now, throbbed painfully with the memory of the unpleasant incident in the balcony-chamber. ‘Sorry,’ he said. He paused. ‘I wasn't trying to be mean. It's just that I love the feeling of skysailing so much, it's hard to imagine being someone who doesn't. After all, if we weren't meant to fly, we'd never have been given flight-rocks!’

Maris shuddered miserably. ‘Let's just get this over with, shall we?’ she said.

‘Right,’ said Quint. He rubbed his ice-cold hands together vigorously to get the circulation going, and seized the bone-handled weight-levers. ‘Now, Maris,’ he said, ‘when I give the word I want you to release the winch-chain.’

‘D … do you mean this?’ she said, stammering with both fear and cold. She pointed to a flat, rusted lever at the centre of the coil of chain.

‘That's the one,’ said Quint. ‘Pull it down … Now.’

With a little grunt of exertion, Maris shifted the stiff lever downwards. The cage gave a lurch and, from above her head, there came a soft chinking sound as the chain unwound, link by link. She sat down. The slow descent had begun.

Maris hung up her lantern and prepared to light the cage-lamp. Quint adjusted the weight-levers. Like every other good sky-sailor, he did not look at what he was doing.
Trust your fingers, not your eyes
; that was the advice his grandfather had given his father, and Wind Jackal had given him.

It was good advice. Anyone could sail badly, but it was only when you had developed the ‘touch' that you could truly be said to have conquered the sky. Besides, if Quint
had
been looking at the weight-levers, he wouldn't have seen the two individuals emerging together from the shadows on to the landing stage. Looking up, Maris noticed them, too.

‘Ugh,’ she shuddered. ‘There's that creepy individual with the silver nose-piece. From the Viaduct Steps…’

‘I know,’ said Quint. ‘And the other one is a landing-guard. He spoke to me earlier.’ He paused. ‘They seem to know one another.’

As the cage dropped down lower, the pair of them disappeared from view.

‘The guard's name is Bagswill,’ said Maris. ‘I recognized his tattoos. And the scar. He used to serve in the Palace of Shadows,’ she added, ‘before Father had him dismissed…’