The Lightning Key (20 page)

T
he
Runaway Cloud
, canvas-winged and piston-hearted, flapped through the night sky like a ragged mirage, brought to life by the stubbornness of its creator and the musical charm of a four-hundred-year-old girl. It was a triumph of optimism over gravity, but its flight was far from the stately glide of the
Sunfish
. The whole craft bucked and plunged with the complex rhythm of her four wings, and the roar of the engine rose and fell as it fought to master the currents of the desert air. Above their heads the rapidly spinning screw created a constant downdraft that blew the exhaust fumes out through a circular hole in the
floor before they could suffocate the passengers.

Miles gripped the sides of the wooden chair in which he sat, and wondered what kind of passing madness had made him volunteer them for this outlandish experiment. He watched Tenniel wrestle manfully with the levers and pedals that controlled the pitch of the wings. He felt the little swoop caused by the pilot's every hiccup, and tried to calculate just how much fuel was held in the assortment of containers that was strapped around the rim of the machine. The machine tilted forward slightly, as though eager to get to its unknown destination. “How far will she fly?” he called.

“Not-hic sure,” said Tenniel. “She may even make it to Al Bab at a pinch.”

“We're heading for Fuera,” shouted Miles into the wind. “We left Baltinglass's car there.”

Tenniel laughed. “For a hic-moment I thought you said Fuera,” he said.

“I did,” said Miles, “but I suppose we'll have to refuel at Al Bab.”

Tenniel did not answer. He looked at Baltinglass, who smiled benignly in his seat; then he shrugged and fell silent except for his frequent hiccups, bending himself with grim determination to the task of keeping the
Runaway Cloud
airborne. Between his
feet was an ingenious compass housing in which several glowworms lived, lighting the compass with a soft glow, and the inventor consulted it now and then to maintain his course.

Miles watched the stark landscape that passed below them. He had flown only over the sea before, but now he could see an ocean of sand with lines of dunes marching like waves to the distant horizon. Here and there an outcrop of rock sheltered an oasis, where the tiny sparks of cooking fires glimmered among the little model tents and the toy palm trees. Once they flew over a herd of migrating oryx, whose hooves trampled a broad trail in the sand. They passed by the finger of rock that rose out of the wadi, where Captain Tripoli had put Cortado and Tau-Tau to flight, and Miles in desperation had kicked the royal backside of the king of beasts.

For a while the
Runaway Cloud
took the meandering course of the wadi before leaving it to follow the ridge. Three camels walked sedately below them. They were too far away to see the faces of their riders, but from their shapes Miles was almost certain they were Cortado, Tau-Tau and Nura. The camel riders looked up at the sound of the flying machine, and the largest of them pointed skyward. He could see them for some time before they
dwindled into the distance.

Baltinglass dozed against all the odds, and Little watched the sky anxiously through flapping wings and creaking cables. Ahead of them violet flashes of lightning played among storm clouds bulging with thunder, and now and then an escaping peal could be heard above the engine's din.

The
Runaway Cloud
's flight became more erratic as they approached the troubled air around the storm's edge. A sudden blast of thunder woke Baltinglass from his sleep. “Not yet! Too soon!” he shouted, and would have leaped from his rickety seat if Miles had not grabbed his sleeve and held on tight.

The clouds loomed over them now, blocking out the stars. Dampness condensed on their faces. “Will she still fly in the rain?” shouted Miles.

“I hope so,” yelled Tenniel. “She's designed for desert flight. Rain didn't enter my calculations.”

“Maybe we should fly around the storm,” said Little.

Tenniel shook his head. “Too far. We'd use-hic too much fuel. She'll be fine!” he shouted. “They had thunder-hic-storms in da Vinci's day.”

The approaching storm clouds seemed to rush forward to meet them. The air crackled with electricity and the flying contraption plunged and bucked like
a cork in a flood. Rain flew at them from all directions at once, and before long they were all soaked to the skin.

There was no way of telling how long they flew through the storm, their engine coughing and catching, the cables creaking and the wood straining under the increased weight of the sodden wings. It seemed to go on forever, as though they were traveling with the storm wherever it was headed. Little clung onto Baltinglass and Tenniel clung onto the levers, but Miles stood and faced the storm, his hair standing out like a startled cat's tail, feeling an exhilaration unlike anything he had ever known. He was the leader of the expedition, the unappointed captain of this mongrel ship. He was deep in the territory of the Storm Angels, yet he felt it was the last place Bluehart could find him, and what could happen to him if he was hidden from the Sleep Angels?

He felt a hum of electricity running from his right hand, which gripped the
Runaway Cloud
's frame, along his arm and into his shoulder. He turned to see a figure standing beside him. For an instant he feared he might be wrong about being hidden from Bluehart, but then he saw that the visitor was Silverpoint. The Storm Angel was staring straight ahead as though concentrating on keeping the storm on its course.

“What are you doing here?” Miles shouted over the wind.

“Where else would I be?” asked Silverpoint.

Little looked up at the sound of Silverpoint's voice. She opened her mouth to shout his name, but the Storm Angel put his finger to his lips. He indicated Tenniel, hunched over the controls and staring straight ahead. “Best not to startle the pilot, softwing,” he said. His voice cut through the din of the storm without his having to shout, but Tenniel seemed unaware of it, and Baltinglass was once again snoring through the danger. Little jumped up and embraced Silverpoint, and he smiled briefly.

“Bluehart's not with you?” said Miles.

“Bluehart has disappeared,” said Silverpoint. “Apparently he appeared at a Council meeting behaving very strangely, and nobody has seen him since.”

Little laughed, and the wind softened for a moment. “That wasn't Bluehart; it was Miles! He pretended to be . . .” Her voice trailed off as she saw the icy look on Silverpoint's face.

“It wasn't deliberate,” said Miles, “but I think it may have bought us more time.”

“I wouldn't be so sure,” said Silverpoint. “The Sleep Angels no longer trust Bluehart to do the job properly, so they've made Stillbone his second. I've
never heard of two Sleep Angels being put on one case before, but it looks more like your chances have been halved.”

“Then we need your help,” said Little.

“What do you think
this
is?” said Silverpoint. He waved his arm at the storm that surrounded them, and a searing bolt of lightning flew from his outstretched fingers and lit up the cloud like a Chinese lantern. “I can hide you in here for a time, but I don't know how long this . . .” He struggled for the word.

“Contraption?” said Miles.

Silverpoint nodded. “ . . . will last,” he said. “If you fall out of the sky you can guess who'll be waiting for you.”

“Have you any idea where Bluehart might be?” asked Miles.

“It's a safe bet he's looking for you,” said Silverpoint, “and so is Stillbone, now. You'll be vulnerable again once you leave this storm. I presume from your direction that you're headed home to Larde?”

“Eventually,” said Miles. He was beginning to wish fervently that his mother had never made any promise to the Fir Bolg, but if she hadn't she would never have acquired the Tiger's Egg, and he would never have known Varippuli, and his father . . . . His entire life began to unravel in his mind, and he
shook his head to clear it.

“I have to get to The Null before the Sleep Angels can reach me,” he said. “But I have to stop at Hell's Teeth on the way.”

Silverpoint looked at him incredulously. “Do you think the Sleep Angels are going to wait while you make rest stops?”

“It's not a—,” began Miles, but he was interrupted by Little.

“I have a plan!” she said, with a look of surprise on her face. Miles and Silverpoint turned to look at her. “Silverpoint,” she said, “you can go and tell Lady Partridge to meet us at Hell's Teeth, and to bring The Null with her. She'll get the sergeant to drive them in his van. He always does what she tells him!”

“I'm not a messenger boy, softwing,” said Silverpoint with a scowl.

“You're the fastest flier I know!” said Little. “If you can do this for us there's a chance that Miles will be done with the Tiger's Egg before Bluehart and Stillbone find him. Then maybe the Sleep Angels will reconsider, you know . . . .”

Silverpoint looked at Little for what seemed like an age; then he shook his head slowly. “Always trying to bend the rules, little softwing,” he said.

Little smiled. “Rules are there for bending, Silver
point. It's how we know we're alive.”

Silverpoint smiled suddenly and turned to Miles. “You will reach Al Bab in a couple of hours,” he said. “The storm is blowing you in the right direction, but it will run out of steam soon after I've gone.” He stepped onto the edge of the flying machine's base. “Good luck,” he said. He did a backflip into the wild night, and in an instant he was gone.

They flew on through the crashing storm, and Miles began to wonder if it would ever fizzle out as Silverpoint had promised. His earlier exhilaration had vanished, leaving him at the mercy of the sky's fury, clinging to the fragile machine like an ant to a matchstick. Eventually the stinging rain subsided and the wind began to ease. A pale yellow light filtered through the thinning clouds, and all at once they emerged into the dawn. The great wings scattered sprays of water droplets that sparkled in the sun's first rays, and below them bloomed desert flowers that showed their faces only every hundred years.

Ahead and to the west they could see the domes and minarets of the port of Al Bab. Tenniel banked left to correct their course. The engine coughed, and the Hiccup Man tapped a fuel container with the toe of his sandal to coax the last few drops from it.

“Is that the end of the fuel?” asked Miles.

“Just about,” said Tenniel, without taking his eyes from their destination. “Be prepared for an abrupt hic-landing.”

They came in low and fast, and half a mile from the outskirts of the port the engine began to stall. Tenniel throttled back and the
Runaway Cloud
tilted backward and made a hasty descent, narrowly missing a stand of palm trees that stood a little way from the road. She landed with a bone-shaking thump, almost tipping over before righting herself, and her great bat wings came to rest with a loud creak of relief.

“My hic-pologies for the landing,” said Tenniel, leaping down into the sand and beaming proudly at his creation. He looked anything but sorry.

“I take my hat off to you, boy,” said Baltinglass of Araby. “I thought we'd be fried, drowned or squashed like beetles. Are we all present and correct?”

“We're all here,” said Miles. He stepped down from the
Runaway Cloud
and walked around to the other side of the palm trees. He shaded his eyes with his hand and looked back along the road, but there was no sign of anyone coming. The machine was well enough hidden by the trees, but after taking a critical look from various angles he
collected some fallen palm fronds and attached them to the frame, making a shady place to shelter and ensuring that the flying machine was completely invisible from the road.

“We can't all go to Al Bab,” said Miles. “We don't want the Great Cortado to hear of anyone matching our description when he passes through later. Tenniel and I will go, and the two of you can mind the contraption and get a bit of sleep.” He took out his indigo head cloth and made a turban of it as Baltinglass had taught him, wrapping the long end around his face and neck until only his eyes could be seen. Baltinglass gave him a handful of coins from his seemingly bottomless purse, and the boy and the inventor set out for Al Bab at a brisk pace, their clothes steaming in the gathering heat.

They had already dried out by the time they entered the outskirts of the town. Down at the quayside the port was coming to life, but here on the fringes of town the sleepy silence was disturbed only by the husky scrape of a crowing cock. “How can we carry enough fuel to cross the sea?” asked Miles. “It took two days by airship, so we'll need twice as much fuel as it took to get here.”

“Not necessarily,” said Tenniel. “You were probably flying into a headwind coming down to Al
Bab, and with luck you could make it back in half the time. As for the fuel itself, the quality is more important than the quantity. It's hard to come by good fuel in Wa'il, and most of what we had was homemade. We flew the last couple of hours on fermented prune juice.”

“Really?” said Miles. “I never realized prunes had so many uses.”

They found a small shop with assorted containers of benzine piled outside it. They woke the proprietor with some difficulty, and Tenniel hic-haggled with him until he arrived at a price for the entire stock of fuel and some dates and cheese from inside the store. The proprietor loaded his camel cart with the goods, along with several water skins, and they set off back along the road.

They reached the palm trees where the
Runaway Cloud
lay hidden, and Miles and Tenniel disappeared behind the trees, emerging a minute later with the empty containers they had detached from the rim of the contraption. The shopkeeper, whose curiosity fortunately never woke up until after midday, exchanged his full containers for the empties without question, and turned his cart back to Al Bab and his waiting hammock.