The Winter Knights (10 page)

All round the hall, the squires were attending to the lecture with varying degrees of concentration. Some scribbled down notes on their slates, some frowned and nodded earnestly, while some, Stope thought, seemed barely able to keep their eyes open.

‘And of course, at this juncture, note also the clever design of the gauntlets,’ Philius was saying. ‘The fingers are banded for maximum manoeuvrability …’ –
Tap! Tap! Tap!
– ‘while the locking sprocket, here …’ –
Tap!
– ‘ensures that a tight grip can be maintained effortlessly for as long as the wearer requires …’

As he intoned the details he knew by heart, the old knight's words flowed smoothly – all uncertainty, wavering and confusion gone. Outside, soothed by the sonorous rhythm of his speech, Stope's eyes began to droop and his head to nod.

•CHAPTER SEVEN•
THE EIGHTWAYS

M
oving on to the leg brace and knee protectors …’ Before Philius Embertine could expound further, the lunch the lunch gong sounded in the distance and the squires – those who were still awake, that is – let out a collective sigh of relief.

‘… Um … that will be … all for today,’ the hall master mumbled. He lay down his lufwood cane and shuffled out.

Yawning and stretching, the squires climbed down from the study-ledges and, in groups of twos and threes, followed him from the hall.

‘Did you understand any of that?’ asked Phin, scratching his head before replacing his cap.

‘Most of it,’ said Quint. ‘You see, it's all about deflecting the energy of the lightning charges. The knight has to be insulated from the effects of twilight through the filters in the …’

‘No, sorry,’ said Phin, grinning. ‘You've lost me. But there's one thing a lecture from old Iron Breeches does give me.’

‘What's that?’ asked Quint, gathering his barkscroll notes and returning them to his satchel.

‘A healthy appetite,’ laughed Phin. ‘Come on, let's get to the Eightways before they empty the stew-cart without us!’

They left the Armour Hall and Phin strode off down the hallway. Quint was about to follow him when he noticed a figure slumped beside the doorway. He leaned down and tapped the sleeping goblin on the shoulder.

‘Stope? Stope?’ he said, then paused. ‘It
is
Stope, isn't it?’

The grey goblin stirred, shuddered, and opened his eyes.

‘Squire Quint!’ Stope leaped to his feet. ‘I must have dozed off! How long have I been sleeping? What time is it?’

‘Calm down,’ said Quint. ‘It's lunchtime. The gong's just sounded.’ He looked at the young goblin more closely. ‘Stope, you look terrible …’

‘I must get back to the armoury!’ he said, and turned to go.

‘Not so fast,’ said Quint firmly and grabbed his arm. ‘First you need a plate of stew and a hunk of barley bread. Come, you can sit next to me on the lower benches.’

Stope allowed Quint to lead him towards the Eightways. The mention of stew had made his stomach gurgle with hunger, and he felt too weak and tired to resist. At the end of the hallway, they entered a circular corridor with eight large doorways cut into its inner wall. They made their way round, past the Hall of Storm Cloud and Hall of Grey Cloud entrances, to the White Cloud entrance, where the Winter Knights and other hall servants jostled impatiently for the doors to open.

As they approached, Spedius Heepe and Clud Mudskut exchanged glances, and glowered at Stope. Vilnix Pompolnius stepped out of the crowd and stuck his face into Quint's.

‘Who's your little friend?’ he sneered, gesturing to Stope. ‘Making friends with Sanctaphrax sanctuary-slaves now, are we?’

‘At least I
have
friends,’ said Quint icily, and pushed past Vilnix, whose face seemed to drain of colour at his words.

Just then, the sound of bolts being drawn filled the corridor as, one by one, the doors to the Eightways were pulled open by the gatekeepers.

First the hall masters entered and crossed the circular chamber to sit at the high table, followed shortly after by the knights academic, stern and silent, who joined them. Then, in complete contrast, the rowdy academics-at-arms came bursting in through the second entrance; with the squires of the Upper Halls entering by the third doorway, laughing and joking, and jostling one another to find seats at the middle tables. Finally, with a surge of bodies, the four Lower Halls doorways were filled with squires, servants and hall attendants, who fanned out across the lower benches, perching on them like roosting ratbirds fleeing from a storm.

The great chamber of the Eightways was filled with clamour and conversation as, all around at the different tables, the various groups in the Knights Academy – from ostlers who worked in the prowlgrin roosts of the Hall of Grey Cloud and lathe-turners from the woodworking theatres of the Hall of Storm Cloud, to lectern-keepers from the Hall of High Cloud – engaged in uproarious debate and gossip.

Only the thirteen knights academic-in-waiting at the high table sat silently. They stared ahead of them, as if in contemplation of the stormchasing voyages to which they'd dedicated their lives.

Quint and Stope found a place next to Phin on the lower benches next to a noisy group of lectern-keepers. Above them, Hax Vostillix, Hall Master of High Cloud, resplendent in purple robes with marsh-pearl embroidery, stood up and beat the table with his staff.

The Eightways fell silent.

‘From Sky we come, to Sky we shall return,’ he intoned in his deep, sonorous voice. ‘Though we partake of the produce of the Earth, may it be only to nourish the Sky in our hearts.’

‘Sky in our hearts!’ echoed the massed voices of the Knights Academy.

As if in answer, the eighth door of the chamber clanged open. There was a blast of icy air and a flurry of snowflakes, and two huge grey hammelhorn bulls entered, pulling an enormous sealed cauldron on wheels, complete with a glowing brazier suspended from its undercarriage. Behind them lumbered the kitchen master, a massive cloddertrog in a pristine white apron and tall, conical hat, with twenty mobgnomes in white tunics in tow, baskets piled high with loaves of barley bread on their heads.

‘Fresh from the Great Refectory, from a grateful Sanctaphrax!’ boomed the huge cloddertrog. ‘Come and get it while it's hot!’

At this, the occupants of the lower benches and middle tables surged forward, and the mobgnomes began tossing barley loaves over their heads. Meanwhile the gatekeepers, in their white tunics and red logworm badges, barged through and collected special tureens, which they delivered to the high table. As the squires jostled forward, Quint glimpsed Vilnix staring up at the knights academic and hall masters as they were served their stew, a look of greedy envy on his face.

‘Come on!’ shouted a lectern-keeper just in front of them. ‘What's the hold-up? We're starving back here!’

Up ahead, the cloddertrog kitchen master was panting with effort, sweat pouring down his flabby face as he wrestled with the heavy metal tap on the side of the cauldron. It seemed to be stuck.

He strained at the tap-handle.

Nothing happened.

Grunting with effort, he tried again. Still, the handle would not move.

‘Damn and blast you to Open Sky!’ the kitchen master shouted, and seized the tap-handle with both hands. He tugged with all his might, straining until the muscles in his arms and neck bulged and the veins at the side of his head began to throb. Yet for all that, the tap would not turn. ‘It's no good,’ he muttered. ‘It's stuck fast.’

A low groan of disappointment passed back through the waiting crowd as everyone craned their necks to see what the problem was. The groan became a mutter, which rose in volume until everyone was roaring with a mixture of anger and hunger.

‘Nourish the Sky in our hearts! Nourish the Sky in our hearts! …’

The kitchen master turned, his face red with rage and bellowed loudly.

‘Forge-hand! Is there a forge-hand here?’

His voice echoed round the Eightways above the sound of the impatient chanting and, for a moment, the noise subsided as everyone looked about them. Vilnix dug Quint in the ribs with a bony elbow.

‘What about your little friend?’ he shouted in his ear. ‘He's a forge-hand, isn't he?’

‘Let him through! Let him through!’ shouted the lectern-keepers as the crowd parted to allow Stope to approach the stew-cart. Vilnix gave him a vicious shove in the back for good measure.

‘Sir?’ said Stope, as he approached the red-faced cloddertrog.

‘I swear I don't know what you lot do all day in that armoury,’ the cloddertrog complained. ‘Maintenance of the stew-cart is
your
responsibility. You tell your furnace masters that! Too busy lining their own pockets to care, no doubt …’

Stope tried to ignore the kitchen master's tirade as he kneeled at the tap and traced a finger along the pipe leading to the cauldron.

‘Well?’ demanded the cloddertrog as all round the hall, the hungry demands for food once more began getting louder.

‘The tap joint's sound,’ Stope began, ‘and the pipework isn't showing any sign of damage …’

‘So, what's wrong with it?’ stormed the cloddertrog. ‘If the tap isn't faulty, why won't it turn?’

Stope felt along the pipe. ‘I'm not sure, but it could be …’

‘Oh, I don't have time for this!’ roared the cloddertrog to a mixture of cheers and jeers. He stuck his great head beneath the tap and peered up into the spout. ‘It's broken, I tell you!’

Stope gave the pipe a hefty thump. ‘… An airlock – nothing to do with bad maintenance at all …’

From inside the great stew-pot there came a series of loud gurgles and plops.

‘Broken,’ the cloddertrog repeated. ‘Thanks to you lot in the armoury …
Aargh!
Cloppl-plobbl …’

A sudden rush of steaming stew came gushing out of the tap and hit the clod-dertrog full in the face. He staggered backwards, whimpering loudly, and fell heavily to the floor.

‘Plobbl … Stop it!’ he wailed. ‘Shut the tap off … Now!’

Stope wrestled with the tap, but the cloddertrog had twisted it so violently that the tap was now jammed open. All he could do was stand back as the stew continued to pour over the clod-dertrog and onto the floor.

The crowd gave a loud groan and, giving up on the rapidly emptying stew-cart, they turned and grabbed loaves of barley bread, before returning to the benches and tables. The hefty cloddertrog clambered to his feet and strode towards Stope, his face dripping with stew.

‘You forge-hand moron!’ he bellowed. ‘You over-baked halfwit! You did that on purpose!’ And he grabbed Stope in one of his huge fists, raised him high up off the ground and shook him about, like a prowlgrin pup with a rag.

‘Put him down!’ shouted Quint, outraged.

‘Put him down?’ roared the cloddertrog, his voice getting louder. ‘I'll put him down, all right!’ and with that, he tossed Stope to the ground, where he skidded across the pool of spilled stew. He unbuckled his heavy leather belt, pulled it from his waist and swung it round his head. ‘And then I'll give him a hiding he won't soon forget!’ he bellowed as he lunged at Stope.

But Quint was too fast for him. As the cloddertrog leaped forwards, he seized the heavy brass buckle of the belt and yanked it hard to one side. Caught off balance, the cloddertrog skidded on the stew, lost his footing and crashed to the ground once more. Quint stood above him, the belt now in his own hands.