The Ice Gate of Spyre (6 page)

But Trundle
was
thinking as he came down to ground level again. He was thinking quite hard.

“Cast off, my merry mates!” said Ishmael. “Did ye find grollikins and dandoes galore in the scuppers?”

“Not now, Ishmael, if it’s all the same to you.” Esmeralda sighed. “We’re feeling a bit gloomy at the moment.”

“It’s always darkest before the prawns,” Ishmael said comfortingly.

“And we have learned some useful information about the Crown of Ice,” said Jack. “It’s monstrous sad up there, to be sure, but we ought to look on the bright side of things.”

“I know,” said Esmeralda. “But I can’t help feeling sorry for all those people. I mean, what a ghastly way to go.”

“Excuse me,” Trundle asked. “What day did we arrive at Tenterwold?” He had cast his mind back to their adventure before last.

“The twelfth of Greengrow,” said Esmeralda.

“I thought so.” Trundle did some rapid calculations on his fingers. He looked up, grinning from ear to ear. “Well, isn’t that interesting! By my reckoning that makes today the twenty-first of Greengrow.”

Jack’s eyes lit up. “And according to the records up there,” he began, “the Ice Gate melts annually between the nineteenth and the twenty-first. Suffering smerks! If that Ramalama chap fulfilled his task and hid the Crown of Ice behind the Ice Gate, we’ve arrived here quite by chance on the very last possible day to get up there and grab it.”

“Quite by
chance
?” hooted Esmeralda. “Are you kidding me? This isn’t
chance
, Jack, this is the Fates working flat out in our favor!”

“I rather think it must be,” said Trundle, looking up into the blue sky. The sun was already climbing over the jungle trees, and the morning was wearing away. “But I wish your dratted Fates had gotten us here a day or two sooner. We only have till sunset today to get to the Ice Gate—then it’ll be frozen again for another year.”

“So what are we standing around gabbing for?” exclaimed Esmeralda. “Let’s get moving, my lads! Best foot forward, and all that. The last one to the Ice Gate is a prickly poltroon!”

I
t was a hard slog to get through the steamy jungle. Trundle guessed that in more civilized places, people would be sitting down for a midmorning snack as they finally emerged from the trees and felt a fresh, open breeze on their faces.

Ahead of them, the steep-sloping landscape stepped gradually upward in a series of ridges and ledges, upon which flourished long ranges of small, neatly trimmed bushes. Narrow brown pathways snaked their way up through these lush green terraces. Dozens of busy workers could be seen moving slowly and methodically among the bushes, clipping the leaves and putting them into trailing white linen sacks.

They had evidently arrived at the foot of the Lowspace tea plantations. Some distance above them, they could see the wooden platform that they had previously observed from the deck of the
Thief in the Night
. It looked even more extraordinary now, looming out like a jutting roof or a great parasol made of wood, blocking out the view of whatever lay above, and supported all along its curved length by great heavy timbers and massive iron brackets.

“More climbing,” muttered Trundle, eyeing the spiraling and zigzagging pathways that led up to Boardwall, as the guide had told them this amazing structure was called.

“Stout heart, Trundle!” remarked Jack, slapping him on the back. “The sooner we get to Downtown, the sooner we can take a breather.”

“Only a quick breather,” Esmeralda warned as she began to plod up the nearest of the serpentine pathways. “We haven’t got all day, you know.”

“I thought we
did
have all day,” Trundle said, following her.

“Yes, to get right up to the top of the island!” Esmeralda called back. “So no dawdling.”

As the four companions climbed, they could see lines of workers moving along the paths, their linen sacks stuffed with newly clipped leaves. They were all heading for the underside of Boardwall. Once they were there, Trundle saw that the contents of the sacks were tipped into huge canvas bags, which were then attached to long ropes and winched up through trapdoors and hatches in the underside of the great wooden platform. The growing and harvesting of these bushes was clearly a major industry on Spyre.

“They seem to like their tea here, don’t they?” Jack remarked, unnecessarily.

They continued to climb, waving and calling cheerful greetings to the plantation workers, most of whom waved back and replied along the lines of, “Nice day for strolling, if not got work to do!” or “What happen? You get lost or someone?” and similar friendly comments.

And so they made their winding way up through the plantation as the long, hot morning ebbed away.

“A stitch in time is worth two in the bush,” said Ishmael at one point, wiping his sweating brow. “But even the weariest gibbon winds at last to tea!”

“I’m sure he does,” Trundle said sympathetically. “But it’s not so very far to go now.” In reality, he was rather enjoying himself. The climb was steep, but a fresh and sweet-scented breeze cooled his face—and for once nobody was chasing them.

As adventures went, this was the best one so far.

Finally they came to the upper level of Lowspace, where the ground was dry and full of rocks. They stood at last, breathing hard and gathering themselves, right under the great overhanging shadow of Boardwall. All around them, plantation workers trudged endlessly up with their laden sacks, and then trudged down again with empty bags, to fill them once more. More laborers attached the bulging sacks to dangling chains and ropes, shouting to their coworkers up above. “From me—to you! Carefully, now! Winch away! Mind your head! Oops! Sorry about that! Rub it hard and soon better feelings!” Chains clanked and ropes creaked as the full bags were raised through the trapdoors and empty ones lowered in exchange.

Although the workers seemed quite cheerful, Trundle had to admit to himself that there was something especially appealing about being a bold adventurer when the alternative was toiling away on a tea plantation!

Esmeralda didn’t give them very much time to stand and stare, though. With an imperious wave of her arm, she strode to the foot of a long ladder that led to a closed hatch high above. Without even looking back to check that they were following, she began to climb. Jack went next, his rebec strapped to his back. Ishmael was close behind, and Trundle brought up the rear. The four panting friends were able to gather and catch their breath on a small wooden platform, from which a stair of ten wide wooden steps led up to the closed hatch.

Trundle stepped over to the brink of the platform and looked down. The view was spectacular and breathtaking, the green tea terraces tumbling away to the distant line of the jungle. But the drop made his head feel giddy, and he quickly stepped back from the edge.

“Who wants the honor of being the first to see the wonders of Downtown?” asked Esmeralda, looking hard at him.

“Me, I suppose,” he said resignedly.

“That’s my plucky pal!” chuckled Esmeralda. “One hand on your sword hilt, Trun. Just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Hmm.” Trundle made his way up the steps, a paw ready on the hilt of his sword …
just in case
. There was a lever on the underside of the hatch. He grabbed it and yanked. The trapdoor sprang open with a speed that took him by surprise.

But what was even more shocking was the sudden noise that came crashing in on his unsuspecting ears. He winced at the appalling racket. It sounded to him like ten thousand people all shouting at the tops of their voices, accompanied by the rumble of wheels and the tramping of feet and the ringing of dozens of gongs and bells.

And while he was still trying to cope with the cacophony, several pairs of thin, furry arms came snaking down through the hatch, grabbing him by every available portion, and lifting him clear off his feet. His eyes boggling, he rose up through the hatch and found himself deposited on a solid plank floor, surrounded by the most extraordinary creatures he had ever seen in his life.

They were meerkats—dozens of them, crowding around him, dressed in brightly patterned short-sleeved shirts and wide-bottomed, baggy shorts. Most of them wore hats—everything from flat caps and bowlers to Stetsons and top hats—and all of these hats had some kind of advertisements printed on them or pinned to them or poking up from the brims.

And all of the meerkats were speaking at once.

“Welcome to Downtown, mister pilgrim, sir!”

“Carry your bags, mister?”

“Cheap hotel—very clean!”

“All-day breakfast at the Magnanimous Rissole Restaurant!”

“Monastery tours—suit all pockets!”

All the while, the meerkats plucked and pulled at him and fought to get his attention until it all became too much even for such a mild-natured fellow as Trundle.

“Get! Off! Me!” he bellowed, drawing his sword and waving it in the air above his head. The meerkats went scooting backward with startled faces and staring eyes.

Esmeralda emerged from the hatch at his side. “Well done, Trundle,” she said admiringly. “That certainly got their attention!” She rested her fists on her hips and surveyed the ring of temporarily silent creatures.

“So?” she said. “What have we here?”

One of the meerkats sidled closer, blinking nervously at them through round wire-framed spectacles. “He has quick temper, lady!” he said. “No need for swords. We’re only trying to make a living, why not?”

Now that the meerkats weren’t molesting him and yelling in his ears, Trundle had a few moments to gaze around at Downtown—and the sight quite took his breath away. It was a scene of the most astonishing bustle and clutter and hurrying-scurrying chaos that he had ever witnessed!

There were people everywhere, racing helter-skelter in all directions, some unencumbered, others carrying heavy loads on their backs or drawing laden wagons. Some of the houses and shops and warehouses had been built out on Boardwall itself, but the teeming city also climbed up the hillside: houses on top of houses, shops and emporia and other buildings crowding in on one another in terraces that were at least as steep as those of Lowspace. Instead of streets, the upper regions of Downtown were reached by wide stone stairways that thronged with people coming and going.

The colors were absolutely dazzling, both in the clothes of the people and in the flags and banners that hung everywhere. There were fiery scarlets and sky blues and luscious greens and sunflower yellows. There was flame orange and turquoise and aquamarine and crimson and mauve. Trundle strained his neck to look up at rainbows of bright silk pennants that fluttered from rooftops and from doorposts and flagpoles.

Dotted among the close-packed buildings were wooden wharves and jetties, where scores of windships and skyboats were moored. Many of the windships appeared to be permanent fixtures, converted into shops and restaurants and hotels, the hulls and masts festooned with colorful bunting, and with bridges and railed boardwalks leading up to their decks.

Above the chaotic riot of Downtown, Trundle saw the tall white walls and square towers of the lofty monastery reflecting the bright sunlight, their red and yellow banners rippling in the breeze above coral-colored roofs. And as a final, awe-inspiring sight, there rose far above the monastery the dazzling white peak of the mountain of Spyre. Trundle shivered with wonder, and with a strange sensation of apprehension. There was something venerable and dreadful about those snowy slopes, as if they guarded enormous and appalling secrets.