The Curse of the Gloamglozer (11 page)

All round the fight-master, a sea of hands reached towards him, each one clutching pieces of gold. ‘Two on Bruto,’ shouted one. ‘Three on Magno!’ demanded another.

Seftus Leprix smirked. If his insider information was to be trusted – and woe betide Jervis, his personal servant, if it was not – then the fromp to bet on was Wilbus the Sly in the north corner. Although untried and untested in Sanctaphrax, it had apparently won several vicious fromp-fights in the taverns of Undertown. And at 18–1, the odds were the best on offer.

With a brief flutter of his hands, he checked that his silver nose-piece was on straight. The ancient ceremonial object with its ornate curlicues and fine filigree mesh had formerly been worn by academics who, for purification purposes, wished to cleanse the air they inhaled. These days it was worn by academics who, for whatever reason, wished to conceal their identity. Seftus Leprix certainly did not want anyone to recognize him. After all, a fromp-fight was not the place for the Sub-Dean of the School of Mist to be caught spending his time and money. But then, old habits die hard.

He re-adjusted the silver nose, raised the hood of his gown and pushed his way through the crowd. ‘Twenty on north,’ he announced.

The gnokgoblin turned and looked at him from under lowered lids. ‘Twenty, eh?’ he said. For a moment, he hesitated; he did not as a rule conduct business with those whose faces he could not see. But then again, gold was gold. His hand darted
forwards and seized the pouch of gold pieces being held out to him. He scribbled out a docket, returned it and turned back to the blackboard. The odds on the fromp in the north corner had shortened to 12–1.

When the bell at the top of the Great Hall chimed six times, the gnokgoblin closed the betting. The crowd fell silent. Seftus Leprix, who had remained near the front of the crowd, watched thoughtfully as the four fromps were uncaged. Although Wilbus the Sly looked younger than the others, what it lacked in size it more than made up for in naked aggression as it leapt about at the end of its leash – spitting, screeching, frothing at the mouth, trying desperately to get at the others.

‘You
do
look fierce,’ Seftus murmured to himself happily. ‘And just as well, since it's too late to change my bet now.’

All four fromps were put on tethers, long enough for each of them to reach the fight-ring in the centre – but not so long that the creatures could get tangled up with one another. On their ankles now were razor-sharp spurs; on their prehensile tails, vicious spikes. Hunger and cruelty had turned the normally affable creatures into vicious killers and the fight would last as long as it took for one of the fromps to triumph over the other three.

‘LET THE FIGHT COMMENCE!’ the gnokgoblin roared, and lowered his raised arm.

Immediately, the air was filled with a cacophony of noise – wailing, screeching, howling. And that was just the spectators. Bruto the Brave from the east corner was
the first to succumb as Magno the Claw's left spur sliced across its neck. The next moment, Magno's own neck was cut as Wilbus the Sly's tail-spike found its mark.

‘Come on, Wilbus,’ Seftus Leprix whispered as the vicious fromp turned its attentions on Smarg the Mighty from the west corner and the two of them flew at one another in a blur of bloodied fur and glinting blades.

The gnokgoblin scowled as Wilbus the Sly got the upper hand and glanced round furtively, as if he was preparing to bolt.

‘Oh no you don't,’ said Leprix, seizing the gnokgoblin by the scruff of his neck. ‘You're not going anywhere.’

The pair of them watched the conclusion of the fight. It didn't take long. Within seconds, there was a howl of pain from the vanquished and a triumphant squeal from the victor. Wilbus the Sly had done it. Leprix brought his leering face up close to the gnokgoblin's.

‘It's pay-up time,’ he hissed.

iii
East Side: 9th Staircase

A slanting light fell across the ninth set of stairs of the east-facing Viaduct Steps, also known as ‘the chankers'. This was the place where the sub-deans from all of the Sanctaphrax schools gathered together to discuss matters – for, with the complexities of their job, they had far more in common with one another than with
others from the same school. The word itself came from an ancient trog word,
shankir
, which was the name given to the roosting grounds of the lesser woodowl – cunning Deepwoods nightbirds that would, it was claimed, gather noisily to plan their next hunting trip. Like the woodowls, those academics who became sub-deans also tended to be cunning, intelligent – and noisy.

‘I see Seftus has decided not to attend once again,’ the Sub-Dean of the Raintasters commented.

‘Too good for the likes of us,’ said the Sub-Dean of Cloudwatching.

‘Like all those other confounded mistsifters,’ the Sub-Dean of Windtouching announced, and sniffed. ‘Ever since Linius Pallitax was made Most High Academe, they've been insufferable.’

‘And they've been
even worse since Pallitax moved into the Palace of Shadows,’ a fourth sub-dean added.

‘Lording it over the rest of us the whole time,’ another complained. ‘And the Most High Academe does nothing to stop it, despite all his fine words about how equal we all are.’

‘Equal?’ snorted yet another. ‘That's a good one. The mistsifters get all the best preferments. They're all he cares about. The rest of us never get a look in.’

‘It's iniquitous!’ said the Sub-Dean of Cloudwatching.

‘Invidious!’ said the Sub-Dean of Windtouching.

‘Something,’ said the Sub-Dean of Raintasting darkly, ‘must be done.’

iv

iv
West Side: 12th Staircase

‘Fifty gold pieces, and that's my final offer,’ said the tall, bulbous-nosed apprentice.

‘But, Skillix,’ said the second apprentice, ‘I told you, I haven't
got
fifty gold pieces.‘

‘Then stop wasting my time,
Runt
.’ Skillix sneered and, turned away.

Runnet winced. He hated his nickname. However, this was not, he realized, the time to complain about its use. With the important Mistsifting examination only two days away – and himself so ill-prepared – he needed all the help he could get. Skillix, he'd overheard, had come
by a copy of the examination paper. If he could just get his hands on it, then he'd be able to prepare the answers – and pass. If he didn't, he'd be thrown out on his ear. And if
that
happened, his father – a big name in the League – would disown him.

Runnet lunged forwards after the departing apprentice. ‘Don't go!’ he cried, clinging onto Skillix's robes.

‘Get
off
me!’ Skillix said, twisting round and swatting the young sub-apprentice away like a bug.

‘You must let me have it,’ Runnet persisted. ‘You must …’ He dragged a pouch from his pocket and jangled it loudly. ‘Thirty-eight gold pieces there are here,’ he said, ‘and I can get you the rest next week.’

‘The rest?’ said Skillix.

‘The other twelve gold pieces,’ said Runnet. ‘I'll…’

‘Call it twenty and I might be interested,’ Skillix interrupted.

Runnet's jaw dropped. ‘Twenty?’ he said. ‘But you said … I can't … It's too much…’

‘As you please,’ said Skillix, and turned away again.

This time Runnet did not try to stop him. His eagerness to buy had alerted Skillix to the value of the paper he was trying to sell. They both knew that there were several apprentices in the School of Mist – apprentices with far more generous fathers – who would pay twice as much for the question paper once word got round that it was available. And, Runnet thought bitterly, word
would
get round.

‘Oh, Gloamglozer,’ he muttered miserably, and held his head in his hands. ‘What in Sky's name am I going to do now?’

‘So far as I can see, you have two choices,’ came a deep, throaty voice from behind him.

He looked round to see a tall individual standing in front of him. He was dressed in ill-fitting academic's robes. A silver nose-piece could be seen glinting from within the folds of his baggy hood.

‘Are you talking to me?’ asked Runnet.

The academic glanced quickly over both shoulders, then nodded. ‘I am,’ he confirmed gruffly. ‘I couldn't help overhearing all about your little …
difficulty
,’ he said, ‘and … that is … I am in a position to help you out.’

‘You are?’ said Runnet suspiciously. No-one did anything for anyone in Sanctaphrax without seeking something in return. He looked the academic up and down but, thanks to the false nose, was unable to place him, although there was something faintly familiar about the smell of tallow and woodcamphor coming from his robes.

‘You are interested in the Mistsifting examination, are you not?’ he said.

Runnet nodded. ‘The final one,’ he said.

‘The very same,’ said the academic, patting a pocket at his side.

Runnet gasped. ‘You've got a copy of the question paper?’ he said.

‘Better than that,’ said the academic. ‘I've got the answers.’

Runnet was speechless. The
answers
! If he hadn't been able to afford the questions, then he certainly wouldn't
have enough to buy the answers. If only he could … He looked up at the academic. ‘H … how much are you asking for them?’ he said, nervous of the answer.

‘Thirty-eight gold pieces,’ came the reply.

‘Thirty-eight?’ said Runnet excitedly. ‘Yes, I can afford that. It's…’

The academic raised his hand. ‘Thirty-eight gold pieces,’ he said, his eyes narrowing, ‘and a small favour.’

v
West Side: 24th Staircase

As the shadows grew longer and the lamps lining the Central Viaduct far above their heads were lit, the group of mistsifters on the twenty-fourth set of steps huddled closer together. Most of them were sub-acolytes and apprentices who, like sub-acolytes and apprentices all over Sanctaphrax, would gather to carp and complain about their professors. However, the presence of the school's dean, sub-professor and various readers, both senior and junior, lent extra weight to this evening's criticisms.

‘He's so intent on
appearing
fair that he's forgotten all about us mistsifters,’ one of the apprentices complained.

‘Yeah,’ said another, nodding vigorously. ‘It's like he's going out of his way to prove that everyone's equal. Why, even that little scrot, Dervillus – you know, that
drizzle
character – has been promoted.’

‘And since he's moved into that old palace, he's been even worse!’ added a third.

‘You're right,’ said a fourth. ‘I've even heard rumours that he's preparing to increase the power and influence of the Professors of Light and Darkness. And at
our
expense!’ He glared round him. ‘It's we mistsifters who should be up for preferments, not them!’

Runnet listened as a ripple of angry agreement went round.

A tall, senior reader with a waxed, white moustache raised his hand to his mouth and whispered to his squat neighbour conspiratorially, ‘They're right, of course. Not that we'll ever be able to prove anything until it's too late…’

‘No, that's the problem,’ came the hushed reply. Runnet turned towards them and tentatively held out a piece of folded parchment. ‘I don't know if
this
counts as proof,’ he muttered.