The Great Brain Robbery, page 10
Jasper sighed. “That’s my cue,” he said. “If you’ll both excuse me?” He hurried off, leaving Suzy and Frederick to follow in Cirrus’s wake.
“Good thinking,” Frederick whispered.
“Thanks,” Suzy replied. “If Cirrus can point us to the Cloudwright we need, we could be back in Trollville in no time. Plus, I’m a postie. So I need to give her this.” She pulled a letter from her satchel. It was addressed to:
CIRRUS TRAMONTANE
HAUTE COUTURE
CLOUD FORGE
It matched the sign above the shop that Cirrus led them to.
“This is me,” she said, kicking the door open and marching inside without pause. The shop was small and packed with neatly ordered shelves of fabric in more textures and colors than Suzy could have imagined possible. A couple of dressmaker’s dummies loitered in one corner behind a small workbench, one of them with four arms, but the centerpiece of the room was a loom, strung with threads of bright red fabric like piano wires.
“Do you like my loom?” said Cirrus. “I made it myself.”
“Your what?” said Suzy.
“Her loom,” Frederick cut in. “For weaving fabric.”
“That’s right,” said Cirrus, setting the jar down on the workbench. “I’m making a ball gown from spider silk at the moment.” She plucked one of the threads on the loom, and it sang with a warm, clear note. Suzy thought she saw a glimmer of rainbow colors where it vibrated.
“Now tell me,” said Cirrus. “Who are you looking for, and why?”
Suzy thought for a moment. She liked Cirrus and didn’t want to lie to her, but there wasn’t really time to recount the whole story of what was happening in Trollville, either. “We’re looking for a male Cloudwright,” she said at last. “We don’t know who he is, but we think he’s trying to trace some stolen property that’s made its way to Trollville, and we might be able to help.” She exchanged a look with Frederick, who gave her a little nod of encouragement.
“Really?” Cirrus looked worried. “Nobody’s reported any thefts. Everyone in Cloud Forge would have heard about it. What was taken?”
Suzy opened her mouth before realizing she didn’t know how to answer.
“We’d prefer to keep that confidential until we’ve traced the owner,” said Frederick, coming to her rescue. “Although we do have descriptions of the thieves.”
“That’s right!” said Suzy. “One is a troll with gray skin, and the other is … well, he’s tall, with clawed hands, brown feathered wings, and large orange eyes that sort of glow.”
Cirrus frowned. “They don’t sound familiar, but I’ve got a terrible memory for faces. What were they wearing?”
“The troll just wore old work clothes, I think,” said Suzy. “But the other one, the one with the wings, had a dark blue cloak and hood.”
Cirrus’s eyebrows crept up her forehead. “Full length?”
Suzy nodded.
“What sort of material?”
“I don’t know,” said Suzy. “But it looked light. Maybe … maybe silk?”
“And it had two slits down the back so he could open his wings,” added Frederick.
Cirrus’s eyes lit up. “Now that does sound familiar. Give me a second and I’ll check my customer records.” She bounded to a nearby shelf, fetched down a heavy ledger, and began leafing through it.
A buzz of nervous anticipation crept through Suzy’s veins. She could feel it fizzing like the jar of spellcloud on the workbench. While Cirrus continued to pore over her ledger, Suzy leaned in toward Frederick and whispered, “I still don’t understand what she uses the spellcloud for. Why is it so important?”
“Because it’s raw magical energy,” he whispered back. “Locked away in droplets of water vapor.” He prodded the jar on the desk, prompting a little storm of electric crackles inside it. “Do you know how condensation works?”
Suzy rolled her eyes. “Of course. You cool a vapor down and it turns into a liquid. Like steam on a windowpane.”
“Exactly. Well, the Cloudwrights do the same thing with the spellcloud. It’s easier to work with as a liquid, but it keeps its magical charge.”
“I soak my threads in it before I start weaving,” said Cirrus without looking up from her ledger.
“So the clothes you make are magical?” said Suzy.
“A little,” said Cirrus. “I tailor the magic to the customer’s needs, the same as the clothes. Aha!” She jabbed a finger down at an entry in the ledger. “I knew that cloak you described sounded familiar. It’s one of mine.”
“You made it for him?” said Frederick.
“That’s right,” Cirrus replied. “Moonspun silk, midnight blue. Practically weightless, flows like water, with almost no air resistance. I own a few pieces myself.”
Perfect if you spend a lot of time flying, thought Suzy. “So he came here? The creature with the wings?”
“Yes,” said Cirrus. “I think I remember him now. He wasn’t very friendly.”
“That’s an understatement,” said Suzy. “So what happened? Did he say anything?”
“Not really.” Cirrus scowled at the ledger, willing the memories to resurface. “He placed his order by remote spell one evening about two months ago and turned up the next day to collect. I had to stay up half the night to get it finished in time.”
“Did he give you his name?” asked Frederick.
Cirrus consulted the ledger. “Mr. Brown,” she said, then wrinkled her nose. “Assuming he’s your thief, I guess that’s probably not his real name.”
Suzy agreed and felt the crackle of anticipation die away. “He was already covering his tracks,” she said. “I don’t suppose he gave you an address? Or any way of tracking him down?”
“Sorry,” said Cirrus, shaking her head.
Despondency settled over Suzy like a shroud. Her plan was falling apart. How could she hope to save Trollville now?
“Wait!” Cirrus snapped the ledger shut. “I’ve just remembered something. When Mr. Brown, or whatever he’s really called, collected the cloak, he left without taking his receipt, so I had to chase after him with it.”
“And?” said Frederick.
“And I caught up with him just as he was disappearing into Cloudwright Rayleigh’s workshop across the courtyard. So maybe Rayleigh can tell you more.”
Suzy felt a renewed surge of hope and delved into her satchel. She pulled out a dog-eared letter and held it aloft with a grin. “One delivery for Calvus Rayleigh. You said he’s across the courtyard?”
“That’s right,” said Cirrus before a doubtful look crossed her face. “You remember I said I know everyone worth knowing around here?”
Suzy nodded.
“Well, I don’t know Rayleigh. I don’t think anyone in Cloud Forge really does.”
“Why not?” said Frederick.
Cirrus pursed her lips. “Let’s just say he doesn’t play well with others. Most of us have learned to avoid him.”
“A postie never shrinks from her duty,” said Suzy. “Which reminds me…” She handed Cirrus her own letter. “Sorry it’s late,” she said. “But deliveries should be more regular from now on.”
Cirrus received the letter as though it were a Christmas present. “I love getting letters!” she said, tearing the envelope open and pulling out a folded sheet of yellow note paper, crammed with spidery handwriting.
“Anything good?” asked Frederick as she lowered her nose to the page.
“From my parents, in Propellendorf,” said Cirrus. “We don’t see each other as much as we’d like.” Her smile grew as she read on, until she was positively beaming. “That’s made my day,” she said, folding the letter back into the envelope. “Thank you.”
Suzy felt her spirits lift. This, at last, was what being a postie felt like. “All part of the service,” she said. “And thanks for your help. Now if you’ll excuse us, Cloudwright Rayleigh’s delivery is overdue.”
* * *
They found the entrance to Rayleigh’s workshop tucked just inside the main gates. Unlike the other establishments, there was no shop window and no sign—just a wooden door, its black paint faded and peeling. A tarnished plaque screwed to it read,
C. RAYLEIGH
ARTISAN
“This isn’t exactly what I’d expect for a Cloudwright,” said Frederick, giving the door a look of mild disdain. “What’s he doing in a place like this?”
“And what would ‘Mr. Brown’ want with an artisan?” Suzy wondered aloud. “Let’s find out.” She knocked. Then, when nobody answered, she knocked again. “Hello?” she called, cupping her hands around her mouth and pressing them to the door. “Cloudwright Rayleigh?”
“I wouldn’t expect an answer if I were you.” They turned at the sound of Jasper’s voice. He had successfully dismantled the frame of the hang glider and was cutting up the canvas sail with a large pair of tailor’s scissors.
“Why not?” asked Suzy. “Isn’t he in?”
“Who knows?” said Jasper. “He disappears for days on end sometimes, and he didn’t go aloft with the other Cloudwrights earlier. But he might just be refusing to answer the door.”
“Why?” said Frederick, suddenly alert. “Is he hiding something?”
“Not really,” said Jasper, cutting another strip of sail free. “He just doesn’t like people very much. And between you and me, the feeling’s mutual.” He gave them a conspiratorial wink.
“But I need to see him,” said Suzy. “It’s really important!”
“Sorry,” said Jasper with a helpless shrug. “You can always hang around and see if he shows up. But I wouldn’t hold your breath.” He bundled the freshly cut strips of sail together. “I’d better go and hand these over to Cirrus. I’m sure she’ll want to turn them into something fabulous.” He got that warm look in his eyes again. “Best of luck, you two.” He smiled and hurried away.
Suzy watched him leave and felt the pieces of her plan coming undone again. “Now what?” she said. “We can’t just sit here waiting for Cloudwright Rayleigh. Trollville’s running out of time!”
“Maybe we could ask around,” said Frederick. “One of the other Cloudwrights might know where he is.”
It wasn’t much to go on, but Suzy knew she had little choice. “Fine,” she muttered. “I suppose I’ve got to deliver the rest of these letters anyway. I’ll ask the recipients what they know about Rayleigh.” She pulled the bundle of envelopes from her satchel and leafed through them. “I don’t have letters for every Cloudwright, though, so I need you to go and visit the others. Pretend you’re a customer and see what you can find out.”
“No problem,” said Frederick. “Let me see the addresses so I know who not to visit.”
As he checked through the letters, Suzy took another look around the courtyard. Jasper had left the broken hang glider frame in a neat heap, and the rest of the shop staff had returned to their own work. Even the customers had calmed down and were browsing the shop windows as though nothing had happened.
“Got it,” said Frederick, returning the letters. “I’ll meet you back here when we’re done.” He hurried away in the direction of the Spellcloud Ice Cream Parlor.
“He’d better not spend all afternoon in there,” Suzy muttered to herself. Then she straightened her cap, polished her badge with her sleeve, and set out in search of answers.
10
TROLL HUNT
Wilmot’s footsteps echoed along the rusting walkway of Hobb’s End. Broken, empty houses loomed over him on either side, full of darkness. The windows and doors were missing, and through them he could see that even the floors had fallen away into the Uncanny Valley. The street was, as Mr. Trellis had promised, long abandoned.
I’m amazed I’ve never heard of this place before, Wilmot thought. But then I suppose it’s not exactly on any postal routes.
The walkway was a dead end, terminating in the sheer rock face of the Valley’s side, in which a gigantic pair of iron gates had been set. This was the entrance to the old mine workings, and Wilmot found it chained and padlocked. A warning sign fixed to the gates declared,
DANGER!
BE SOMEWHERE ELSE!
“Now what?” he wondered aloud. His words echoed strangely down the street, and he glanced around, feeling exposed. For a second, he thought he saw a dark shape lurking in one of the shadows. “Hello?” he called. Nobody answered. Nothing stirred. He drew his uniform coat a little tighter around himself.
“A little light should help,” he said to himself, and pulled his Impossible Postal Service standard-issue clockwork flashlight from his pocket. He wound the key that stuck out of the bottom, switched the flashlight on, and began a proper inspection of the gates. They were pitted with rust and very large—big enough to accommodate trucks and wagons. Or drilling equipment, he mused. But could they really hide the entrance to the long-lost caverns of the ancient trolls? And if they did, how was he going to get past them? The padlock holding them closed was large and solid.
I wish I had Suzy here to help me, he thought. He missed her. Ever since their last adventure together, he had been looking forward to working with her again. It felt strange not to be out on the rails together now.
But he was letting his doubts get the better of him, he realized. Suzy had a job to do, and so did he—if they couldn’t locate the drill before the renegade troll was able to repair it, then Trollville was doomed.
He was still wondering what to do when he heard a faint sound behind him. He whirled around and was just in time to see a dark figure disappear into a pool of deep shadows halfway down the street. He stiffened with fear.
“I know you’re there!” he called. He pointed the flashlight at the doorway, but its light was too weak to reach it. “Show yourself.” And then, because he had always been taught that people responded well to good manners, he added, “Please?”
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, very slowly, the figure shuffled toward him, leaning on a cane. The shadow of the houses lay long across the street, so it wasn’t until the figure was almost within reach that Wilmot could make out his features.
“Mr. Trellis?”
“Hello, lad,” said the elderly troll. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Wilmot was too surprised to speak, which Mr. Trellis seemed to take as a sign of acceptance. He ambled up to the gates and tapped it with his cane. “I see you’ve found it, then.”
“Er, yes,” said Wilmot. “But what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at the rest home. Mom will be evacuating everyone soon!”
“Oh, that,” said Mr. Trellis. “I figure if she won’t miss you for a little bit, she won’t miss an old coot like me, either. Have you found a way in yet?”
“No.”
Mr. Trellis laughed. “Thought not. This gate’s older than I am, and it’s not going to give way anytime soon.” He raised his hand in a sweeping gesture meant to take in the whole gate, but he overreached himself, and Wilmot had to dart forward and grab him before he toppled over backward.
“Mr. Trellis, you really shouldn’t be here. I should take you back. If the people who caused the earthquake really are in there, I don’t want you running into them.”
“Scoundrels!” shouted Mr. Trellis, shaking his fist at the building. “Let me have a look at that padlock.”
He elbowed Wilmot aside and shuffled to the padlock, eyeing the mechanism at close range. “This looks simple enough,” he said, and produced a small penknife from his coat pocket. “These were standard issue in my day.” He set about unfolding a variety of different tools from the side of the penknife. “Nail file,” he said. “Magnifying glass. Geiger counter. Thing for getting the stones out of a centaur’s hooves … Aha! Here it is.” He unfolded a small, narrow blade. “Letter opener!” He slid the tip into the lock and, very delicately, maneuvered it until Wilmot heard a click. “Good for opening things besides letters,” said Mr. Trellis.
The lock sprang open and dropped to the ground with a thud. Slowly, with a painful, protracted creak, the huge gates swung open and a cloud of thick yellow dust billowed out, making them both choke.
“Wow!” said Wilmot between coughs. “You did it!” As the cloud dispersed, he wound his flashlight again and pointed it into the darkened void of the mine building. Roughly hewn blocks of yellow stone were stacked in towering pyramids to the left and right. Some of the blocks were three times Wilmot’s height. “There’s enough stone here to build a whole city!” His voice was swallowed by the huge space, and it was several seconds before the echo reached his ears.
“This is the masons’ yard, where they used to cut the stone into bricks,” said Mr. Trellis. “The mine shafts must be farther in.”
Wilmot tightened his grip on the flashlight. “I have to go and check,” he said. “The king won’t order an evacuation unless I find proof to back up Suzy’s story.”
“I’m right by your side, Postmaster,” said Mr. Trellis. “Let’s go and find those scallywags.” He didn’t wait for Wilmot, but shuffled over the threshold. “Tally ho!”
“Wait for me!” said Wilmot.
The masons’ yard was like another world. The air was colder in here, and the darkness seemed to suck the light straight out of the flashlight. Wilmot angled the beam upward, but the stacks of stone were so tall their summits were lost in shadow.
A clattering of loose stones drew their attention to one of the stacks up ahead, and the flashlight picked out deep fractures in the blocks at its base. A small avalanche of gravel rattled down its side, dislodging larger chunks that crashed to the ground and split open.
“It must have been damaged in the earthquake,” Wilmot whispered. “We’d better be careful.”
They waited for the avalanche to end, then inched past the stack in silence, giving it as wide a berth as possible.
At last they reached the immense wall of bare rock that marked the end of the masons’ yard. A row of twenty large cargo elevators ran along it. All of them were rusted, shuttered, and dark. Except one.
