The Great Brain Robbery, page 11
“This one’s been repaired recently,” said Wilmot, hurrying up to it. The metal doors gleamed in the flashlight, and the call button set into the wall beside it glowed red. “That settles it. This has to be how the troll and his boss got into the caverns. They’re connected to the mine!” He felt a giddy mixture of pride and relief. He had done it—he had found the proof he needed to convince Grotnip and the king to act. “We need to get the authorities down here right away,” he said. “They’ll take care of everything. We won’t even need to evacuate the city!”
His voice rebounded back and forth between the great piles of rock. The patter of falling stones began again.
“Bravo, Postmaster!” said Mr. Trellis with a wheezy laugh. “I can’t wait to see the look on those ruffians’ faces when they’re brought to justice.”
The avalanche gathered pace, knocking larger fragments of stone from the lower blocks. The stack began to groan under its own weight.
Wilmot had only taken a few steps back toward the entrance when the first block gave way. It shattered with a noise like cannon fire, blasting chunks of rock in all directions. A shard whistled past Wilmot’s ear, and a second one might have taken his head off if Mr. Trellis hadn’t tackled him from behind, sending him to the ground.
“That was a close one, Postmaster!” Mr. Trellis shouted over the roar of falling stone. The whole stack sagged, toppled, and broke apart. It was a noise to match anything Wilmot had heard in the earthquake, and the floor rippled and cracked under the hammer blows of falling blocks. Within seconds, the route to the exit was buried. Wilmot barely had time to register this before the neighboring stacks began to disintegrate as well. More rocks plunged down all around them.
“Quick, Mr. Trellis!” Wilmot struggled to his feet. “This way!”
He pulled Mr. Trellis to the elevator door and thumbed the call button. Luckily, the elevator was already at the top of the shaft, and the doors slid open.
“Get inside!” Wilmot bundled Mr. Trellis into the elevator just seconds before a block crashed down on the spot where they had just been standing. The doors slid shut, and Wilmot yanked at the lever on the elevator’s control panel. With a shudder, the elevator began to descend. It was nothing more than a metal cage with chain-link sides through which they saw the bare rock of the shaft sliding past. The disaster unfolding in the masons’ yard was reduced to a series of distant thuds and booms, which grew fainter with each passing second.
“You’re taking us into the mines?” said Mr. Trellis.
“I’m afraid so,” said Wilmot.
“Pursuing our quarry into their den, eh? I like it.” Mr. Trellis gave Wilmot a gummy smile.
Wilmot wiped dust from his forehead and tried to collect his thoughts. He hadn’t actually thought about pursuing the criminals—he had just wanted to escape being crushed by falling masonry. But now that he had a moment to reflect, he saw that Mr. Trellis was right. “We can’t get out through Hobb’s End anymore,” he said. “Which means we can’t tell the authorities what we’ve found. I suppose our only option really is to find the drill and stop it ourselves.”
“That’s the spirit!” said Mr. Trellis. “Those blighters won’t know what hit them!”
Wilmot steadied himself against the elevator wall. “Mr. Trellis, I want you to promise me that you’ll be careful. You’re not in the custard pits of Splott anymore. We need to stick together and keep each other safe. No silly risks, is that clear?”
“Crystal,” said Mr. Trellis, although Wilmot noted that his smile hadn’t diminished in the slightest. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying himself. Wilmot wasn’t sure whether to be worried or envious.
Then something heavy struck the top of the elevator, and he settled on terrified.
“What was that?” said Mr. Trellis. Another blow struck the elevator, and a large dent appeared in the ceiling. Wilmot ducked.
“I think it’s masonry falling down the shaft!” he said. “The doors must have given way above us. But as long as it doesn’t damage the cable, we—”
He was cut short by a rending of metal, and then the elevator plunged downward in free fall. Wilmot and Mr. Trellis were lifted off their feet and pressed flat against the ceiling. The walls of the shaft rushed past in a blur and the wind roared in Wilmot’s ears.
“Never mind, Postmaster!” shouted Mr. Trellis. “At least we’ll die with our boots on!”
The one thought in Wilmot’s mind as they plunged down into darkness was, Mom’ll be so mad when she finds out.
11
STORM IN A TEACUP
Suzy stepped out of Brillington’s Specialist Flower Emporium and sighed. The shop was fascinating, but it hadn’t helped her investigation one bit. Cloudwright Brillington, the proprietor, had given her an enthusiastic demonstration of how he watered his plants with condensed spellcloud. The results were astonishing—flowers that glowed and shone, or changed color, or even their shape in response to certain pieces of music.
But after a little gentle prompting, Brillington confessed that he had no idea where Cloudwright Rayleigh might be. And, like the half-dozen Cloudwrights Suzy had asked before him, he had never served a customer matching the description of her winged assailant.
Now she checked her satchel and saw that the only letter still undelivered was Rayleigh’s. He had to be the Cloudwright she was looking for. She had run out of other options.
I can’t go back to Trollville empty-handed, she told herself. The thought tied her stomach in an uncomfortable knot. Rayleigh was her only possible lead to the mysterious Mr. Brown. Without him, there would be no evacuation of Trollville, no chance to stop the next earthquake, and a lot of trolls would be hurt. Or worse.
She was passing by Cloudwright Noctilucent’s bakery when she heard Frederick call her. She turned and saw him float out of the shop, his feet several inches above the ground. He was smiling from ear to ear.
“What’s happened?” she said, amazed.
“I had one of these,” he said, offering her a paper bag. She took it and looked inside. It contained a pastry covered in icing sugar.
“A cake?”
“A cumulus cake,” said Frederick. “It tastes of honey, and it’s so light!” He did a little pirouette in mid-air. “It’s so light, it makes you light, too!”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Have you spent all this time stuffing your face?”
“No,” he said, although his guilty look suggested otherwise. “I’ve been talking to people.”
“And?”
“And nobody seems to know much about Rayleigh,” he said, remembering to look disappointed.
Worry tightened like a band around Suzy’s chest. “Same here.”
They both turned to look at the battered old door that marked the entrance to Rayleigh’s workshop. It remained closed and unreadable.
But then a slight movement above it drew Suzy’s eye up the courtyard wall to a small, dirty window, where she saw the suggestion of a face peering down at them. It was only there for a second before it retreated behind a ragged curtain, but it was enough to reawaken her resolve.
“Someone’s in there!” she said, pointing to the window. “I just saw them!”
Frederick looked, but of course saw nothing. “Do you think it’s Rayleigh?”
“It has to be! Come on.” She bolted across the courtyard to the door and pounded her fist against it. “Cloudwright Rayleigh!” she called. “This is the Impossible Postal Service. I’ve got an overdue delivery for you.”
Frederick reached her side, still bobbing above the ground like a balloon. “What if he doesn’t want to answer?” he said. “He didn’t before.”
“But we didn’t see him watching us before,” she said. “He can’t pretend he’s not there anymore.” She knocked on the door again, even harder.
Then, suddenly, the door opened, revealing a wiry middle-aged man in a coat of rich golds and browns. He had salt-and-pepper hair and a short growth of stubble, and squinted at them with bleary, pale blue eyes.
“Do you mind?” he snapped. “I’m trying to work.”
“Calvus Rayleigh?” asked Suzy.
“Yes. What of it?”
“I’m from the Impossible Postal Express,” she said. “I’ve got a letter for you. Would you mind signing for it?”
Rayleigh examined her badge. He didn’t seem impressed. “Was it you banging on my door earlier?” he asked. “Disturbing my thoughts?”
“That’s right,” said Suzy. “You didn’t answer.”
“Because I was meditating,” he said. “Communing with the muse and waiting for artistic inspiration to strike. Which is impossible with all this racket.” He patted his pockets. “Do you have a pen?”
“Sorry, mine ran out,” said Suzy. “But I can wait while you find one.”
Rayleigh muttered something under his breath and turned away from the door.
“Has your pen really run out?” whispered Frederick.
She smiled at him. “Of course not. He doesn’t even really need to sign for it.” Then, without waiting, she pushed the door open and stepped inside. It was a brazen move and certainly not in keeping with the postie’s code of conduct as set out in The Knowledge, but if this was her last chance to save Trollville, then she was determined to use it. Luckily, Rayleigh was too distracted to take much notice.
The interior of his work space looked like a jumble sale in a chemistry lab—every surface was full to overflowing with bottles and jars, piles of clothes, old books and papers. One by one, he swept them all off onto the floor, rummaging through the detritus by the light of the glass chandelier that hung from the ceiling. The only thing he treated with any care at all was a small cluster of glowing pink crystals, which he picked up and set gently on a shelf beside a tray of fine china tea things, and a roughly shaped ceramic bottle.
He wore gold silk trousers and a frilly shirt beneath his coat. Both items of clothing were clearly of the highest quality but also badly crumpled. Strangest of all, she noticed that his shoes were caked in dry mud. Where have you been? she wondered. She would clearly have to put him at his ease before he would volunteer any information, but she suspected his patience wouldn’t last long. She would have to be careful, and quick.
“So you’re an artisan?” she said, setting an overturned stool on its feet and sitting down while Frederick hovered beside her. “What sort of things do you make?”
Rayleigh upended a stack of books with a crash. “You wouldn’t understand.”
She chose to smile through the insult. “I might.”
“I craft pioneering nephological installations,” he replied. “Of such daring and originality that no two pieces are ever alike.”
He’s right, Suzy thought, annoyed. I really don’t understand.
“Nephological means ‘to do with clouds,’” Frederick whispered in her ear, low enough to ensure that Rayleigh didn’t overhear. She gave him a quick thumbs-up.
“So you make art using spellcloud,” she said.
Rayleigh glanced at her in surprise, and Suzy got the impression he was truly seeing her for the first time.
“Quite,” he said. He delved into a pile of old socks, revealing a fountain pen underneath. Suzy pulled a proof-of-delivery sheet from her satchel, and he signed it with a tick before tossing the pen over his shoulder and taking the envelope from her. He tore it open, removed the contents, and wrinkled up his mouth in distaste.
“What’s wrong?” said Suzy.
“It’s a birthday card from my sister,” he said. “Almost two months late, I might add.” He turned it around to show them. It featured a gaudy cartoon picture of a hot-air balloon, covered in rainbow glitter, above the words Birthday Boy. “You see? This is other people’s idea of art.” He tore the card in two and threw the pieces on the floor.
“And is yours better?” said Frederick.
“Well, of course it is! Just take a look for yourself.” Rayleigh pointed to the chandelier.
“That thing?” said Frederick. “What’s so special about that?”
Suzy kept quiet, although she was secretly pleased that Frederick had chosen to stand up to Rayleigh. The chandelier was nice, but it looked perfectly ordinary. Hardly a masterpiece.
Rayleigh must have anticipated their reaction, though, as he broke into a knowing smile and, with a flourish, pulled a slender glass thermometer from his coat pocket.
“This is my nephological wand,” he said. “Observe.” He gestured with the wand, and the chandelier began to melt, its cut glass beads separating from one another and sliding slowly down through the air like a slow-motion rainstorm. Miniature rainbows arced from drop to drop, and before they could reach the table that stood beneath them, the drops evaporated into a light mist.
Suzy watched, spellbound, as the mist swirled, coalesced, and in a matter of seconds formed a fluted glass vase, filled with a bouquet of cut glass roses, which glowed a soft pink.
“Wow,” she breathed. “That’s beautiful.”
“It’s just a demonstration model,” said Rayleigh. “Unlike the tourist traps out there in the courtyard, I refuse to debase the spellcloud by condensing and diluting it. No, I work with pure spellcloud on the molecular level. Nothing more, nothing less.” He put his nose in the air but watched for their reactions.
“Do you mean,” said Frederick, “that the vase … and the chandelier…?”
“Are made from nothing but spellcloud,” said Rayleigh triumphantly. “I simply trained the molecules to behave together as though they are glass, and then to shift between a few specific forms. But they’re still just water vapor. Like so.” He plucked one of the glass roses from the vase and, holding it by the stem, smashed it against the table. Suzy expected it to shatter, but it just evaporated into steam between Rayleigh’s fingers. With a faint crackle of energy, it was gone.
“Incredible!” said Frederick.
“Yes I am,” said Rayleigh. “I am also very busy, so if you wouldn’t mind?” He gestured to the door.
Suzy felt this last opportunity slipping from her grasp. “Actually, Frederick and I need your help,” she said, leaping to her feet. “It’s a matter of life and death.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” said Rayleigh. “I don’t know what help I could possibly be to a postie and…” He narrowed his eyes at Frederick. “And whoever you are.”
“Oh, I’m a librarian,” said Frederick. He produced a business card from his inside pocket and handed it over. Rayleigh’s reaction was immediate and severe. The color drained from his face and he backed up a step, baring his teeth.
“The Ivory Tower?” he hissed.
“I know, I know.” Frederick pulled a face. “But before you say anything, let me reassure you that we’re under new management and now offer a comprehensive public-facing service, based on a mission statement of holistic values and—”
“He means they’ve got nothing to do with Lord Meridian anymore,” Suzy cut in, nudging Frederick hard in the ribs. She forgot that he was still floating, though, and he went sailing across the room, only to crash into an overstuffed bookcase.
“Um, that’s right,” he said, trying to regain some equilibrium. “He’s safely locked away in the dungeon of the Obsidian Tower, being guarded by Lady Crepuscula. None of us have to worry about him ever again.”
Some of Rayleigh’s color returned, but so did his look of suspicion. “Then who sent you?”
“No one sent us,” said Suzy. “We’re here to deliver the mail, and to save Trollville from destruction.”
“What?” said Rayleigh. “You’re making less sense with every word. Is Trollville in danger?”
Suzy nodded. “From someone calling himself Mr. Brown. He came to see you a couple of months ago.”
Rayleigh’s face became a pallid mask. “I don’t know any Mr. Brown,” he said in a clipped voice. “Now get out of my workshop.”
“We think he took something of yours, and you’ve been trying to get it back,” said Suzy. “We want to help you, but you have to tell us everything you know about him. If we don’t track him down in the next few hours, he’s going to destroy Trollville.”
“This is a trap!” said Rayleigh, choking on his words. “I knew it! He sent you here, didn’t he?”
“So you do know him!” said Frederick.
“Of course I know him,” snapped Rayleigh. “The feathered cretin stole my greatest work. My masterpiece!” He backed toward a set of shelves. “This is all because I tracked him down to the farm yesterday, isn’t it?”
Suzy glanced at his muddy feet with fresh understanding. Farm mud, she thought.
“I knew I had the right place,” Rayleigh continued. “All the signs pointed to it. But I let those trained yokels of his send me away with a pat on the head and a bottle of milk!” He picked up the tea tray and hurled it at Suzy and Frederick. Suzy jumped clear, but the milk bottle struck Frederick in the chest, propelling him back across the room with a cry, while the fine china smashed to pieces on the floor.
“And now he’s sent you here to do away with me!” said Rayleigh. “Well, I’ll show you. Calvus Rayleigh isn’t going down without a fight.”
“What?” said Suzy. “No, we—” She looked to Frederick for support, but was amazed to see him cradling the milk bottle in both hands.
“I don’t believe it,” he said, looking at it as if he had never seen one before. “It’s impossible!”
Before she could ask him what was wrong, Rayleigh gave a cry of anger, grabbed a mason jar from the shelf, and dashed it to the floor. Suzy just had time to see that it was full of dark gray spellcloud before it shattered to pieces and a storm erupted into the room with an almighty clap of thunder.
She screamed and threw herself to the floor as a bolt of lightning arced past her head.
“Assassins!” Rayleigh cried.
“Suzy?” The thunderclap had brought Frederick back to his senses. “What’s happening?”
She reached up, grabbed his floating form by the ankles, and pulled him down, leaning her weight on him to keep him on the floor. Boiling black clouds filled every inch of the room, and another roar of thunder made her ears sing. She could barely see a thing, but she heard Rayleigh shouting over the noise of the storm.
