Cover

RAVENWOOD

ANDREW PETERS

Dedication

To my wife, Polly, who helped so much with structuring, editing, and creating the world and who has been my constant companion in traveling deeper; to my lovely children, Roz and Asa, who were my first readers; to Eugene, who kept me going when I was ready to give up; to Uli for fighting the good fight; to Rachel Hawes, who gave me so much helpful advice about clothes up in the trees; to Barry, who had faith in me and the work and who took the risk; to the team at Chicken House who backed this to the hilt; and finally to Imogen, my brilliant editor.

“Trees are shrines. He who knows how to speak with them, who knows how to listen to them, experiences truth. They preach no catechism or recipe, they preach original law.”

HERMANN HESSE

1• THE CHASE

Stay on the wood, it’s as it should.

Step off the tree: end of thee.

—Dendran proverb

The forested island of Arborium

October 5, early evening, one week before the Harvest Festival

The arrow flew over his shoulder and thudded straight into a wooden post. Too close! If he hadn’t stumbled out of the way, the shaft would now be buried somewhere near his heart. He imagined the blood blooming like a flower across his shirt, his body tripping over the edge of the branch to fall lifeless to the earth, a mile below.

Ark was exhausted. Sweat coursed down his back, and his calf muscles ached. He whipped his head around: They were only a hundred yards behind. This part of the highway was wide and straight. Not only had the original, huge branch been carved flat, like all the smaller branch roads, but also it had been extended widthways with beams and scaffolding. Now it was twenty feet across at the passing places. At this time of the afternoon, before brush hour, the way was deserted. Ark ran lightly, feeling each knot and dip in the wood.

Somewhere hidden up above, dark clouds squeezed out their downpour, filling the forest with echoing drips. The constant drumming urged him on and Ark ran for his life through a mass of shifting shadows. His plumbing belt was weighing him down. Wrenches against crossbows? Forget it. But there was no time to get rid of it, either. Another arrow whistled past and vanished harmlessly into the leafy green depths.

His pursuer paused, wiping rain from his eyes, taking careful aim for another shot. The escaping boy’s drenched clothes, from the brown leather skullcap and grotty tanned jerkin to the tight britches and worn stockings, showed him up to be just a sewer worker. In fact, his prey resembled one big turdy stain on the treescape. The guard tried to keep up, straining his eyes through the downpour. The boy streaked ahead in his rubber-soled creepers, standard wear this high up. No one wanted to slip off the edge, especially in this weather. As for killing a fourteen-year-old? It wasn’t a problem but the solution.

Straight ahead, the highway ran toward a huge, hollow tree trunk. Ark bolted into the center and hesitated, catching his breath. A bird shrieked in the distance, and a rustling sound echoed around the wood, causing Ark to glance up into the shadows above. The dead tree was a crossroads. Its massive trunk supported the junction with branch lines leading off in three directions through carved archways. He looked toward each in turn. In a dark corner, ancient moss-covered steps led down into the hollow depths. He was desperate, but going earthward? He shuddered even to think of it. Which way?

Ark’s head replayed the day. Just another clogged drain, his boss had said, not wanting to dirty his clean white hands. You can sort it out, Arktorious Malikum. It’s a job. In fact, it’s a “big” job! And, let’s face it, you’re brown already — so sticking your hand in a great fat pile of it won’t make much difference! The man laughed at his own joke. He always did. But this was no laughing matter.

Right in front of him, a red squirrel squatted on the woodway, nibbling at a hazelnut. It stared at Ark briefly before diving down the stairs.

“This way …”

Ark looked around. The voice was so soft he wondered if he was imagining things. Talking squirrels? He was going nutty! Without thinking, Ark followed the animal, darting into the archway to be swallowed by the enveloping blackness. For a moment, he could catch his breath out of sight of the guards. He had to make the most of it.

A snorting sound ahead startled him. Moving slowly toward him out of the gloom was a laundry cart piled high with clean clothing, being pulled by a small mottled brown pony. As the cart passed him, its wooden wheels hit a knot in the deeply carved ruts and the brass harness jangled, sending strange harmonies into the leaves. It meant move out of the way, as these unaccompanied pack ponies didn’t change their pace for anyone.

A gift horse! Ark smiled grimly and sprinted to the back of the cart. He scrambled up the tailgate and dived under the waterproof treepaulin into the carefully sorted mounds. He wriggled under, pulling clean petticoats over him, and crossed his fingers, praying to Diana for safety.

“Where’s the little sliver gone?”

“He was ’ere a second ago….”

The voices were muffled as they drew closer.

“I reckon we nearly got ’im!”

Ark held his breath, waiting for pressed shifts and undergarments to be stripped away. His mother had always warned him about going out alone in the wood, else the ravens could snatch his body and suck out his soul. This was far more dangerous.

“’Ave a look from up there.” The cart shuddered as feet clambered to the top of the laundry pile. The full adult weight of a hulking guard crushed down on Ark, squeezing out the remaining air in his lungs. They’d either hear his ribs cracking or his heart hammering like a woodpecker’s beak.

A phrase from childhood came into Ark’s head:

Hold the feather, grab the weather,
Woe betide me, Lady hide me!

It was a nonsense chant spouted by old crones and repeated with glee in the nursery. But he was happy to believe in anything at this moment.

“Buddy holly!” the guard swore. “Can’t see ’im anywhere! Maybe the slippery twig fooled us into thinking ‘e turned left.”

“Grasp’ll kill us if we don’t find the boy!” hissed the other one. “Let’s split. He can’t ’ave got far….”

The weight on Ark’s chest lifted and the voices faded away. Had the old chant worked? Ark breathed deeply, filling his lungs, and counted to two hundred, even though his legs were itching to take off. Maybe he could stay in the cart and wait until it delivered its load? He was almost lulled by the gentle rocking motion. No! He shook himself. He had heard too much. Grasp would put the word out. As of now, he was dead wood.

First, he had to put some distance between himself and the High Councillor’s thugs. He carefully pulled back a pair of hose stockings and several layers of leather codpieces to make a peephole, trying not to think of where those items of clothing had nestled. He peered out. All clear. Ark slid backward and slipped cautiously off the end of the cart, wishing he had an apple to offer the steadily plodding pony.

“Thanks, old fellow!” he whispered. “I owe you one!” The pony’s blinkered eyes flicked toward him as if in acknowledgment, and the cart moved off, leaving Ark alone on the highway.

He looked warily around at his world with new eyes. All that he’d taken for granted: no longer safe. A humid mist blurred the edges of the huge leaves, each one the size of a fully grown man. Above, below, behind, and in front, branch lines and highways were woven and cantilevered together with rope, scaffolding, and a million wooden nails. Trunks of massive girth, large enough to support the hundreds of houses, businesses, and hostelries carved into the hollow depths, punctuated the sprawling treescape. Ark had always believed that, despite its turbulent history, this vast island of Arborium was the safest place on earth, lifted up and spread out as it was through the canopy of trees, a mile above the dirty ground. Not anymore.

“Oi!” The shout cut sharply into his thoughts. There! Only yards away, one of his pursuers was hurtling straight toward him. The branded emblem on his tabard gave him away: the cruel-beaked hawk of the Councillor’s household. Of course, the guards weren’t that stupid. Wait long enough and every mouse pops out of its hole.

Ark cursed himself as the man lunged and made a grab for his wrist. Ark jumped back and twisted away, but not quickly enough. The man’s grip landed and tightened. Although he was almost as skinny as Ark, his muscles were strong as oak.

“Let me go!” screamed Ark.

“Don’t think so, squit-features.” Viselike fingers squeezed closer, forcing tears of pain from Ark’s eyes. “You’re a month’s bonus, you are!” He smiled menacingly, revealing a set of teeth like rotting fungus, with breath to match.

Ark stopped struggling as cold fury overtook him. What right did they have? His father had always told him he could think his way out of any situation. But what good was thought against brute strength? As his mind tried to focus, pure instinct kicked in — after flight comes fight. It was like watching himself from outside his body … his right hand was still free. In one perfect curve of movement, Ark reached down, slipped the heavy wrench from the plumbing belt, and swung it up and around with all his might.

The guard was expecting a cowering youth. What he got was a well-aimed weapon and a sickening crunch for a punch line. The man’s eyes went wide and he slowly folded to the ground.

Ark didn’t pause. He was off even before the thump of body falling on wood. His pursuer’s scream would have been as good as an alarm bell, and where there was one guard, more were sure to follow. At least, Ark thought, tasting the adrenaline of escape, he’d bought himself some time. But the branch line he was following was long and straight and seemed to keep going forever. He knew that the next turnoff was nearly a quarter of a mile away, and his thin legs were beginning to cramp with the effort of the chase.

He scanned the way ahead and skidded to a sudden halt on the treacherous woodway. His worst fears were already advancing in the distance: another guard, twice the size of the first, footsteps creaking toward Ark. The man’s stiletto was drawn purposefully, its sharp blade shimmering in the rain. Ark could make out a rough scar zigzagging across the man’s shaved head like a bolt of lightning.

Ark spun around. He’d have to double back. How far to the next branch crossing and, even if he got there, where next? He looked over his shoulder and saw that the guard had broken into a run and was shouting and pointing. As he turned again, he saw why. Farther along, the first guard — the one he thought he’d knocked out cold — was already sitting up. Could things get any worse? This time, there was no welcoming crossroads, no alternative route, nothing. Ark was trapped.

The rain soaked into the forest, thickening the mist that now hung in drifting patches. The highway was plunged into shadow and the two guards could hardly make out the figure of the boy, already neatly camouflaged in his stained brown clothes. No matter. Where could he go? They came at him slowly, sure of their prey, sure of the outcome. No need to hurry: It was over.

The boy appeared to kneel down as if praying. Then he stood up, looked over the edge, and took a single step back. Before the men could do anything, the boy leapt from the highway, breaking the great unwritten law of the Dendrans:

Stay on the wood, it’s as it should.
Step off the tree: end of thee.

As the boy flew into space, the lead guard shuddered. To jump willingly, away from all that was known, down to the foul, poisoned earth so far below … it was madness!

They ran as fast as they could through the mist, but it was too late. By the time the guards finally converged on the spot, the boy had vanished. One of them crawled to the edge of the branchway and lifted the safety ropes to peer nervously over the edge. But even though he strained his eyes down and down, all he could spy was the lad’s plumbing belt, caught on an old bit of scaffolding on a dead trunk a hundred feet below.

“Nothing would survive that fall,” the other guard muttered, behind him. From his perch on the branchway’s edge, his partner pointed out the plumbing belt. That was that, then.

After a brief discussion, the older guard cleared his throat and launched a nice fat gob over the edge. Gravity did its job and it fell, just like the boy.

“Good riddance!”

“It’s peeing down. Let’s get out of here.” If the boy was dead, their problems were solved. Even better, their master might just be persuaded to give them a bonus and a barrel of beer.

“How’s your head, Alnus?”

“Do you really care?” The smaller guard clenched his fists.

“Knocked out by a mere kid! That takes talent, that does.” There was a nasty glint in Salix’s eye. He was thoroughly enjoying himself.

“Yeah, well at least I caught him in the first place!” They’d be ribbing him for months now.

“… and let ’im go! You must have the thickest skull in the business, plank-for-brains!”

“Oh, cheers, Salix. I appreciate your concern….” He could feel the bump already rising. Why couldn’t he have been the one to push the boy off? The stupid squit had deprived him of revenge. Still, at least it was taken care of now, and once they were dried and warmed up, a good night of drinking might just take care of the throbbing between his ears.

2• ONE HOUR EARLIER

Petronio was desperate for a crafty smoke. At the School For Surgeons, the masters had of course lectured on and on about the dangers of tobacco. Ha! What did a bunch of crusty, dried-up old men know? After all, he thought impatiently, he and his fellow students were still being asked to dissect pathetic little squirrels. For Diana’s sake! When would the masters give him a chance to cut open a real corpse? However, now that lessons were over for the day, he was free to ignore the dire warnings and indulge in a little petty pilfering to satisfy his craving. He stopped to listen carefully before slowly opening the door to his father’s study. Councillor Grasp was busy entertaining downstairs and there was no one else around.

Petronio’s gaze wandered around the room. The desk was neat and tidy, with folders stacked in a perfect line against the right-hand edge. Tapestries covered the walls, depicting his father single-handedly defeating pine wolves and whole packs of wild boar. A smile dimpled Petronio’s face as he stroked his fake-beard extensions. The closest his father had ever got to killing a wild animal was spearing it … with his fork as it lay on a gold plate handed to him by a crawling servant. Still, it impressed those who came to do business with the Councillor, and “business” was what gave them this luxury house in the very crown of the tree.

Large floor-to-ceiling windows kept out the driving rain. Beyond lay a balcony where visitors could stand on pleasant days and be suitably awed as they looked out across the treetops, all the way to Barkingham Palace, the residence of King Quercus ten or so miles away. Why did the people of Arborium still love their ruler? Giving out coins to the poor on Diana’s Day was hardly going to change the whole wide-wood. Petronio’s father was right about how out of touch the King was.

But Petronio wasn’t interested in the views, political or otherwise. He moved soundlessly toward the desk, knelt, and slid open the bottom drawer. He lifted out a carved wooden box. Surely his father wouldn’t miss just one?

As he stood up, he caught his reflection in the mirror. A well-built young man stared back at him. Others might have snickered fatso behind his back, but he carried the weight with ease. His curly black hair was oiled and perfumed, his hazel eyes filled with false friendliness. A decent chunk of shiny hematite mined by the Rootshooters from the depths of the trees dangled from his left ear. White was the latest rage in court, but this meant his shift had to be repeatedly dipped in urine and left to bleach in the sun. The price was a slight whiff, but the dazzling result was worth it, topped off by a decent sun yellow silk doublet, puffed-up red britches held down by cross-garters wrapped around his knees, the whole lot finished off with an oversize codpiece. The mirror approved him. It was a good look.

A few seconds later, he was out of the study and slipping down the servants’ corridor toward the utility room. Once inside, he breathed a sigh of relief. The cleaners had been and gone. He was safe.

The cramped, enclosed room was a jumble of gas pipes, waste chutes, and laundry tubs. It was nearly dark, apart from the flare of the single gas lamp. He carefully sidestepped a collection of dustpans and mops and made his way to the central flue, lighting the cigar with a match as he went. He swung open a small vent door and dragged deep, savoring the smooth taste, before leaning forward to blow the smoke right into the flue cylinder, letting the smoke wind its way up and out of the chimney system high above.

There was a sudden sound of footsteps. Fast and purposeful, they stopped abruptly on the other side of the door.

“Woodrot!” Petronio stubbed out the cigar and threw it down the flue. What a waste! As the door to the utility room swung inward and light spilled in, he stepped quickly into the far corner behind a pile of boxes and drew back.

Whoever it was who’d just entered didn’t seem to notice the smoky scent. The intruder was humming a tune, badly. The hum came to a stop, followed by a moment’s silence and then clanking noises accompanied by an interesting variety of muttered swear words.

A disgusting and all too familiar smell of sewage slowly filled the room. There was more muttering followed by a sigh and “Gotcha!”

Of course! Petronio’s father had been complaining about the drains for weeks. Being rich made no difference — plumbers were always booked up. However, it appeared that one of their species had finally bothered to turn up. Bad timing, nothing more. Petronio thought about stepping out and startling the worker. It would serve him right for spoiling his smoke. But he wondered what a lowly plumber would make of the High Councillor’s son lurking in the utility room. No, that wouldn’t do at all.

He leaned back and nearly collapsed against the boxes when the unmistakable voice of his father suddenly echoed around the room. What the holly was his father doing in the utility room, talking to someone up to their elbows in the brown and nasty?

“We must move cautiously. Quercus is old, but not stupid.” The voice sounded muffled and slightly distorted.

Petronio was confused. Only one person had come into the utility room.

Another voice, sharper and more feminine, answered. “We? Do not presume to speak of us, Councillor!”

“Naturally, my lady. A slip of the tongue. I beg you, accept my apologies….”

Petronio forced himself to breathe slowly as he twigged the truth. No wonder the speakers sounded odd: They were distant. The plumber must have opened up one of the air-conditioning pipes and the voices were being carried up from the vent in the drawing room downstairs.

The woman continued as if his father hadn’t even spoken. Petronio could detect a strange accent, her pronunciation of the Dendran language sounding stilted and formal.

“We pay you for information. As I have explained, the Empire of Maw is running out of space and raw materials. It is amazing to us that your puny little forest kingdom has managed to deflect all inquiry and communication for thousands of years: Arborium is truly the last potential frontier. The gas your trees exude to deter unwanted visitors was a clever evolutionary trick.”

“Yes,” mused Grasp’s voice. “Nature is rather ingenious. However, as you are standing here, I presume that your empire’s science has afforded you some protection?”

There was no answer. Petronio wondered if the woman was nodding or ignoring his father. And who the bark was she?

Councillor Grasp filled the silence. “We keep ourselves to ourselves. But I fervently believe that the time will soon be right for our little country to serve a greater need. My lady, I stand at your service.”

The sound of a chair being scraped back along the floor rose up the air shaft.

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

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