Read Online Freeglader by Paul Stewart, Chris Riddell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paul Stewart, Chris Riddell
Tags: Ages 10 and up
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a fungus. Its influence increased. Why, without the success of the Foundry Glades, the Goblin Nations themselves would never have grown to their present size. And what's more, whether they liked it or not, they were now totally dependent on the knowledge and skills of Hemuel Spume's Furnace Masters.
Yes, times were good, Hemuel Spume had to admit, but you couldn't stand still. Oh, no, not for a moment. Once you did that, you became complacent.
After all, look what had happened to the shrykes at the Eastern Roost. They'd sat back and grown rich on theUndertown trade, putting all their eggs in one basket, so to speak. And now, if the reports he had received from his business partner were to be believed, they, along with Undertown itself, were finished.
As Foundry Master, Hemuel Spume wasn't about to stand still. He had great plans, monumental plans; plans that would change the face of the Deepwoods settlements for ever. Territory, riches, power: he wanted it all.
He turned and surveyed the ordered rows of lead-wood desks stretching off before him down the dark hall. At each one, hunched over and spattered with black ink, sat a scribe. There were mobgnomes, lugtrolls and all manner of goblins, all furiously scribbling, accounting for firewood quotas, ore extraction, smelting rates and workshop output. The air buzzed and hissed with a sound like mating woodcrickets as five hundred quills scratched and scraped at five hundred pieces of coarse parchment.
The sound was punctuated by the dry rasping cough peculiar to the Foundry Glades. Foundry-croup, it was called. Most who breathed the filthy, smoke-filled air suffered from it. The scribes, up in the Counting House gallery, got off relatively lightly – unlike the slaves who worked the foundries. Two years they lasted on average, before their lungs gave out.
Hemuel Spume made it a habit always to wear a gauze mask when he inspected the foundries. At other times, he kept to the high towers and upper halls of the palace, where the air was considerably cleaner. Nonetheless, even he was prone to the occasional coughing fit. It simply couldn't be helped. Feeling a tell-tale tickle in his throat, he reached into a pocket of his gown and pulled out a small bottle, which he unstoppered with his spidery fingers and put to his lips.
As the pungent syrup slipped over his tongue and down his throat, the tickling stopped. He returned the stoppered bottle to his pocket, removed his glasses and polished them fussily with a large handkerchief.
Thank goodness for Deepwoods medicines and the gabtrolls who dispensed them, he thought. He, personally, had ten of the stalk-eyed apothecaresses at his sole disposal. How his sickly business partner would enjoy that, he mused.
‘Excuse me, Foundry Master, sir?’ came a tentative voice.
Spume looked up, replacing his glasses as he did so. An aged clerk, Pinwick Krum, stood before him, an anxious frown on his pinched face.
‘Yes, yes,’ Spume snapped impatiently. ‘What do you want?’
‘The latest consignment of workers has arrived from Hemtuft Battleaxe,’ Krum replied.
Spume's eyes narrowed. ‘Yes?’
‘I'm afraid there's only five dozen of them,’ came the reply. ‘And they're all lop-ear goblins…’
‘Lop-ears!’ Spume cried, his face reddening and a coughing fit threatening to explode at any moment. ‘How many times do I have to tell him? It's hammer-heads we need, or flat-heads – goblins with a bit of life in them – why, those lop-ears are nothing but slack-jawed plough-pushers!’ He poked his clerk in the chest. ‘Battleaxe is not to be paid until we've tried them out. If they're no good, he doesn't get a single trading-credit, do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Krum, his voice laden with weariness.
Hemuel Spume turned, rubbed a hand over the sooty window and peered out into the darkness. Below him were five chained columns of abject goblins, their heads bowed and bare feet shuffling, being led by
Yes, times were good, Hemuel Spume had to admit, but you couldn't stand still. Oh, no, not for a moment. Once you did that, you became complacent.
After all, look what had happened to the shrykes at the Eastern Roost. They'd sat back and grown rich on theUndertown trade, putting all their eggs in one basket, so to speak. And now, if the reports he had received from his business partner were to be believed, they, along with Undertown itself, were finished.
As Foundry Master, Hemuel Spume wasn't about to stand still. He had great plans, monumental plans; plans that would change the face of the Deepwoods settlements for ever. Territory, riches, power: he wanted it all.
He turned and surveyed the ordered rows of lead-wood desks stretching off before him down the dark hall. At each one, hunched over and spattered with black ink, sat a scribe. There were mobgnomes, lugtrolls and all manner of goblins, all furiously scribbling, accounting for firewood quotas, ore extraction, smelting rates and workshop output. The air buzzed and hissed with a sound like mating woodcrickets as five hundred quills scratched and scraped at five hundred pieces of coarse parchment.
The sound was punctuated by the dry rasping cough peculiar to the Foundry Glades. Foundry-croup, it was called. Most who breathed the filthy, smoke-filled air suffered from it. The scribes, up in the Counting House gallery, got off relatively lightly – unlike the slaves who worked the foundries. Two years they lasted on average, before their lungs gave out.
Hemuel Spume made it a habit always to wear a gauze mask when he inspected the foundries. At other times, he kept to the high towers and upper halls of the palace, where the air was considerably cleaner. Nonetheless, even he was prone to the occasional coughing fit. It simply couldn't be helped. Feeling a tell-tale tickle in his throat, he reached into a pocket of his gown and pulled out a small bottle, which he unstoppered with his spidery fingers and put to his lips.
As the pungent syrup slipped over his tongue and down his throat, the tickling stopped. He returned the stoppered bottle to his pocket, removed his glasses and polished them fussily with a large handkerchief.
Thank goodness for Deepwoods medicines and the gabtrolls who dispensed them, he thought. He, personally, had ten of the stalk-eyed apothecaresses at his sole disposal. How his sickly business partner would enjoy that, he mused.
‘Excuse me, Foundry Master, sir?’ came a tentative voice.
Spume looked up, replacing his glasses as he did so. An aged clerk, Pinwick Krum, stood before him, an anxious frown on his pinched face.
‘Yes, yes,’ Spume snapped impatiently. ‘What do you want?’
‘The latest consignment of workers has arrived from Hemtuft Battleaxe,’ Krum replied.
Spume's eyes narrowed. ‘Yes?’
‘I'm afraid there's only five dozen of them,’ came the reply. ‘And they're all lop-ear goblins…’
‘Lop-ears!’ Spume cried, his face reddening and a coughing fit threatening to explode at any moment. ‘How many times do I have to tell him? It's hammer-heads we need, or flat-heads – goblins with a bit of life in them – why, those lop-ears are nothing but slack-jawed plough-pushers!’ He poked his clerk in the chest. ‘Battleaxe is not to be paid until we've tried them out. If they're no good, he doesn't get a single trading-credit, do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Krum, his voice laden with weariness.
Hemuel Spume turned, rubbed a hand over the sooty window and peered out into the darkness. Below him were five chained columns of abject goblins, their heads bowed and bare feet shuffling, being led by
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