“Tempo, gentlemen! Tempo!”
“This . . . is . . . crazy . . . ,” Esmeralda intoned, shaking her head.
“It is a trifle disorganized,” Trundle agreed. “Hopper was right—at this rate, the place will never get finished.”
“There goes Sheila again!” came a voice from above, as a stoat fell screaming from a high gallery. She was only saved from serious injury because she landed on a big pile of curtains. Wiping her forehead and puffing out her cheeks, she scrambled off the heap and raced to a trembling ladder and began to climb again.
“Madness,” said Esmeralda. “Utter madness.”
“There’s Jack,” said Trundle, pointing to the orchestra pit, where their friend sat among many others, some albino, some not, peering at an open music score and sawing away at his rebec with his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth.
“He seems to be having fun,” commented Esmeralda. “But those are the fellows we want to meet!” She pointed to the stage. There was a hole in the floorboards there, through which clanking and clonking and spouts of steam were rising. And standing at the front of the hole was Count Leopold, who was looming in a gangly way over a small, stout, important-looking steam mole in a floor-length black leather coat buttoned up tight to the collar.
“That must be Alphonse Burrows,” said Esmeralda, pulling Trundle aside as a contingent of Hernswick Hounds went by at the trot, carrying a roll of carpet at shoulder height. They chanted in rhythm to their stamping feet.
“We don’t know but we’ve been told—
This carpet needs to be unrolled.
We’ll work when the commander calls
And lay this carpet in the stalls.”
Trundle winced as the dogs crashed into Hopper’s carpet-layers and a serious argument broke out. It ended when Sheila the shrieking stoat came plummeting down from the gallery again and bounced off the carpet roll.
“Let’s go see what Moley and the Count are talking about,” suggested Esmeralda as the reckless stoat raced by on her way back to the ladder again.
Skirting all the mayhem, Esmeralda and Trundle made their way up to the side of the stage. They stood half hidden in the wings, close enough to hear the two animals speaking.
“So far you have fallen three months behind schedule!” Alphonse Burrows was complaining, tapping at the blueprint spread out in front of them. “Our contract was for the maintenance of your steam organ, Count, not to mention the construction of a steam engine under your stage and the loan of a steam tug. We cannot make a return on our investment until work on this edifice is complete and the opera is ready to perform.”
“Progress we are making!” insisted the count. “See you all the work that going on is!”
“Work?” grunted Alphonse Burrows. “All I see is uncoordinated muddle and confusion, Count. The opera house should have been completed by now. And what of your grand opera? You promised me a finished score last week, but so far I have seen nothing and heard only dreadful caterwauling from your orchestra!”
“Caterwauling?” gasped the Count. “I’ll you have know—”
But whatever he had been planning to say next was cut short when a large chunk of freshly painted scenery came crashing down, inches away from where the two animals were standing.
“What going on here is?” bellowed the count, hammering his stick down on the stage and glaring wrathfully around him. “Let us some organization here have!”
Animals invaded the stage from all directions, tripping over one another and occasionally plunging into the hole as they fought to try and move the fallen scenery.
“Ahem!” A growly voice sounded from close behind Trundle and Esmeralda. They turned and saw the commander standing in the shadows at their backs. He moved away, gesticulating for them to follow. “Can’t be too careful,” he whispered loudly from the corner of his mouth. “Spies everywhere. Must keep the eyes peeled. Not a word. Keep close. Top secret!”
They came to a flight of steep wooden steps. The commander mounted the steps, moving ponderously and slowly, and puffing and blowing a great deal. Averting their eyes, Esmeralda and Trundle climbed up behind his rotund and tightly trousered rear end.
Up and up they went, high into the dusty and echoing vault above the stage, following narrow gantries and climbing tottering ladders until they were among the hanging and swinging scenery.
At last the commander pushed up through a trapdoor, and they found themselves directly under the opera house dome.
It was a few moments before the commander was in a state to do any more than sit down and suck in air and mop his face with a khaki handkerchief.
“Well I never,” said Esmeralda. “Now that is something!”
Trundle had to agree that she was right. Almost the whole of the space under the dome was taken up by a fully rigged windship.
“How did you get it up here?” gasped Trundle.
“Been working on it for months,” gasped the commander. “My hounds have been carrying it up in small pieces. Top secret! Hush-hush! All done undercover. Sound of construction drowned out by the noise from down below.” He seemed to have gotten his breath back now. He stood up, pocketing his handkerchief, and marched Trundle and Esmeralda proudly around the windship.
“Very nearly finished,” he announced. “Then, all those workers who are with us will be let aboard in dark of night—and we’ll sail out of here before the count and his followers can do a thing to stop us!” His eyes gleamed. “What do you say to that, eh? Impressive, or what? What?”
“I have two questions for you,” said Esmeralda. She pointed to the mainmast. “The powerstone basket is empty,” she said. “How do you plan to set sail with no powerstone aboard? And question number two—how are you going to get it out of here? The dome is solid—there’s no way through!”
The commander frowned deeply at her. “Harrumph.” He coughed. “That’s all in hand, young lady. All information is given on a need-to-know basis, and you don’t need to know, don’t you know.”
“No, I don’t know,” said Esmeralda. “That’s the whole point. I’d like to know.” She glanced at Trundle. “Because right now, your great escape plan looks like a total non-starter!”
“Non-starter?” exploded the commander, his face thunderous. “I say! Hold on there, young lady! I’m not used to being spoken to like that. Slip of a girl! Comes up here! Making comments to undermine morale!” His face was by now poppy red. “Never heard the like! Disgraceful! I’d court-martial you if you were one of my chaps! Dashed malcontent!”
“I’m sure she didn’t mean to suggest you don’t know what you’re doing,” Trundle said, trying to defuse the situation before the commander blew a gasket. “It’s . . . er . . . it’s a very nice windship indeed.” He hooked a paw under Esmeralda’s arm. “Come along, Es, we’ve got work to do. Let’s leave the nice commander alone with his lovely windship.”
“Yes, but . . .”
Trundle didn’t give Esmeralda the chance to annoy the commander even further. He pushed her through the trapdoor and followed her down the ladder.
“It’s a stupid plan,” Esmeralda said, as they climbed back down to the stage. “Where are they going to get a powerstone from? And even if they manage that, and somehow get through a solid wooden dome without anyone noticing, there’s still the winds to deal with. How are they going to get past them in one piece?”
“I have no idea.” Trundle sighed. “But there’s no need to antagonize him!”
“Excuse me, but there’s every need!” grumbled Esmeralda. “He’s a total loony and a complete waste of our time!” She paused at the head of the final steep stairway to the stage. “Listen, my lad,” she said. “It’s up to you and me and Jack to get ourselves out of here.”
“How?” Trundle asked mildly.
“I don’t know. Maybe we can convince the steam moles to help us after all. Come on, Trun, we need to go and talk to Jack.” She winked at him as she began to climb down the steps. “To
p secret, you know! Maximum security! Mum’s the word!”
Chuckling to himself at her perfect imitation of the commander, Trundle followed her down into the unending chaos of the opera house.
As they came down to ground level again, they heard a piercing shriek and saw Sheila go plummeting by into the orchestra pit. There was an odd booomoiiinnnggg sound, rather like a stoat hitting a drum. Sheila rose up again, her arms and legs flapping. She lost momentum and fell, accompanied this time by the sound of a drum skin tearing apart.
“My drum!” someone yelled. “Get her out of it!”
“Gurrrgh . . . urrrgh . . . wurrgh . . .” Sheila gurgled as several pairs of helpful hands lifted her out of the broken drum and carted her off while the drummer sat by, his face in his paws, sobbing quietly to himself.
Trundle and Esmeralda made their way down to the side of the orchestra pit. Jack was there, the musical score spread out across his knees. He was perusing it with a furrowed brow while adding some rosin to the bow of his rebec.
His face cleared as he saw his friends approaching. “My, but this is good larks!” he said with a grin. “It’s total mayhem, of course, and I can’t make head nor tail of the opera the count has written. But it’s such a treat to be among other musicians—I’ve really missed that, you know.”
“Well, I’m glad someone is enjoying himself,” said Esmeralda. “But there’s still the Crown of Wood to be found, Jack! We can’t stay here forever. I know we’ve outrun Aunt Millie and the pirates for now, but they’re never going to give up looking for us. I’m sorry if I’m spoiling your fun, but we need to get out of this place as soon as possible.”
“I agree,” said Jack, unperturbed by Esmeralda’s tone. “We were told to seek for the crown in Hammerland, were we not?”
“We were,” agreed Trundle.
“Well, just take a guess where the first performance of the count’s opera is due to take place?” Jack’s grin stretched even wider. “I’ll give you a clue. It begins with an H and ends in “ammerland”!”
Esmeralda gaped at him. “Truly?” she gasped.
“Absolutely!” nodded Jack. “First stop, Hammerland.”
Esmeralda gave Trundle a slap on the back. “Didn’t I tell you not to lose heart, Trun, my lad?” she declared, although so far as Trundle could remember she had said no such thing. “I knew the Fates wouldn’t let us down!”
“So, if we stay with the opera house, we’ll get taken to Hammerland,” said Trundle. “That’s marvelous . . . if the place ever gets finished, that is.”
“Hmm, good point,” said Esmeralda. “Someone needs to take this lunacy in hand, and quickly, too!” She stared around herself, rolling up her sleeves. “Us Roamanys have been putting on shows and erecting big tops for five hundred years!” she announced. “I’ll show ’em how to get organized.” She fixed a determined eye on a crowd of goats failing to raise a timber beam. “And I’ll start with that useless bunch!”
Trundle and Jack watched as she marched over to the fumbling creatures and started shouting orders. Within a few moments, she had sorted them into separate gangs, and it was not long before they had completed their task.
All around the auditorium, other animals were watching, and the moment the beam was slotted into place, a great cheer went up.
Esmeralda dusted her paws together and headed for the next bunch of workers.
Again, it was only a few minutes before order emerged from chaos, and another task was completed to general cheering and applause.
“Us next!” called other gangs. “Do us next!”
“She’s astounding,” breathed Jack.
“Isn’t she, though?” said Trundle.
“It looks like the count thinks so, too,” Jack added, pointing to the stage.
Count Leopold was staring at her, his monocle screwed tight into his eye. “Who is that woman?” he called.
Trundle was quick to scramble up onto the stage. “She’s my friend Esmeralda,” he told the count. “Scary, isn’t she?”
“Totally on the contraryness!” declared the count. “She is wonderful! I appoint her my works manager as.” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Make so carry on, Ermintruda!”
“It’s Esmeralda, mate!” she shouted back. “And don’t you worry—I’ve got everything under control.”
“Glorious! Truly magnificent!” said the count. He peered down at Trundle. “And what can you for me do, my little spiky friend?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m not really sure,” Trundle stammered, feeling rather queasy under those strange red eyes. “I know all about lamplighting and . . . er . . . I’m a dab hand at cabbage soufflé . . . and . . . um . . . I do enjoy a good book . . . but . . .”
“Ahh! A literary gentleman!” boomed the count. “Exactly you are the person who my papers a little organize can.”
“Papers?” gasped Trundle. “Umm . . . what papers?”
“With me come!” With a sweep of his great cloak, the count led Trundle off the stage, poor Trundle needing to trot to keep up with the lion’s long strides.
Off into the wings they went, and through a door and up a staircase, and through another door and along a corridor and this time up a spiral staircase. Through small windows dotted along the winding stair, Trundle could see that they were rising high above the swampy ground. He guessed they were in one of the towers.
The count came to a doorway at the top of the stairs. He flung it open and led Trundle inside.
Trundle found himself in a smallish circular room with curved windows and a pointed wooden ceiling. Filling the middle of the room and groaning under the weight of a vast disorderly mass of ink-stained papers was a solitary desk.
“This is my composing chamber,” said the count. “Here are the words of my opera written—many words!” He put a great paw on Trundle’s shoulder and guided him to a chair. “Sit!” he said. Trundle sat. “All that you to do I wish is the words of my opera put into the correct order,” said the Count. “Such things to me are not of interest, but the people who to watch and to listen come, like a story in the right order told.”
Trundle stared aghast at the towering piles of scribbled-on paper. There were even several dozen sheets strewn across the floor.
“I will have to you later on some food brought,” said the count. “Until the task completed is, can you here sleep.” He pointed to a straw mattress that lay against the wall. “It is most comfortable. You will sleep fast like a stone, yes?”
Before Trundle could say a word, the count swept to the door again. “A call you me give when you finished are!” he said. “I will you in lock so not disturbed will be.”
The door slammed at the count’s back. A key turned with a sharp click. There were the sounds of retreating feet on the stairs. Then silence. Trundle blinked at the door, and then at the mountain of papers.
“Oh, my!” he gasped, taking a sheaf of densely written pages from the pile. A small avalanche of paper slid forward, burying him to the knees.
“Oh, no!”
He blinked again at the closed and locked door.
With a deep, deep sigh, he brought the first sheet of paper up to his snout and began to read.
All through that day, Trundle worked like fury among the count’s papers. From below he heard the occasional thump or scream or thud or clank, and every now and then a high-pitched whistling noise that he assumed was something to do with the steam engine under the stage.
Twice, a silent albino brought him food and drink. Trundle was too nervous to say anything, and too busy with the papers to do more than take the odd bite and sip while the disorderly mass of the Count’s opera began to make some kind of sense.
Night came, and Trundle lit candles and set them all around the floor.
“Twilight of the Dogs,” he muttered as he placed a final sheet of paper on the first of seventeen stacks. “Funny kind of name for an opera.” He smiled as he regarded the fruits of his labors. “Not that I know anything about o
peras,” he added. “But at least I’ve got it all in the right order, although whether an opera should have quite this many parts is another matter!”
Trundle was suspicious that if the count’s entire story was performed, Twilight of the Dogs would last for several days!
Feeling a little drowsy, Trundle went to one of the small windows and pushed it open. He leaned out into the cool, murky night, breathing in the mildly stinky air, hoping it would keep him awake long enough to sort the few final papers still on the desk.
Fingers of mist coiled along the ground, sneaking between the dormitory hulks that lay below the tower. He looked up—and was surprised that from here he could see the faint glimmering of starlight through the clouds. The sight cheered him, reminding him of other, nicer lands out beyond the whirling winds.
There was a crash at his back, and a hearty voice called out.
“How’s it going, Trun, my lad?” called Esmeralda. “I’ve brought you some cocoa.”
Trundle stared as a draft of air snatched up the topmost layers of his seventeen neat piles and sent the pages swirling around the room like a startled flock of white birds.
“Arrgh!” he screamed. “Shut the door! Shut the door!”
“Oh! Okay. I’ll leave you to it, then.” Esmeralda placed the mug of cocoa on the desk, then beat a hasty retreat, slamming the door behind her.
The papers settled gently to the floor.
Trundle slumped down at the desk and banged his head a few times on the blotter.
Several weary hours later, Trundle placed the final sheet of paper on the final pile again. He glared at the door, daring it to open again. It didn’t.
He was quite worn out. The small straw mattress looked very inviting. But first he tottered over to the window to close it and shut out the eerie Sargasso Skies night. He took a last glance over the sea of wreckage; it looked sad and gloomy in the weak starlight.