Chapter One. Spiracle, Blinker, Gusset and Flob As Mel stirred in his sleep and hovered on the lip of wakefulness he became aware of an unusual sound in the dormitory. It sounded like a whisper. Curious, he opened his eyes and nearly jumped out of his skin. A surprised gasp escaped his throat. There, at the foot of his bed, stood six figures. Two of them he recognised. His best friends and fellow apprentices, Ludo and Wren, shivering in their nightclothes, their eyes wide with alarm, were bound and gagged and being held fast by an enormous creature covered in shaggy, ginger fur. A pair of miniature, flesh-covered horn- buds protruded from his bald head and a number of small, beaked creatures poked their heads out from his tangled pelt. Mel knew at once that the being was a figment, an inhabitant of the Mirrorscape – the strange and secret world that exists inside paintings. But what was he doing here, in the real world? Standing to his left, his companion was no less weird. He was tall and skinny and dressed from head to foot in a heavy and somewhat rusty suit of armour, covered with a multitude of small, latched doors of all shapes and sizes. The third figment was very short and stocky. He also wore armour but it was several sizes too large. His pudding- basin helmet was so big it covered his face and a pair of red, glowing eyes peeped out from a slit in the front. On top of this helmet was mounted a shuttered miner’s lantern that cast the only light in the dark dormitory. He held a peacock feather quill in one hand, poised to write in the big ledger he held open in the other. The final figure was a grotesquely fat figment with skin as white as drawing paper. He was dressed only in a leather loincloth and gladiator sandals that were bound to his substantial legs with crisscross thongs. He was covered in hundreds of coloured tattoos which, to Mel’s amazement, moved about of their own accord like animated drawings. Before Mel could promote his initial gasp to the rank of full-blown scream, the figment leant his shaven and much illustrated head forward over him and quickly clamped a blubbery hand over the youngster’s mouth. He wheezed into Mel’s ear, ‘Hello, my name is Gusset. I’ll be your abductor this night.’ As Mel watched, a tattoo of a faun ambled over the man’s ample chest and plucked a tattooed poppy from the bouquet depicted near his armpit. The faun held the scarlet flower in front of its face and blew a cloud of pollen that enveloped Mel. The poppy-dust made his eyes heavy and, in an instant, he was asleep once more. The last thing he saw was the short figment make a tick in his ledger. *** When Mel came to he knew at once he was back in the Mirrorscape. While he had been unconscious he had also been bound and gagged. He was lying on a drawbridge suspended from huge chains with links as thick as his forearm. Mel sat up alongside Wren and Ludo and together the friends gazed around amazed at the gargantuan space. There were other drawbridges – some raised, some lowered – linking the many walkways that spanned the canyon-deep void in the centre of the building. High above, a thunder storm brewed amid roiling clouds. Lightning flashed and by its spectral light Mel saw colossal statues of muscular men in chains on the far side of the void. The drawbridge trembled as the thunder rolled. A steadier illumination was supplied by a great many fires, which burned inside giant spherical cages that hung on impossibly long chains. They swayed like lazy pendulums in the updraft from the depths. Doors and windows with fat, iron bars peppered most of the vertical surfaces and massive, circular grilles spewed out billows of steam. Far, far off echoed the wail of desperate cries. ‘Ah, you’re awake,’ said the short figment, obviously the boss. ‘I expect you’re wondering what’s happened and where you are.’ As one, Mel, Ludo and Wren nodded, making muffled yes please sounds inside their gags. ‘We are Messrs Spiracle, Blinker, Gusset and Flob.’ He used the eyed, feathery end of his long quill to identify himself, the armoured figment, the tattooed and the hairy ones in turn. ‘Incorporated bounty hunters. No bounty too small, no fugitive too large. Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back. As to where you are, my young friends, well, you’re in Deep Trouble, the most secure prison in the Mirrorscape.’ He made a sweeping gesture with his quill indicating the interior. ‘And now, without further ado, we must hand you over to Locktight, your personal gaoler.’ Spiracle half-bowed. ‘It’s been a pleasure apprehending you.’ Blinker threw a bundle of clothes into the air over the friends’ heads as if it were a game of piggy-in-the-middle. Mel turned and standing behind him was yet another figment who expertly caught the bundle. ‘If you’d care to follow me, I’ll show you to your cell.’ The friends had no choice as Locktight tossed a lasso ensnaring the three of them and set off across the drawbridge towing them behind. The gaoler was a large, muscular figment who wore an executioner’s mask made from riveted iron that covered the top half of his head. An abundant and greasy black beard titivated with small bows of coloured ribbon protruded from beneath it. His belted black jerkin was covered in dozens of bunches of keys that hung from hooks. As he moved he sounded like an out of tune wind-chime. Locktight led them even further into Deep Trouble, occasionally stopping to operate large star-wheel winches that raised and lowered the drawbridges. Eventually they came to a thick, iron-bound door with a small, barred window set into it. Locktight selected a bunch of keys, opened the door and pulled the friends inside. ‘This will be your accommodation until the trial. The straw is changed every two years – whether it needs to be or not – and a bowl of gruel is served on alternate Sundays.’ He tossed their clothes on the floor. Before Locktight untied the children and removed their gags he quickly injected all three of them with a rusty syringe. ‘Ouch! Why’d you do that?’ said Ludo, rubbing his arm. ‘Prison regulations,’ explained Locktight with a malicious grin. ‘Humans get ill if they remain in the Mirrorscape for too long. And you’re going to be here a long, long time. The shots will prevent you feeling sick.’ So saying, he left, slamming the door behind him. The key was turned loudly in the lock. ‘Well,’ said Wren. ‘We all know where we are.’ ‘We’re in Deep Trouble,’ said Mel. ‘That’s where.’ ‘You can say that again,’ added Ludo. ‘And we all know what we are.’ ‘Prisoners,’ said the boys miserably. ‘But what we don’t know is why we’re here,’ said Wren. ‘It must be serious,’ said Mel. ‘Locktight said something about a trial.’ ‘And that, dear clients,’ came a booming voice from the little window in the door, ‘I believe you’ll find, is my domain.’ The door was unlocked and swung open. Standing there was another figment. He was tall and dressed in a voluminous black robe with long white bands at his stiff collar like an inverted letter V. Above his haughty face with its beak-like nose and extra bushy eyebrows, resided a pale legal wig. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. Mithras Periwinkle, barrister at law, at your service. And this,’ he gestured behind him, ‘is Shrug, my articled clerk.’ A wobbly stack of casebooks with a pair of feet beneath it tottered into the cell and lowered itself to the floor. From behind it emerged yet another figment. He was small and dressed in a black frock coat and had a face that looked like it belonged to a hundred year-old baby with a permanently runny nose. ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.’ He sniffed loudly. ‘Now,’ said Mithras Periwinkle rubbing his hands. ‘Time is short. We must begin to prepare your defence. Shrug? If you’d be so kind.’ Shrug got down on his hands and knees and the barrister sat on him as if he were a stool. ‘Why do we need a defence?’ said Mel. ‘We haven’t done anything wrong.’ Mithras Periwinkle smiled the smile of a man who had heard this a thousand times before. ‘That’s the spirit.’ ‘No. Really we haven’t,’ said Wren. Ludo nodded vigorously. ‘It matters not. Innocent or guilty, I will defend you to the limit of my considerable abilities. The case of Mirrorscape versus Polymath seemed hopeless until Mithras Periwinkle was engaged. Today Mirthless Polymath is fruitfully engaged in running a very profitable concession in second-hand pedantry in Pennyweight Market. All thanks to yours truly. Shrug? The indictment, if you’d be so kind.’ There came a muffled sniff and Shrug waved a document from beneath the lawyer. Mel was amazed that the tiny, feeble-looking clerk did not collapse under the other’s bulk. Mithras Periwinkle took the papers and untied the pink ribbon securing them. He cleared his throat and read out the charge. ‘In short, it is alleged that Orange 22403101, alias Melkin Womper, together with Orange 22403102, alias Ludolf Cleef, and Indigo 29990313, alias Wren Delf, employees of the Monolith in the city of Anywhere in the land of Nowhere, did wantonly disregard the Terms and Conditions of that said organisation and that each did separately and unilaterally terminate their employment in strict contravention of the aforesaid Terms and Conditions.’ From beneath the barrister Shrug said, ‘You did a bunk.’ ‘Precisely.’ Mithras Periwinkle looked up at the trio. ‘Well? Is this true?’ ‘ Sort of ,’ said Mel. ‘“Sort of”, dear client, is not a plea that the court will recognise. If I am to effect an acquittal, you must be frank with me.’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow as thick as a hairy caterpillar. ‘Well, yes, then,’ said Wren. ‘But–’ ‘In my considerable experience,’ interrupted the barrister, ‘there’s always a “but”. “But” is the mortar between the bricks. “But” is the jelly in the pork pie, the jam in the sandwich, the fluff in the belly button of any given case. “But” is the difference between spending the rest of your lives in Deep Trouble and walking free. In short, “but” will form the heart, the linchpin, nay, the very crux of our defence. Now, if you’d be so kind as to elucidate your particular “but”.’ ‘He means “tell him what happened”,’ sniffed Shrug. ‘We only took the jobs in the Monolith so that we could look for Wren,’ said Ludo. ‘She was being forced to marry a monster called the Morg,’ continued Mel. ‘We had to find her and help her escape.’ ‘Actually, it was me who found them ,’ said Wren. ‘And then we all left so that...’ Her voice trailed off. ‘If you look at it that way then we did ignore the Terms and Conditions.’ Mithras Periwinkle pursed his lips. ‘I see, I see. So you are – what we members of the bar call, in legal parlance – culpable.’ ‘He means guilty ,’ said Shrug. He added a sniff for emphasis. ‘I suppose we are,’ admitted Mel with a sigh. ‘Ah,’ Mithras Periwinkle pursed his lips and steepled his long-fingered hands. He got to his feet and began pacing the cell. ‘There’s nothing I enjoy more than a challenge – and this is indubitably that. In such a hopeless case as this the only course of action open to us is the Periwinkle Defence.’ Shrug sniffed again. ‘He means a bung .’ Mithras Periwinkle scowled at his clerk. ‘That, Shrug, is not a term the court will recognise.’ ‘ Sniff. It’s true, though.’ ‘You mean a bribe ?’ said Wren. ‘Where would we get the money for a bribe?’ ‘Money? Money would be of no consequence in this matter,’ said Mithras Periwinkle. ‘Not with a charge of such gravity as this. To ensure a satisfactory outcome to this case you would need to offer something considerably more valuable than mere currency.’ ‘Such as?’ said Mel. ‘Mmmm. This requires serious thought.’ The barrister stroked his chin in a dramatic manner. Shrug got to his feet, opened a casebook and flicked through it. He ran his finger down a page and showed his finding to the barrister. Mithras Periwinkle looked up. ‘Thank you, Shrug. After careful consideration, I estimate that the only thing, the only thing, that could possibly swing the trial in your favour would be the fruit of the mirrortree.’ ‘What’s that?’ asked Ludo. ‘Where is this mirrortree?’ said Wren. ‘How can we get it anyway?’ said Mel. ‘We’re stuck here in chokey.’ ‘Alas, dear clients,’ said Mithras Periwinkle with a shrug, ‘answers have I none.’ ‘He means it’s not our job ,’ sniffed Shrug, shutting the book. ‘I regret to say that my clerk is right,’ said the lawyer. ‘I deal in legal legerdemain. Horticulture, geography and procurement are outside my domain. I will leave you to ponder on this. Fear not, though. You are in the capable, the competent, nay the accomplished hands of Mithras Periwinkle, barrister at law.’ He put a hand into his long legal robe, pulled out a small notebook and made a tick against an entry there. ‘I bid you, for now, dear clients, a fond fare-thee- well.’ ‘He means goodbye ,’ said Shrug with a parting sniff. So saying, Mithras Periwinkle, with a theatrical swirl of his robe, and Shrug, staggering beneath his pile of books, left. The door was locked after them. Locktight’s face appeared in the little window. He looked at the friends and scoffed. ‘Find the mirrortree? Never in a million years.’ ‘Why do you say that?’ asked Mel. ‘In the first place, no one’s ever escaped from Deep Trouble.’ ‘And?’ ‘In the second place, this mirrortree doesn’t exist. We’ll be seeing a lot of each other over the coming years. Ever such a lot.’ The cruel smile beneath his mask widened. Locktight’s laughter faded as he walked away until it was indiscernible from the anguished cries of the other inmates.