Sargasso Skies by Allan Jones Read Free Book Online Page B

were the sounds of retreating feet on the stairs. Then silence. Trundle blinked at the door, and then at the mountain of papers.
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œOh, 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.

A ll 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.
    â€œTwilight 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 operas,” 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.
    â€œHow’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.
    â€œArrgh!” he screamed. “Shut the door! Shut the door!”
    â€œOh! 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.
    Â 
    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.
    He was about to close the window when the sound of distant drums caught his ears. He stared out and spotted some long, thin figures scrambling about among the debris just beyond the farthest of the hulks.
    He rubbed his eyes, thinking he recognized those stooping, gangly shapes.
    â€œLizards!” he hissed, alarmed to see the savage brutes so close to the opera house.
    But there was something odd about the way the lizards were moving. Instead of skimming low along the ground as they had done when they had chased him and his friends, they were moving in long leaps and bounds. And each of them was clutching a largish bundle in its arms.
    â€œHow odd,” he said aloud. He yawned,