A Face Like Glass Read Free Page B

trap-lanterns to draw in stale, breathed air and
turn it into fresh, breathable air, so the traps needed people to provide a supply of stale air for them to breathe. If there were not enough people around, they ran out of stale air, turned off
their glow and went to sleep. The little flytraps themselves had the blind, dappled, pallid look of toadstools, and seemed to be yawning their blind mouths out of boredom rather than the hope of
luring in fat cave moths with their murky, yellowish light.
    Fortunately Madame Appeline followed neatly behind Neverfell, without showing any temptation to wander off or touch anything. Grandible distrusted visitors, so by now all his booby-traps would
have been set. Doors would be locked and their handles smeared with a paralysing veneer of Poric Hare-Stilton just in case. Besides such precautions, there were also the ordinary hazards of a
cheesemaker’s domain. Open the wrong door and you might find yourself faced with shelves of Spitting Jesses, rattling on their dove-feather beds and sending up a fine spray of acid through
the pores in their rinds, or some great mossy round of Croakspeckle, the very fumes of which could melt a man’s brain like so much butter.
    The cosy antechamber that Grandible used as a reception room was the only place into which visitors were ever permitted. Here at least the reek of cheese was slightly fainter than in the rest of
Grandible’s domain. As Neverfell showed her in, the Facesmith drew herself up and changed manner completely. Suddenly she was grandiose and glittering, and seemed to have gained a few inches
in height.
    ‘Cheesemaster! I had heard rumours that you were still alive. How delightful to be able to confirm them!’ The Facesmith swept delicately into the room, the longest feathers of her
headdress kissing the roof of the antechamber. Peeling off her yellow gloves, she settled herself on the appointed guest chair, a carefully judged eight sword-lengths from Grandible’s great
wooden seat. ‘After such a dramatic and complete disappearance, half my friends were convinced you had despaired of life and done something ghastly to yourself.’
    Grandible examined the cuff of his long, grey greeting-visitors coat. His expression did not change, but perhaps for a second it deepened a little.
    ‘Tea,’ was all he said. The cuffs did not respond, but presumably they knew the instruction was meant for Neverfell.
    It was agony leaving the conversation at such a moment, just as it seemed Neverfell might finally learn something of Grandible’s reasons for withdrawing from Court. The only aristocracy of
Caverna were the Craft, the makers of true delicacies that crossed the invisible line between the mind-blowing and the miraculous. As a maker of True Cheeses, Grandible was a member of the Craft
class, but he had never told Neverfell why he chose not to take up his rightful place at Court.
    In their rocky little kitchen, Neverfell hauled on a wall lever to summon hot water. Somewhere far above in the furnace caverns a little bell would be ringing. After a minute or two the water
pipes started to hum, whine and judder. Neverfell tugged on her protective gloves and turned the grey and scaly tap, releasing a torrent of steaming water into the teapot.
    Neverfell made tea, scalding herself in her haste, and by the time she re-emerged guest and host were mid-conversation. When Neverfell placed a cup of peppermint tea and a plate of dates on the
table beside Madame Appeline, the latter paused mid-flow to flash Neverfell a small, sweet ‘thank you’ smile.
    ‘. . . an extremely good customer,’ the Facesmith went on, ‘but also a close friend, which is why I promised to try to help him. You can understand his worry, surely? This is
such an important diplomatic occasion, and the poor young man does not want to disgrace himself in front of the Grand Steward and the rest of the Court. Can you blame my friend for wanting to make
sure that he has