The Chamber in the Sky Read Free

balcony overlooking the whorl of fibers. The building rocked quietly as they sat whispering to each other about sports teams theyfollowed. The ice in their drinks rattled from side to side as the inn rocked. They held up their palms to stop their glasses from sliding off the overturned crate that served as a table.
    Brian was trying to sleep in his room. He hated the motion of the inn. It made him slightly seasick. He could hear the other two talking on the balcony.
    None of them noticed that another guest was slipping down the staircase, wearing complicated goggles. They did not see him creep out to the stable across a rope bridge. They didn’t hear the creak of the stable’s side door, or see him disappear inside.
    Ten minutes later, he was climbing the stairs again, his odd, inhumanly bunched body hopping giddily with each step.

    In another day, the three had turned off the main road and were deep into the tangle. They no longer passed shacks hanging from the strands above them like hardscrabble Christmas ornaments. They rode single file on a couple of strands that were bound every once in a while with a loop of fiber.
    They came across a notice board sticking out of the path at a crossroads. There was mail tacked to it, and a couple of copies of the Norumbega Vassal-Tribune were nailed open so people passing could read the stories of the week. Brian saw the headlines, which were disastrousand all too familiar: The invading Thusser Horde had taken over the mannequin fortress of Pflundt, and now controlled all of Three-Gut; the palace at New Norumbega had exploded; there was a new truce with the Mannequin Resistance, who were aiding in the defense against the Thusser; there was a benefit concert to aid the nobles who’d lost their mansions in the recent fighting: the New Norumbegan Consort would be playing a program of composer Gwion Bach’s symphonies for lutes, harps, violins, and viols made of various skulls (wolf, cow, and griffon).
    As Brian read the news, the path jounced once. He didn’t take much notice of it.
    â€œNotice boards like this are how the country people get their messages,” Gwynyfer explained. “It’s rather charming and rustic.” She pointed through the tangle. “And there’s an old family cemetery.”
    Far off were suspended the corpses of dead elves. They had been baked into shells of dough. Spells or prayers were written on their bodies in icing. They had hung there for years and the dough was cracked. Shoulders and legs of blackened, mummified bodies showed through.
    â€œIt’s sweet,” said Gwynyfer. “You don’t normally see a graveyard like that anymore.”
    The road shuddered again. Brian looked along its length. Other strands around them were quivering. He didn’t like it. He clutched the reins of his beast.
    â€œWe turn here,” said Gwynyfer, checking her map. “That way.”
    Gregory shouted a warning.
    Brian turned and looked.
    Some vast, gigantic mite was descending from a drooping cable above them. Its legs were many, jagged and jointed as lightning. Each ended in a needle it plunged into the fronds of the Wildwood to hold itself up. It hurtled toward the three kids and their steeds.
    Brian fumbled with his saddlebags, reaching for his Norumbegan musket, which hung from two straps. He twisted around in the saddle, furiously working at the buckles.
    â€œCome on!” Gregory shouted to his own beast, whacking his heels into its sides. “Run! Run, you idiot!” Gregory took his goad and walloped it. The steed picked up a gentle canter. Gregory jolted along in the saddle, hollering, “No, run !”
    Then Gregory’s great, seven-legged thombulant stopped in its tracks. Gregory’s shoulders snapped forward. He almost fell off. The thombulant stumbled, then jumped, as if it had kicked up its back legs.
    Gregory looked back.
    His steed hadn’t jumped; one of the giant mite’s