Free The Winter Knights by Paul Stewart

its undercarriage. Behind them lumbered the kitchen master, a massive cloddertrog in a pristine white apron and tall, conical hat, with twenty mobgnomes in white tunics in tow, baskets piled high with loaves of barley bread on their heads.

    ‘Fresh from the Great Refectory, from a grateful Sanctaphrax!’ boomed the huge cloddertrog. ‘Come and get it while it's hot!’
    At this, the occupants of the lower benches and middle tables surged forward, and the mobgnomes began tossing barley loaves over their heads. Meanwhile the gatekeepers, in their white tunics and red logworm badges, barged through and collected special tureens, which they delivered to the high table. As the squires jostled forward, Quint glimpsed Vilnix staring up at the knights academic and hall masters as they were served their stew, a look of greedy envy on his face.
    ‘Come on!’ shouted a lectern-keeper just in front of them. ‘What's the hold-up? We're starving back here!’
    Up ahead, the cloddertrog kitchen master was panting with effort, sweat pouring down his flabby face as he wrestled with the heavy metal tap on the side of the cauldron. It seemed to be stuck.
    He strained at the tap-handle.
    Nothing happened.
    Grunting with effort, he tried again. Still, the handle would not move.
    ‘Damn and blast you to Open Sky!’ the kitchen master shouted, and seized the tap-handle with both hands. He tugged with all his might, straining until the muscles in his arms and neck bulged and the veins at the side of his head began to throb. Yet for all that, the tap would not turn. ‘It's no good,’ he muttered. ‘It's stuck fast.’
    A low groan of disappointment passed back through the waiting crowd as everyone craned their necks to see what the problem was. The groan became a mutter, which rose in volume until everyone was roaring with a mixture of anger and hunger.
    ‘Nourish the Sky in our hearts! Nourish the Sky in our hearts! …’
    The kitchen master turned, his face red with rage and bellowed loudly.
    ‘Forge-hand! Is there a forge-hand here?’
    His voice echoed round the Eightways above the sound of the impatient chanting and, for a moment, the noise subsided as everyone looked about them. Vilnix dug Quint in the ribs with a bony elbow.
    ‘What about your little friend?’ he shouted in his ear. ‘He's a forge-hand, isn't he?’
    ‘Let him through! Let him through!’ shouted the lectern-keepers as the crowd parted to allow Stope to approach the stew-cart. Vilnix gave him a vicious shove in the back for good measure.
    ‘Sir?’ said Stope, as he approached the red-faced cloddertrog.
    ‘I swear I don't know what you lot do all day in that armoury,’ the cloddertrog complained. ‘Maintenance of the stew-cart is your responsibility. You tell your furnace masters that! Too busy lining their own pockets to care, no doubt …’
    Stope tried to ignore the kitchen master's tirade as he kneeled at the tap and traced a finger along the pipe leading to the cauldron.
    ‘Well?’ demanded the cloddertrog as all round the hall, the hungry demands for food once more began getting louder.
    ‘The tap joint's sound,’ Stope began, ‘and the pipework isn't showing any sign of damage …’
    ‘So, what's wrong with it?’ stormed the cloddertrog. ‘If the tap isn't faulty, why won't it turn?’
    Stope felt along the pipe. ‘I'm not sure, but it could be …’
    ‘Oh, I don't have time for this!’ roared the cloddertrog to a mixture of cheers and jeers. He stuck his great head beneath the tap and peered up into the spout. ‘It's broken, I tell you!’
    Stope gave the pipe a hefty thump. ‘… An airlock – nothing to do with bad maintenance at all …’

    From inside the great stew-pot there came a series of loud gurgles and plops.
    ‘Broken,’ the cloddertrog repeated. ‘Thanks to you lot in the armoury … Aargh! Cloppl-plobbl …’
    A sudden rush of steaming stew came gushing out of the tap and hit the clod-dertrog full in the face.