Midnight Over Sanctaphrax (14 page)

‘It's good to see you too, cap'n, but…’ Tarp frowned. ‘We did look a bit odd, glowing ‘n all. It's enough to put the frighteners up anyone.’ He frowned. ‘I was glowing when I first landed back in Undertown,’ he said, ‘but it soon faded. Until just then,’ he added uncertainly, ‘when we met again.’

‘It was the same with me,’ said Twig. ‘Yet there we were, reunited and glowing once more. Something must have happened out there,’ he said, his voice low and breathy. ‘Something which even now binds us together.’ He seized Tarp by the arm. ‘Do
you
remember what happened? To the rest of my crew? To my ship? And, my father! Do you know if we found Cloud Wolf … ?’

But the slaughterer was shaking his great, shaggy red head sorrowfully. ‘If only I
could
remember, cap'n,’ he said. ‘But I can't recall a darned thing after we entered that weather vortex.’

Twig smiled and squeezed his arm warmly. ‘No matter,’ he said. ‘I have found you, Tarp, and that is a start. An excellent start! Now all we have to do is find the others.’ His face clouded over. ‘But where?’

‘Spirits,’ said Cowlquape softly.

‘What was that, Cowlquape?’ said Twig. ‘Speak up.’

Cowlquape turned to him. ‘I overheard that lugtroll saying that you must be a spirit.’ He paused. ‘Just like the ones in the boom-docks!’

‘The boom-docks?’ said Twig. ‘Spirits in the boom-docks? Just like us?’

Cowlquape nodded. ‘That's what I heard him say’

‘Oh, well done, Cowlquape!’ Twig exclaimed with delight, and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘That is where we shall go. To the boom-docks!’

Cowlquape lowered his head. ‘I said I was a good listener,’ he muttered happily.

• CHAPTER NINE •
THE CLODDERTROGS

T
he moment they had stepped outside, Twig and Tarp _L Hammelherd had stopped glowing. The sun, though low and golden in the late afternoon sky, was nevertheless bright enough to obscure their curious luminous glow.

And thank Sky for that! Cowlquape thought, as they set off.

They headed eastwards, through streets that they were getting to know well, and on down towards the swampy boom-docks beside the sluggish Edgewater River. Twig was in reflective mood.

‘We've done well, Cowlquape, finding Tarp alive,’ he said, ‘but as for the others…’ He fell silent. ‘Do we really dare hope that these ghosts, these spirits, could possibly be … Who? Goom? Spooler? Wingnut Sleet perhaps, or Woodfish?’

‘Well, the lugtroll did say
spirits,
not
spirit,’
said
Cowlquape, ‘so there must be at least two of them there.’

Twig pulled from his bag the scroll of paper the Professor of Darkness had given him, and opened it out. It revealed a map of the Edge annotated with lines and crosses which charted the trajectories and approximate landing places of the eight shooting stars. The cross drawn over the Stone Gardens had been circled. That was where Twig himself had landed. He took a charcoal-stick and circled one of the four crosses dotted around Undertown.

‘One down,’ he said, turning to Cowlquape. ‘And three still to find.’ He smiled hopefully. ‘Maybe they're
all
down in the boom-docks.’

‘Maybe,’ said Tarp Hammelherd. ‘Though, to be honest, cap'n, I'm not sure how much I give for their chances if they
have
ended up there. It's cloddertrog territory, and they don't take kindly to outsiders at the best of times.’

‘And what with all those stories of fighting we've been hearing,’ Cowlquape added, with a shudder.

‘Courage, Cowlquape,’ said Twig. ‘Stories is probably all they are. If we stick together, we'll be fine. Trust me.’

Cowlquape smiled bravely. Since they had first arrived in Undertown he had been overwhelmed by Twig's determination. Although they might well have been on a fool's errand, not once had the young captain contemplated giving up. And now, with Tarp Hammelherd found, the young captain's determination had paid off. But what lay in front of them - bloodthirsty cloddertrogs - would test that determination to the limit.
Cowlquape shuddered again.

All round them, the cosmopolitan atmosphere of the thronging eastern quarter was coming to an end as they entered the hinterland of the boom-docks. The rows of shops and houses gave way to a maze of narrow alleys lined with ramshackle huts and shacks, each one overrun with huge families of cloddertrogs.

‘Just watch your step,’ Tarp Hammelherd cautioned, looking round furtively over his shoulder. ‘Keep to the centre of the alleyways - cloddertrogs are suspicious of anyone going too near their property. And avoid eye-contact at all costs.’

Initially, Cowlquape complied with Tarp's instructions, yet as they continued through the noisy, bustling streets, he began to relax. The overspilling taverns were raucous but relaxed. The markets buzzed with friendly banter, while the cramped houses resounded with snatches of song, young'un-play, infant-wail and gales of infectious laughter. It was a poor area, certainly, but there was nothing about its atmosphere which struck him as threatening.

‘I can't see what I was fretting about,’ Cowlquape said, as he punted a stray bladderball back to a rowdy group of youngsters.

‘Yeah, well,’ said Tarp Hammelherd grimly. ‘First impressions can sometimes be deceptive. Things can turn nasty in a moment…’

‘Wurrgh!’
Cowlquape cried out.

‘What is it?’ Twig asked.

Cowlquape turned away and pointed back into a dark
and empty doorway. Twig peered into the shadows. The sudden pungent smell of decay snatched his breath away.

‘Bones,’ Twig muttered.

Cowlquape gagged.

‘See what I mean!’ said Tarp Hammelherd darkly. ‘Now be on your guard.’

Cowlquape looked round, suddenly seeing the lumpen trogs in a different light. He noticed how large their yellow teeth were, how bloodshot their eyes, and he saw the heavy, studded clubs they carried over their shoulders and the knives on their belts.

Sticking closer together than ever, he, Tarp and Twig headed off down a dark, rubbish-strewn alley which led to the river's edge. Here, the homely smells of stale woodale and boiling mire-cabbage were overwhelmed by the odour of rotting fish. Above them, the early evening sky darkened as thick, billowing clouds swept in.

At its end, the alley opened out into the sprawling filth of the boom-docks themselves. The dwindling Edgewater River lapped half-heartedly at the recently exposed mud-banks. A light, greasy drizzle began to fall. Even though the light was fading - oil lamps had been lit and shone dimly from the rotting clapboard warehouses which lined the banks - they could still see the bones scattered over the mud. Lots of them, large and small. Each one had been picked clean by scavenging white ravens and the piebald rats which splashed and squealed as they fought over the waste that the encrusted sewage-pipes discharged into the sluggish water.

‘I don't like this one little bit,’ said Cowlquape uneasily.

‘Neither do I,’ said Twig, shaking his head. ‘It's a pity that lugtroll wasn't more specific about where the spirits had been seen.’

Cowlquape nodded. ‘I …’ He gulped. ‘You're beginning to glow again,’ he said. ‘Both of you.’

Twig examined his outstretched arm and saw for himself the faint, yet discernible, light it was giving off. ‘It must be because it's getting dark,’ he said.

‘Then we … we'd better split up,’ said Tarp nervously.

‘Split up?’ said Twig.

‘The closer we are, the brighter we glow. I noticed that back inside the Lullabee Inn …’

‘No, Tarp,’ said Twig. ‘I told you, we stick together. Besides, as I noticed
outside
the Lullabee, if it's bright enough we don't glow at all.’

‘But Twig …’ Cowlquape began.

‘Cowlquape!’ said Twig sharply. ‘We'll go on a little further. Together!’

They continued in silence, picking their way past stacks of boxes and piles of empty barrels, through towering mounds of rusting chains and rotting fish, and on underneath the raised jetties which creaked as the tolley-ropes of the cumbersome tug ships pulled at the tether-rings.

The drizzle stung as a wind got up. Cowlquape winced as, with every step, his boots sank deep into the slimy mud. ‘This is hopeless. We're never going to find them here,’ he said. ‘And you're glowing even brighter.’

‘We'll try this way,’ said Twig evenly.

They turned away from the river and went back up through the narrow alleys. Beneath the street lamps, the curious luminosity was barely visible. Yet, as they went on, Cowlquape thought he noticed a difference in the reaction of the cloddertrogs they passed. Before, they had simply been ignored. Now - unless it was his imagination - they were being studiously avoided; eyes were averted and those approaching stepped to one side or disappeared into doorways until they had passed.

‘I think they've noticed,’ Cowlquape hissed.

‘Come on,’ said Tarp Hammelherd. ‘Let's get out of here. We don't want to draw attention to ourselves.’

‘It's a bit late to worry about that now,’ Twig said out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Look.’

They were standing at the edge of what seemed to be a junction, like the hub of a great spoked wheel, where
dozens of the narrow alleyways met. At its centre stood an immense wooden vat, around which a seething mob of carousing cloddertrogs jostled together. The rowdy scene was bathed in the bright purple light of lufwood torches which cast grotesque shadows on the leering cloddertrog faces - and masked Tarp and Twig's luminous glow completely.

Shoved forwards by those just arriving, Twig, Cowlquape and Tarp Hammelherd found themselves being impelled deeper into the crowd and towards the great vat. The atmosphere of the place struck all three of them in the face like a blast of bad breath: hot, humid and foul. Cowlquape struggled hard not to heave.

‘Fish,’ said Twig. ‘Rotten fish and…’ His nose wrinkled up. ‘Tripweed.’

From his childhood, Twig had always loathed the smell of the pickled tripweed on the woodtrolls’ breath. Here, the stench was overwhelming. Pungent. Acrid. Fermenting. It seemed to be coming from the frothing vat.

‘Tripweed beer,’ he groaned.

‘Three jugs, is that?’ came a voice from beside the wooden vat. A squat cloddertrog with a filthy cloth draped over his arm motioned them to approach. They picked their way past the heaving bodies of drunken cloddertrogs asleep in the mud.

‘I … errm … You haven't got any woodgrog, have you?’ said Twig.

‘Nah!’ the cloddertrog scowled. ‘This is a drinking pit. We don't cater for the hoity-toity here.’

Twig nodded. Then three jugs of trip weed beer it is,’ he said amiably.

The cloddertrog climbed a wooden ladder and thrust three filthy jugs into the vat.

‘Best to keep him happy,’ Twig said to Cowlquape. Though I wouldn't drink it if I were you. It's fermented from rotted tripweed and the entrails of oozefish.’

Cowlquape shivered with disgust. The cloddertrog returned.

‘There you go,’ he said, thrusting the overflowing wooden jugs into their hands.

‘Thanks,’ said Twig, slipping a coin into the clod-dertrog's outstretched paw of a hand. ‘And tell me …’

But he had already turned his attention to a scrum of thirsty cloddertrogs who were standing to one side, cursing and swearing, demanding to be served. Twig nudged Cowlquape and nodded towards the jugs. ‘Let's see if these can buy us some information.’

Taking care not to knock into anyone -
‘spilled beer and spilled blood oft flow together’
as the cautionary saying went - they picked their way through the heaving mob.
The stench from the tripweed beer grew stronger. It steamed from the jugs, it hung in the air, it oozed from the pores of the cloddertrogs all round them.

One of them - a colossal individual - turned and peered at the outsiders with glassy-eyed interest. His gaze rested on the jugs in their hands.

‘Are they for me?’ he exclaimed, his voice booming and slurred. ‘You're too kind!’ He seized the jugs, swallowed long and deep and beamed back at them. ‘Nectar of the clods,’ he boomed, and roared with laughter. He threw the two empty jugs aside and started on the third. Behind him, a group of ruddy-faced individuals burst into song. A roar of laughter went up from the drinking pit.