Midnight Over Sanctaphrax by Paul Stewart, Chris Riddell

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 darkand 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