Midnight Over Sanctaphrax by Paul Stewart, Chris Riddell Page A

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, wheredozens 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.
    ‘So what line of work are you in?’ said Twig.
    ‘Same as most round here,’ the cloddertrog replied. ‘Dock work. Loading. Unloading…’ He grinned.