Midnight Over Sanctaphrax by Paul Stewart, Chris Riddell Page B

‘Wouldn't swop it for the world.’
    The cloddertrog beside him turned and punched him good-naturedly on his fleshy arm. ‘That's coz your soft in the head, Grom,’ he said. He turned to Twig. ‘I'll tell you what, I for one wouldn't mind swapping places with one of them academical types up in Sanctaphrax. Living in the lap of luxury, they are.’
    ‘Pfff,’ said the first, and spat on the ground. ‘I'd sooner be down here, Tugger, as you very well know - with a jug in my hand and surrounded by mates.’
    ‘See?’ said Tugger, turning to Twig and Cowlquape, and screwing a thick finger into his temple. ‘Soft in the head. Finest sapwine they drink up there in the floatingcity, out of cut-glass goblets. Or so I've heard.’
    ‘They certainly do,’ said Twig. ‘We were up there only the other day - on business,’ he added. It seemed unwise to let the cloddertrogs know of their true connection with Sanctaphrax. ‘You wouldn't believe the wealth.’
    ‘Oh, I would,’ said Tugger.
    ‘Mind you, none of them seemed as happy as anyone here,’ said Twig, looking round.
    ‘Told you!’ said Grom triumphantly. He drained his jug and folded his arms.
    ‘In fact,’ Twig went on, ‘they all seemed rather distracted. Apparently reports have been coming in that spirits have been sighted in Undertown. In particular in the boom-docks … Mind you, it's probably all a load of nonsense,’ he said. ‘You know what they're like with their lofty ideas - it's what comes of living with their heads in the clouds the whole time …’
    The two cloddertrogs exchanged glances. ‘Yet maybe there is some truth in the stories this time.’
    Twig's eyes narrowed. ‘You don't mean …’
    ‘I've seen them myself,’ said Grom.
    ‘Me, too,’ said Tugger, nodding earnestly. ‘Two of them.’ He leant forwards conspiratorially ‘They glow!’
    Cowlquape's heart began to thump. He looked Twig and Tarp Hammelherd up and down for any trace of their own tell-tale luminous light. Thankfully, the lufwood torches were blazing so brightly that there was none.
    ‘Glow?’ he heard Twig saying. ‘How peculiar. But tell me, where exactly did you see them?’
    ‘Once down by the river, glowing in the darkness,’ came the reply. ‘Once up in the market-place, late at night when all the lamps had been put out.’
    Grom nodded. ‘And once, at midnight, I seen them floating along an alley. There one minute, they were, then gone again.’ He shrugged. ‘Sky alone knows where they came from or where they go to - but they give me the heebie-jeebies, so they do.’
    Tugger laughed heartily and slapped Twig on the back. ‘Enough of this talk of spirits,’ he said. ‘I got a mighty thirst on this evening. Another jug?’
    Twig smiled. ‘I'm afraid not,’ he said. He turned to the others. ‘Come on Tarp, Cowlquape. If we're going to complete our business this side of midnight, we'd best be going.’
    ‘Please yourself.’ The cloddertrog turned away. ‘Too good to drink with the likes of us,’ said Grom, nudging Tugger.
    Twig, Tarp and Cowlquape retreated. The light drizzle turned to great heavy drops of rain. Twig felt a surge of irrational anger welling up inside him. He fought against the feeling. Beside him, Tarp's and Cowlquape's faces were drawn and tense.
    ‘Waaargh! You stupid oaf!’ bellowed an angry voice.
    ‘Me, stupid?’ a second voice roared. ‘You ridiculous dunderhead!’ There was the sound of a clenched fist slamming into a jaw.
    ‘It's … it's the weather doing this,’ Twig muttered through gritted teeth, and grabbed Cowlquape by the arm.
    The next instant, the whole place exploded into violence as each and every cloggertrog turned on one another. Fists flew. Teeth were bared. Clubs were drawn. Curses filled the air.
    ‘Quickly, Cowlquape,’ Twig said, steering him forwards. ‘Let's get out of here.’
    But there were cloddertrogs everywhere, gripped by rain-rage, blocking their way, lashing out blindly at any