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was sure he knew it. “Fentongoose told me that Carnglaze lives on the southern heights,” he explained. “The city is in two halves, you see, north and south, with the River Ystrad running through the middle. Come, here is a short cut. . .”
    The short cut led down steep, shady alleys where the houses were narrower and meaner looking, and the shop signs were in the shape of knives, wine jars, and playing cards. Soon there were no shops at all, just dingy, half-abandoned-looking houses, the only signs of life the dogs that slept in the doorways and the lines of washing strung across the narrow spaces between the buildings. It seemed astonishing that in one city there could be streets so poor and others so busy and prosperous. The daylight was fading fast, and Skarper and Henwyn had to take care as they picked their way across open drains, and skirted fly-buzzing mounds of rubbish. The smells made Skarper think of home, but it still felt to him as if they’d taken a wrong turn.
    â€œAre you sure this is the way to Carnglaze’s house?”
    â€œWe’ll come to the river in a moment,” Henwyn promised.
    Come to it they did, but it took more than a moment, and it was not much of a river: a sad, smelly, brownish stream flowing sluggishly between stone embankments. A narrow, litter-strewn path led along the riverside, and a few hundred yards downstream a footbridge spanned the grimy water, old and mossy and sagging. Henwyn pointed to it. “Look! A bridge! Once we’re across that we’ll start climbing again, and we’ll soon be at the southern heights.”
    What Henwyn couldn’t know was that three trolls had made their home under that bridge. Big, gangling, blue-green trolls, who had been mossy boulders on the banks of the Ystrad till that spring, when the magic tingling in the water had awoken them. Instead of creeping into the lonely places of the hills, which were the usual abode of trolls, these three had scented the rich, exciting smells of the city, and come downstream to lurk beneath this ancient bridge. Their names were Torridge, Cribba and Kenn.
    As Skarper and Henwyn walked towards the bridge, the knobbly head of Torridge broke the water like a half-submerged stone. His eyes gleamed watchfully, and when the two friends drew near he scrambled suddenly out on to the path in front of them. His brothers, who had crept a little way upstream beneath the dirty water, crawled out behind them, cutting off Henwyn and Skarper’s retreat.
    â€œTrolls!” cried Henwyn.
    â€œI think . . .” he added. For these city trolls were not like any troll he’d ever met or heard of. The dirty water and poor diet had stunted them, and their skin was the pasty grey of lichen on a sooty roof. They all wore dripping man-clothes, and one even sported an old hat with a soggy feather in it. Each carried a cudgel of iron-bound wood, made from uprooted riverside bollards.
    â€œGive us your MONEY,” growled Torridge.
    â€œAnd your CLOTHES!” roared Cribba.
    â€œAnd your. . .” Kenn started, then stopped and frowned. “No, jus’ your money and your clothes, that’ll do.”
    â€œAll right!” whimpered Skarper, dropping his pack and starting to take off his cloak. He was just glad the trolls didn’t want to eat him, as less sophisticated trolls in country places would have done.
    But Henwyn shouted, “Never!” He threw down his pack, and his sword came singing from its scabbard.
    The trolls reeled back, surprised. Coriander folk weren’t used to trolls, and the few who’d met Torridge, Cribba and Kenn had all been glad enough to hand over their purses and their clothes as soon as they were told to. No one had ever pulled a sword on them before. Kenn, the most cowardly of the three, slithered quietly back into the river. Cribba swung his cudgel at Henwyn, but Henwyn ducked under it. Skarper, who had seen which way things were