Free The Last of the Sky Pirates by Paul Stewart, Chris Riddell

and charts of the endless forest (often hopelessly in accurate, though none who purchased them would ever find their way back to complain) for those who hoped to travel in the Deepwoods.
    And there were food stalls. Lots of them, each one laden with delicacies from all parts of the Edge. There were gnokgoblin meatloaves on offer, woodtroll tilder sausages, and sweetbreads cooked to a traditional cloddertrog recipe. There were pies and pastries, puddings and tarts; honey-soaked milkcakes and slices of candied oaksap. In short, there was something for everyone, whatever their taste, and the air was filled with an intoxicating mixture of aromas – sweet, rich, juicy, creamy, tangy – all mingling together in the brazier-warmed air.
    Yet Rook was no longer hungry. His appetite had been lost to the memory of that dead prisoner in the cage, with his torn flesh and his stolen eyes.
    ‘You must try to eat,’ said Magda.
    Rook shook his head mutely.
    ‘Then I’ll get something for you,’ she said. ‘For later.’
    ‘As you wish,’ said Rook wearily. It was sleep he needed, not food.
    ‘There are hammock shelters and sleeping pallets close by,’ came a soft, yet penetrating voice by his side. ‘If you require, I can take you there.’
    Rook looked down to find a short, wiry waif standing by his side. With his pale, almost luminous skin and his huge batlike ears, he looked like a greywaif, or possibly a night-waif …
    ‘A night -waif,’ the character confirmed. ‘Greywaifs are generally larger and’ – he gestured towards his mouth – ‘they have those rubbery barbels hanging down from round here …’ He frowned. ‘But you’re right, Rook. And I apologize. My name is Partifule.’

    Rook scowled. He’d always found the mind-reading ability of waifs – whatever their variety – deeply disturbing. It made him feel exposed, vulnerable – and how could you ever trust a creature that made you feel like that?
    Partifule sighed. ‘That is our curse,’ he said. ‘In waif country, reading the minds of others is essential for our survival; a gift to enable us to see through the darkness. Here, however, it is a curse – spoiling every friendshipand turning so many of us into spies who sell their services to the highest bidder.’
    And you? Rook wondered with a shudder. How much have you been paid to spy on us?
    Partifule sighed a second time. ‘I give my services for free,’ he said. ‘And I am no spy. Perhaps this will help you to trust me.’ He pulled his cape apart and there, nestling in the folds of the shirt beneath, was a red bloodoak tooth hanging from a delicate silver chain. ‘I have been assigned the task of guarding you all while you sleep this first night. You must be fully rested for what lies ahead.’ And he added, in response to Rook’s unspoken question, ‘The Twilight Woods.’
    Rook smiled. For the first time that day he felt himself relax. Stob and Magda returned from the stalls, food wrapped in small, neat bundles. Magda handed one to Rook, who put it in his pocket.
    ‘Who’s that?’ Stob demanded, his voice cold and imperious.
    ‘Partifule, at your service,’ came the reply and, for a second time, he revealed the bloodoak tooth.
    ‘He’s going to show us where we can bed down for the night,’ Rook explained, ‘and keep watch while we sleep.’
    ‘Is he now?’ said Stob. ‘And slit our throats while we’re snoring, eh?’
    ‘Stob,’ said Magda, sounding angry and embarrassed. ‘He’s wearing the tooth.’ She turned to the night-waif. ‘Greetings, Partifule,’ she said as she shook the creature’s damp, bony hand. ‘And apologies for our companion’s rudeness.’
    ‘Better safe than sorry,’ Stob muttered.
    ‘Indeed,’ Partifule agreed. ‘And, of course, Stob, you must feel free to spend the night on watch with me,’ he said. ‘I’d welcome the company’
    Stob made no verbal reply, but from the amused expression that played around the nightwaif’s face,