Necropolis

couple of gantries, and arc lamps spreading a hard, electric glow that only made everything look more unwelcoming. Once again the rain had eased off, but a thin drizzle hung in the air. The driver led them over to a boat, moored along the quayside.
    This was going to take them across.
    It was an old, hardworking cargo boat with just two decks. The lower of them had a cargo hold that was open to the elements. Looking into it, Matt saw that it was filled with wooden crates, each one marked with a name that had been stenciled in black letters: kung hing tao

    . The cabin was on the upper deck. It was shaped like a greenhouse and not much bigger, with windows all the way round. There were two radio masts jutting into the air, a radar dish, and a funnel that was already belching black smoke. The boat was completely ringed with car tires to stop it from colliding with the dock; this, along with the flaking paint and patches of rust, made it look as if it had been rescued from a junkyard. Matt just hoped the sea would be calm.
    "We've got company," Richard said.
    A man had appeared, climbing down from the cabin, his feet — in Wellington boots — clanging against the metal rungs. As he stepped into the light, it became clear that he wasn't Chinese. He was a European, a big man with a beard, dark eyes, and curly, black hair. His whole face looked beaten about — cracked lips, broken nose, veins showing through the skin. Either the weather had done it, too many years at sea, or he had once been a boxer…and an unsuccessful one. He was wearing jeans, a thick knitted jersey, and a donkey jacket, dark blue, with the rain sparkling on his shoulders. His hands were huge and covered in oil.
    "Good evening, my friends," the man said. "You are welcome to Moon Moth."
    He had introduced his ship but not himself. He had a deep voice and a Spanish accent. The words came from somewhere in his chest. "Mr. Shantung has asked me to look after you. Are you ready to come on board?"
    "How long will the journey take us?" Richard asked. He sounded doubtful.
    "Three hours, maybe longer. We don't have the power of a Jetfoil, and the weather's strange. All this rain! It may hold us up, so the sooner we get started, the better." The man took out a pipe and tapped it against his teeth as if checking them for cavities. "I often make the journey at night, if that's what's worrying you," he went on. "Nobody's going to take any notice of us. So let's get out of this weather and be on our way."
    He turned and climbed back onto the boat. Richard glanced at Matt. Matt shrugged. The captain hadn't been exactly friendly, but why should they have expected otherwise? These people were criminals. They were only obeying orders. They had no interest in the Gatekeepers or anybody else, so it was pointless to expect first-class comfort and smiles.
    Richard had brought his backpack with them — it was their only luggage. He picked it up and they followed the man on board. They reached the ladder, and Matt was grateful that this one had ordinary rungs instead of swords.
    As he began to climb, he noticed a Chinese man in filthy jeans and an oil-skin jacket drawing a tarpaulin over the crates. For a moment, their eyes met and Matt found himself being studied with undisguised hostility. The man spat, then went back to work. He seemed to be the only crew.
    There wasn't much room in the cabin, which looked even older than the ship, with equipment that wouldn't have been out of place in a Second World War film. The captain was sitting on a stool in front of a steering wheel, surrounded by switches and gauges with markings that had largely faded away. The rain had picked up. It was streaming down the windows, and the world outside was almost invisible, broken up into beads of water that clung in place, reflecting everything but showing very little. The engines were throbbing sullenly below. The whole cabin was vibrating. It smelled of salt water, diesel fuel, and stale tobacco.
    There was a low sofa and a couple of chairs for the three passengers. All the furniture was sagging and stained. Richard, Matt, and Jamie took their places. The captain sat at the wheel, flicking on a pair of ancient windshield wipers that began to swing from left to right, clearing the way in front of them. The Chinese crewman cast off, and the boat slipped away, unseen, into the night.
    A single row of lights shone ahead. There was a road bridge, at least half a mile long, snaking across the