Fly by Night

by Frances Hardinge

  ‘Splendid. Make my wig and coat ready, and we shall brave Mr Partridge after breakfast.’

  The wig!

  Clent strode down to order breakfast.

  A few minutes later, Mosca was knocking at the Cakes’ door with a muffled, rapid urgency. There was a tiny noise within that she took to be a call to enter. She had flung open the door and taken two steps into the room before she realized it had been nothing of the sort. The Cakes was on her knees by her bed, a piece of embroidered cambric gripped in both hands and her mouth making a loose, rubbery shape as if she were about to cry.

  Apologies did not come naturally to Mosca, so she did not make one. Instead she ruefully held up the wig by way of explanation.

  ‘It’s Mr Clent’s . . . I . . . stepped on it.’

  The Cakes sniffed, and her face sharpened into its usual business-like expression.

  ‘Looks like most of the Mandelion militia stepped on it an’ all.’ She stood up, biting in both her lips, and walked over, taking the wig from Mosca’s hand. ‘Here, I got a brush for this kind of thing. We rent out wigs to grooms as can’t afford it and you should see the state we get some of ’em back in . . .’

  Mosca watched as the other girl made little fussy, twitching gestures with the brush, which somehow seemed to tease curls out of their tangle, so that they sprang back into their intended shapes.

  ‘So . . . Bockerby beats you a lot, then?’ As far as Mosca was concerned, crying alone meant one thing.

  ‘What? Oh no, almost never . . . it’s just weddings. I always cry at weddings.’

  Mosca stared.

  ‘What – at all of ’em? But you live in a marriage house! No wonder you’re so thin, you must be all dried up inside with squeezin’ out tears.’

  ‘I just like weddings,’ the Cakes said sadly. ‘I like watching folks write their names in the register – the ones that can write. I like giving ’em the Cakes. I like the happy ones, an’ the frightened ones, an’ even the ones in their altitudes with gin. I like watching ’em in their best bits of ribbon and their grandfather’s smartest waistcoats. I like throwin’ the honesty pods over ’em for good luck. I guess I just . . . keep hoping some of it’ll rub off on me, somehow.’

  The hand holding the brush drooped miserably. Clearly the Cakes had to be cheered up, or the wig would never be salvaged.

  ‘Well, it might rub off. You’re not ugly or anything. You’re just sort of pointy.’ Mosca had a feeling that these encouraging words had sounded better in her head, but as it happened the Cakes was too despondent to take offence.

  ‘Doesn’t make any difference. No one’s going to want me with my Base Beginnings.’ The Cakes gave Mosca a narrow glance, then sighed. ‘Oh well, someone’ll tell you, I guess. My father meant to marry my mother, but somethin’ put it out of his mind and he went to sea instead, and when he came back my mother was dead and I was ten.’

  ‘Didn’t he do nothin’ for you?’

  ‘Course,’ the Cakes answered curtly, then gave Mosca another appraising glance. ‘Took me in, didn’t he? Gave me a position. Can’t say fairer than that.’

  ‘Bockerby’s your father?’

  ‘Course. An’ he’s kind when we’re alone, treats me right and everything. I think he’s sorry he didn’t marry and can’t call me his daughter. It’s funny really – we write out lots of marriage licences for people, and sometimes if they ask us to, we write down the dates a bit earlier than they should be, so children look like they were born proper and legal after the wedding. But it’s too late to do that for me.’

  The Cakes pushed up her fists inside the wig and turned it about, inspecting it critically. ‘That’ll do, I think.’

  By the time Clent returned to his rooms, Mosca was waiting for him and polishing his boots. Her expression of unaccustomed innocence seemed to alarm him a little, but he passed no comment, and they walked down to breakfast without further argument.

  He was unusually quiet throughout breakfast. Mosca decided that his head was probably full of Schemes, and that if he wished to share them with her, sooner or later he would. Her own head was full of Saracen and the thought of seeing him again.

  From Bockerby they learned that most barges and narrowboats could be found moored on the wharf near the Dragmen’s Arches, and after breakfast they set off for the wharf.

  The Dragmen’s Arches had been cut into the old fortified wall so goods could be unloaded from boats and brought into the city. Mosca and Clent slithered down one of the brick ramps that descended through the arches, covered with wooden slats so barrels could be rolled up more easily.

  ‘There she lies.’ Mosca tugged Clent’s sleeve and pointed.

  The Mettlesome Maid had been laid up at the end of the quay, at a slight distance from the other barges, as if, despite her name, she had become timorous or coy. One of her crewmen squatted on deck, twisting and plaiting some narrow lengths of line, the cotton startlingly white against his tanned fingers.

  ‘Indeed. Mosca – I fear it is often incumbent upon a gentleman to prevent injury to the feelings of others, regardless of his own sentiments. At this moment I sense that Mr Partridge must be quite mortified at the way he spoke of me to you. If I were to approach the boat, and he were already in a state of mental turmoil, the sight of me might cause him considerable distress, and he might . . .’

  ‘. . . rip your heart out an’ spike it on a boathook an’ roast it an’ eat it an’ throw the bits he didn’t like to the seagulls . . .’

  ‘Mosca . . .’ Clent glanced at her, then closed his eyes and gave a little shudder, as if he had looked down into a moral well at her benighted soul, and had been gripped by vertigo. He dropped a purse into her waiting hand. ‘Take the money. Retrieve your goose. Let us have the matter over with.’

  Mosca approached the Mettlesome Maid with some trepidation, encouraged only by the fact that Partridge was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Good morning, sir?’ she called out quietly. The crewman glanced up at her, then let his eyebrows rise and his knotwork fall into his lap.

  ‘Blood and breath. Well, that’s something. Hey! Dotheril! The Niece is here.’

  A mournful, eerie sound rose up from the belly of the barge. It sounded like a cat in a bucket. It might have been a sob of relief.

  ‘Come on.’ The sailor stood up and held out a hand. Mosca took it and tripped carefully aboard up the gangplank.

  ‘Is Mr Partridge about?’ Best to know the worst quickly.

  ‘No, he’s not. I’m hoping you’ve nothing particular you need to say to him either, for I cannot tell you where he might be found. He went off yesterday, saying that he’d be gone for a while as he had some business to attend to – which I took as meaning business at the Ship Inn. When he was not back by dusk, I knew he’d crawled into a bottle. When he wasn’t back by morning, I thought maybe someone had stoppered the bottle before he could get out.’ He gave a grim laugh.

  ‘So – you talked to him yesterday evening, then?’ Mosca was frightened to ask whether Partridge had left his men detailed instructions involving her heart and boathooks, after chasing her over half the city.

  ‘No – not since yesterday lunchtime. The captain’ll roll back down that ramp like a barrel before long, I’ll take my oath, but till then I can’t tell you where to find him.’ The sailor suddenly glared at Mosca, and gave a slightly menacing motion as if loosening his shoulder. ‘Of course, now it comes into my head that perhaps the captain’s in a jail somewhere, clapped in darbies. Would you know something of that? Has your uncle decided to blow the widd?’

  ‘No . . .’ Mosca bit her lip, not entirely sure what she had been asked, but certain that ‘No’ was probably the safest answer. She looked about for a change of subject, and gave a vague gesture in the direction of the deck. ‘Is . . . is he all right?’

  ‘Not so hearty. A broken ankle, but he’ll rally.’

  ‘That’s not what I . . .’ Mosca stopped short of explaining that she had been enquiring after h
er goose, not the injured Dotheril.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ There was an echoing wail from below the planks. ‘Get-this-thing-out-of-oh-Beloved-above-it’s-walking-up-my-chest-again . . .’

  The sailor tugged up the edge of canvas, and gestured Mosca under it with a jerk of his head. Three planks had been left out of place, presumably to let air reach the trapped Dotheril. Mosca pulled off bonnet and cap, and swung her upper body down through the crack, head downwards.

  The first thing she saw was an inverted Saracen, his white plumage gleaming moonishly in the darkness. Fat little soap bubbles of joy burst in his throat as he saw Mosca.

  Another fainter sound from the region of his feet drew Mosca’s attention to the object upon which he stood.

  ‘Mr Dotheril . . . ’s all right, just don’t move. ’S all right, really, he only stands on your face if he likes you.’

  ‘I can’t say as my feelings is likewise,’ hissed Dotheril through his teeth. There were tight creases around the corners of his mouth, as if he had been doing everything through his teeth for some time. He was bracing his elbows against the shifting beach of graven godlings, and trying to drag himself backwards. One of his hands was tightening around an oaken pedestal.

  ‘Please don’t go hitting him with Good Lady Syropia the Forgiver, it’s not good for your soul, or your health neither. You’ll go frightenin’ him. A wild dog tried to bite him once, an’ he broke its neck.’

  Dotheril’s hand faltered, and released the icon.

  ‘C’mon, Saracen, we’ll find you barley.’

  ‘Barley!’ Dotheril’s voice shook with rage. ‘It’s had bread, and cheese, and biscuits, and strips of mutton – not a scrap could they throw to me without that devil clapping its beak around it, and shaking it down its gullet . . .’

  Saracen waddled forward, chuckling solemnly, until Mosca’s falling hair tickled over his beak and white neck. She closed her arms around his solid, white weight, and struggled herself upright.

  Bonnet back in place, she pushed her way out through the tarpaulin. The sailor who had been waiting nearby suddenly remembered that he had left his ropework near the bow, and nearly kicked bales overboard in his haste to recover it. As Mosca climbed gingerly after him to make her farewells, it seemed to occur to him that light for working was far better at the stern, and he scrambled away from her to find a suitable seat.

  ‘You don’t want me to wait for Mr Partridge to come back?’

  ‘No!’ The sailor’s voice had a tight sound, as if he was trying to hold his breath. ‘You just . . . just go your ways.’

  ‘And you don’t even want—’ Mosca’s hand half reached for the money in her pocket.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Right then.’ When Mosca’s feet had crossed the plank back to the jetty, the sailor’s shoulders relaxed a little.

  When he saw Mosca approaching along the street with Saracen in her arms, the muddied look of concern on Clent’s face suddenly dropped away, and he positively beamed.

  ‘Let us regard this latest recruit in our Grand Objective.’ Clent put his head to one side as he pretended to examine the goose, taking care all the while to stay out of reach of Saracen’s beak and wings. ‘Hmm. Chin rather weak, but fiery eyes courageously spaced. Shoulders drawn back, chest thrust forward nobly – yes, madam, I think your friend has the makings of a soldier.’

  With every step away from the Dragmen’s Arches, Clent’s mood seemed to soar, and they dragged Mosca’s own spirits skyward like a man-sized kite. The smiles he directed at Saracen were so generous and affectionate that she felt a rush of warmth towards Clent. Not enough warmth to make her return all the money, of course, but enough for her to tell him that Partridge’s men had asked for only a little ransom.

  ‘Admirable – no doubt you sliced their price with that pointed little tongue of yours. There must be celebration, and now –’ he tossed his purse three yards in the air and caught it on the descent, to the disappointment of a couple of eagerly watching urchins – ‘now we have the means to conduct ourselves properly at the Grey Mastiff tomorrow night. I hear that their wine is a symphony, and that for tuppence they will sell you a cream pudding the size of a bath. Many fine ladies and gentlemen put their powdered noses through the door, and it will do you no harm to be seen there – but first we must prepare to be worth their gaze. Your poor shoes must be resoled, and I fear that we will need a muzzle and leash for our leather-footed comrade – lest he commandeer another barge as he did the Mettlesome Maid.’

  Somehow Mosca was left with the feeling that they had come into money, rather than just losing less than expected. Somehow it was almost impossible to remember that not very long before, Clent had been arguing bitterly against cobbling Mosca’s shoes or retrieving Saracen. Clent simply swept such memories away, with the impatience of someone shoving crockery aside so that he can spread a treasure map across a table. The facts fell to the floor with a fractured tinkle and were forgotten.

  The leatherworker refused to cut the price of the muzzle and lead, even when Clent explained that Saracen had once saved Mosca’s life by dragging her out of a burning church and he now had to be muzzled to prevent him turning a violent beak upon himself for having failed to rescue the rest of her family. However, the leatherworker said it was a touching tale and that it did him good to laugh now and then. He gave them each a sip of gin, which made Mosca’s nose numb and lit a candle behind her breastbone. They bought a muzzle meant for a young foxhound. When Saracen shook his head, it rattled a bit but did not fall off.

  The cobbler enjoyed the tale as well, particularly with the addition of two storms and a gypsy conspiracy. Despite Clent’s insistence that Mosca had worn her soles thin on a pilgrimage to a hilltop shrine to Goodman Claspkin to pray for her dead family, the cobbler would not cut his price either. However, after he had stitched on Mosca’s new soles he gave them half an oyster pie to break between them. They cupped it in their hands and munched it on the way back to the marriage house, the juices running down their chins.

  Only as they reached their rooms did Clent’s manner sober a little. ‘My mind seems alive with ideas this evening, and I must spear them with my quill. I am sure I can rely upon you not to interrupt me.’

  After he had disappeared into the closet, Mosca perched on the edge of the bed with her pointed chin resting on her hands, thoughts intertwining behind her black eyes to become a plan. Perhaps a sly, buzzing whisper in Mosca’s brain told her that she had a chance to make a useful ally and put someone in her debt. Perhaps, however, a part of her had heard the Cakes’ story with a sense of recognition, and guessed at the other girl’s loneliness.

  It was midnight when Mosca crept to the door of the Cakes’ bedroom, late enough for the other girl to be making no attempt to stifle the sound of her sobs. There was a snuffly sort of a gasp when Mosca knocked, and when the Cakes opened the door, her mob-cap was pulled almost down to her chin to hide her red eyes.

  ‘You got something of your mother’s?’ whispered Mosca.

  ‘What?’ The Cakes gave up and lifted her mob-cap frill to see who was talking.

  ‘Your father, he does the marriages sacred to Leampho with the One Wakeful Eye, don’t he?’

  The Cakes nodded.

  ‘I was remembering . . . back where I come from, there’s this old ceremony they do sometimes, when you want to marry someone who’s alive to someone who’s dead – if they both wanted to marry. I mean, like, if they were just about to marry and then the man got stamped to death by a cow or fell in the rapids. I been thinking an’ I think I can remember how it goes. You got something of your mother’s?’

  ‘Yes, a bit of lace and a stuff gown. But is that sort of ceremony legal?’ the Cakes asked doubtfully. ‘I mean, legal enough to put in the register?’

  ‘We can’t tell anyone,’ Mosca said quickly. ‘It’s not the sort of thing you can tell about. I mean, it’s like Leampho with one eye open and one eye closed, right? Our eyes are open to see t
his, but the rest of the world has to have its eyes shut.’ Mosca almost believed her words herself. ‘What does it matter if no one else knows? You’ll know. Come on, and put the shawl round you. I got one of your father’s cravats off the back of a chair in one of the chapels.’

  The little chapel Mosca chose bristled with clay vases full of dried honesty plants, the sheer shell pods reflecting the light of the Cakes’ candle like so many pale eyelids. The white lace shawl had split a few stitches but, draped over the head of the Cakes, it gave her an other-worldly look and hid her tearfulness. As soon as Saracen had satisfied himself that the cravat was not edible, he allowed it to be tied around his neck without further argument.

  ‘You stand there, and play your mother . . . and Saracen’ll be your father.’

  Mosca wet her lips, took a breath, and began to speak. She pulled out rags of wedding words she had heard by listening through the thin marriage-house walls. She patched them with pompous-sounding phrases from her father’s books. She stitched the whole together with the scarlet thread of her own imagination.

  In an alcove on the wall, a porcelain Leampho stood with one eye closed, as if winking to let Mosca know that he was on to her. The Cakes, on the other hand, snuffled her way through the ceremony, and at the end had to wipe her eyes with the shawl.

  ‘It must be a real wedding,’ she said at last, ‘or I wouldn’t be crying.’

  Mosca put the cravat in her hand and left the Cakes to enjoy her tears.

  Mosca retired to her trucklebed, where she lay in a state of happy sleeplessness for almost an hour, listening to the brook-like sounds of Saracen chuckling himself to sleep. It seemed that at last things were turning out as they should.

  At the very moment when Mosca slipped into sleep, Tamarind was waiting for an audience with her brother. It was a peculiar and unsociable hour for an interview, but the Duke’s whims had become more irregular recently. Her face powder hid any sleepless circles around Tamarind’s eyes.

  Most visitors to the Duke’s residence in the Western Spire found themselves trying to blink away double vision, and pinching the bridge of their nose to clear a headache. Every desk, every shelf, every chair, every stair, everything here had its twin. Tamarind, however, was accustomed to the obsessive symmetry, even the window-shaped alcoves painted with matching views in place of the recalcitrant countryside.