And a tale he told of Mosca Mye, with much flash and flourish, a tale that took all dangers and made them magnificent as djinn, a tale that gilded each sickening gamble with a dashing nonchalance. A pair of coal-black eyes watched him from the dank cellar below, widening as their grubby, battered owner heard herself become a heroine for the span of his story. A story which ended triumphantly with an account of that daring heroine’s infiltration of the salvation hole.
‘But…’ The mayor seemed to be piecing things together. ‘Does that not mean that right now the child is…’
‘Over ’ere under the floor, yer lordship!’ Mosca called out. There was a host of small scuffles and thuds, suggesting that several people had jumped out of their skins.
‘Precisely.’ Clent sounded a little smug. ‘Forgive us our reticence, but it did not seem prudent to mention Miss Mye’s masterful intrusion before the Locksmith spy had been driven from our midst.’
‘My lord mayor – can the floor not be raised?’ asked Sir Feldroll.
The mayor gave orders, and tools were brought by mystified servants, but a few experiments with pick and saw quickly revealed that under the chapel’s tiles lay solid stone slabs on timber beams, sealed into place with mortar. There was no way to break through to Mosca’s cell and haul her up into the day.
Clent waited until the servants had left once more before continuing.
‘Gentlemen, thanks to our intrepid miniature agent below, we know where Miss Beamabeth is, and the Locksmiths at present do not – but, mark my words, if they mean to find her then they will. And when they have her what are they likely to do? To hand her back to her friends with a doff of the cap? Or will they perhaps tell you, my lord mayor, that they are better able to arrange her safety than yourself, just as they did with the Luck? Will they perhaps choose keep her in Night, like the old folktale about the Princess of Butterflies who married the Lord of the Dead? Or will they ask a second ransom, one that you can ill afford now that the first is gone?
‘If we wish to recover her, then it must be done with the greatest of haste. Rescuing her from the scurrilous Skellow and his coterie of cut-throats is likely to be hazardous… but I would not give half a fig for our chances of snatching her from the clutches of the Locksmiths once they have her. And if the nefarious Skellow does have the ransom it might, I fear, bode badly for the lady’s future unless we can slip in before, shall we say, the fall of the blade.’
‘The Locksmiths’ letter… the Luck… my hands are tied.’ Such a short time ago the mayor had seemed like a cliff of granite, towering, harsh and capable of weathering anything. But the recent succession of shocks seemed to have broken him apart. Now others could scoop him up by the handful like gravel, and the Locksmiths currently had the largest scoop.
‘Yes, my lord mayor,’ Clent hastened to agree. ‘Yes… your hands are tied.’ There was the tiniest hint of stress on the word ‘your’.
‘But mine are not,’ responded Sir Feldroll promptly. ‘And you, my lord mayor, are not responsible for anything I do. Perhaps, Mr Clent, you would be so good as to tell us what you have in mind?’
Goodman Garotten, Red-handed Bringer of Retribution
There were a lot of questions Aramai Goshawk wanted answered. Why, on the night of Saint Yacobray, had his men stumbled upon a come-as-a-Clatterhorse party? How had Mistress Bessel been detected as his spy in the mayor’s household? But at the moment the most pressing question was, where is Beamabeth Marlebourne? And the woman before him apparently could not answer it.
‘So what do you know?’ he asked, without looking up.
Mistress Bessel was perched on the edge of her seat, under the gaze of two dozen golden eyes. Stuffed owls regarded her from bench and shelf with frozen, predatory astonishment, as though she was a novelty mouse.
‘Only what the mayor himself told me before Eponymous tumbled to my secret – but that was a good deal. The names of the kidnappers’ ringleaders – Rabilan Skellow and Brand Appleton.’
‘Appleton,’ repeated Goshawk, with such relish that the word might indeed have been an apple to be polished on his mind’s sleeve.
He prided himself on noting curiosities and inconsistencies, because they were so often important. Hence he had noticed that of late a well-brought up young man – by the name of Appleton – had been exposing himself to the hazards of the Bludgeoncourt to win sweetmeats and little luxuries. Now he was experiencing the exquisite satisfaction of one who has preserved half a broken cup just long enough to find the other half. ‘So that is why he had such a need of candied violets – he had the tastes of a little captive princess to pamper. How gentlemanly.
‘Now what in the world,’ Goshawk murmured, raising his eyes to stare at Mistress Bessel, ‘should I do with you?’
His colourless gaze covered her face like a cold, damp cloth, just long enough for her autumnal ruddiness to wane and pale under his scrutiny.
‘I think your talents will serve us best in Dogmalton for a while, until we can discover how far news of your… allegiance has spread.’ She read his dismissive gesture correctly, and gratefully fled his presence.
As a matter of fact, Aramai Goshawk was fairly well pleased with Mistress Jennifer Bessel, particularly for helping him with his long-term plan to seize the Luck, but he had no intention of telling her so. Such as she were often most useful when kept slightly uneasy and off balance. He cleared his throat, and by the time he looked around two men were at his side, gloved hands neatly clasped before their bellies.
‘Brand Appleton,’ Goshawk said aloud. ‘He has lodgings in Preck Street, and he might be just stupid enough to be found there. If not, hunt down the girl known as Laylow. If she is suiting her actions to her name, seek out every rat-cranny she has ever used as a bolthole. Tell her that we are looking to take Appleton, and if she helps us find him we might choose to take him in one piece.’
Ah, the difficulties of balance. If one wished to control, the balance of fear had to be just right. You could not allow people to become desperate, or they lost all fear and did wild and unpredictable things. And yet you could not let them become complacent, or they became impudent and rash. These kidnappers, for example. Daring to set up their own little scheme in Goshawk’s town without consulting him.
The daughter, if she could be recovered, would be valuable, for it seemed that most of Toll-by-Day was within half a hop of falling in love with her. However he doubted that she was still alive, now the ransom had been paid. The jewel, however, was of considerably more interest. If he gave the kidnappers time to catch their breaths, they would find eager buyers among the Pawnbrokers, and if that happened the gem would slip through his fingers and out of Toll.
‘Abject lessons are in order, I think.’ His tiny, childlike hands interleaved, forming a toy church and steeple. ‘These kidnappers must be dead by dawn. Find this ransom, and silence anybody who sees you taking it. Have a couple of men watching the Twilight Gate entrance in case the mayor or this Sir Feldroll have sent any more clod-hopping oafs to rescue Miss Marlebourne. If any such do appear… follow them and arrange for them all to be personally introduced to the Langfeather.’
His oyster-pale eyes narrowed for a second.
‘If the mayor heeds my letter and sends nobody, we might even ransom his daughter back to him, if we can recover her alive. But if he does send more marauders into our streets… then I suppose poor Beamabeth Marlebourne will have “died during a botched raid by the mayor’s men”. A lesson in the dangers of taking things into one’s own hands instead of leaving it to the professionals. She is useful to us, but, now that we have the Luck, not essential.’
The finger-church unfolded itself, and Goshawk thoughtfully fiddled with his blotter before speaking again.
‘If you can… try to keep that headstrong urchin girl alive.’
‘The urchin – do you mean Eponymous Clent’s girl, sir? The one he sent nightside a couple of nights ago?’
‘Mm? Oh. No, actually I meant Laylow
. As for Clent’s girl… yes, I suppose it is possible that she is still alive after three nights. If so… she is just another messy detail. Dispose of her.’
In the heart of the Clock Tower cog fought cog in darkness, each biting with all the force of its metal teeth, never guessing that they were part of one great, relentless machine. Somewhere on the walls of the town a bugle blew, and the clock answered with a tinny ditty of its own. Across Toll, the day retreated indoors and at the same time the little model of Goodlady Blatchett with her bright eyes and sack of toads retreated into the darkness of the clock archway. As the second bugle sounded and night prepared to advance, Goodman Garotten emerged to take the Goodlady’s place with his sickle and scales. His painted eyes were yellow as yolk, his tiny teeth clenched and bared.
Without knowing it, Mosca Mye was at that very moment imitating his expression exactly, not twenty yards away, her stomach knotting itself with apprehension. As soon as the locks on the false wooden wall covering the secret frog-door had been unfastened and the sound of jingling faded, she had emerged and sprinted for the Twilight Gate. Now she sat watching from the furthest reaches of the street. The plan that she had contrived that afternoon with Clent and Sir Feldroll was about to be put into action.
As she watched, the little door to the Twilight Gate opened and five figures emerged. Without a moment’s hesitation they scattered, each taking their own pre-planned route. If there were spies watching for new arrivals, it was unlikely that they would be able to pursue all of them.
Mosca grinned with relief as she saw the plan being followed, then turned about and ran towards the agreed rendezvous. The rags she had tied about her clogs turned her feet into fat, ragged mopheads, but they did not ring out against the cobbles.
The reinforcements would be a medley of all the cooperative nightnames that could be mustered in desperation at a few hours’ notice. One ex-soldier attached to Sir Feldroll, one man with a visitor’s pass who had consented to join the rescue in exchange for the toll out of Toll… and three prisoners from the Grovels, the grisly cell into which Mosca had been thrown a couple of nights before. All three had leaped at the first chance of pardon and freedom they had seen in several long years.
The rendezvous point was a darkened archway that Mosca had chosen because the slanting light of the early-evening moon did not touch the neighbouring alleys, and it could be reached at a run without stepping into the light. She was the first to arrive, and tucked herself away into the recess, hugging her ribs and forcing her breathing to slow. At last she heard footsteps and panting breaths approach.
‘Prattler’s Jack!’ she whispered, tensed to run again if the right password was not given.
‘Sangrin’s Tumble!’ came the answer. Both were the names of dice games. ‘Is that Mye?’
‘Every inch. Tuck yourself in here with me – we wait five minutes for the others and then we wait no more.’
Three more figures arrived to whisper the right password within the next two minutes. Mosca clenched her fists and counted her heartbeats until five minutes had passed without any sign of their last comrade.
There would be no more waiting. The plan had been quite specific on that point. If any of you thinks you are being followed, then do not go to the rendezvous. If you cannot lose your shadow, then lose yourself in Toll, and pray that you are not lost in good earnest.
‘We’re in your hands, Mye.’ Mosca thought it was probably Sir Feldroll’s man speaking. ‘Where now?’
‘The Chutes,’ whispered Mosca. ‘Undertaker district. Stay close, and keep your steps soft.’
In your hands. The hands in question were shaking, and not just with the cold. Fear of the Locksmiths and Skellow’s thumb-cutting knife flooded Mosca but did not fill her. Somehow there was room in her core for an angry little knot of excitement, tight and fierce as a pike’s grin.
Being a Locksmith meant never having to kick down a door. A flick, a click, and there you were in the hallway.
Sometimes there were screams, but usually the breath people drew in to bellow at you leaked out in little whimpers once they realized what you were. Sometimes the truth hit them like a fist to the belly, and they literally crumpled to the floor. Something had brought the Locksmiths to their door, and they would do anything, say anything, sell anyone to make them go away again.
‘Yes, Laylow does stay here sometimes – but she has not been here this last week! Here – let me show you the room she uses! And this is where she hides her packages, under the floorboard! Yes, I can give you the names of her friends…’
Search the room, picking up her few belongings. Gather up the chocolate-scented, muslin-wrapped packages from their hole in the wainscot. Snatch up a chicken leg from the landlady’s table on the way out.
Being a Locksmith meant never having to say sorry.
‘Nobody told me you were a foreigner.’ Sir Feldroll’s ex-soldier sounded disgruntled and suspicious. The little rescue party’s steps had taken them now into more open streets, and when they crossed a patch of moonlight Mosca’s outlandish garb and greenish skin had become visible.
‘Well, nobody told me you were a slack-bellied noddy with a busy jaw,’ Mosca retorted sharply. ‘I guess we both got cause to complain.’
‘Just show us the Chutes, you peppery little minx!’ the other snapped.
It was not just the fact that she was green, Mosca suspected, that was causing her new comrade’s sudden hostility. Perhaps he had not realized until now how young she was. Perhaps now he felt absurd at having placed himself under her captaincy. The giddy, terrifying sense that she was in control of a unit of men started to slip away from her, like a giant’s boot falling absurdly off her narrow foot.
‘How would you like a new grin for a necktie?’ came a sudden snarl from behind Mosca. She turned to find that one of the ex-prisoners from the Grovels was glaring at the soldier hot-eyed. His face seemed to have been used as a whetstone, and a mesh of scars folded his forehead and left his eyebrows as dotted lines. ‘Leave the little mort be, or I’ll tie your tongue to the railings!’
The threat, implausible as it was, served to silence the other man. Perhaps he reflected that even a failed attempt to execute it was likely to be very, very painful. Or perhaps he had noticed the way in which the other two ex-convicts had moved supportively to Mosca’s side.
‘Pratin’ popinjay,’ one of them whispered in her ear. ‘Bold enough in the street, ain’t he? But if he was dropped into the spring-ankle warehouse, he’d be keening like a kitten.’
Mosca understood, and turned her head to give the speaker a nasty little grin of agreement, which he answered with a wink. ‘Spring-ankle warehouse’ was a cant term for prison. Somehow, in spite of her disguise, the Grovellers had recognized her as their former cell-mate – perhaps because they had met her in darkness and known her only through her voice and temper. In the Grovels she had been their prey, but now they were part of the same fraternity – at least while there was a chance to gang up on somebody who had never known leg irons. Belatedly, it seemed, Mosca was getting her garnish-worth.
‘Any more gabble? No? Then come this way.’ She hoped she was sounding confident. The rescue party’s odds were poor enough without them fighting among themselves.
‘Laylow? Yes, came in here for a dram o’ gin two nights ago with that young radical cove, the firebrand with the mad eyes. No, I never listen in, but the Beloved put ears on our heads, and mine pull in sound something fearsome. So… I hear him asking her for help, saying he don’t trust some folks… something about a horse…
‘No, I do not know where she lays her head. Perhaps you ask her radical friend? What? No, not as such, but I have often seen him a-walkin’ off towards the Chutes…’
It was in the Chutes, of course, that the plans became shaky, for Mosca had never even been in this district before. There were a few wrong turns in the glistening streets, and Mosca’s hairs rose at the thought of her ‘followers’ losing confidence in her. On either si
de of the streets were ominous stacks of person-size boxes. Some were cracked and battered wood, and she slipped past them as fast as she could, fearful of glimpsing a dead eye or pallid hand through a crevice. Here and there in tiny shrines models of Goodman Postrophe stood sentinel, ready to squirt mellowberry juice into the eyes of any dead who decided to climb out of their boxes. His presence was only slightly reassuring.
There were sounds as well, from deep in the icy, intestinal tangle of streets. A stutter of wood being dragged across cobbles. A shriek of a metal winch. A clatter of hatches. A weightless handful of silent seconds, then a smash far below, softened by echo, so that it was little more than a cough in the Langfeather’s throat.
‘There.’ It was exactly as Brand Appleton had described, a cooper’s shop opposite an abandoned alehouse with a broken door. It stood on the corner, a small cask swaying from a chain over the door. It was a mean, narrow little shop with one small shuttered window at the front, and two floors above it.
‘How many inside?’ asked the soldier.
‘Five,’ answered Mosca. ‘Maybe six. And the lady.’
‘Then we’ll have to move fast – knock down anyone in the shop, then run upstairs, kick in the door and cover all within with our pistols before they can hurt the lady…’ The soldier trailed off, realizing that nobody was actually listening to him. Mosca and the other ex-Grovellers had formed a huddle and gone into muffled conference.
‘… milled a ken like this when I was nine,’ one was saying. ‘No point in puffing our way up the stairs and expecting to catch ’em winking – these old wooden steps ring out underfoot like a regiment of drums.’
Twilight Robbery aka Fly Trap Page 34