Some die in the cold, and the others, they find a trap to fly into. And then they beat themselves to death inside it.
Mosca could feel her cast-off superstitions tickling at her mind, so she dug her fingernails into her palms and tried to imagine the universe free of little gods. She brandished her disbelief like a torch, but it was hard to keep it burning in the twilight with fear in her mind. And it was hardest of all to disbelieve in Palpitattle, for during her loneliest years his imagined voice had been the whisper of a secret ally.
It was dusk, and the Beloved flowed back into her head like water in the wake of a broom. She could not keep them from peopling the sky. She could not even keep them from peopling the one little alley before her view. There was a shape forming at the opposite end of Brotherslain Walk, a figure with inhumanly angular limbs.
But it was not a member of the Beloved. It was Skellow.
‘Good evening.’ Recognition of his voice sent a shiver of fear through Mosca, and the reddened marks on her wrists stung her. ‘Will you give me your name, brother of the dusk?’
There was a pause, during which Clent took a deep breath, examined his fingers’ ends and then pushed away from the bell against which he had been leaning.
‘You know, I am not at all sure that I shall.’ Clent’s tone was carefully languorous, with just a hint of steel in it. Mosca could not help admiring the way he could pull out a new voice and manner like an actor donning a wig or a fresh pair of hose. ‘My name is good enough that I do not like handing it out for free.’
‘Good enough for daylight, anyway.’ Skellow took some steps forward, and there was still enough light from the violet sky for Mosca to see that he was smiling his loveless smile. His dark wooden nightling badge was visible over his heart like a blot of black blood. ‘Just like you promised.’
‘That is better.’ Clent’s voice was still elegantly frosted with suspicion. ‘But I would like a little more proof that you have business with me.’
Mosca had forgotten that Clent could do this, become a different man. In this dusk he seemed a gentleman in control, and only she knew of the mapwork of stitches that held his fading waistcoat and coat together, or guessed at the scamper of his pulse as he played out his dangerous game.
Skellow’s face took on an angry colour.
‘We do not have time for games! I am taking a chance being out here in this light!’
‘As am I,’ replied Clent smoothly. ‘Sir, I am far from happy. An unknown gentleman suggested that I should meet him in this unsavoury little lane, and I wrote back to change our appointment to another place and time. That gentleman did not keep this appointment, and so I was forced to traipse here against my better judgement in the hope of meeting with him and receiving his no doubt fascinating explanation.’
In a flash, Mosca realized what Clent was doing. He had no guarantee that Skellow had not found someone to read the letter from the real Romantic Facilitator, or that he would not find someone to do so at some point. Clent was steering a clever route, spinning a story that would fit with the letter Skellow had actually received.
To judge by the contortions that passed through Skellow’s face, however, he had not persuaded anyone else to read him the letter.
‘I – wha– you – you changed the appointment?’ he spluttered. ‘That . . . that sly, slither-tongued little rat! She rooked me! If I ever cross paths with her again . . .’
‘Ah,’ said Clent, politely and without sympathy. ‘Trouble with your underlings. Someone who is in on your secret and out of your reach, yes? Will this be a danger to us? Or is the situation . . . manageable?’
‘Don’t you worry,’ growled Skellow. ‘We’ll manage her all right.’ Mosca’s blood ran cold.
‘How reassuring.’ Clent did not sound reassured. ‘Sir, I am a busy man and much sought after . . . and not always by my friends. You have yet to convince me that you are not one of my enemies. You might start by telling me more of this job I am to undertake. But I warn you, the first moment you say something that does not accord with what I already know, I shall walk away. And if you attempt to interrupt my walk, sir, you will find that a surprisingly unpleasant experience.’
‘It’s a snatching job,’ Skellow said after a pause. Yielding had clearly cost him something. ‘To get a girl married to a fellow who can get her no other way. The mayor’s daughter, Beamabeth Marlebourne. Family will give a pretty ransom to know that she’s safe, even if she has been married to our friend. You’ll get the rest of your money once we have the ransom. We have settled how the money is to be paid to us – it’s only the grab we need you for.’
‘And the gentleman whom she does not realize she is to marry?’
‘Another nightowl. Which is why he cannot do the job himself. But don’t you worry, sir, he’ll treat her well enough. Will that serve as proof for you, sir?’
‘I think so. Yes, that is a good deal better, Mr Pimplenose.’
‘WHAT DID YOU CALL ME?’ erupted Skellow.
‘Well, your letter – the name at the bottom was definitely Scragface Pimplenose – of course if I am mispronouncing it – ’
Caution was forgotten as Skellow gave a rook-like caw of rage.
‘I’ll twist her into rope! I’ll skin her like a fish!’ Although his hands were now barely visible in the gloam, they did seem to be clutching and contorting, miming out his threats. ‘My name is Skellow! Rabilan Skellow!’ A few seconds, and he seemed to calm himself a little. ‘And you, sir, your name now if you please.’
Mosca felt a tingle of panic creep over her skin. Clent’s pause was long, too long. What could he say? He could not lie about his name, but giving it to Skellow had its hazards. It might allow Skellow to trace his history, or track him down in the future.
The outline of Clent’s throat seemed to bob a little in a dry swallow. He had manoeuvred himself into a corner, and Mosca knew it. ‘My name . . . is Eponymous Clent.’
‘Thankee, sir.’ Skellow straightened and seemed more content. ‘Now, let us make good use of this meeting, for twilit times are too dangerous for us to risk such another. What plans have you made for the snatch?’
It was as though the street was a seesaw, with both men struggling to see the weight of power and fear tilting their way. Until this point by sheer bravado Eponymous Clent had managed to keep Rabilan Skellow off balance, but now the seesaw wavered and tilted Skellow-wards with an almost audible thud. This was not the way Mosca and Clent had planned the interview. Skellow was supposed to tell them his plans. He was not supposed to demand those of Clent.
‘Well . . .’ Clent’s voice was a little higher than it needed to be, but he covered this with a cough. ‘Naturally I have a few thoughts. How soon must this business be done?’
‘Before the night of Saint Yacobray,’ Skellow answered promptly.
‘Hmm. Not long. And I assume you wish the girl spirited away into the night-time town, so that you are beyond the day mayor’s reach? We shall have to make use of the half-light times, dusk and dawn. Now, I have already managed to get myself introduced to the girl, and she is a trusting soul, which is to our advantage. Her father is overprotective, which is not. She is living in a solid stone bastion of a house with guards, which is a nuisance, as is her father’s habit of keeping the house locked from an hour before dusk until an hour after dawn. So, my friend, I shall be dedicating my wits to frightening her father into changing her routine, or better yet getting him out of the way for a time. Tell me – is your client one Brand Appleton?’
‘Where did you get that name?’ Skellow sounded startled, and Mosca sensed the seesaw tipping back in Clent’s favour.
‘I have heard him discussed in the mayor’s household, and Miss Marlebourne clearly harbours some lasting affection and pity for him. Not enough to persuade her to defy her father and marry him . . . but enough that I might convince her to attend a meeting with him, to bid her last adieus or to beg him to turn from desperate courses.’
There was a pau
se.
‘You have the right of it,’ admitted Skellow sullenly. ‘Appleton is our man.’
‘Good. How many men do you have to powder, as it were?’ Clent asked crisply.
‘Half a dozen, including myself,’ answered Skellow.
‘That will probably do,’ Clent conceded generously. ‘Have them ready at dawn in the castle grounds the day after tomorrow. There is a well down which they can hide in the courtyard of the keep. I shall leave a letter with full instructions just under the well’s lid tomorrow evening – or a knotted handkerchief as a warning if aught has gone awry.’
Skellow winced a little at the mention of a letter, but did not object. Evidently he now had access to a friendly reader. ‘Tomorrow night? You can have all ready so soon?’
‘Sir,’ Clent responded with frosty grandeur, ‘my fees are high for a reason.’
Skellow gave his spectral smile, then glanced about him, noting the growing darkness. ‘You must go now, Mr Clent,’ he rasped. ‘The day’s in her death throes and you’ll mar all if you’re caught nightling.’
‘Good night to you, then, Mr Skellow.’ Clent gave a curt little bow and strode sharply around the corner. As prearranged, Mosca slipped to the side window of the shop, and sure enough Clent was hovering outside, glancing up and down the street. Biting her lip with concentration, she clambered out to join him.
‘Wait,’ whispered Clent, who had peered back around the corner. ‘Our fellow has not departed.’
Sure enough, Skellow’s lean figure could be seen leaning against the bell post still with the air of one waiting at a rendezvous. Clent and Mosca exchanged a glance. Who could he be expecting? Another conspirator? Could they afford to wait and find out? How long had it been since the bugle had sounded? Surely they could spare a minute or two more?
The temptation was too strong. They waited and watched, feeling the seconds crackle past like sparks.
Suddenly Skellow started and half crouched, all trace of restive boredom gone. He appeared to be listening intensely. From the north came a sleighbell jingle. A sleighbell crescendo.
‘Jinglers!’ hissed Skellow under his breath, and he cast a panicky look around him. Then, as the noise drew closer, he broke into a long-legged sprint, directly towards the corner behind which Mosca and Clent were hiding.
As one, Mosca and Clent sprang into motion, and as two they reeled back from their collision, snatched and tugged at each other’s arms and then sprinted for the nearest alley and ran flat out. There could be no pausing to be sure whether the echo of their enemies’ steps was ringing from behind them or the next street.
Then both Mosca and Clent halted abruptly as from ahead of them they heard a jingle-jangle sound, an orchestra of thuds and creaks. Whatever the jinglers were, this route seemed to run right into them.
Mosca’s legs took her on a left and a right, and a huffing at her heels told her that Clent was just behind her. But again and again she brought herself up hard, hearing the frosty metallic chiming ahead of her, and strange whams and thuds like a parliament of doors in session. Finally she almost winded herself against something that swung away from her, then hit her in the chest with a broken chink. It was the summoning bell, and she was back in Brotherslain Walk.
‘Tertiary plan!’ croaked Clent between wheezes.
Run like Midsummer butter. Down-past-the-bell-turn-right-second-left-down-the-passage . . .
The passage was gone. Second left was gone. So was first left. There were only smooth timbers where the turnings had been. And along the opposite row, the doorless houses had sprouted doors and dull, dust-choked windows.
Mosca ran on, unable to work out how she had mistaken her route already. She weaved this way and that, trying to recover it.
. . . past-the-cobblers . . .
The cobblers was gone. Instead a differently placed doorway opened on to what looked like a stew or gin cellar.
She ran and twisted and zigzagged like a hare in a coursing, trusting the nose that told her that she must be heading towards the square, this must be the way to the square with the tavern . . .
She found the square. It was no longer the same square. Passages had vanished, new walkways appeared, doors and windows had moved, buildings had become longer, shorter, taller, more angular.
There was no tavern.
Here and there. It all made sense now. Brotherslain Walk had been chosen by Skellow as his meeting place because it was both here and there, it existed in both daylight and nighttime. But somehow, with the passing of the Jinglers, the rest of daylight Toll had disappeared.
As she stood staring helplessly at the square, she once again heard the sounds of a horse’s hoofs and the racketing of wheels, and this time the noises filled her with an unreasoning terror. She might have stayed there staring blankly down the cobbled street towards the sound if Clent had not unceremoniously seized her by the collar and dragged her into the darkness of a ginnel.
A black carriage surged into view, and in an instant every sound of its approach hatched into icy, echoing clarity. Two large black horses huffed steam into the chill air, while bells shook on their bridles. Just as the carriage passed, Mosca happened to look up at its window and caught the tiniest glimpse of the passenger that rode in state. The hand that pushed back the curtain was small and almost childlike, but the face behind was not. It was a lean face with skin like porridge and pale, incalculable eyes.
‘Goshawk!’
Aramai Goshawk, Thief-taker and king of thieves, ghost and puppet master. Aramai Goshawk, ever sent to pull the hidden strings of teetering towns and bring them under the sway of the Locksmiths.
Mosca knew now who the mysterious and much-feared Jinglers must be. The sound she had heard had not been sleighbells at all, but the jingle of keys at dozens of belts as their owners raced through the silent streets, locking away the day and releasing the night.
The mystery of the invisible Locksmiths was solved. Clent was right. The Locksmiths were in Toll. Their home was Toll-by-Night, and right now one of their most dangerous agents was riding through it as if it was his own private kingdom.
‘We’re . . . We’re in a Locksmith town! Mr Clent, we’re trapped in a—’
‘I know it, child, I know it.’
They hung back in the little ginnel, backs against the wall, not daring to talk above a whisper. Somewhere far distant came the long smoky note of a distant bugle.
Mosca swallowed and took a sidelong view of the square.
No lanterns. Silences like frozen treacle. Sounds that ran across your ear like rat feet on your skin. Scamper steps. Metal kissing metal with a hiss. The clapper-clap of shutters opening, doors creaking back on their hinges.
‘I think the nightfolk are coming out,’ hissed Mosca, as panic seeped up through her calves from the icy cobbles. ‘What do we do?’
‘Try not to get caught!’ whispered Clent hoarsely. He had instinctively taken hold of her collar. To comfort her, perhaps. Or so that he could push her in the way of any threat and run. As a matter of fact she seemed to be gripping his sleeve as well.
‘We got to hide, Mr Clent, we got to—’
‘. . . hole up until daylight comes – yes, yes . . .’
The fear that the dayfolk had shown at the approach of dusk made perfect sense. If the Locksmiths were the enforcers of the changeover and held free rein in the night city, no wonder not even the mayor wished to be out after curfew. Given the Locksmiths’ ruthless reputation, Mosca had the distinct feeling that being caught in night-Toll, when she and Clent ‘did not exist’, would involve something worse than a night in the jail.
Run. Hide. Hide from the night? But where? In the shadows?
In the shadows which were starting to murmur, where stone flags were grinding aside and cellar doors swinging wide?
‘Castle!’ Suddenly Mosca’s mind had filled with the green glades of the courtyard and the castle’s ruined walls – as full of nooks and holes as a Jottish cheese. No houses, nobody to both
er them. They could lower themselves down in a well bucket, or camp in a broken tower.
Clent gave a nod, and the pair of them peered round the edge of the wall.
All clear? All clear. Run.
Strange painted shop signs swung slowly above their heads like gallows fruit. A dagger through an apple. A bird with a broken neck. A bone. A set of keys. A set of keys. Keys, everywhere. A Locksmith town.
Dark figures looming in this street and that, forcing Mosca and Clent to weave like fish. A hand with missing fingers reaching out through a shutter to throw some slops into the street. A slight figure sitting aloft on a gallows arm, swinging its legs.
The streets all seemed to be in different places, but Mosca knew that the castle was on the north side of the town. To reach it, they only needed to keep the dying streaks of sunset to their left. At last they reached the perimeter wall of the castle courtyard. Mosca followed Clent through the entrance arch at a sprint, only to cannon into his back as he came to a dead halt.
The castle on the other side of the courtyard was no longer barren and unlit. Reddish lantern light flickered in every arched window. Silhouetted figures spiked the parapets. At the crest of the highest tower flapped a large black flag with a set of silver keys patterned on it.
Mosca emitted a scream in miniature, a distant-sounding squeak. A similar noise seemed to have come from Clent’s open mouth. They locked eyes.
‘Quaternary plan!’ gasped Clent. ‘Creative panic!’
A second later, Mosca was taking a crash course in creative panic. The most important part of it appeared to be bolting at high speed back through the narrow alleys, taking turns at random and fleeing from any alarming noise that sounded nearby. Bouncing off street corners and ripping clothes on torch brackets appeared also to be essential features. But Mosca tightened her fists and gasped the cold air and kept herself a pace behind Eponymous Clent. Right now he was running pell-mell with peril at his heels and counting on his instincts to save his skin. He had been doing that his whole life and appeared to be rather good at it.
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