Twilight Robbery

by Frances Hardinge

  Mosca sighed. ‘Not your fault, you big mooncalf.’ By her standards it was almost an apology. ‘How can you know what it’s like out there, with people starving and terrified, half of them ready to sell their own souls to get out of this stinking town? But what about you?’ She felt an unwilling sting of pity. ‘Do you never want to get out of here yourself? Run alongside streams, gaze your fill at the stars?’

  The Luck’s face went slack with uncertainty and longing. Perhaps the weight of the stone walls about him had not after all smothered his ability to dream. He was silent for a time, picking at one frayed buttonhole, then his head drooped.

  ‘I cannot. I am needed. I am . . . I am the saviour. Protector of the town.’ He clasped his hands together and squirmed his fingers. ‘I am lucky,’ he quavered, defiant but anguished.

  Mosca looked around the windowless cell, the person-shaped dent worn into the bed’s mattress, the chest full of undersized clothes.

  ‘You don’t look too blinkin’ lucky to me,’ she muttered.

  Mosca’s return climb was no easier than the first, and a good deal more despondent. The Luck seemed ready to wail with anguish when she tried to leave, and the only way she could make him hush was to promise that she would return or send a friend to talk to him. She knew all too well that she would never be able to keep this promise, and was left with a bitter taste of more than soot.

  By the time the dawn bugle had sounded, Mosca was back in her cell and had rubbed the worst of the soot off her face, hair and arms. Her dress covered the dark smudges on her chemise and breeches. A quick swab around cleared up the worst of the soot and ash that had tumbled into the hearth.

  Another night with no sleep, and nothing gained. Soon she would have to tell Mistress Bessel that she did not have the Luck. That the Luck was not something that could be conveniently tucked into a pocket or a sleeve. That the Luck was a desperately lonely youth a few hiccups from manhood, raised since his infant years in a room sealed from the world, a room that might as well be an oubliette.

  Mistress Bessel would not like that. And Mosca was not at all sure she liked it herself.

  Mistress Bessel arrived a little after breakfast time, or what would have been breakfast time if Mosca had had anything to pay the Keeper.

  As soon as the last bolt scraped, the stocky woman turned to Mosca with an eagerness that drew her broad face taut, her gloved hands restless with anticipation.

  ‘Well?’

  Mosca frowned and fumbled at her apron strings.

  ‘I done everything you said . . .’ She could not stop her tone sounding defiant.

  Mistress Bessel stared at her, and then the eagerness faded and the muscles around her mouth tensed.

  ‘You failed ?’

  ‘No! I shinned my way into the Luck’s cell, just like you told me! And I found your precious Luck. It’s not my fault I couldn’t bring it back!’

  Tell me, then!’ snapped her visitor. ‘Tell me everything you saw in that room!’

  Mosca swallowed drily. ‘I will – but you got to get me out of here first.’

  And have you frisk off down the nearest alley as soon as you see daylight? Precious little fear of that, my dove. Tell me the truth and I’ll fish you out of here, you have my promise

  on that, but you tell me what you know first. You’re in no place to haggle – bear that in mind.’

  It was true. Mosca took a deep breath. ‘There’s no magic skull up there, Mistress Bessel, no saint’s apple core. Just a lad a few years older than me, half crazy with staring at the walls. The Luck . . . it’s not an it. It’s a he.’

  Mistress Bessel’s features took on a stony cast, and it was impossible to guess her thoughts. Was she angry? Did she even believe Mosca? ‘Are you sure it was the right cell?’

  ‘Sure as rock. Only one other flue off the chimney.’

  ‘What else was there in the cell apart from the boy? Tell me! Don’t leave out a grain or jot!’

  Mosca could only assume that Mistress Bessel was still hoping against hope that the Luck would turn out to be something else in the room, something pocket-sized. Wearily Mosca set about describing every detail of the Luck’s cell, right down to the wall hangings, the crockery and the Beloved statues littering the floor, while Mistress Bessel clasped and chafed her gloved hands, her face intent and inscrutable, her eyes narrowed.

  ‘But it’s no good – the Luck weren’t none of those other things. It was the lad. He told me so.’

  ‘What?’ The older woman’s head rose sharply. ‘He spoke to you? You let him see you? Well, that tears the plan in two –’

  ‘He won’t tell anyone,’ Mosca retorted. ‘I know he won’t. I’m his secret. I’m all he has.’ Mosca gave a sketchy account of their nocturnal conversation. ‘And the plan’s torn in two anyways. Even if I could lug five foot of lumbering mooncalf up the chimney, how would we smuggle him out of the prison? Under our aprons?’

  There was a pause. It appeared to have brought a few friends. Apparently Mistress Bessel did not have an answer.

  ‘Mistress Bessel, you made me a promise.’ Mosca could not keep a tremble out of her voice. The older woman glanced at her with features still set in a scowl, and for a terrible moment Mosca thought she might go back on her word out of spite and disappointment. ‘You promised!’

  ‘Oh hush!’ snapped Mistress Bessel. ‘One would think that nobody had trials but you! Yes, I made you a promise, and a good deal of trouble it will bring me for very little gain. But –’ she sighed deeply and smoothed her apron with the air of a martyr – ‘I am a woman of my word, even in dealings with a rag of mischief like you.’ She pursed her lips speculatively for a few moments. ‘So . . . tell me about his lordship the mayor. Does he have a wife? A sister? A housekeeper? Anybody of the female sort to look after him?’

  Over the next five minutes Mosca found herself answering a barrage of questions about the mayor’s household, temperament, likes and dislikes. Mistress Bessel appeared to be handling her disappointment rather better than Mosca had expected, and in spite of her colossal relief Mosca could not help wondering why.

  She suspected that Mistress Bessel had walked into the jail with more than one plan up her sleeve, and when one had broken she had smoothly cast it aside in favour of the next. If so, the backup apparently involved ingratiating herself with the mayor. Mosca did not care a single pin providing it also ensured her liberty.

  ‘Your mayor sounds a sore old bear,’ said Mistress Bessel as she took her leave, ‘but I’ve tamed fiercer beasts before today, my honeycomb. Now, all I need is a word with Eponymous . . .’

  Mosca did not trust Mistress Bessel any further than she could fly, but in spite of this her hopes once again began their battered, indomitable spider-climb up the grimy flue of her soul.

  After four hours of bitten nails, Mosca received another visit. She was not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed to discover that it was not Mistress Bessel, but Sir Feldroll, accompanied by the portly and nervous form of Eponymous Clent.

  Sir Feldroll’s manner was unusually tense and curt, and Mosca soon learned why. He had spent most of the morning arguing with the mayor, leaving his fuse all but burned out.

  ‘The mayor received a ransom note this morning,’ he explained, the muscles in his peaky, expressive face jumping and twitching. ‘In exchange for Miss Marlebourne’s return, the kidnappers have demanded the Soul of Santainette.’

  This was a fine opportunity for Mosca to practise her blank look.

  ‘It is an emerald of considerable renown – and no small value, if one has the right contacts. It is the size of a child’s thumbnail, and cloudy, flawed you might even say, with a plume of smoky yellow coiling through the middle of it. But since it is said to have been prised out of the crown of the last king of the Realm . . .’

  Mosca gave Clent the most fleeting glance, and noted the feverish interest that had glossed his eyes like varnish. Apparently he had not heard this particular detail before. Batte
red, hungry, frightened, cold and exhausted as Mosca was, she felt that she would cheerfully have thrown a dozen such stones into the Langfeather in exchange for a bowl of stew, a night’s sleep and an escape from Toll. The gem sounded like trouble.

  ‘This emerald was entrusted to the care of the mayor many years ago,’ continued Sir Feldroll, ‘and I believe that he intends to hand it over to the kidnappers as instructed a few nights from now.’

  A memory jolted Mosca’s frozen mind and forced it back into life.

  ‘Not the night of Yacobray?’

  Sir Feldroll nodded, looking somewhat surprised. ‘His lordship the mayor is under orders to place the gem within a radish and hang it outside the door of his counting house in town, just before the dusk changeover. Rather outlandish request.’

  Mosca thought it sounded far from outlandish. The night of Saint Yacobray was the one night of the year when something like that could be hung outside without attracting notice, and nobody but the Locksmiths would dare touch it. Nobody, that is, except the daring conspiracy of kidnappers.

  ‘I have advised the mayor against this in the strongest possible terms.’ Sir Feldroll frowned. ‘This brigand Appleton is plainly obsessed with Miss Marlebourne. It is absurd to imagine that having snatched her from her family he will meekly hand her over in exchange for mere wealth. Once he has the gem, he is far more likely to use it bribe his way out of Toll-by-Night, and carry off Miss Marlebourne. To Mandelion, no doubt, for once he reaches that nest of anarchists, cut-throats and fellow radicals he knows all too well we shall be unable to reach him, or rescue his victim. Confound it, he means to marry her!’ His chin bobbed and wobbled, and his face flushed with emotion.

  Mosca and Clent did not look at each other; indeed their gaze upon Sir Feldroll’s face became particularly steadfast. It did not seem a good idea to mention that they had been accomplices of many of the ‘anarchists, cut-throats and radicals’ in Mandelion, or the extent to which they had helped them take power. However Sir Feldroll was probably right to distrust the kidnappers’ promises. After all, Skellow had spoken to Clent’s ‘Romantic Facilitator’ of claiming the ransom even if Brand and Beamabeth were married.

  ‘Picture it.’ Clent met Mosca’s eye with an expression at once appealing and nervous. ‘That poor child, captured and unfriended . . . need we say more?’

  There was a long and heartfelt pause.

  ‘Well, somebody bleedin’ well better,’ snapped Mosca. ‘I don’t see where you’re driftin’.’

  ‘Then I shall speak more plainly,’ answered the knight. ‘I could not talk the mayor out of paying the ransom. However, four solid hours of . . . discussion with him have not been entirely in vain. My persistence and Mr Clent’s eloquence had achieved little, but by the greatest good fortune Mr Clent happened to encounter a respectable lady of his acquaintance with an impeccable name.’ Evidently Mistress Bessel had acted quickly. ‘She added her arguments to ours, and between the three of us we finally succeeded in talking your cell door open. The hearing has been cancelled. I will personally be paying your release fee.’

  Mosca’s heart broke into a gallop, then slowed to a doubtful canter, and finally a cynical trot. She crooked a black eyebrow and waited. Her short and bitter life had trained her to recognize the sound of a ‘but’ hovering in the air.

  Sir Feldroll cleared his throat.

  ‘The argument which Mr Clent finally brought to bear with the mayor was this: your allotted time as a visitor comes to an end tonight. At present we have no agents in the night town, nobody at all. We have only until the night of Yacobray to find Miss Marlebourne – once Brand Appleton has the gem, I am firmly persuaded that we shall never see her again. I am asking you to help us – to help us find Miss Marlebourne, and if possible to arrange her rescue.’

  ‘So that’s it.’ Mosca gave a bitter laugh, and then directed a gaze of fire at Eponymous Clent. ‘This your idea, then? One of your brilliant plans? Somebody promised me I’d never have to go to the night town. Wonder who that was.’

  Clent, to do him justice, did look somewhat abashed and crestfallen.

  ‘Child,’ he said quietly, ‘the situation was quite desperate. If I had been able to think of any other way of slipping your shackles . . .’

  ‘Yeah. Well, thank you for gettin’ me out of the frying pan, Mr Clent. So that’s the plan, is it? Throw me into the night town so I can rescue the mayor’s daughter from a nest of cutthroats all by misself? How am I supposed to do that?’

  ‘You will only be alone the first night,’ answered Sir Feldroll. ‘By the second I should have summoned some night-named servants from my estates. They will have the mayor’s permission to enter the night town immediately, without spending three days as visitors. Your job will be merely to dig out information – my men will perform the rescue. And the reward, if you succeed, will be generous, easily enough for you and your employer to buy your way out of Toll.’

  Mosca scowled at nothing and nibbled soot from her fingernail while she thought.

  ‘Child,’ Clent added quietly, ‘you and I have at least the dubious privilege of having been educated in the world. Whips and briars have been our nursemaids, kicks and cuffs our tutors. Life has whetted our wits and toughened our hides – our kind stand at least a chance of surviving in Toll-by-Night. Miss Marlebourne quite simply does not.’

  Miss Marlebourne’ll survive, all right, said the bitter voice in Mosca’s head. She’ll survive because she’s worth something to somebody alive. They know what they can get for her; they won’t so much as crush a ringlet or stain a satin shoe. But in her mind’s eye she was seeing again Beamabeth’s frightened face as she talked of her fears that the night town would reclaim her.

  ‘Oh . . .’ She meshed her fingers in her ragged, abused hair and tugged it until her scalp ached. ‘Oh, crabmaggots. I’ll do it, I suppose. Sir Feldroll, this reward – there needs to be some left over for some other folks we made promises to, and who need it as much as their necks. Oh, and my goose! Saracen comes with me.’

  ‘I do not think,’ Sir Feldroll remarked, with an uncharacteristic quirk of humour in the corner of his mouth, ‘that you will have any trouble persuading the mayor of that at all.’

  If the mayor’s staff had been any happier to lose Saracen and regain their second pantry, they would probably have broken into a caper.

  They were clearly less jubilant at the idea of having Mosca back within their walls once more, though it would only be for a few hours. However, there was nowhere else Sir Feldroll could take her, since he was staying at the mayor’s home. The mayor himself was out, thankfully.

  The smell of porridge banished all fear, anger and thought in a moment. The mayor’s footmen watched with a mixture of fascination and distaste as Mosca demolished three bowls of it so fast that her tongue burned and her stomach cramped. As soon as she had finished, the exhaustion that she had been holding at bay refused to accept any further argument.

  She did not remember drooping into sleep at the table, but a few hours later she woke to find herself in a little nest of blankets by the hearth, watched by a maid who stood against the wall, just where Mosca had been placed with her tray two nights before. Saracen slept in a basket beside her. With a sinking of the heart, she saw that the sky beyond the window was dulling to violet.

  ‘Where’s Mr Clent? I need to speak to ’im.’

  Leaving Saracen to his grain-filled dreams, Mosca went to find Clent and tracked him down in the library. To her surprise, he was pacing, his wig slightly to starboard, his fingers knotted behind his back. When he saw Mosca, he came to an abrupt halt. For a few seconds his fingers fretted at the frayed ends of his cravat. Then he spread his arms in an expansive shrug and let them fall with a slap.

  ‘It was all I could think of,’ he said simply. ‘The only plan that would tweak you out of that lousehouse. I dropped my bucket into the well of my invention to the rope’s extent, but could pull out nothing better. I am . . . truly sorry.’

/>   ‘Well, you chose a rosy time to run out of ideas,’ muttered Mosca, sitting on one of the ornate library chairs and pulling up her feet to sit cross-legged.

  ‘Here.’ Clent placed a bundle on the table before Mosca and opened it. Inside lay a small purse, a knife in a leather sheath, some bread and cheese wrapped in a handkerchief, a reed pen, a bottle of ink and a wallet full of blank writing paper. ‘Not much . . . but our Sir Feldroll seems loath to gild your pockets too heavily lest you pay your way out of Toll and escape into the heather. Nonetheless, this might be of service to you.’ It was a map, with the words ‘The Faire Citie of Toll’ looping rather pompously along the top.

  ‘This is a map of Toll-by-Day,’ Mosca said, scowling at the fine, spidery names that sidled down the streets.

  ‘I know. Many of these streets will not be there come the dusk. But these will.’ With a careful fingertip he touched an image of a spire, a sketch of a tree, the Clock Tower, the castle turrets. ‘High points. Look for these above the roofs and you can recover your bearings. And this will not change.’ He drew his finger along the sweeping arc of the town wall. ‘Mosca – if all else fails, look for this wall and follow it until you find the house of that redoubtable midwife. She at least does not appear to be an urchin-eating ogress, and if she has tolerated you once she might do so again. And . . . you can leave letters here –’ Clent tapped the map again – ‘inside the mouth of the statue of Goodman Belubble that is built into the town wall. I will . . . There will be letters for you as well.’

  Mosca nodded, and swallowed a gulp of coarse, dry nothingness. There was a silence.

  ‘For Beloved’s sake, try to keep track of your bonnet,’ Clent broke out at last. He pulled Mosca’s bonnet from a chair and dropped it on to her head. ‘Running about bare-headed like a ragamuffin . . .’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘You’ll need to find somebody else to tell you when your plans are bleedin’ stupid,’ Mosca said gruffly. ‘Not that you ever listen to me when I do.’