shaped like a heraldry shield. ‘Now we shall all witness the Struggle of two Titans of the Royal Blood, King Hazard of the line of Wilkfester, and King Galbrash the Dauntless. Gentlemen, in a moment we shall present to you the clash between… the Grouse Rampant of King Hazard, and the Grey Wolf of King Galbrash!’
The floor of the pit was some four feet below the level of the floorboards, and was scattered with earth, trampled feathers and spilt ale. While offers of bets were being bellowed all around, a wicker basket and a large sack were lowered down into the pit. The sack, Mosca noticed, was undeniably rather bigger than the basket.
Two boys with long poles reached down into the pit, one to overturn the basket, the other to prod at the sack. Something fluttered out of the basket.
Mosca’s view was partly blocked by a fat man’s elbow, but she got the impression that the something was dappled brown and not very large.
The sack was trying to stand. It found it could not and rolled around feverishly for a moment. Then a long nose poked searchingly through the neck of the sack, muzzle pulled back from the pointed teeth by the tightness of the gap. The rope at the sack’s neck was loose and after a moment a narrow, grey head pushed through, to be followed by powerful shoulders and starveling flanks. The animal was shaking the sack off its haunches when it noticed its opponent.
Mosca did not see exactly what happened next, but she saw enough. A grey shape streaked across the pit, and then there was a sad little explosion of feathers.
‘That was a wolf,’ she whispered drily. ‘A
‘The Grey Wolf of King Galbrash is victorious!’ shouted the announcer on the steps. ‘But let’s drink a toast to the gents who brought us yet another fine grouse – don’t worry sirs, maybe some day you’ll find one that can rip the giblets from a wolf!’
Applause mixed with shrieks of laughter accompanied the departure of two disappointed-looking men in barbers smocks.
‘Now…’ The announcer reached into his pouch and drew out a new tile. ‘The next Spectacular Battle will take place between the Star-crested Eagle of King Prael and…’ He rattled back into the pouch again.
‘… and… the Smiling Civet of Queen Capillarie.’
Mosca had no idea what a civet was.
On one side of the pit a crate had been lowered. Mosca thought she heard Saracen’s characteristic chuckling sounds from within. On the other side, a sack slowly descended. It sagged shapelessly, and it was hard to tell the size of the animal inside. Not very much larger than a cat, Mosca thought and hoped.
‘Two shillings on the Civet!’ shouted the fat man next to Mosca.
‘Ten shillings on the Civet!’ someone else called out.
Not many people seemed keen to bet on the Star-crested Eagle. Mosca had a clammy feeling that they knew more about civets than she did.
The neck of the sack was prodded open, and an ugly smell seeped into the air. For a moment a set of dull, grey claws appeared through the sackcloth, and then from the darkness inside the sack two eyes glimmered like mother-of-pearl. Then part of a face pushed at the opening, a tapering face mottled in greys like a decaying mushroom.
The lid of the crate was knocked aside with a long-handled pole, and Saracen’s head appeared above the rim. His star had slid downwards, so that he now appeared to have a black ribbon bow decorating his forehead and a yellow spiky beard adorning what could loosely be called his chin. The crate rocked on its base as Saracen exploded from it in a lather of white wings.
Saracen was obviously annoyed. Something was tickling his neck, and someone had put him in a crate, and somehow he had fallen into the earth, and now the heavens were bellowing at him and spattering him with ale foam. And there was only one creature in front of him that might be responsible, a creature deftly wriggling from a sack. A brindled animal with a ridge down its back and fur in wet-weather colours. A beast with eyes full of night, and a reek like a rotting forest.
To the delight of the audience, Saracen lowered his head, holding his neck level to the ground, and hissed. There was a cheer from some followers of King Prael.
The civet lifted one paw, as if to wash it like an embarrassed cat, then a thrown muttonbone hit it behind the scruff, and it flattened its ears. It began edging sideways, its head turned to one side. Mosca had seen cats turn their heads that way when angling for a bite.
Beak agape, Saracen made a rapid run at the civet, his neck extended like a knight’s lance. At the last moment the civet twisted like a flag in a gust and sprang sideways, landing with its speckled paws spread. It darted forward to bat softly at Saracen, then backed away at a crouch.
The attack looked clumsy and gentle, like a child touching another in a game of tag; but as Saracen steadied himself Mosca saw a red spot the size of a farthing bloom above his shoulder. It had been a long time since she had seen Saracen hurt by anything.
Mosca struggled her way through the yelling crowd to the wooden stairway. She had to tug the tavern spokesman by the sleeve several times before he noticed her.
‘Hello, miss – you want to stand on the steps to see better? All right, but only the second step…’
‘No, I… that’s my goose down there. I want my goose back.’
‘Well, now, can’t go interrupting mid-fight, can we?’
‘I can give you another sixpence…’
‘Can’t be done. Now look, I have to… ’ere, Carmine, come and take care of this, will you?’ A youth stopped sweeping sawdust and pigeon bones across the floor and hurried over, wiping his hands on his apron. ‘This young lady’s getting a bit excitable – take her back to the trainers’ rooms and let her out when the fight’s done, all right?’
Carmine already had one firm hand on Mosca’s shoulder, and Mosca already had one foot drawn back to kick him in the shins, when the two of them bothered to look each other in the face. They froze as they recognized each other. Carmine was none other than the clothier’s apprentice who had knocked Mosca over in the street, four days before. Clearly he had an evening job.
Mosca took a step in the direction of the pit, which turned into four steps away from the pit as Carmine dragged her into a clear space.
‘What are you doing here? More spying?’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking ’bout. You’re daft, you are, moths ate your wits instead of your waistcoat.’
‘
Mosca’s face went hot. She felt scared and confused, and she decided to be angry. Anger was easiest. She was just trying to shape words around her anger when the tavern door swung open again and two Stationers shouldered their way in, flanking a constable in a black-and-green tunic embroidered with the heraldry of the Twin Queens.
Carmine turned his head to follow Mosca’s gaze, and his grip tightened on her arm. When his head snapped back to look at her, his face was pale with terror and seemed in an instant to have become painfully young.
‘You ’peached on me,’ he whispered. He sounded startled and almost hurt. ‘You really did – you ’peached on Mr Pertellis, and now you’ve led ’em to me, so they can take me away and put out my eyes…’ He turned and plunged into the crowd.
A jubilant cry from the spectators roused Mosca from her stupor. To judge by the uproar, Saracen and his opponent were providing the best fight of the evening. People were standing on chairs and tables to get a view of the pit. There were enough people clustered tip-a-toe on the gallery steps now so that the announcer did not notice Mosca as she squirmed her way in among them. She was therefore in an excellent position to see everything that happened next.
She saw Saracen turning with his wings spread, terrible as storm clouds. She saw the civet with eyes full of firelight, sputtering white feathers. She saw a great number of jostling heads obscuring the pit.
She saw another couple of men in the Duke’s distinctive black-and-green livery push their way through the door, then another three. Mosca was not well versed in city ways, but it did seem to her that arresting one radical
