highways and the waterways. The towns will starve, and soldiers turn to banditry. And all the kings and queens who have waited their chance for decades will see that there is anarchy, and they will arrive with their armies all at once.
Mosca’s mouth was dry. She was not sure which she found more alarming: the picture Clent had painted, or the startling intuition that for once he was actually speaking the truth.
‘I didn’t know…’
‘No, why would you?’ Clent gave her a complicated look, half bitterness, half forgiveness. ‘How would you know?’ He sighed. ‘The worst of it is that I do not think the Locksmiths even
‘What?’ Everything Mosca had been told about the Locksmiths did a neat somersault in her head.
‘I was listening in while they tried to torture Hopewood Pertellis into telling them who was
‘They found a…’ Mosca’s gaze met that of Clent. ‘Oh,’ she mouthed silently.
‘Naturally, when they pulled me in by my collar I told them that I had hunted them out because I had a burning desire to join the Locksmiths. I got no further. They knew who I was. They knew I was working for the Stationers. Before the Duke’s men arrived, it became very clear that they knew everything I had written in my last report to Mabwick Toke. Somehow, I know not how, they must have read it.’
Mosca blinked to clear her head, which seemed terribly crowded all of a sudden.
‘Does that mean we’re working for the Locksmiths now?’
‘No. It means that we are leaving. My name was in that report.’ He sighed. ‘
The rain seemed to creep into Mosca’s eyes as she ran to keep up, and it tingled at the back of her tongue with a taste that she knew was tears. She did not raise her head, for fear of seeing her beloved Eastern Spire fading before her eyes, stolen by tears and darkness.
‘Mr Clent… you could… you could leave me behind. You could… send a note to Lady Tamarind, sayin’ how you didn’t want a job from her after all and sayin’… she should give
Clent stopped in his tracks, and stared down into her face with no expression at all. The rain was falling more heavily now, and a galaxy of droplets nestled furtively in his wig.
‘No,’ he said quietly at last. He loosed the bow of Mosca’s bonnet ribbon, which had been working its way sideways, and tied it again. ‘No, I do not think I could do that.’
The kennel ditch down the road quickly filled with rainwater which chased mess and market scraps towards the river. With them hurried Mosca and Clent.
At last they found the marriage-house sign swinging above them.
‘Mosca, there is a little boat tied at the back of the shop. Bring it round to the ground-floor window – the one shaped like a scallop shell. Wait in the boat.’
Mosca nodded, her eyes and mind so full of rain that she could not speak or swallow. While Clent fitted his key into the lock and turned it carefully, wincing each time the works clicked, she slipped around the side of the marriage shop and clambered over the pile of kindling that doubled as a fence. A pair of sad, rust-coloured chickens crouched under a rotten board and watched as, with Saracen clasped in her arms, she slithered awkwardly down a bank of mud and sodden grass to the water’s edge.
The boat was round, like an overgrown coracle, with a couple of splintered sculls wedged inside. The mooring rope had been made fast, thoroughly but not expertly, and Mosca had a sudden mental image of the Cakes knotting it over and over for safety’s sake, while her red ringlets bobbed against her nose. Then Mosca imagined the Cakes standing aghast by the waterside in the morning with her scoop of chicken feed drooping from one hand, looking at the place where the boat should have been and starting to cry.
Mosca stepped into the boat, put Saracen down, and loosed the mooring. The sculls were clammy and heavy, so she manoeuvred the boat along the wall by grabbing handfuls of ivy and pulling. A stone face of St Marpequet, the Warden against Early Frosts, had been carved into the stone sill of the ground-floor window. He stared upwards as if his mouth was gaping to drink the rain. His impressive and aristocratic nose hooked just enough for Mosca to tie the rope to it.
Mosca had decided that she would leave Mandelion with Clent. She did not notice herself making the decision; rather the decision seemed to have fallen into her head from the rain-laden sky. She hoped that there would be no war, and that in time Clent would bring her back. There was a throb in her mind when she thought of Lady Tamarind, but for now someone seemed to want Mosca with them, and that was too strange and new to be thrown away lightly.
She did not hate Clent for the way he had spoken. For most of her life she had been at the mercy of stronger and more powerful people who cared nothing for her. She had always been afraid, and her fear had made her angry. Now, all of a sudden she began to understand that Clent also spent his days feeling powerless and afraid. Perhaps he too was angry at finding himself portly and past his prime with little to show for it, but still having to use every fox’s trick just to stay ahead of the hounds.
What tricks would he be pulling from his sleeve now? He did not want to wake the house, so Mosca supposed he was planning to leave with his pockets padded. Blankets from the beds, probably, candlesticks and scraps from the kitchen… in her mind’s eye Mosca followed Clent’s figure from room to room, and then she nibbled her knuckle as she imagined him snatching the offerings from the little shrines to Leampho, Judin, Happendabbit, perhaps even pocketing the icons themselves to melt down or sell later.
The scallop-shaped window opened inwards and, by using the thick stems of the ivy as leafy rungs, Mosca was able to scramble on to the sill and tumble through, into the chapel beyond. To be sure, she had not been able to stop Clent robbing Goodman Postrophe’s shrine, back near Chough, but this time she felt he might listen to her. He wanted her to come with him, and surely that must mean that everything had changed.
She was in the little chapel of Leampho, where Saracen had married the Cakes’ dead mother. She felt her way to the door, glad that she knew her way back to her rooms despite the darkness. By each chapel door she paused to listen, but all was silent. At last she reached the rooms she shared with Clent, and gently pushed the door open. The main room was dark and cheerless, but the closet door was slightly ajar, and through it wavered a timorous hint of candlelight.
Clent had said that under no circumstances should she enter the closet, that he needed the privacy it gave him. But he wanted her to come with him, and surely that must mean that everything had changed.
Mosca pushed open the closet door. There was a candle on the floor, so near the door that for a moment she could see nothing but the brightness of its flame. Without even thinking, she stooped, picked it up, and held it at arm’s length to illuminate the closet. Only then did she stare into the room in front of her and see that everything had changed.
Clent was half stooping over the heavy oaken clothes chest by the wall. His face was flushed with effort, and his knuckles white with the strain of lifting what looked like a great bolt of cloth. Peeping above the edge of the trunk was a wig that Mosca had not seen before, a mass of unpowdered brown curls. Then Clent saw her and slowly stood, and the candlelight softly traced the outline of a tanned cheek beyond the wig, and Mosca knew it was not a wig at all.
An arm was hanging over the side of the chest, she now realized, dangling quite casually like a daytripper trailing his hand over the side of a pleasure boat. There was something terribly wrong with the skin of that hand. It was pale, not an aristocratic powder-pale, not a scholarly shun-the-sun pale. It had an underground pallor, like ripped-up roots, or the eyeless things that children of Chough were told lived in the mountain caverns. The colour seemed shocked as well as shocking, and Mosca knew that the owner of the hand was dead.
The wrist was slightly crooked, as if it had broken once and never quite healed.
