Fly By Night

‘Still in the raft, most likely. I ’ad to skip out quick. Didn’t want the ragmen findin’ me.’ The press is mine mine mine mine…

‘No, of course.’ His pale, unblinking eyes were fixed on her face. ‘Let us hope those devils have left the raft tethered far downstream – if I read the wind aright, the next high tide in the estuary will rush the river and cause wild water for miles. The river can tear loose all but the strongest moorings when it’s in that mood, and chew boats to pieces.

‘Now, I trust that you can leave more quietly than you arrived…’

As soon as the coffeehouse had made fast to the shore and the door had shut behind Mosca, Toke’s yellow head snapped up like the lock on a pistol.

‘Wove! Take two men, and do not let her get out of sight!’

‘Who, sir?’

‘The ferrety-looking girl with the unconvincing eyebrows, of course! The world is full of liars of different humours. Coy liars drop their eyes. Bold liars forget to blink. I saw that girl bite a truth into silence, and that’s a lie in another coat. I’m sure she knows where the press is. She believed my fairy story about the estuary tides, so she’ll soon be running to the press to make it safe. Follow her long enough and she will lead you to it – go!’

Wove left with two stout men. Toke took paper from his writing box, penned a hasty letter, then folded and sealed it.

‘Jot! Ride upstream until you find a Waterman – deliver this letter to them and bid them take it to their leader. There is a river battle the Watermen must halt before too many lives are lost. And there is a ship coming from the coast which must be stopped before it reaches Mandelion. Find a fast horse and teach it to fly – go!’

As Jot ran from the room, Toke exhaled and went back to studying the invisible web.

‘What a pity I will never play cards with Lady Tamarind.’ And yet he did feel that he was playing cards with her, trying to read signs in her implacable, snowlike countenance. ‘Do you know what courage is? Not a willingness to fling oneself into danger without proper thought – that is nothing, nothing. There is cowardice in all impulse. Real courage lies in thinking things through, seeing all the risks, and taking them anyway. Lady Tamarind has courage. The question is, do I? I think she has misplayed her hand, but dare I gamble our lives upon it?’ For a few seconds he shook the two keys in his palm like dice, then came to a decision.

‘Caveat, you will need these where you are going. They are the keys to the inner door of the Eastern Spire.’

Caveat was lost in a flutter and a stutter.

‘How. Did we come. By…’

‘Provided with the Locksmiths’ compliments. Haul that jaw back up to your face, man. Is that how you wish to be seen when you walk in to arrest Lady Tamarind?’

‘La… la-la-lady-Tama-ma-ma-rindledindle…’

‘Here.’ A sealed parchment was slapped into Caveat’s hand. ‘The Duke has given us a warrant to search any room or house we please, and arrest all within if we find a trace of the printing press. Be sure you find something, or we shall all dry in the wind after this Assizes. Take three men, and a brace of pistols.’

Some. Kind of boat race probably, thought Caveat, noticing the large, excitable crowd jostling on the jetty. How very foolish and. Dangerous.

Mr Toke always knows exactly. What he is doing how cold. It is I shall have Martha tell the girl. To patch those old curtains and. Hang. Them after all. But no one else is shivering so. Perhaps I am sickening for something. Mr Toke always knows. What he. Is. Doing.

The crowds parted before men in Stationers’ livery, as they always did. The guards at the gate of the Eastern Spire glanced at the Duke’s seal on the parchment, then stood aside.

How shabby I must. Seem next to these fine ladies and gentlemen I wish. I had been. Given time to fetch my. Silk cravat and good bag-wig.

‘Duke’s business!’ he snapped crisply, waving the warrant in the face of the footmen at the door to the spire. Before they could protest, he pulled back his great cuffs and flourished the little silver keys, then turned them in the locks with all the confidence he could muster. The uniform, the keys and the air of confidence were enough. Someone ran off to report, but no one stopped him.

Halfway up the stairs he passed a young man with a warm and open face who gave him a look of guileless curiosity but did not question him. Caveat climbed the stairs, his pistol barrel chilling him through his shirt.

Lady Tamarind sat at her dressing table, mending her face. A tiny crack in the powder had appeared at the corner of one eye. The blemish was so small that it would probably have been invisible to any eye but hers, but she plied a tiny cat’s hair brush dipped in powder and smoothed her skin back to perfection.

How had her mask of powder cracked? Had she winced at something, crinkling her eye? What was there to wince at? Her Birdcatcher spies had informed her of the stand-off between the Laurel Bower and the Duke’s men. She was sure that the Duke would soon lose patience and rain fire upon the coffeehouse, and let the little convoy burn or scatter. Soon the highwayman Blythe, Pertellis’s radicals and the Locksmiths on board would be nothing but a sad and sooty memory. Soon the ship carrying her Birdcatcher allies would slide into Mandelion, ready to take control.

On the dressing table lay two letters, which her forgers had written in the handwriting of the Twin Queens, just like the others. She had sealed them with the false signet ring she had brought back with her from the Capital. The letters thanked the Duke for his faithful service. They also included a list of men and women who should be arrested immediately. It was a short list, for Tamarind was patient. Later letters would contain longer lists.

There was no need to falter or fear now. Her plans were perfect.

In the glass she surveyed the face that she had made hers, looking for any hint of a flaw. Perfect.

Lady Tamarind reached out to lay her brush next to her powder tin, and stayed her hand. The smooth white perfection of the powder in the tin was marred by a struggling blackness, battered black armour, dull shards of wing-glass. It rucked and ravaged the creamy surface, scrambling a trail. It was a fly.

There were footsteps on the stairway outside her door, and a pulse fluttered beneath the scar on her cheek.

Through ear-slits like buttonholes in its leathery hide, the crocodile heard the silvery chuckle of key in lock. It heard the swish of skirts as Lady Tamarind stood up hastily. As the door opened to let in four men, the crocodile’s mouth opened to let in the taste of the air. The men brought smells that meant nothing to it: ink, pipesmoke, by- the-way mud. But they definitely smelt of strangeness and of fear, and the crocodile was fairly sure that this meant it was allowed to eat them.

Its belly scales rasped against the mosaic floor as it slithered from its basking place.

Linden Kohlrabi had been surprised to see four men in Stationers’ uniforms hurrying up the stairs with a look of furrowed purpose, but not enough to halt his step. There was no point in following them. You were likely to learn more from finding out where they had just come from. At the entrance to the Honeycomb Courtyard the guards were showing their nervousness by questioning everyone sharply before opening the gates. Kohlrabi, however, slid through easily on the grease of remembered tips, and learned in a few quiet words the direction from which the Stationers had arrived. With swift strides he headed towards the river.

On the jetty he paused to put on his gloves, and he drew deep breaths. Here the air braced him with its chill, the dry scent of a distant storm, and the rousing smell of gunpowder.

In one part of the street the crowd was hushed and huddled. An emergency of some sort had taken place. He strode to the centre with quiet confidence and the crowd parted, assuming that he had come to solve the problem. Kohlrabi had delved his cane into the barrel of brine and hooked out part of the sodden apron when the red-headed constable laid a hand on his arm.

‘Printed matter, sir,’ he whispered urgently. ‘No Stationers’ seal.’

‘I can see that. This is a child’s garment – I hope she is not still in it?’

‘No… she threw it down and ran.’

‘Did you get a good look at her?’