They were heading east, east towards the plump towns of Chanderind and Waymakem, towards the uncrossable Langfeather… towards Toll, Mosca realized. Toll, where some young woman dwelled oblivious of the fact that a man named Skellow had plans for her future, plans he would kill to protect.
Goodman Jayblister, Master of Entrances ans Salutations
As the cart rumbled on, conversation gradually dwindled as the minds of the two human passengers contemplated the same question. Mosca and Clent were remembering, not for the first time, that while away is initially good as a travel plan, sooner or later there must be a ‘to’.
Clent blew out through his nose and reached for a small black book that Mosca had seen before. Over his shoulder she could see him flicking to a blank page and writing, ‘Grabely – debtors’ prison, brain sold, fowl play in chapel.’
Mosca had of course filched it from his pocket while he slept on earlier occasions, and as far as she could tell it contained notes on towns and villages that he had already visited, and therefore could not safely visit again. It was full of scribbled place names and occasionally entries like ‘Lady Garnergaville’s Soiree!!’ or ‘Duke for three days’ or ‘Tried the “Troubadour” caper in the fish market – dogs!’
Clent riffled through the pages with a frown and cleared his throat.
‘Where are we headed?’ he called to the cart driver.
‘Well, I was planning to stop and water the horses at Hanging Sparrow – ten miles on,’ came the answer.
‘Hanging Sparrow…’ Clent leafed feverishly through his book. ‘Oh, merciful suns!’ He leaned slightly towards Mosca
and allowed some low words to creep from the corner of his mouth. ‘We cannot possibly go to Hanging Sparrow – an abominable place where forgetfulness is an offence punishable with the gibbet.’
‘What?’
‘Well… it is if one wanders into it forgetting that one once fabricated the Great Horse Plague for purposes of profit within its walls.’ He leafed through the book again, muttering place names under his breath. ‘Twelve Apples… no. Starlington… no. Upper Dangwit… no. Child, I start to fear that we have sucked the very juice from this accursed county.’
It did not surprise Mosca that Clent had not for an instant suggested returning to Mandelion. When sneaking her peek at his black book, Mosca had of course hunted down the entry for the rebel city to find out which of their many escapades and disasters there Clent had thought worth mention. Instead, beneath the city’s name he had written only a single word. A name, in capital letters.
GOSHAWK.
Mosca and Clent had fled Mandelion on the orders of a set of quietly insistent men in clean but well-worn overalls – representatives, in fact, of three of the most powerful guilds in the Realm: the Guild of Stationers, the Company of Watermen… and the Locksmiths.
Locksmiths. They were more than pedlars of locks and strongboxes. They were shadow-masters, ghosts, and they thrived on fear.
To outward appearances they were the epitome of respectability. What could be more upstanding than to sell the locks that kept honest men’s goods safe? And the Locksmiths did more than this. They ran an organization of Thief-takers more skilful than any constable, who, for a price, would hunt down criminals or retrieve stolen goods. They even offered to take over the policing of cities completely and rid them of crime altogether.
What was less well known was that the Locksmiths also ran the criminal underworld in most of the great cities of the Realm. What lock could hold them out? Yes, they would hunt down thieves – but only those who refused to join them and pay tithes to them. It was a bold soul that defied them, for they had hundreds of agents secretly working for them, each bearing the brand of a key on the palm of their right hand.
And from time to time a city ruler would lose heart in his battle against streets full of cut-throats, moors bristling with highwaymen, and would hand over control to the Locksmiths. The smiling Locksmiths would bring in their own guards to keep order, and double the height and breadth of the city walls, and seal the gates up tight… and nobody ever heard anything more about the doings inside that city. The citizens within were doubtless safe… from everything but the Locksmiths themselves.
Mandelion itself had come within a stone’s skip of becoming one of these cities, due to the manoeuvring of one of the Locksmiths’ most dangerous agents, an elusive, cold-eyed individual named Aramai Goshawk. Mosca and Clent had played a part in helping the city escape that fate, and they were uncertain how far Goshawk and the other Locksmiths blamed them for that.
There were a hundred reasons to avoid returning to Mandelion, but for Clent the other ninety-nine paled beside Aramai Goshawk. No, they would not be going back to the rebel city.
Mosca watched Clent for a few seconds, and gnawed her knuckles, while Saracen adjusted his unwieldly bulk on her lap.
‘Mr Clent,’ she said at last, ‘there’s only one place we can go, isn’t there? Toll.’
Clent did not answer, but nor did he look particularly surprised. Instead he closed his book, sighed and nodded.
‘I fear so. If we remain between the rivers, then sooner or later we will starve or be caught, unless we can make ourselves invisible to the beadles or learn to eat stones. We cannot travel to Mandelion and so… Toll. It is the only way across the Langfeather. I suppose you know that travellers must pay to enter the town on one side of the river, and again to leave it on the far side?’ He lowered his tone. ‘I do not suppose that capacious pocket of yours conceals enough money to pay two tolls apiece?’
Mosca chewed her cheek and kicked her heels for a few seconds. Then she delved into her skirt pocket and slowly pulled out four cambric handkerchiefs. She shrugged.
‘Mistress Bessel had a handkerchief for each day of the week, so…’
‘… so that admirable viper in female form will now only be able to blow her nose on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Not bad, but I doubt these little leavings will muster enough funds to enter Toll, let alone leave it again.’
‘No,’ Mosca muttered, ‘that’s what I thought. Which is why I took her stockings too.’
Clent’s eyes widened as Mosca dropped two much-darned stockings between them. One bulged strangely about the foot, and hit the wood with a promisingly coin-like clink.
‘Might be enough, Mr Clent. To get into Toll, anyway. Didn’t have time to count, cos she was coming back up the stairs.’
‘Yes. I see. How enterprising.’ Clent cleared his throat. ‘So… in the wake of various thefts, frauds and goose- related blasphemies, is there anyone in Grabely who will
‘Nobody springs to mind, Mr Clent.’
There was a short pause.
‘Toll!’ declared Clent briskly, and with sudden zeal. ‘What a gleaming sound that town has! What a peal of polished bronze resonates in the mere word!’
He pondered, and then gave Mosca a sharp look.
‘Child – you are forgetting something though, are you not? Toll… That is where your kidnappers were heading. The brigands who appear determined to kill you?’ The whole sour tale of the kidnap had been related to Clent during the hasty flight from Grabely.
‘I haven’t forgot any of that.’ Mosca jutted her chin and stared at the distant trees.
