‘Yes, we can.’ Mistress Leap’s tone was one of mild, brisk finality. ‘You’ve done us a good turn, so we will not report you, but now you must shift for yourselves.’ She heaved her great bundle on to her back and moved to the door.
‘I think,’ Clent murmured under his breath, ‘that we are in some distinct danger of outstaying our welcome.’
There was indeed an undeniable tension in the room again. Blight hovered protectively by Blethemy and their new child, his cudgel drooping in his hand, and the pale youth appeared to be fiddling with something sharp that gleamed in the firelight. The truce seemed to be over.
Heart in her mouth, Mosca saw the door opened again, the moonlit street looking daylight bright after the smoky murk of the room. Reluctantly she and Clent followed the midwife out on to the street.
‘Madam,’ Clent began as soon as the door closed behind them, ‘if there is an ounce of compassion in you…’
Mistress Leap responded by placing a finger to her lips, glancing up and down the street and beckoning them to follow her.
‘You’ll come home with me,’ she whispered, almost inaudibly. ‘Couldn’t say so before the others, or Blight would have been down to report all three of us, quick as a half-inch wick. He’s a good boy, but fear has made weasels of better men. Hold still a moment.’
She took out a blackened rag, and spent a moment or two daubing soot on to the badges of Mosca and Clent, just enough to dull the bright borders and darken the pale wood of Clent’s brooch.
‘Now hush up, and keep pace with me.’
Goodlady Twittet, Feeder of the Early Bird
With some trepidation, Mosca and Clent crept down the street after Mistress Leap, keeping close to the walls as she did, stopping to hearken when she did. They passed one alley in which a dozen or so shambling figures dragged their manacled feet across the cobbles, brooms and buckets in their hands, but did not pause.
‘Toil-gangs,’ Mistress Leap breathed. ‘Fell into debt, poor fellows. Don’t stop to look at them.’
After five minutes or so the midwife stooped and slipped into a lightless covered walkway. Mosca saw her own apprehension in Clent’s face, but each ducked and followed her. The tunnel-like walkway proved to be part of a veritable warren, and Mosca stumbled on through darkness, one hand clutching the belt of Clent, who walked a pace ahead of her, the other trailing against the wall.
When they emerged, the moonlight was so shockingly bright that Mosca felt torchlit and exposed. The midwife led them swiftly across the street and softly knocked at a low door. A long rap, three short raps.
Somewhere locks rearranged themselves, and the door opened to show a lantern-jawed, middle-aged man with tobacco-yellow eyebrows.
Ah, Welter.’ Mistress Leap patted his cheek. ‘Pop on some
nettle tea for our guests, there’s a dear.’
Passing through the door, Mosca found herself in what appeared to be a cluttered hallway. A few paces in, however, she realized that the hallway did not open up into larger rooms, but continued corridor-like all the way. All the business of a house, including hearth, furniture, shelves and beds, were crammed into this windowless passage four feet in width. The furthest reaches of it even seemed to have been transformed into some kind of workshop, strewn with boxes, clock parts and tools.
Welter’s face contorted with what Mosca hoped was shortsightedness as he examined his ‘guests’. Then his watery eyes fixed on Clent’s badge. He leaned forward to peer, and went pale.
‘Leveretia-’
‘I know. Tea, Welter.’
Welter turned about abruptly and hobbled away towards the meagre hearth to manhandle the kettle. Mosca could only suppose that he was the midwife’s husband.
‘Sir – you’ll sit on that stool. Miss – you’ll sit on the rug.’ The midwife still appeared to be in bustle mode, and Mosca wondered if delivering a baby filled you with energy that took a while to wear off. It seemed impossible for her to be idle, and she negotiated her way to and fro across the cluttered, halflit room with the ease of long practice, despite the fact that often this involved mountaineering over furniture or boxes.
Welter’s throat was emitting a series of rasping creaks, apparently with the aim of attracting his wife’s attention. Eventually the midwife took pity on him and joined him in the corner for an earnest whisper-match, with many glances towards the guests. Mosca’s sharp ears caught only a few words – ‘spot of luck’ and something sounding a lot like ‘with the morning delivery’. At last the midwife returned with a tray of chipped cups, a steaming teapot and a bowl of what looked like dessicated droppings but which turned out to be the driest of dried figs.
‘Now, sir – you will grant that you’re in a bit of a spot,’ the midwife continued without preamble. Mosca watched her pour the dishwater-coloured tea, her fingers strong but thin and worn. ‘You and your young friend are wandering around where you don’t exist, and people take unkindly to that sort of thing round here. You need us to get back where you belong… and as it happens we need you too.’ The midwife’s brow creased a little, as if her words were costing her some effort. ‘It… rubs my fur contrary to say this, sir, but… we are in the most desperate and urgent need of coin.’
‘Ah…’ Clent’s fingers fluttered over his waistcoat. ‘We… ah… we are not exactly well gilded at present…’
‘I am sorry, sir.’ The midwife’s gaze and tone was dogged. ‘But you are a daylight man, and will have means to come by money, means that we lack. The night of Saint Yacobray is nearly upon us, and then we will need it more than you do.’
The mention of Yacobray struck a chord in Mosca’s mind. When had she heard that Goodman mentioned recently? Yes, it had been Skellow earlier that evening. He had said that the kidnapping of Beamabeth Marlebourne needed to happen before the night of Yacobray.
There were few Beloved more ominous in reputation than Yacobray. He was addressed as ‘He Who Softens the Step and Protects Those Shy of Notice’, but this was mostly out of politeness. Most people associated him with death by treachery, the smiler with the knife, the hidden blade. He was the patron saint of all assassins but also their fate, patiently stalking them and waiting to claim them as they claimed others.
‘What happens on the night of Yacobray, Mistress Leap?’ asked Mosca.
‘The Clatterhorse comes,’ Mistress Leap answered simply. Her tone was almost offhand, and yet in those words Mosca sensed a wealth of menace.
Like many old traditions, the Clatterhorse was half jocular, half sinister. There were no paintings or carvings of Yacobray himself, for he was believed to be invisible. Instead it was said that all one ever saw of him was the horse he rode, which was completely skeletal. In most villages the young people celebrated the night of Yacobray by creating a ‘Clatterhorse’, a hobby horse with a skull for a head, and galloping astride it from house to house, rattling its loose, bony jaw and begging gifts and sweetmeats.
‘What…?’
‘
‘I beg pardon, madam, but are you saying that the Lock – forgive me, that
‘The vegetables are full of money.’ The midwife’s hand was not quite steady as she refilled the cups. ‘We all pay weekly taxes to
