Twilight Robbery aka Fly Trap

had said made perfect sense, but he was so completely wrong! Brand Appleton had not left Toll, and neither had Beamabeth. Furthermore, from what Mosca had seen, Beamabeth Marlebourne’s kidnappers had been far too busy running around stabbing each other to kidnap anybody new.

‘Sir Feldroll is right,’ declared the mayor wearily. ‘I have given up as ransom a valuable item entrusted into my care as mayor… and all that has done is convince these villains that they might acquire anything they want through abduction. Sir Feldroll… I owe you an apology. You have been right all along, and I should have heeded you. You there – Pratewill! Run down to the Committee of the Hours and tell the Chief Clerk to come here immediately, with all the paperwork needed to grant a large number of men passage through Toll. A very large number of men. We strike – as you recommended from the start, Sir Feldroll – at the fountainhead! At Mandelion!’

What? mouthed Mosca in her nocturnal cellar.

Her mind was beset by a flurry of images as she remembered those she knew from the rebel government of Mandelion. A gentle-eyed idealist named Hopewood Pertellis, risking his life to run a secret school for the poorer children. A stiff-backed manageress named Miss Kitely, defending her floating coffeehouse from attack with the sangfroid of an admiral. A gruff-voiced highwayman named Captain Blythe, fighting a rooftop duel mid-river because it was the only way to save his people. And she remembered the city’s convulsions of happiness after the overthrow of the Duke, the festival flags, the carnival crowds…

‘My lord mayor,’ spluttered Clent, ‘good sir knight – are we not being a little hasty?’

‘No,’ Sir Feldroll replied promptly. ‘Appleton and his gang are radicals. None of these crimes would have occurred if they did not have the backing of Mandelion. I came to Toll two months ago with one purpose – to help the mayor see what we of the other cities had already seen – the necessity of marching upon this rebel city, arresting its so-called ‘government’ of felons and putting a respectable ruler in charge instead. Our armies are ready, sir – they have been ready since Mandelion’s revolution. All we need is your permission for them to pass through your town without paying a toll for every single footsoldier.’

Down below, Mosca yanked at fistfuls of her own hair, stifled a cry in her throat and jumped up and down in a fit of silent, impotent rage, nearly banging her head. You ninny! she snarled voicelessly at Sir Feldroll. You pudding-witted, pompous poltroon! Mandelion’s got nothing to do with any of this! Brand Appleton’s not even a real radical! And Mr Pertellis and the rest would never want anything to do with kidnapping or forcing people to marry people! You just want a reason to attack them!

Why don’t you say something, Mr Clent?

But of course he could not. There was still a snake in the grass, a spy in the inner circle, perhaps in that very room. Any plan he suggested in front of the spy would probably be doomed from the outset. Worse still, if Clent hinted at what he knew, people might want to know where his information came from, and those were questions he could not answer without endangering Mosca.

The Locksmith spy! Who was the spy? Mosca gave the question one last angry kick, just as she might have kicked a recalcitrant old travel chest. To her surprise, however, the imaginary catch clicked and the lid swung wide. She knew – quite suddenly and without any doubt – who had been spying on them all this time. Hastily she rummaged for her pin and poked it up towards Clent’s bootsole to get his attention… just as he stepped forward and off the stage to join the crowd in the centre of the room. Mosca’s pin was left to waggle uselessly, unnoticed.

By the time the Chief Clerk of the Committee of the Hours arrived, Mistress Bessel had asked Clent three times whether he had a headache and commented that he seemed uncommonly pale. In short, he was finding discretion every bit as agonizing as Mosca was. Being unable to speak was bad. Being able to speak but unable to explain anything of importance was, if anything, worse.

The raspberry-faced Chief Clerk was even more rubicund than usual, puffing self-importantly under the weight of a huge valise of parchments. Little red-headed Kenning came after him, bent backwards under a writing slope and a stack of boxes. Within five minutes the papers within would bear the mayor’s signature and seal, and the die would be cast.

‘Discretion above all,’ the mayor insisted. ‘If anybody hears that the Luck is missing and people start to wonder if it has been taken outside Toll, then nobody will be willing to use that bridge. And I think that will include the men in your armies, Sir Feldroll, whatever you might think.’

It was at this point that a crisp knock sounded at the door. The footman opened it, then leaned forward to peer, then stepped outside altogether. After an interval he returned, a wax-sealed letter in his hand.

‘Nobody there, my lord mayor,’ he explained apologetically, ‘but this letter left on the step.’

The mayor eyed it with raised brows, then broke the seal. He read it with increasing palpitations of face and limb.

At last he looked up and wordlessly gestured all of his servants from the room. When his only companions were Eponymous Clent, Jennifer Bessel, Sir Feldroll, the Raspberry and Kenning, he lowered his eyes and read the letter aloud, in a voice that shook like a loose sail.

To grayning Marlebourne, Lord Mayor of Toll,

Lest you think you had been robbed in the night, I thought I should write and inform you that the Luck of Toll is quite safe. It came to our attention during the repair of the mechanism in the Clock Tower that the location used for the Luck’s protection was very far from secure, and I believe the ease with which it was removed proves our point admirably. Therefore, for the sake of the town that we both hold dear, we have moved it to a far safer sanctuary, and are more than happy to take over the duby of keeping it secure on behalf of Toll.

My next priority shall be the recovery of your adopted daughter. I believe I might claim jurisdiction here, and must ask you not to take any steps of your own in this matter. I am a little surprised at having learned of this affair through sources other than your lordship, hub I daresay thab your missive simply faded bo reach me. You and I both know all too well how easily letters can go astray and fall into unexpected hands.

Your respectful servant,

Aramai Goshawk

‘ What? ’ Sir Feldroll strode up and peered over the mayor’s shoulder, almost as though he suspected the other man had been inventing the contents. ‘The Locksmiths? The Locksmiths stole the Luck?’

‘This,’ the mayor said heavily, folding the letter, ‘changes everything. There is no question now of attacking Mandelion. The Locksmiths state explicitly that we must take no steps of our own, and the Locksmiths have the Luck. My friends – I fear we must leave the matter of my daughter in the Locksmiths’ hand -’

‘Pardon me,’ interrupted Sir Feldroll, his voice icy and his face scarlet, ‘but I do not see that at all!’ His veneer of deference had all but frayed away, and he could be seen clearly now as the lord of a large city nearly out of patience with the mayor of a country town – a country town, furthermore, that was standing in his way. A storm was evidently in the offing.

At long last Eponymous Clent managed to catch Mistress Bessel’s eye. ‘These gentlemen seem to have… ah… a great deal to discuss. Perhaps, my dear Jen, you would join me for a moment in the chapel to… pray for the rescue of poor Miss Beamabeth?’

Come back, Mr Clent, I need to talk to you. Come back over here, Mr Clent…

How could Mosca get his attention? Rustle? Honk like a goose? But she could hear steps – he was coming back! She ran from peephole to peephole and finally found a view of him. He was returning to the chapel, but not alone. Mistress Bessel was with him. They knelt side by side on the stage, Clent’s face in a pious pout, Mistress Bessel glancing narrowly at him from time to time.

‘Dear Jen,’ whispered Clent eventually, his lips scarcely moving, ‘there is something you must know and – aaaargh! Prattle and pique, would you maim me?’

Mosca’s frantic thrusts with her pin had evidently made contact at last.

‘Eponymous! What means this yowling and writhing!’ demanded Mistress Bessel.

In the darkness below the stage, Mosca breathed hard and clenched both her fists, willing Clent to read her mind. The army of her thoughts was marching and her heart was its battle-drum.

‘A spasm of… spiritual anguish,’ answered Clent through his teeth. Mosca could just make out his fingers