Twilight Robbery aka Fly Trap

Goodman Garotten, Red-handed Bringer of Retribution

There were a lot of questions Aramai Goshawk wanted answered. Why, on the night of Saint Yacobray, had his men stumbled upon a come-as-a-Clatterhorse party? How had Mistress Bessel been detected as his spy in the mayor’s household? But at the moment the most pressing question was, where is Beamabeth Marlebourne? And the woman before him apparently could not answer it.

‘So what do you know?’ he asked, without looking up.

Mistress Bessel was perched on the edge of her seat, under the gaze of two dozen golden eyes. Stuffed owls regarded her from bench and shelf with frozen, predatory astonishment, as though she was a novelty mouse.

‘Only what the mayor himself told me before Eponymous tumbled to my secret – but that was a good deal. The names of the kidnappers’ ringleaders – Rabilan Skellow and Brand Appleton.’

‘Appleton,’ repeated Goshawk, with such relish that the word might indeed have been an apple to be polished on his mind’s sleeve.

He prided himself on noting curiosities and inconsistencies, because they were so often important. Hence he had noticed that of late a well-brought up young man – by the name of Appleton – had been exposing himself to the hazards of the Bludgeoncourt to win sweetmeats and little luxuries. Now he was experiencing the exquisite satisfaction of one who has preserved half a broken cup just long enough to find the other half. ‘So that is why he had such a need of candied violets – he had the tastes of a little captive princess to pamper. How gentlemanly.

‘Now what in the world,’ Goshawk murmured, raising his eyes to stare at Mistress Bessel, ‘should I do with you?’

His colourless gaze covered her face like a cold, damp cloth, just long enough for her autumnal ruddiness to wane and pale under his scrutiny.

‘I think your talents will serve us best in Dogmalton for a while, until we can discover how far news of your… allegiance has spread.’ She read his dismissive gesture correctly, and gratefully fled his presence.

As a matter of fact, Aramai Goshawk was fairly well pleased with Mistress Jennifer Bessel, particularly for helping him with his long-term plan to seize the Luck, but he had no intention of telling her so. Such as she were often most useful when kept slightly uneasy and off balance. He cleared his throat, and by the time he looked around two men were at his side, gloved hands neatly clasped before their bellies.

‘Brand Appleton,’ Goshawk said aloud. ‘He has lodgings in Preck Street, and he might be just stupid enough to be found there. If not, hunt down the girl known as Laylow. If she is suiting her actions to her name, seek out every rat-cranny she has ever used as a bolthole. Tell her that we are looking to take Appleton, and if she helps us find him we might choose to take him in one piece.’

Ah, the difficulties of balance. If one wished to control, the balance of fear had to be just right. You could not allow people to become desperate, or they lost all fear and did wild and unpredictable things. And yet you could not let them become complacent, or they became impudent and rash. These kidnappers, for example. Daring to set up their own little scheme in Goshawk’s town without consulting him.

The daughter, if she could be recovered, would be valuable, for it seemed that most of Toll-by-Day was within half a hop of falling in love with her. However he doubted that she was still alive, now the ransom had been paid. The jewel, however, was of considerably more interest. If he gave the kidnappers time to catch their breaths, they would find eager buyers among the Pawnbrokers, and if that happened the gem would slip through his fingers and out of Toll.

‘Abject lessons are in order, I think.’ His tiny, childlike hands interleaved, forming a toy church and steeple. ‘These kidnappers must be dead by dawn. Find this ransom, and silence anybody who sees you taking it. Have a couple of men watching the Twilight Gate entrance in case the mayor or this Sir Feldroll have sent any more clod- hopping oafs to rescue Miss Marlebourne. If any such do appear… follow them and arrange for them all to be personally introduced to the Langfeather.’

His oyster-pale eyes narrowed for a second.

‘If the mayor heeds my letter and sends nobody, we might even ransom his daughter back to him, if we can recover her alive. But if he does send more marauders into our streets… then I suppose poor Beamabeth Marlebourne will have “died during a botched raid by the mayor’s men”. A lesson in the dangers of taking things into one’s own hands instead of leaving it to the professionals. She is useful to us, but, now that we have the Luck, not essential.’

The finger-church unfolded itself, and Goshawk thoughtfully fiddled with his blotter before speaking again.

‘If you can… try to keep that headstrong urchin girl alive.’

‘The urchin – do you mean Eponymous Clent’s girl, sir? The one he sent nightside a couple of nights ago?’

‘Mm? Oh. No, actually I meant Laylow. As for Clent’s girl… yes, I suppose it is possible that she is still alive after three nights. If so… she is just another messy detail. Dispose of her.’

In the heart of the Clock Tower cog fought cog in darkness, each biting with all the force of its metal teeth, never guessing that they were part of one great, relentless machine. Somewhere on the walls of the town a bugle blew, and the clock answered with a tinny ditty of its own. Across Toll, the day retreated indoors and at the same time the little model of Goodlady Blatchett with her bright eyes and sack of toads retreated into the darkness of the clock archway. As the second bugle sounded and night prepared to advance, Goodman Garotten emerged to take the Goodlady’s place with his sickle and scales. His painted eyes were yellow as yolk, his tiny teeth clenched and bared.

Without knowing it, Mosca Mye was at that very moment imitating his expression exactly, not twenty yards away, her stomach knotting itself with apprehension. As soon as the locks on the false wooden wall covering the secret frog-door had been unfastened and the sound of jingling faded, she had emerged and sprinted for the Twilight Gate. Now she sat watching from the furthest reaches of the street. The plan that she had contrived that afternoon with Clent and Sir Feldroll was about to be put into action.

As she watched, the little door to the Twilight Gate opened and five figures emerged. Without a moment’s hesitation they scattered, each taking their own pre-planned route. If there were spies watching for new arrivals, it was unlikely that they would be able to pursue all of them.

Mosca grinned with relief as she saw the plan being followed, then turned about and ran towards the agreed rendezvous. The rags she had tied about her clogs turned her feet into fat, ragged mopheads, but they did not ring out against the cobbles.

The reinforcements would be a medley of all the cooperative nightnames that could be mustered in desperation at a few hours’ notice. One ex-soldier attached to Sir Feldroll, one man with a visitor’s pass who had consented to join the rescue in exchange for the toll out of Toll… and three prisoners from the Grovels, the grisly cell into which Mosca had been thrown a couple of nights before. All three had leaped at the first chance of pardon and freedom they had seen in several long years.

The rendezvous point was a darkened archway that Mosca had chosen because the slanting light of the early- evening moon did not touch the neighbouring alleys, and it could be reached at a run without stepping into the light. She was the first to arrive, and tucked herself away into the recess, hugging her ribs and forcing her breathing to slow. At last she heard footsteps and panting breaths approach.

‘Prattler’s Jack!’ she whispered, tensed to run again if the right password was not given.

‘Sangrin’s Tumble!’ came the answer. Both were the names of dice games. ‘Is that Mye?’

‘Every inch. Tuck yourself in here with me – we wait five minutes for the others and then we wait no more.’

Three more figures arrived to whisper the right password within the next two minutes. Mosca clenched her fists and counted her heartbeats until five minutes had passed without any sign of their last comrade.

There would be no more waiting. The plan had been quite specific on that point. If any of you thinks you are being followed, then do not go to the rendezvous. If you cannot lose your shadow, then lose yourself in Toll, and pray that you are not lost in good earnest.