Twilight Robbery aka Fly Trap

completely worthless. ‘She will testify if we ask her. And you will not find her in Toll no more.’

‘Who else knows about this?’

‘Mr Clent, me, the midwife and one other who will stay mum if we wish it.’ Mosca took a deep breath. ‘But if I don’t come back alive, then Mr Clent will-’

‘Yes, yes.’ Goshawk waved one hand dismissively. ‘Mr Clent will spread the story far and wide, et cetera. Hmm. I suppose you are expecting to be paid for your silence?’

Mosca shook her head. ‘We do not want to queer your play, Mr Goshawk.’ Here it is at last. Time to throw down dice

and see how they tumble. ‘Everything is caught in a cleft stick. One of two towns must fall. Either Toll falls to your folk, or Mandelion falls to Sir Feldroll and his army. The way I hear it told, you will not let Sir Feldroll’s armies through Toll. And that is all I need to know. I – we – have made up our minds.

‘Mandelion must be saved. You can have Toll. It’s a rotten two-faced swill-tub of a town anyway.’ Mosca heard her own voice become stark and hard. ‘We will help you get it. All I want – all we want – is to be let back inside the walls to get revenge on somebody who deserves it. Beamabeth Marlebourne. The second-best name in Toll. If your people happened to capture her, then you would have the Luck after all. Wouldn’t you?’

‘And supposing I even wanted to do so, why would I need the help of Mr Clent and yourself?’

‘Because the mayor has his daughter watched even closer than she ever was, and you lost your spy in his house,’ Mosca answered promptly. ‘His household trusts me now – and there’s naught to link you and me if it goes wrong.’

There was a long silence, during which Goshawk pensively clasped and unclasped his tiny hands. ‘So – after setting up an elaborate trap that resulted in Miss Marlebourne getting kidnapped, and going to tiresome lengths to rescue her, you are now proposing to have her abducted again?’

Mosca met his gaze with eyes like black stones. ‘It would be right crooked of me to even suggest such a thing, Mr Goshawk.’

The very corners of Goshawk’s mouth deepened into pits for an amused second. ‘The symmetry is pleasing, I suppose.’ Every motion of his little hands was perfectly delicate. Mosca thought they were probably smaller than hers. ‘If you have won Miss Marlebourne’s trust, then… I can think of ways that such a thing could be managed. Very well. You will follow the man outside. I shall make some arrangements.’

Goshawk sat in contemplation for a while after the girl with the black eyes, clean dress and grubby accent had left his cairn.

‘There seems little harm in letting her back within the walls,’ he said at last. ‘If she is successful, so much the better. And if not… there is a limit to how much damage she can cause.’

A smaller Locksmith in a big coat shuffled out of the darkness at the back of the cairn, mopping meekly at his forehead. ‘Eponymous Clent seems to be playing a complicated game.’

‘Clent?’ Goshawk narrowed his meltwater-coloured eyes. ‘I wonder if he even knows she was here.’

Goodlady Sparkentress, Bringer of the Autumn Flame

‘Can you hear that?’ Laylow crouched in the darkness of the non-existent sick room, head cocked to listen. Her voice was hoarse with whispering, for she had received no response for some time. ‘The bells of Clamouring Hour, Brand!’ Sure enough, one could hear the muffled cacophony of Toll’s dayfolk ringing their bells in worship of the Beloved. ‘That means ’tis eleven o’clock. This day of the year is sacred to Sparkentress between eleven and one o’clock – that is right, is it not? Brand, can you hear me?’ She reached out, and prodded gently at the invalid’s shoulder with her unclawed hand. ‘Happy nameday, Brand,’ she muttered. ‘Eighteen years old you are. I… I have no gift for you.’

The mound of breathing darkness beside her shifted, and spoke for the first time in an hour.

‘I… would settle for some water.’

Brand’s fever had burned itself out for now, as had his temper. There had been a long sotto voce quarrel between Laylow and himself on the subject of Beamabeth Marlebourne, and now they sat exhausted amid the cinders of that argument in what was almost a truce.

‘All gone. I will tout and fetch you some after changeover, when I can go out in the munge.’

‘I still have no idea what you are saying half the time.’ Brand’s weary laugh was almost inaudible. ‘What are you going to do – run to and fro feeding and watering me like a mother bird with a nestling till you get caught? Why are you doing all this?’

‘You simkin, Brand Appleton,’ spat Laylow. She aimed a kick at his unseen shin, but not hard enough to hurt. ‘You pea-wit.’

Silence.

‘Did the “Teacher” ever return? The foreign girl?’ muttered Brand.

‘No. Said she was running off to fetch you thistle wine, never came back.’

‘Perhaps she fell foul of some knife in the night,’ Brand whispered. ‘Or… or perhaps she went straight to the Locksmiths.’ A sigh. ‘Laylow, listen. The Locksmiths are bound to find this room sooner or later. I cannot run, or be of use to anyone any more – you should hand me over to them. At least that way you could live to see another night, perhaps even persuade them to go and rescue Miss Marlebourne-’

‘I will not bargain for the sake of that prissy vixen!’ hissed Laylow with force. ‘If I make terms with the Jinglers, it will be to keep you alive, you noddy! I know what old Goshawk wants – he wants me to work for him. Join the Locksmiths. And I shall – I shall do even that.’

‘I always thought you wanted to become one of them.’ Brand sounded surprised. ‘Your chocolate smuggling – I thought it was meant to impress Goshawk, so that he would ask you to join.’

‘What? No! Brand, I was born under Wilyfell. So I am born to lure other folks into vice. It is my Beloved-given nature; I am doomed to it. So I sneak in chocolate because it is a vice which does a scratch less harm than gin or dice or poppies or -’ Laylow halted as her companion succumbed to helpless snorting and snuffling. ‘What is so devil-speckled funny about that? And the money from chocolate was good too – I wanted to save enough that I could leave and never need to join the Locksmiths. When you take their mark, they have you. Life and soul. No going back.’

‘Then why in conflagration are you thinking of joining them?’ whispered Brand. ‘Stupid girl. Promise me you will not. Whatever happens.’

‘But…’

‘Please! Promise.’

A few moments ticked away, followed by a slow release of breath through teeth. ‘All right. You have my promise.’

In the darkness, two temporarily non-existent hands brushed fingertips, and neither flinched away.

‘Laylow,’ Brand whispered after a while, ‘are you sure all that noise outside is Clamouring Hour?’

Mosca was not completely surprised to discover that the Locksmiths had a tunnel leading into Toll from outside. In fact, knowing what she did of the Locksmiths, she would have been rather more surprised if they had not. As far as they were concerned, being confined to one side of a wall or another was something that happened to other people.

It was narrow, musty and supported by greying wooden struts that had clearly seen better days. As she followed the Locksmith in the blotchy grey coat, she could not help noticing that she was occasionally stepping on what looked like half-buried helmets or dank scraps of clothing. This tunnel, though she did not know it, had been dug as part of a failed siege during the Civil War.

The tunnel ended in a rough stone face and a ladder leading upwards. Mosca’s guide halted and held up his lantern, inviting her to climb by its light.

‘Where does this go?’ Mosca’s lilac dress was thin cotton, and she was starting to shiver from the cold. She tugged her shawl around her, her hand brushing against the new pale ‘day’ badge the Locksmiths had lent her, its symbol a conveniently indecipherable muddle. ‘You coming with me?’