The Raspberry was still enthroned in full glory when they entered the office of the Committee of the Hours. As before he managed a nod of smileless courtesy towards Clent, and icily ignored Mosca. While young red-headed Kenning ran to claim their visitors’ badges and replaced them with ‘second-day’ badges bordered in yellow, Clent took pains to engage the Raspberry.
‘Good sir, I have been admiring your town’s, ah, curfew arrangements.’ Clent’s voice was careful. ‘An… intriguing system. And very logical.’ He flicked the briefest glance across at Mosca before moving companionably towards the Raspberry and adopting a confidential tone. ‘After all… if one knows who the bad apples will be from birth, then why mix them with the good?’
‘Precisely.’ The Raspberrry glowed with satisfaction. ‘It has served us well for eighteen years, ever since Governor Marlebourne established it. All through the Civil War and the Purges we held to it, sir, which is why Toll retained order even when the rest of the Realm gave in to butchery and brouhaha. And for the last two years our system has been nigh infallible, thanks to the new measures.’ He mimed turning a key in a lock.
‘It must present some ingenious problems, however.’ Clent frowned. ‘That is to say… is it not difficult for the day town to keep track of what happens at night? For example, how can your committee keep track of those who enter or leave the town during the hours of darkness?’
‘Oh, that is really quite straightforward,’ the red-faced clerk assured him. ‘The Night Steward’s office passes our committee all details of those who are born, who die, who leave and who arrive in the night town so that we can enter them into the town’s records.’
‘I suppose -’ Clent hesitated – ‘that the Night Steward’s Office never makes… mistakes. Have they ever left names off the records they give you?’
The Raspberry managed to redden about the neck and blanch across the cheeks at the same time. He cast a fearful glance towards his papers as though they might suddenly rebel against him.
‘That,’ he whispered, ‘is unthinkable.’ In Mosca’s experience, such statements generally meant that a thing was perfectly thinkable, but that the speaker did not want to think it.
‘But, my good sir,’ Clent followed up his advantage, ‘how exactly are the reliable clerks and forces of law chosen for the night town? Surely any appointed constables must have trustworthy names, so if everybody with a trustworthy name is a day-dweller…’
Clent let the sentence trail. The Raspberry did not pick it up. It lay there on the desk between them like a stunned weasel.
‘So,’ Clent tried again, ‘the Night Steward and his men control the town at night? Might I ask what manner of men can have names bad enough to be barred from daylight, yet names good enough to be placed in charge of law and order after dark?’
‘There are certain kinds of cur,’ the Raspberry said after a long pause, ‘whom you would never let in the house, but which are good enough to guard the yard. Biters and barkers, but suited to the task once you have them on a leash.’
It was clear that the bristling clerk would not be further drawn, so Clent sighed and changed the subject. The Raspberry appeared all too happy to seize upon a new topic of conversation.
‘… ah yes, of course I remember that scapegrace Brand Appleton.’ Gradually the Raspberry was thawing again, his colour mellowing to a gentle raspberry wine. ‘Reclassified as a nightling just a few months after his engagement to Miss Beamabeth Marlebourne. Nothing to be done about it, of course. Young Appleton made a fuss and talked of appealing or rattling our heads until our ears fell off, but what do you expect from someone born under Sparkentress? Showing his true colours at last, that is all. Miss Marlebourne had a lucky escape there. And of course her father is considering a far better match for her now – you have heard of Sir Feldroll, I trust? The young governor of Waymakem.’
So the mayor planned to marry his daughter to some young noble from another city. Mosca filed the detail away for later. Waymakem was a small thriving city on the far side of Toll, the side that she and Clent so urgently wanted to reach.
‘Of course, some say that it is partly a political marriage,’ the Raspberry added in a lower tone. ‘Waymakem and other cities to the east have been raising an army, hoping to march on Mandelion – the radical city – and put a respectable government in charge. But they are all on the wrong side of the Langfeather. The best and nearest bridge is ours, and they do not want to be setting about a long march with winter setting in. And they cannot pass through Toll without paying tithes for every soldier, unless they win our mayor around, so Sir Feldroll came to Toll to do just that.’
Mosca pricked up her ears again. It was not so surprising to hear that other cities wanted to crush Mandelion. After all, what powerful lord would want his lowly populace hearing of this radical city with its wild notions of equality, and getting ideas?
What was perhaps more surprising was the way Mosca’s spirits surged to the defence of the rebel city, despite the fact that it had brought her nothing but trouble. It was too late to stop her Getting Ideas. Not only had she seen the fiercely joyful Mandelion reborn, she had been a tiny part of making it what it was. When its name was spoken she felt more than affection, she felt a pride so powerful it hurt.
Fortunately it sounded as if for the moment most of Mandelion’s enemies could do nothing but shake their fists from across the Langfeather.
‘So… where is Appleton now? Is anything more known of him?’ Clent had a manner of polite and engaging interest.
‘Nightbound. Probably not dead – there would have been a report. Of course we regularly review all the borderline Beloved in case they need to be reclassified, but Sparkentress?’ He shook his head. ‘Nightbound, and unlikely to change. Still, a small price to pay for a safe town.’
Safe, is it? Mosca gave a small snuffle of bitter mirth. Funny how nervous people get around dusk, then, isn’t it?
Taking advantage of this pause in the conversation, Kenning darted up like a dragonfly, and dipped his head to whisper in the Raspberry’s ear.
‘Indeed? I see. Mr Clent, it seems that a message has been left here for you. Apparently a lady wishes to speak with you.’
Clent glanced at Mosca. She guessed that he had reached the same conclusion as herself. The only lady in Toll who might have a reason to speak to them was Beamabeth Marlebourne. Her father had described her languishing in her sickbed, but perhaps his daughter was capable of acting on her own behalf. Perhaps she was even capable of secretly slipping out of her father’s house, if she had something important enough to say. Beamabeth would know that all visitors had to report to the committee each day. It was the best and easiest way to get word to them.
‘And, ah… did she say how I might find her?’
‘She said that she would be in the pleasure gardens by the Dovespit Playhouse until one of the clock, Mr Clent.’
‘Then we shall thank you kindly, and make our farewells. A lady should not be kept waiting.’ Perhaps it was Mosca’s imagination, but she thought the Raspberry seemed somewhat relieved to see them go. Then again, perhaps that was just because of Saracen’s muzzled but persistent attempts to eat Kenning’s inkwell.
As they left, they passed a crowd of people half dragging, half carrying a small bespectacled man to the Clock Tower like a trophy.
‘… no badge…’ she could hear them explaining animatedly to the guards. Sure enough, there was no wooden badge pinned to his jacket.
‘I can explain!’ he squeaked as he was manhandled inside. ‘I lost it! It… it must have fallen off my coat on to the grass! I tell you I am a visitor! A visitor!’ The door closed behind him and his captors, cutting short his wails of dismay.