What the blinkin’ ’eck’s a Romantic Facilitator? This chisel-faced maggot can’t have kidnapped me because he needs someone to help him get a ladyfriend, can he? Mind you, how else would he get one?
However, she obediently wrote down the sum that Skellow whispered in her ear, and handed it to one of the swift-footed messengers in black masks as they hurried by. She thought about writing, ‘Help, I’ve got a knife in my back,’ but decided against it. She had the feeling that nobody except Skellow would care.
‘Five guineas.’ Mosca’s eyes crept to Skellow’s hood again as his bid was read out. Surely even Skellow couldn’t be that
desperate for a ladyfriend? And could he really have that sort of money?
For the first two minutes the bids came slowly, intermittently. Skellow turned out to be someone who cracked his knuckles when he was nervous, and Mosca winced each time he did so, in case the sound was enough to see them shafted. Then the lip of the candle collapsed, hot wax spilling creamily on to the tabletop, and the room was galvanized. There was a frenzy of scribbling, then the pat-a-pat of feet as the bid-carriers ran to and fro. Clearly Skellow was not the only person interested in the Romantic Facilitator.
Six guineas. Eight. Twelve. Frantically Mosca wrote down each sum Skellow growled in her ear. The candle’s flame was growing squat and uncertain.
‘Fifteen guineas!’ hissed Skellow. ‘Write it fast! Faster!’ The knifepoint jabbed at her spine. Hand shaking, Mosca scribbled the bid, waved the paper over her head and watched heart in mouth as a runner tweaked it from her fingers and sprinted to join the gaggle clustered about the auctioneer.
The auctioneer had just time to snatch one last paper as the candle flame flared, buckled and died, leaving a faint quill of smoke trailing from its wick.
‘Done! Last bid before the death of the candle…’ The auctioneer unfolded the paper in his hands. ‘… fifteen guineas… sold to Guest Seventy-one.’ A runner trotted over and placed a small wooden token on the desk before Skellow.
The pressure from the knifepoint diminished, and Mosca let out a long breath of relief. The next moment, however, Skellow had taken her by the collar again and tugged her into whisper-range.
‘Write down exactly what I tell you,’ he hissed through the double layer of cloth. ‘You write a word awry and I’ll spike you.’
Mosca nodded and listened, her quill poised.
Dear sir,
You are recommended me on account the Auctioneers say you have a name good enough for daylight. We are wanting you about a matter of a gentleman in the town of Toll who would marry the daughter of the mayor but for the difficulties put in his way by her family who are not being amiable on account of some damage recently done to his good name. And it have been put to him that sometimes the course of true love does not run smooth but needs help, and sometimes a few coins changing hands and a bit of sword-work like. And if you please I would meet with you at the old bastle house on Moordrick’s Fell tonight to discuss how we can come by the lady and have her all safely wedded before she or her family can make any trouble about it. It is best that we discuss it there for it shall be devilish tricky to meet inside Toll. If I do not see you at the bastle house however I shall look for you just after Toll’s dusk bugle in Brotherslain Walk the day after tomorrow. And with this letter you will find moneys for paying of the toll and living comfortable in the city.
Rabilan Skellow
This was the letter that was dictated to Mosca. However, it must be confessed that it was not quite the letter she wrote. That letter, while similar in many respects, was a bit longer and a lot more creative.
Barely five minutes later, a response was brought by one of their black-hooded hosts.
Dear Mr Scragface Pimplenose,
Many thanks for your eloquent epistle. I am sure you cannot possbly be as grotesquely ugly as you claim, and I look forward to making your acquaintance. I always say that a man who can laugh at himself is a man worth knowing.
Your star-crossed lovers sound quite charming, and / would be delighted to help.
One little superstition of mine I hope you will indulge. I never meet with perfect strangers bastle houses or alarmingly named alleyways at twilight. This trifling quirk I developed shortly after acquiring a large number of enemies. I would therefore purpose that, instead of meeting at either of the places you suggest, we meet at nine of the clock by the stocks in Lower Pambrick on goodlady Joljock’s Morn. I shall be wearing a Fainsnow Lily pinned to my pocket.
Your faithful servant
Mosca let her black eyes dart from line to line, then she glanced up at the ominous outline that was Skellow, his pale amber eyes glowing softly through the holes in his mask.
‘I’m not reading this to you,’ she hissed, ‘until I got some certainty that I’m gettin’ out of all this alive.’
‘What? You…’ Skellow winced at the sound of his own voice and looked about nervously, but his squawk of indignation seemed to have gone unnoticed.
The auctioneer appeared to be starting the next auction. ‘Now, we have on sale the services of a lady who has made her name in one of the quick-fingered professions…’ A black-masked messenger had materialized next to Skellow’s desk with the air of one waiting to tidy it. Skellow rose, yanking Mosca to her feet.
‘Outside,’ he spat.
Mosca tensed as they left the cave, looking for a chance to pull her arm loose and sprint to the cold and rain-sodden freedom of the moors. Skellow seemed to have read her mind, however, and kept a cruel grip on her until they were surrounded by his friends once more. A sharp shove sent Mosca back against the rocky face, and she found herself ringed by a set of very damp men who appeared to be losing their sense of humour.
‘Read it!’ Skellow thrust the letter towards her. ‘Or…’ He was no longer making any attempt to hide the knife in his other hand.
‘Or what? You’ll kill me?’ Mosca made fists in an attempt to stop her arms shaking. ‘If you want me to read this letter, I’ll need to be alive.’
‘Yes,’ said Skellow through his teeth, ‘but you won’t need your thumbs.’
There was a small pause during which Mosca realized exactly how fond she was of her thumbs, and considered the many things she would be unable to do without them. These included untying knots and slipping keys out of enemies’ pockets. Biting her lip so hard that it hurt, she snatched the letter back out of his hand.
‘All right,’ she said sullenly, then lowered her eyes to the page again and started to speak.
Occasionally her black gaze would creep up for a furtive glance at the lean, dripping faces of her captors. Did they suspect that the words on the page in front of her were not quite the words she was speaking? No, she thought not.
After she had finished reading, Skellow stood in silence for a while, chewing the inside of his cheek.
‘So – our Romantic Facilitator cannot come to the bastle house tonight, but is happy to meet with me in Brotherslain Walk like I suggested?’
‘Happy as a mouse in a marmalade jar.’ Mosca gritted her teeth and fought to keep her gaze bold and unblinking. If Skellow sensed the lie in her words, he showed no sign of it.
‘All right, then.’ Skellow gave a tick of tongue against teeth. ‘Come on, my boys. We’re leaving.’
Once again, the involuntary scribe found herself bound and bundled, bouncing along on the back of the same wet horse. She tried to twist her hands out of their bonds, but the cold and damp made everything harder and the chafing ropes burned like a brand of ice.