was probably a little aggrieved that somebody else had managed it.
‘Through the clock face!’ The mayor had the breathless, rasping tones of one who has just been punched in the stomach. The kidnap of his daughter had left him towering and wrathful, but the loss of the Luck had apparently broken him. ‘They took advantage of the repairs to come in through the clock face on the front of the tower! I did not even know that that was possible!’
Mosca realized that she at least should have guessed that it was possible. Paragon had told her that he was in charge of adding the little wooden Beloved figures to the clock mechanism as required. Therefore there must have been some way of accessing the clock’s works from his cell. Under cover of repairing the clock, the thieves must have stealthily removed the cogs until they found the hatch into his private chamber.
‘So… you are saying that the Luck of Toll is an actual object?’ Sir Feldroll was keeping the situation under control very well, but was clearly a few pages behind when it came to understanding it. ‘I always assumed it was a figure of speech!’
‘Not an object… a person,’ answered the mayor. ‘A… a boy. The Luck of Toll is the person born under a more auspicious Beloved than anybody else in town, and thus granted the best and most fortunate name. They are shut away from the world, close to the bridge so that their luck seeps into it and keeps it aloft… and holds the cliff steady under us…’
‘A boy? Locked up inside a clock… so that his luck…’ Sir Feldroll cut short his sentence, perhaps realizing that it could go nowhere tactful. ‘Well, as far as I am aware the town has not noticeably fallen into the river, so if everybody could please recover their senses -’
‘Not yet, but the power of the Luck only holds while he or she is within the walls of the town,’ intoned the mayor. ‘Should they ever stray outside, then Toll’s good fortune leaves with them once and forever, and all is calamity. Then we shall see agues and poxes sweeping through Toll, and the wells filling with poison, and foes storming our gates unopposed, and the ground crumbling beneath us…’ Somewhere on the far side of the room the youngest footman started to whimper.
‘My lord mayor, you are not helping!’ exploded Sir Feldroll. ‘This is mere superstition! And besides, if the Luck is the fellow born under the brightest Beloved and gifted with the best name, then surely it is a simple thing to replace him? Who has the second-best name?’ There was a long pause, during which everyone singularly failed to sound as cheered as Sir Feldroll had evidently expected.
‘The second-best name in Toll,’ explained the mayor coldly, ‘is possessed by my daughter Beamabeth. Whom you have told us is also in danger of being spirited out of Toll. And besides, the title of Luck only passes on to the next-best name when the current Luck dies. If the Luck is taken outside Toll while still alive, then disaster and catastophe-’
‘Yes, yes,’ Sir Feldroll interrupted hastily. ‘I believe I have grasped the point.’
Mosca wondered if she was the only person who remembered that Paragon was a person in his own right, regardless of whether he was ‘lucky’ or not, and right now possibly a frightened and ill-treated person. Then again, given that he had lived under lock and key for nearly all his life, perhaps his existence might actually have been improved by being kidnapped. It would certainly have made it less monotonous.
‘Well,’ Sir Feldroll pronounced grimly, ‘surely everybody must now agree that things have gone far too far, and the strongest action is required. As I predicted, the ransom has been taken by the kidnappers, and Miss Marlebourne has not been returned to us. And now this further outrage! My lord mayor, surely you cannot still doubt the wisdom of striking at these radicals with all the might we can muster – striking at the very root and fountainhead!’
‘Ah…’ Clent’s cautious tones edged gingerly into the ensuing silence. ‘I hate to interrupt any eloquent and ardent speech… but do we have the slightest reason to believe that Miss Marlebourne and the Luck have been stolen away by the same party?’
‘The slightest reason?’ If Sir Feldroll had been an ordinary man, his tone might have been described as ‘shrill’. But he was a knight, so Mosca assumed he was probably just ‘impassioned’. ‘These blackguards Skellow and Appleton are kidnappers. They kidnap your girl Mye from Grabely, they kidnap Miss Marlebourne, and now, hey presto, we have another audacious kidnapping of a young and defenceless victim! The slightest reason? How stocky do you require your reasons to be, Mr Clent? Make no mistake, this is the handiwork of the same monsters. Appleton has undoubtedly fled with Miss Marlebourne, and now his men have taken the Luck to throw us into confusion, so that we lack the coordination to pursue Appleton and act against his radical allies.’
This was agony. Mosca had to bite down hard on her own knuckles to stop herself calling out. What Sir Feldroll 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!