Why don’t you say something, Mr Clent?
But of course he could not. There was still a snake in the grass, a spy in the inner circle, perhaps in that very room. Any plan he suggested in front of the spy would probably be doomed from the outset. Worse still, if Clent hinted at what he knew, people might want to know where his information came from, and those were questions he could not answer without endangering Mosca.
The Locksmith spy! Who was the spy? Mosca gave the question one last angry kick, just as she might have kicked a recalcitrant old travel chest. To her surprise, however, the imaginary catch clicked and the lid swung wide. She knew – quite suddenly and without any doubt – who had been spying on them all this time. Hastily she rummaged for her pin and poked it up towards Clent’s bootsole to get his attention… just as he stepped forward and off the stage to join the crowd in the centre of the room. Mosca’s pin was left to waggle uselessly, unnoticed.
By the time the Chief Clerk of the Committee of the Hours arrived, Mistress Bessel had asked Clent three times whether he had a headache and commented that he seemed uncommonly pale. In short, he was finding discretion every bit as agonizing as Mosca was. Being unable to speak was bad. Being able to speak but unable to explain anything of importance was, if anything, worse.
The raspberry-faced Chief Clerk was even more rubicund than usual, puffing self-importantly under the weight of a huge valise of parchments. Little red-headed Kenning came after him, bent backwards under a writing slope and a stack of boxes. Within five minutes the papers within would bear the mayor’s signature and seal, and the die would be cast.
‘Discretion above all,’ the mayor insisted. ‘If anybody hears that the Luck is missing and people start to wonder if it has been taken outside Toll, then nobody will be willing to use that bridge. And I think that will include the men in your armies, Sir Feldroll, whatever you might think.’
It was at this point that a crisp knock sounded at the door. The footman opened it, then leaned forward to peer, then stepped outside altogether. After an interval he returned, a wax-sealed letter in his hand.
‘Nobody there, my lord mayor,’ he explained apologetically, ‘but this letter left on the step.’
The mayor eyed it with raised brows, then broke the seal. He read it with increasing palpitations of face and limb.
At last he looked up and wordlessly gestured all of his servants from the room. When his only companions were Eponymous Clent, Jennifer Bessel, Sir Feldroll, the Raspberry and Kenning, he lowered his eyes and read the letter aloud, in a voice that shook like a loose sail.
To grayning Marlebourne, Lord Mayor of Toll,
Lest you think you had been robbed in the night, I thought I should write and inform you that the Luck of Toll is quite safe. It came to our attention during the repair of the mechanism in the Clock Tower that the location used for the Luck’s protection was very far from secure, and I believe the ease with which it was removed proves our point admirably. Therefore, for the sake of the town that we both hold dear, we have moved it to a far safer sanctuary, and are more than happy to take over the duby of keeping it secure on behalf of Toll.
My next priority shall be the recovery of your adopted daughter. I believe I might claim jurisdiction here, and must ask you not to take any steps of your own in this matter. I am a little surprised at having learned of this affair through sources other than your lordship, hub I daresay thab your missive simply faded bo reach me. You and I both know all too well how easily letters can go astray and fall into unexpected hands.
Your respectful servant,
Aramai Goshawk
‘ What? ’ Sir Feldroll strode up and peered over the mayor’s shoulder, almost as though he suspected the other man had been inventing the contents. ‘The Locksmiths? The Locksmiths stole the Luck?’
‘This,’ the mayor said heavily, folding the letter, ‘changes everything. There is no question now of attacking Mandelion. The Locksmiths state explicitly that we must take no steps of our own, and the Locksmiths have the Luck. My friends – I fear we must leave the matter of my daughter in the Locksmiths’ hand -’
‘Pardon me,’ interrupted Sir Feldroll, his voice icy and his face scarlet, ‘but I do not see that at all!’ His veneer of deference had all but frayed away, and he could be seen clearly now as the lord of a large city nearly out of patience with the mayor of a country town – a country town, furthermore, that was standing in his way. A storm was evidently in the offing.
At long last Eponymous Clent managed to catch Mistress Bessel’s eye. ‘These gentlemen seem to have… ah… a great deal to discuss. Perhaps, my dear Jen, you would join me for a moment in the chapel to… pray for the rescue of poor Miss Beamabeth?’
Come back, Mr Clent, I need to talk to you. Come back over here, Mr Clent…
How could Mosca get his attention? Rustle? Honk like a goose? But she could hear steps – he was coming back! She ran from peephole to peephole and finally found a view of him. He was returning to the chapel, but not alone. Mistress Bessel was with him. They knelt side by side on the stage, Clent’s face in a pious pout, Mistress Bessel glancing narrowly at him from time to time.
‘Dear Jen,’ whispered Clent eventually, his lips scarcely moving, ‘there is something you must know and – aaaargh! Prattle and pique, would you maim me?’
Mosca’s frantic thrusts with her pin had evidently made contact at last.
‘Eponymous! What means this yowling and writhing!’ demanded Mistress Bessel.
In the darkness below the stage, Mosca breathed hard and clenched both her fists, willing Clent to read her mind. The army of her thoughts was marching and her heart was its battle-drum.
‘A spasm of… spiritual anguish,’ answered Clent through his teeth. Mosca could just make out his fingers clutching at his newly injured knee. ‘Would you excuse me for a moment of… private prayer?’
An impatient sigh, and soft steps withdrew.
‘Your explanation will doubtless astonish and delight me,’ Clent hissed down towards Mosca’s chink.
‘You were going to tell her about me being here!’ hissed Mosca. ‘She hates me! She’ll betray me in a second!’
‘Child, if I ask the mayor to send reinforcements to Toll-by-Night without explanation, he will glare me to dust. But Mistress Bessel has a way with him. We need her in our strategems, child.’
Mosca held still a few moments, breathing great lungfuls of the musty air, her thoughts whirring as fiercely as spiked chariot wheels. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘You are right, we do need her help. Listen, Mr Clent! I think I know who the spy is! And Mistress Bessel can help us uncover ’em. But before you tell her about me being here, first you got to make her promise not to tell anyone. Make her promise properly, the way the farmers trade oaths in the marketplace. You got to clasp her right hand, firm as you can, look her in the eye, and make her swear by the Beloved. Just like that, Mr Clent. Please.’
‘Oh… fates have mercy. Very well.’ Clent’s face disappeared again as he rose to his feet again. ‘Jen,’ he called aloud, ‘will you humour an old friend? If I might take you by the -’
His words were cut short by a screech that sounded more like a scalded vixen than any human sound. All other conversation in the room was killed in an instant. There was a shocked silence, then feet thundered from the room and down the passage to the front door, which banged open. A patter of steps receded into the drowsy noises of the winter morning.