“Or I could have drugged her food or drink, put her in a box, and hoisted her up into one of the taller trees, high enough that the Jinglers would not be looking for hiders there, and my accomplices could claim her come night.

  “Or . . . well, quite simply, my good sir, I could have tried to negotiate a deal with the Locksmiths. A gamble, of course—but if it worked, then all other perils would disappear.”

  Clent shrugged very slightly as the mayor stared at him, his fist twitching.

  “Of course, these are merely the plans that instantaneously occur to my mind,” he continued. “There are many other ways I could have contrived it. Miss Marlebourne had given me her trust, and under those circumstances kidnapping her without trace would have been childishly easy. Coming up with a plan that we could sabotage so as to catch these foxes with their noses in the coop—that was the hard part.”

  The mayor was still bristling, but thoughtfulness was doing battle with rage behind his eyes, and clearly Clent’s words had not been lost on him.

  “So what do you claim went wrong?” he asked in a biting but more moderate tone.

  “Sir Feldroll, I believe, has the matter in a nutshell,” Clent responded. “There was a worm in the peach, a thistle among the good grain, a weasel in the dovecote. In short, we were betrayed.”

  “A fly in the ointment?” suggested the mayor, his eyes resting on Mosca with cold, hard meaning. Mosca flushed as she became aware that she was now the focus of nearly every gaze in the room.

  “Don’t be lookin’ at me that way! I never done it!” Once again she had the feeling that she was standing in her own private patch of ice. Now she felt as if the ice beneath her feet was cracking and threatening to drop her into something infinitely worse.

  “She was the only nightling involved in this plan.” The mayor’s tones were steely, and Mosca felt hot pins and needles flood her skin and stomach. “She was the one who started stories of this kidnapping in the first place and brought all of this to pass. She could easily tip off her nightling accomplices when the need arose.”

  Mosca could hardly breathe. Her badge was a leaden weight against her chest.

  “With the greatest of respect,” Sir Feldroll broke in politely, “that makes absolutely no sense at all.”

  “What?” The mayor turned on him, and once again drew himself up into a quivering tower of annoyance.

  “The girl certainly heard Mr. Clent’s plan with the rest of us yesterday afternoon, but unlike most of us,” Sir Feldroll went on, “she never left the house to fetch weapons. I have checked with the servants—she was here all the time. And overnight she was locked up with the rest of us. She did not have a chance to tip anyone off. The one thing she did have the chance to do, though, is run away, while we were all blundering around in the early morn, and if she were guilty, I cannot see a reason why she would not have done so.”

  Bless your twitchy little features, Sir Feldroll, thought Mosca. You’re not as stupid as you look.

  “Sir Feldroll,” simmered the mayor, “use your eyes. We are seeking a betrayer in our midst. Look at her.”

  “I am not vouching for the girl’s good character,” answered Sir Feldroll, with the measured tones of one working hard to keep his own temper. “I very much doubt she has any. I am just saying that I do not think she can walk through walls.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” the mayor declared, in tones as humorous as a gibbet. “Because I intend to surround her with the thickest, tallest, coldest walls we have.”

  Mosca had two sorts of flying dreams. The best ones were flying-as-a-fly dreams, full of weaving and soaring and walking on ceilings, her wing-whirr deafening as a drumroll. The others were mote-on-the-wind dreams, where a fickle breeze swept her up and bore her hither and thither, in spite of all her attempts to swim back down to earth. Such nightmares left her sick with vertigo, rage, and helplessness.

  The blur of her departure from the mayor’s house was very much like the second sort of dream. For one thing, her feet did not touch the ground, and no amount of kicking and flailing served to give her a foothold. The half-dozen hands gripping her arms and shoulders might as well have been iron. She had had no choice but to leave Saracen in Clent’s care, so fearful was she that he would fall foul of someone’s pistol if he tried to protect her.

  The market girls setting up their stalls gawped as Mosca passed, but when their eyes settled on her badge, their brows smoothed. Ah, that explains it. She wanted to spit in their bland, doughy faces. She wanted to pull loose for a second, long enough to frighten them. And she hated the tears that turned them into dark pillars of mist and reduced the courtyard green to a fuzzy gleam.

  Unfair, unfair, unfair. They’d done for her; this rotten town had done for her; Skellow, who should have been dragged off in irons, had done for her after all.

  “Where do we take her? The Pyepowder Court? Isn’t that where they take visitors when they catch them breaking the law?”

  Mosca wondered for a moment if daylight Toll even had a court to try its own citizens, or whether everyone just assumed that day crimes were only ever committed by nightfolk passing through.

  “The Pyepowder Court? Are you mad?” The voice of the mayor, a little behind Mosca. “This isn’t some dusty-foot vagrant, or a Gypsy selling a cat as a piglet. Take her straight to the clock tower.”

  The peculiar procession continued through the twisting streets, followed by curious gazes and a gustful of autumn leaves.

  As she was carried to the clock tower, Mosca stopped struggling and let her feet droop limply. She was in a trap within a trap within a trap. There was nowhere to run. She let her head fall back and stared up at the china-blue autumn sky, speckled with birds, girded with the lean of buildings, striped by strands of her own loose hair. She filled her lungs with as much cold, searing air as she could, like a diver preparing; then she was pulled in through the heavy oak doors, and the sky was taken away from her. This time, however, they did not take her through the side door into the Committee of the Hours building but up a few stairs to a darkened antechamber.

  “What’s this?” A man with a red leather patch over his eye looked up from oiling a set of branding irons. A bunch of heavy iron keys clustered at his belt. “One for the clink?” His single gray eye took in Mosca in one guillotine flash.

  “Yes—for a conspiracy of the darkest dye.” The mayor strode to the front, and the one-eyed man dropped a hasty bow. “The treacherous kidnapping of a young woman of birth and means. The kindest and most sweet-tempered girl in the whole . . .” The mayor’s voice trembled and trailed off.

  “You don’t mean . . . ?” The single slate-colored eye flashed back to Mosca’s face, and the seamed face in which it was set puckered with disbelief and outrage. “Not Miss Beamabeth?” Skin tingling, Mosca realized that she was about to become the most hated person in Toll.

  The mayor nodded, his face ashen. “I want this girl girded about with iron and stone,” he said grimly. “And watch her—she’s a housefly, with a housefly’s swift and sneaking ways.”

  The keeper nodded, giving Mosca a thunderous look. “I’ll have her shackled and tossed in the Grovels, sir.”

  “My lord mayor!” Terror restored Mosca’s powers of speech. “I’m no enemy to you or your daughter! Let me go, an’ I’ll find her for you, I swear it on Palpitattle’s wings!” It was the worst oath she could have made; she sensed it as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Everyone looked at her and shuddered, as though she had sprouted antennae, or cleaned her hands with a long, insectile tongue.

  The keeper whistled, and a pair of turnkeys came running. The viselike hands on Mosca’s shoulders were traded in for other viselike hands, and she was dragged to a nearby spiral stairway. As she had feared, she was led not up but down the darkened steps, her legs shaking with fear and the seeping chill of the old stones. She smelled her prison before she reached it, a reek of sickness and rotten straw and chamberpot perfumes and a gagging aroma of spoiled meat. At the bottom of the stairs, the keeper opened a low arched door, and the smell became overwhelming.

  There were several figures in the low-ceilinged cell beyond, but as the door opened, they retreated from the light to the shadows of the walls in a way that reminded Mosca of rats, except that rats do not usually give off a metallic jangle as they move.

  “Since you’re new, I’ll run through the charges. There’s a fee for rent, o’ course, but the Grovels down here is easy on the purse—you don’t pay till you leave. And as a newcomer you pay a garnish—that’s a bit of courtesy to the other guests.” The keeper nodded toward the other figures in the cell. “Just enough to buy ’em each a tipple so they can drink to your health. You’ll be wanting to pay that. If you don’t, the worst of ’em will take what they’re owed out of your hide. And o’ course, all luxuries is extra.”

  “Luxuries?” Mosca stared at him. “I don’t want any luxuries!”

  “Yes, you do. Luxuries being, you see, things like food. And drink. And blankets. And not being clapped in irons.”

  “But . . . I ’aven’t got any money!”

  The keeper stared at her, and something changed in his face, making his jaw heavier and his single eye hot and dull. Mosca noticed muscle meat in his arms, the cudgel at his belt, the scars around his hairline. Suddenly she felt like a doll of sticks.

  “Missy, I hear that every day.” The keeper grimaced and shook his head with long-suffering disgust. “And yet, somehow people find they can come by the coin when their backs are up against the wall—and yours is against the wall, make no mistake. They beg, or borrow, or call on help from friends, or find things for me to sell. And those who can’t have no place coming here and trying to take advantage of a poor businessman.”

  The other “guests” were not slow to claim their garnish. They closed on Mosca almost as soon as the door shut behind the keeper, turned her upside down, and shook her to see what fell out. One grimy hand snatched at Mistress Bessel’s handkerchief; another slyly snatched the Little Goodkin bracelet from her wrist.

  The woman who tried to grab at Mosca’s pipe, however, found herself with a fight on her hands. Another prisoner was sitting on Mosca’s legs so that she could not kick, but she scratched and bit and wrestled until the would-be thief gave up. The others retreated to survey their finds, leaving Mosca curled in a ball around the pipe, her ribs and ears bruised from blows.

  Only when she was sure that her fellow guests had lost interest in her did she dare to uncurl a little from her hedgehog pose. It was too dark for her to make out faces, but she could hear the murmur of thieves’ cant, the slang of the world’s underbelly. Night owls, probably. As they talked, it became clear that most of them had once been visitors with night names who had been arrested for one crime or another and had been languishing in the Grovels ever since.

  Prisons swallowed men like cherry pits—she knew that much. They were arrested for this or that, and then somebody lost the papers and it never came to trial and meanwhile they starved or sickened from rotten meat or had their heads stove in by their jailers. Prison was a pit, and once you’d fallen in, you had a devil of a time climbing out again, unless you had money, a good name, or powerful friends. Mosca had none of these.

  There’s Mr. Clent.

  Hah. He’s too fond of his own neck to stick it out for me.

  For a while she buried her face in her apron and shook, until the muslin was damp and her breaths were ragged.

  Oh, stop sniveling, she told herself at last. Saracen would come for you, if he was a man—he’d come with three brace of pistols at his belt. But he’s a goose, and that’s all there is to that. You’re on your own.

  Mosca felt as if she was sharing a cave with a pack of wolves, all snarling at one another in the darkness. As runt of the pack, she guessed that her best chance of survival was to attract as little attention as possible. This, however, did not turn out to be easy.

  “Oi.” Somebody poked her with a shackled foot. “You don’t want to lie there. You’re in Magpackin’s spot.”

  Mosca rolled away and pulled herself up into a tight little bundle with her back to a wall.

  “All right, all bleedin’ right! Take your spot!” she shrilled.

  There was a roar of laughter.

  “Magpackin won’t be taking it back just yet,” said the largest of the men. “He’s worm food. But that was his lying spot three good weeks before the keeper took him away. No release fee paid for him, you see.”

  Mosca shuddered, and her hands twitched to her shoulders and hair, eager to brush off any traces of the dead Magpackin, while the other prisoners laughed again at her discomfort.

  It was during this hilarity that bolts scraped back and the door opened to show the keeper’s Cyclops face, illuminated by the lantern in his hand.

  “Visitor for the new girl.”

  Mosca’s heart leaped as the keeper stepped aside. Clearly Clent, the word wizard, had somehow waltzed into the stronghold in spite of the mayor’s instructions . . .

  . . . or perhaps not. Not unless he had decided to infiltrate the prison by donning a white muslin dress, a lace cap, and a pair of good kid gloves.

  “You poor child,” declared Mistress Bessel in viper-blood tones, her sturdy figure filling most of the doorway. “I’ve come to bring you a little comfort.”

  Chapter 14

  GOODMAN ASHENEYE, PROTECTOR OF THE HEARTH

  Mosca responded to these sweet sentiments with the short sharp scream of one who has just sat on a kettle.

  “Dear good sir,” continued Mistress Bessel, holding Mosca’s gaze with a world of meaning in her ice-blue eyes, “you see what a shrinking, timid little thing she is? Now you understand why I want a room where I can speak to her alone.”

  The keeper frowned, his patch strap making diagonal creases across his brow.

  “Well, mistress, we do have some private cells, but they are generally put aside for special visitors. Those who can pay for the privilege—”

  “Do it,” Mistress Bessel interrupted crisply. “I’ll buy her a new cell—the one they call Hell’s Eyrie. And I want half an hour alone with her.”

  The prospect of being locked up with an enraged Mistress Bessel scattered Mosca’s other fears like a house cat pouncing amid a congregation of pigeons. However, her second squeal of panic only seemed to convince the keeper that the visitor was right about her shy and quivering nature. He smiled indulgently at Mistress Bessel, smiled indulgently at the coins she placed in his hand, and then smiled indulgently at Mosca, somewhat to her confusion and alarm.

  “This way then, ladies.” Somehow the keeper’s tone had become that of an obliging host showing affluent guests to the better quarters of an inn. He loosed Mosca’s leg-irons and then led her from the room while the other Grovelers muttered and hissed resentfully.

  The stairs coiled upward past a series of other cells, each just visible through the hatch in the door, none quite as grim as the Grovels. They passed a crammed debtors’ cell where families huddled and lone figures moped and smoked, a female cell where drab-faced girls coughed into their aprons, and an all-but-lightless male cell full of fury and half-seen movement like a box of ferrets.

  “Here’s your chambers.” The keeper halted outside a small oak door, dulled by years to the color of gun metal. The stairs, Mosca noticed, had not ended but continued upward. The keeper pulled back an alarming series of bolts, many of which had all but rusted into place through disuse, wrenched a couple of great keys into the splinter-edged locks, and heaved the door open.

  It was a tapering room shaped like a wedge of cake, one small barred window set in the rounded wall. Near it was a narrow hearth, which curiously appeared to have been cleaned with care. No furniture, no bed. A slack iron chain, one end fixed to a ring set low on the wall, the other to a set of leg-irons.

  “Best room in the house.” The keeper’s tone was one of real pride. “That little window’ll give you a view as far as the sea on a clear day. You can even pick out the spires of Penchant’s Mell. That there is the very corner slept in by Hadray Delampley, the rebel earl of Mazewood, during the Civil War.”

  Unlike the other cells, this one did not stink of rot and the chamber pot. Indeed, the only sign that anyone had been in the cell of late was the recently scrubbed hearth. The keeper noticed her looking at it.

  “Keep ideas of that sort out of your costard,” he rumbled in her ear. “You’re not the first to have thought of leaving by the chimney. Not a week ago some folks showed charity to a young lad who had been caught miching, and paid for him to stay in this cell. Quick as tricks, up the chimney he goes . . . and finds there’s a cast-iron grate blocking the flue. And while he’s trying to shake it loose, he takes a tumble, dashes out his wits. Same thing happened three weeks ago as well. Young girl. Same luck. I get full weary of mopping that hearth . . .”

  Mosca swallowed and gave this information due consideration while Mistress Bessel bargained with the keeper for “luxuries.” Yes, Mistress Bessel would pay to see Mosca free from leg-irons. No, she would not pay for her meals. Yes, she would hire a blanket for her. No, she would not buy sticks for the hearth.

  “Well, I will leave you ladies to talk.” In spite of the entreaty in Mosca’s face, the keeper withdrew.

  “You poor suffering dear,” Mistress Bessel said as the door closed behind him, in tones of icy and eternal enmity. “See, I have brought you muffins.” The door clicked to, and Mosca backed to the farthest extent of the cell.

  “So . . . what was it you last said to me?” asked Mistress Bessel, carefully adjusting the cuffs of her gloves. “Was it not ‘Fie to your game, Mistress Bessel’? Just before you set that feathered hell thing on me?”