“How would you like a new grin for a necktie?” came a sudden snarl from behind Mosca. She turned to find that one of the ex-prisoners from the Grovels was glaring at the soldier hot eyed. His face seemed to have been used as a whetstone, and a mesh of scars folded his forehead and left his eyebrows as dotted lines. “Leave the little mort be, or I’ll tie your tongue to the railings!”

  The threat, implausible as it was, served to silence the other man. Perhaps he reflected that even a failed attempt to execute it was likely to be very, very painful. Or perhaps he had noticed the way in which the other two ex-convicts had moved supportively to Mosca’s side.

  “Pratin’ popinjay,” one of them whispered in her ear. “Bold enough in the street, ain’t he? But if he was dropped into the spring-ankle warehouse, he’d be keening like a kitten.”

  Mosca understood, and turned her head to give the speaker a nasty little grin of agreement, which he answered with a wink. “Spring-ankle warehouse” was a cant term for prison. Somehow, in spite of her disguise, the Grovelers had recognized her as their former cell mate—perhaps because they had met her in darkness and known her only through her voice and temper. In the Grovels she had been their prey, but now they were part of the same fraternity—at least while there was a chance to gang up on somebody who had never known leg-irons. Belatedly, it seemed, Mosca was getting her garnish’s worth.

  “Any more gabble? No? Then come this way.” She hoped she was sounding confident. The rescue party’s odds were poor enough without them fighting among themselves.

  “Laylow? Yes, came in here for a dram o’ gin two nights ago with that young radical cove, the firebrand with the mad eyes. No, I never listen in, but the Beloved put ears on our heads, and mine pull in sound something fearsome. So . . . I hear him asking her for help, saying he don’t trust some folks . . . something about a horse.

  “No, I do not know where she lays her head. Perhaps you ask her radical friend? What? No, not as such, but I have often seen him awalkin’ off toward the Chutes . . .”

  It was in the Chutes, of course, that the plans became shaky, for Mosca had never even been in this district before. There were a few wrong turns in the glistening streets, and Mosca’s hairs rose at the thought of her followers losing confidence in her. On either side of the streets were ominous stacks of person-size boxes. Some were cracked and battered wood, and she slipped past them as fast as she could, fearful of glimpsing a dead eye or pallid hand through a crevice. Here and there in tiny shrines models of Goodman Postrophe stood sentinel, ready to squirt mellowberry juice into the eyes of any dead who decided to climb out of their boxes. His presence was only slightly reassuring.

  There were sounds as well, from deep in the icy, intestinal tangle of streets. A stutter of wood being dragged across cobbles. A shriek of a metal winch. A clatter of hatches. A weightless handful of silent seconds, then a smash far below, softened by echo, so that it was little more than a cough in the Langfeather’s throat.

  “There.” It was exactly as Brand Appleton had described, a cooper’s shop opposite an abandoned alehouse with a broken door. It stood on the corner, a small cask swaying from a chain over the door. It was a mean, narrow little shop with one small shuttered window at the front and two floors above it.

  “How many inside?” asked the soldier.

  “Five,” answered Mosca. “Maybe six. And the lady.”

  “Then we’ll have to move fast—knock down anyone in the shop, then run upstairs, kick in the door, and cover all within with our pistols before they can hurt the lady . . .” The soldier trailed off, realizing that nobody was actually listening to him. Mosca and the other ex-Grovelers had formed a huddle and gone into muffled conference.

  “. . . milled a ken like this when I was nine,” one was saying. “No point in puffing our way up the stairs and expecting to catch ’em winking—these old wooden steps ring out underfoot like a regiment of drums.”

  “Roof, maybe?” Another ex-convict leaned back. “Boggarts take it, I can see no holes. Pity we cannot whip in at a glaze—and the chimney looks too narrow, even for Mye—”

  “No—the trick is to sneak up there, or bring those bullies down the stairs, one at a time,” interrupted the first again, the man with the whetstone face. “We need a lay to hook ’em in.”

  “Well, however we gull ’em, it had better be sweet and swift,” whispered Mosca. “Or we shall have the Jinglers snappin’ at our heels!”

  She glanced up at Sir Feldroll’s man and felt a bittersweet flush of malicious satisfaction. Perhaps she felt out of place in Toll-by-Night, but it was plain that this was nothing compared to the plight of the soldier. His eyes looked fearful, dazzled by the unfamiliar mosaic of murk and moonlight. The thieves’ cant terms that were starting to roll off her tongue so glibly had bounced off his ears like pebbles.

  Mosca was a fast learner, and after three nights she was starting to think and speak as a nightling. She was learning to see in the dark. At another time, this might have worried her.

  A tall Locksmith came out of a gin shop’s back room, pulling off his gloves. He tucked them in a pocket and replaced them with clean ones.

  “The cooper in the Chutes” was all he said to his companions. Without another word they rose and followed him out through the front door. They left it ajar, letting the wind play over the broken furniture within.

  The cooper looked up from the splayed staves of a half-fashioned firkin when the door of his shop swung open. Two men had entered, both of them strangers, rolling in a heavy-looking hogs-head barrel over three feet high.

  “Hey, cooper!” called one of them. “We’ve a barrel that’s split and starting to spill—can you take a look and tell us if you can mend the crack without taking out all the grain? We’re in a hurry.”

  “Not likely.” Whistling under his breath, the cooper strolled toward his customers, a hammer dangling from one strong, callused hand. “But let us have a look at it.” He pried away the lid of the cask and froze.

  Holding her breath inside the barrel, Mosca saw the rounded roof of her cramped world tugged away abruptly and replaced by the face of a startled young man. He was not handsome, having a bunched sort of nose that wanted to be a fist. His lumpy, good-humored mouth was pursed with whistling, but as he saw the pistol gripped tightly in her hands, the whistle died and was replaced by a breathy little thread of sound.

  Mosca could hardly breathe. Her knees were tucked tight against her chest. The metal of the pistol was very cold, and her two fingers tucked around the trigger shook uncontrollably. The cooper had wide, light-colored eyes. She thought they might be green.

  “Keep whistling,” whispered the Groveler with the whetstone face, “and put down your hammer.”

  The cooper wet his lips and managed a husky warbled note. He stooped and obediently laid down his hammer.

  “Clever lad,” murmured Whetstone Face approvingly. “Keep your wits this way, and you’ll live long enough to bounce grandchildren on your knees.”

  While one of the Grovelers took up the cooper’s whistle, mimicking the tune perfectly, the cooper obeyed the orders muttered by Whetstone Face. He sat down on a barrel and let his hands be tied behind his back. He answered questions about the rooms upstairs, the number of people, the stations of the guards. Mosca listened, her stomach curdling. Everything was going according to plan, but somehow she did not feel like a rescuer anymore. She felt like a robber. It was the fearful eye whites of the cooper and the fierce, oily smell of the pistol.

  “Come on, Mye,” said one of her comrades, tipping her barrel so that she tumbled out of it and dropped her gun with a clatter.

  One Groveler listened at the door behind the counter, then very carefully turned a key from the cooper’s belt in its lock and opened it. The cooper was bound and gagged, and left in the care of the increasingly perplexed and disdainful ex-soldier. Two of the Grovelers slipped through the door and onto the stairway beyond, Mosca and the third Groveler just a few paces behind. The man in front of Mosca took the greatest care to step along the edges of the stairs so they did not creak, and Mosca copied him.

  They had just reached the door at the top of the stairs when there was a crash from the shop below, and a hoarse cry. Instantly the door before them was flung open and two men hurled themselves out of it. To judge by their expressions, they only realized midhurl that they were flying past four flabbergasted strangers who had just flattened themselves against the wall to let them pass. With remarkable presence of mind, Whetstone Face stuck out a leg to hook the ankle of the foremost, and the pair went tumbling down the stairs, using their bellies and faces as toboggans.

  Still pressed back against the wall, Mosca saw the Grovelers bound through the door into the open room. She wondered whether she was supposed to be holding the fallen men prisoner with her little pistol. But she could not bring herself to point it at them, for in her mind’s eye she could so easily imagine hiccuping with fear and sending a little bead of death through somebody’s forehead. In any case, they did not seem ready to get up yet.

  From the room into which the Grovelers had rushed there came two pistol cracks, then a lot of crashes, oaths, moans, scuffles, and floorboard creaks. Then, quite suddenly, about four people shouting at once.

  “Easy, easy—”

  “Halt—put your pistol—”

  “Get back! Back, or I’ll—”

  Mosca entered the room and found it in a state of stalemate. Two men lay motionless on the floor, and she could not tell if they were alive or dead. One she recognized as one of Skellow’s men from the bastle house. Another lay amid the wreckage of a broken table and had a thin, pocked face that also looked faintly familiar. All three of the Grovelers had weapons drawn, though one had a hand clasped to his side. All were currently bow tense, their attention focused upon a tall, angular, sickle-faced figure. It was Rabilan Skellow, and he had a pistol held to the head of Beamabeth Marlebourne.

  Skellow was backing slowly away with his captive, his breath coming raggedly through his teeth. His eye flickered over Mosca and lodged there, and she could see him grappling with frayed shreds of recognition.

  “You!”

  For a moment, Mosca was afraid he would turn the pistol on her instead, but he kept it against Beamabeth’s temple and reached behind him with his free hand to open a door. He backed slowly through it, dragging the mayor’s daughter along with him. Her eyes were kitten wide, her face pale and wondering, and one of her satin shoes was missing. Her hands were tied behind her back.

  A few seconds later the Grovelers forced their way through the same door, Mosca just behind them, and found themselves in an apparently empty room. Just as they were spinning this way and that looking for the vanished pair, there was an earsplitting shriek.

  It appeared to come from behind the wall. Whetstone Face kicked at the plaster, which tore before his boot, proving to be no more than a dingy canvas panel concealing a passage beyond. One good yank slid the panel aside, and beyond could be seen a narrow corridor, illuminated by a side window. In the middle of the passage Beamabeth was kneeling, Skellow standing over her with a knife in his hand, the blade almost touching her limp ringlets. He looked up as the canvas tore, and it seemed to Mosca that he looked directly at her, his teeth bared in a parody of his horrible smile. Then there was a deafening crack, and Skellow gave a sort of backward nod, drew himself unsteadily up on tiptoe, and then collapsed.

  Something seemed to jump in Mosca’s chest, and her nose filled with the smell of the old wine cellar where Havoc Gray had met his end. For a moment she wondered wildly whether it was her gun that had fired. But hers was still cold and still in her hand. Smoke was drifting from Whetstone Face’s pistol.

  Beamabeth still sat quivering, but quivering was better than no motion at all. She raised her head, and blue eyes peered out at Mosca without recognition or much in the way of wits. Whetstone Face strode forward and pulled her to her feet.

  “All right, lass. We’re here to take you home to your father.” It was said kindly enough. Apparently Beamabeth’s magic was working even here.

  From behind there came the thunderous noise of many boots on the stairs. A sound as loud as a battle drum, just as the Grovelers had said. One pair of boots might have been their comrade, the ex-soldier. A whole gang of boots could only mean trouble.

  There was no going back the way they had come. They could only go forward, down the corridor that Skellow had hoped would provide him with escape. Whetstone Face scooped up Beamabeth.

  “Come on!” he rasped, then turned and ran down the passage. The others followed.

  In spite of the thunder of her own blood, Mosca could not help wavering an instant as she passed the fallen body of Skellow, the man she had come to Toll to undo. There was a spreading darkness on his chest. She knew that he must be dead. And then he spoke.

  “Little witch” was all he said before his lizard-hiss breath stilled. His long fingers released the knife in his hand. Mosca felt as though she had killed him, and she was filled with too many emotions at once to know whether it made her happy or not.

  “Quickly!” A Groveler grabbed her arm and dragged her away. One corridor, two doors, and a rope ladder later, they were out on the open streets.

  · · · · ·

  Mistress Leap coped very well with the sudden and unannounced arrival of Mosca, Beamabeth Marlebourne, and three of the most disreputable, gibbet-worthy strangers she had ever seen. She remained upright, indeed rigidly so, though for a couple of minutes she could manage nothing but a string of broken vowels.

  “Sorry, Mistress Leap! I had no chance to tell you the new plan! This is Beamabeth Marlebourne, I think she might have had the sense scared out of her—”

  “You poor little violet!” Mistress Leap recovered her voice and enfolded Beamabeth in a motherly embrace that seemed to rumple the mayor’s daughter even more. “You are beautiful—every bit as beautiful as they always said! I knew you would be, even when I delivered you!”

  In Beamabeth’s cornflower blue eyes, realization appeared amid confusion, like a butterfly reeling out of a dust cloud.

  “You are . . . the midwife lady? The one who sent me the letter?”

  “Yes! Oh, you read it! Then you know . . . it must have been a shock, of course, but I am sure you always knew you were special . . . Ah, how I wish I could introduce you to your real parents, but they passed away of influenza ten years ago, the poor dears . . .”

  Mosca had snatched off her basket hat and was halfway out of her Seisian regalia.

  “Mistress Leap! We got to hurry because the Locksmiths are huntin’ Miss Beamabeth! I think we shook them all off, but we got to get her disguised. And then we need your help! We need you to take us to the Committee of the Hours.”

  “But their doors will be shut!” protested Mistress Leap. “The only part still open will be . . . oh.”

  Mosca nodded grimly as she splashed water onto her face from a bowl and began rubbing the greenishness from her skin. “The hatch where you put in the babies born with daylight names, along with their papers. The committee members are waiting there to pull us through the chute. Then they’ll drop down money for you—and for them.” She gave a nod toward the Grovelers.

  The midwife cast an uncertain glance over Beamabeth’s figure. “Are you quite sure that Miss Beamabeth will fit through?”

  “The mayor’s people measured it yesterday, and took measurements from her brocade dress.”

  “Brocade—the green brocade?” faltered Beamabeth. “It is just that . . . of late I have had some trouble with the buttons . . .”

  Mosca hesitated for a moment. Perhaps Beamabeth’s figure was not quite as slight and delicate as she had thought. “Well, you might have to wriggle a bit,” she admitted. “But with us pushing and the other side pulling like fury, we will wrench you through somehow. Now, Mistress Leap, can you give Miss Beamabeth some clothes that make her look less like a princess?”

  The Locksmiths made a thorough search of the rooms upstairs, then came back to the cooper’s shop. The ex-soldier had put up a decent fight when the Locksmiths burst in, and that had been his worst and last mistake. The cooper still sat stiff shouldered on his barrel, having worked out that clenching his eyes shut and saying nothing was his best chance of survival.

  “No sign of the Marlebourne girl.”

  “Keep searching for the ransom—and check the kitchen for radishes. Any of the kidnappers alive up there?”

  There were a few heartbeats’ silence.

  “You wanted ’em alive?”

  A long-drawn-out sigh, then the sound of gloved fingers irritably scratching at stubble.

  “We were told to hush them—but after they told us where to find the ransom, not before. Do you want to explain that to Mr. Goshawk?”

  The population of Toll-by-Night was just starting to emerge onto the streets when a dowdy threesome set out for the Committee of the Hours. There were many nods for Mistress Leap, and nobody paid any attention to the two girls who followed behind her, the eldest clutching a baby-shaped bundle to her chest, the younger carrying a large box. Many nightfolk were accustomed to seeing the midwife taking a baby to the committee, so nobody was particularly surprised. Some even jokingly asked the baby to remember them with a groat or two when it became a rich daylighter.

  Right now, however, the older girl looked as cowed and fearful as Mosca could possibly have wished on her bitterest day. Each glance shook her like a cowslip in the breeze. She had every reason to be afraid. Mosca had, with some glee, helped smear grime over Beamabeth’s perfect nose and chin, and the golden ringlets had been damped down and tucked under a stained cloth bonnet, but there was still a risk that somebody would notice the fineness of her hands or the lack of Toll-by-Night pallor, and ask her to lower her “baby” so that they could see her badge.