Frances Hardinge - Twilight Robbery aka Fly Trap

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 hogshead 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 towards his customers, a hammer dangling from one strong, calloused hand. ‘But let us have a look at it.’ He prised 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-humoured 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-coloured eyes. She thought they might be green.

‘Keep whistling,’ whispered the Groveller 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 Grovellers 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 any more. 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 Groveller 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 Grovellers slipped through the door and on to the stairway beyond, Mosca and the third Groveller 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 mid-hurl 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 Grovellers 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 the pistol 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 Grovellers 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 Grovellers 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 Grovellers 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 ear-splitting 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 stared 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 backwards 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 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 Grovellers had said. One pair of boots might have been their comrade the ex-soldier. A whole gang of boots could only mean trouble.