Frances Hardinge - Twilight Robbery aka Fly Trap

‘But what if Sir Feldroll burns half the town and marches through anyway?’

‘Three -’ Clent ignored Mosca’s question and continued – ‘even were there the tiniest thing we could do about any of this, we could not do it out here. The gates have closed behind us. We are out. They are in. Our part in this play is over.’

Mosca turned about, breathing heavily, glaring up at the dingy walls’ machiolations and arrow slits. Mistress Leap looked distraught. Welter looked bemused.

‘Child, after all the trouble it has cost us to leave this accursed town, are you seriously considering re-entering?’ Clent shook his head. ‘How, precisely? Do you plan to glare the walls down? Or climb into a mortar and wait to be fired over the walls, perhaps? Or will you be asking Aramai Goshawk nicely, in the hope that he is in a forgiving mood?’

Mosca’s only answer was silence. Clent’s first mistake was assuming that this was a sign of defeat. His second was taking his eye off her five minutes later.

In the end, Mosca found the lair by following the carriage tracks.

Most of the visible wheel tracks stuck to the road that led to Waymakem, but Mosca hunted and hunted and at last found some that etched their own path cross country. Once she had found them, she followed them doggedly, despite an uncanny sense that sound was dying around her. It was not just that the noises of the town and army camp were fading as the rugged land blocked them from view. Even the birdsong seemed to be dwindling.

She realized why when she saw the first owl. It perched with dark, stooped malignity at the top of a pole, its angular head and blunt ears silhouetted against the sky. Mosca peered up at it, then walked over and shook the pole. No flurry of feathers, no reproachful orange glare. Instead the owl wobbled with the pole. It was made of wood. A little further down the path she saw another, then another.

The owl-lollipops were comical in a way, but they did make one feel uneasy, watched… mouse-like. Certainly their fearsome outlines seemed to have frightened away the ordinary birds, resulting in an eerie silence.

‘I’ve eaten owl stew,’ Mosca told them conversationally.

Here and there the wheel ruts were clearer, slicing through bright moss and leaving fresh gashes of mud that smelt of cold greenness. A few red hawthorn berries had been tumbled and crushed. And then she fought through a shielding wall of heather and found the carriage.

There it was, real as rent-day in its gleaming black paint, the carriage she had seen tearing through the streets of Toll-by-Night. It was just as she suspected. If the carriage had been kept locked up in the town during the day, everybody would have heard frustrated whinnies from behind locked doors, and the horses themselves would quickly have become sickly and fretful. The carriage and horses had to be let in and out each night.

The carriage was empty. Two black horses tethered nearby cropped at the thick, wind-shivered grass with their greyish, clever mouths, quite unperturbed by Mosca’s presence. The whole scene had the weirdness of a fairy tale. Mosca stroked the neck of one of the horses, then reached up to feel the wood of the driver’s seat. It was very slightly warm.

‘Hoy!’ Her voice came out more squeaky than she intended. The only response was the wind, rattling the dry husks of seed-pods so they buzzed like insect wings. She took a deep breath, gathered her courage and tried again. ‘I know I ain’t alone! I come here to talk to Aramai Goshawk!’

The silence lasted just long enough to make her feel stupid, disappointed and relieved, and then the response came.

‘Name?’ It was a rough, guttural voice, knobbly with the local accent. Mosca spun round but could not see its owner, nor could she be sure where the voice had come from.

‘Mosca Mye!’ she shouted, then realized that her name would probably mean nothing to most people. ‘Secretary to Eponymous Clent, who Mr Goshawk knew in Mandelion!’ It seemed safer than mentioning anything they had done in Toll. ‘I come ’ere to talk to him ’bout the Luck of Toll!’

Whisper, whisper.

‘Stay there,’ ordered the voice, ‘and do not move the tiniest muscle.’ There was a damp sound of steps crushing grass as they slouched away. Mosca stayed rigidly where she was, her mind performing panicky whirligigs.

A horseshoe of heather bushes surrounded the clearing where she stood beside the carriage, and she felt watched on all sides. She was a mouse in owl country once again, frozen amid the twitching grass. When a broad-shouldered stranger finally lurched without warning from the undergrowth, she could not help starting.

‘This way.’ He gave a jerk of his head, and Mosca fell in behind him, wondering whether she would ever get the chance to retrace her steps, or whether this strange landscape would swallow her whole.

Her taciturn guide took her along a path down a hidden ditch, flanked on both sides by hawthorne hedges. It ended at a cairn of heaped boulders, probably raised centuries before to Goodman Giddersing Who Guides the Careless Step in High and Treacherous Places. At ditch level there was an entrance into the cairn, framed by three long stones arranged as doorposts and lintel.

Her guide stood aside and waved her through, and Mosca walked on, ducking beneath the low stone doorway.

The cave beyond was a lot less dark than she had expected, for there were six lanterns hung from chains attached to the ceiling. Their light was, furthermore, reflected in about two dozen steady, unblinking orange and golden eyes. Barn owls, snowy owls, tawny owls, all rigidly examining Mosca’s every move as if preparing to tear her apart with their cruel little hooks of beaks. It reassured her somewhat to see the dust on their claws and realize that they were stuffed, but they still had the look of things enchanted awaiting an order from their master.

Amid this tawny parliament sat Aramai Goshawk in a finely carved chair, his tiny gloved hands picking through a sheaf of scrawled letters, his pocked and pitted face expressionless. He looked up at Mosca with eyes as cold and colourless as midwinter slush.

Mosca had come armed with a rich pack of lies, ready to pick whichever seemed to suit Goshawk’s mood best. Under the wintry draught of his gaze, however, she felt most of them wither away in her hands. Her mouth dried. He would see through her. What had she been thinking, coming to this place?

‘“Mosca Mye, secretary to Eponymous Clent, whom I knew in Mandelion,”’ quoted Goshawk, in a pensive grindstone rasp. ‘Yes, I do remember. I remember the events in Mandelion very clearly.’ Perhaps raising the subject of Mandelion had not been such a good idea either. ‘Elaborate interference appears to be a hobby of your employer. It is not a healthy pastime. His meddling in Toll has been clumsy and… unappreciated.’

Mosca racked her brain quickly. How much was Goshawk likely to know? He probably knew that she and Clent had been involved in the rescue of Beamabeth. She could only hope that he did not know about any of her curfew breaks, or her part in the cavorting of the world’s least convincing Clatterhorse.

‘As a matter of fact, I was thinking of extending an… invitation to Mr Clent and yourself, so that we could discuss his recent activities and the whereabouts of a certain ransom gem.’ There was something in his tone that gave Mosca the clammy impression that the ‘invitation’ would be hard to refuse, and the ‘discussion’ would be hard to survive. ‘But… here you are. Walking into my study of your own accord.’

‘I don’t know nothing about where the ransom went!’ exclaimed Mosca in alarm. ‘We ain’t got it!’ Perhaps Goshawk had only let her walk in alive because he wanted to know where the ransom was. Perhaps his men were waiting to draw secrets out of her with hot irons and screws.