Frances Hardinge - Twilight Robbery aka Fly Trap

‘Right now, dayfolk are pulling the Locksmiths’ walls down. You know what that means? Just for once nobody’s surprised to see nightfolk running about the streets. You can slip out of this house, maybe head to the gate, and as long as nobody recognizes Mr Appleton people will jus’ think you were let out because your street was burning.

‘There’s panic in Toll-by-Day now, but that’s nothing compared to what there will be if we get the Luck out of the town. The men guarding the walls by day, they’re not like the Locksmiths, they’re just guards belonging to the mayor. Once they know the Luck has left, they’ll be too busy running to stop people leaving the town. Which means that you two can get out. And so can everybody else that wants to.

‘And then… you can even run off to Mandelion if you still want to. Nobody will chase you, because with the Luck gone nobody will trust the bleedin’ bridge.’ Including Sir Feldroll’s troops, Mosca added in the privacy of her own head. A distrusted bridge meant a safe Mandelion.

‘I say we take the risk,’ Brand said after a pause. ‘If we do nothing, it sounds like the Locksmiths take over the town and the sun goes down on Toll forever, trapping everyone in the dark. If Toll falls… it might as well do it with a splash.’

Laylow looked more reluctant, but eventually nodded. ‘So, where is the Luck being held, then?’

‘I was hoping you might know,’ Mosca confessed. ‘You were runnin’ around the streets the hours of Yacobray looking for that radish after the rest of us were hidin’ and prayin’. Laylow – do you remember seeing anybody else out on the streets after we all ran away? Anything that could have been the Luck being kidnapped? Any sign of the Locksmiths doing anything funny?’

Laylow crooked an eyebrow at her.

‘You mean apart from jigging about in a ghostly great horse?’

Mosca blew out her cheeks and raised her eyes to heaven. ‘The horse ,’ she muttered. ‘Oh, I might as well sell my brains to a surgeon for all the good they do me. A lamping great horse, big enough to hold a gang of men with swords – and a skinny Luck lad to boot, no doubt. Did you see where the horse went?’

Laylow nodded. ‘Headed north-east. After Brand hit the cobbles, I dragged him back up those steps.’ She shrugged. ‘’Twas all I could think of. The Jinglers’ Clatterhorse was on wheels so it could not follow, and the bravos inside could not get loose to give chase straight away. Bought us just enough time to duck under a bush and lie there mum while they ran about looking for us. I dared a peek though, when the Clatterhorse left at last, saw it heading towards Blithers Yard. Wondered why it wasn’t snatching vegetables as it went.’

‘Probably went there to hide Paragon somewhere first, then came back for the tax-turnips.’ Mosca bit her lip. ‘Well… that narrows it down to Blithers Yard, anyway. Not far from the fires. And if the Locksmiths get the fright like everyone else they might run to pluck Paragon from his hide-hole to take him somewhere safer.’

‘So – this was as far as your plan went.’ Laylow grimaced, and rasped her calloused palm back and forth over her cropped hair. There was no contempt in her tone, however; it was just a blunt statement of the case. ‘All right, we search Blithers Yard, and keep a lookout for the Locksmiths trying to move this lad. I take the roofs, Mosca the streets and Brand stays here. What does this Luck look like?’ She listened intently as Mosca described Paragon.

‘And if you see him before I do,’ Mosca finished, ‘then… tell him the Soot-girl sent you to set him free.’

Laylow, who had put her head out through the door to peer at the roofs, ducked it back in again. ‘We need to shake our shambles and move – this hubbub will not last forever.’ She glanced back at Brand and looked irresolute.

‘I will do very well here,’ Brand reassured her hastily. ‘Go!’

Eponymous Clent had not been quite sure what manner of disaster he would be facing when he approached the walls of Toll under his white flag. If, as her letter suggested, Mosca had approached Aramai Goshawk about returning to Toll in order to revenge herself upon Beamabeth Marlebourne, he did not give much for her chances. Even in the unlikely event that Goshawk had let her live and helped her inside the town, he thought it most probable that by now Beamabeth had used her silken influence to have Mosca thrown into prison, possibly for the ‘theft’ of a lilac gown. For this reason he had asked to re-enter the town as an ambassador, who could not be so easily imprisoned, to see whether words would extricate his wayward secretary.

She is an insufferable burden , he had muttered to himself, but I suppose I cannot leave her trapped in a cell in a burning town .

However, the escort that met him at the gates made no mention of Mosca having been hauled off to the Grovels, and Clent started to wonder whether his uncharacteristic impulse of loyalty had been a blind and futile one. Unfortunately his escort did not seem inclined to let him bob them a bow and duck out of the town gates again, and instead insisted on escorting him through the streets, which Clent could not help noticing were filled with a good deal of smoke and noise.

He reached the castle courtyard to find the mayor in the middle of a stand-up row with a number of subordinates and in no temper to talk to ambassadors.

‘Tearing the faces off the houses? Well, stop them! We cannot have nightlings running around the streets! There is no danger of anyone burning to death! The Luck will protect the town. Tell everybody to go back to their homes and behave in a civilized fashion!’ Tiny furry fragments of ash chased through the grass at his feet.

Seated by the door with her sketchbook was Beamabeth, who flinched very slightly when she saw Clent, and then gave him her usual sweet smile, but there was something flat about the expression in her eyes, something appraising. He made haste to her side.

‘Miss Marlebourne, what luck!’ He thought she winced almost imperceptibly at the word ‘luck’. ‘I was afraid I might miss you.’

‘Mr Clent! I thought you had left town.’

‘Without bidding farewell to Toll’s most precious jewel? Unthinkable. We owe you at least that much.’

Clent had the satisfaction of seeing a glimmer of unease and uncertainty pass through Beamabeth Marlebourne’s eyes.

She was confused by his return, he guessed. She was gauging him, trying to work out what cards he had up his sleeve. For now he might be able to keep her off balance by smiling meaningfully and dropping hints, delaying the moment in which she realized that she held all the cards, and that his well-brushed sleeves held nothing but his arms.

‘Wait – this door has been broken in already. Have the people left?’

Brand, who had lolled back on to his mattress in a state of helpless torpor, fought to open his eyes and look towards the voice. He could just make out two dark and fuzzy silhouettes against the door. Perhaps they would not see him.

‘Look, over on the bed! An invalid! We cannot leave him here – the wind is so changeable. Let us take him to the surgeon.’

The one time Brand needed daylighters to be callous, here they were rescuing him from the dark safety of his stop-hole and dragging him into the daylight where he could be recognized. He tried to protest when strong arms lifted him and his mattress, but his voice and limbs were too weak to prevent them bearing him outside.

He flinched as a shaft of daylight fell across his face. There was a gasp from one of his mattress bearers.

‘Wait – I have seen him before – this is Appleton! The radical! The man who kidnapped Miss Beamabeth!’