Fly by Night

by Frances Hardinge

  Clent’s eyes were very bright. There was a vague smile on his face, and Mosca feared that he had gone insane under the pressure and might try to murder her at any moment.

  ‘Do you see it?’ he asked, holding up one finger.

  Mosca looked at his finger then back at his face. She glanced up at the ceiling, to which the finger seemed to point, then back at Clent.

  ‘It is a glimmer of light. It is the faintest promise of escape from the dark caverns we have been walking. It is, I think, a Way Out. Give me a moment of absolute silence, and I shall find it.’ He closed his eyes, and his hand moved slightly, just as if he was really feeling along a rocky wall for a crack or a hole.

  Mosca bulged her cheeks full of air and held her breath, not daring to move in case her skirts rustled.

  ‘I have it.’ Clent’s eyes flicked open again. His expression was wild but jubilant. ‘The fissure is narrow, but I believe that with will and courage we can squeeze through it. We shall feel the sun on our faces again. Listen – a week ago you saw Hopewood Pertellis polluting the minds of children with his treasonous teachings, yes? Afterwards, being a good and loyal child of your nation, you followed the villain to see where he went, and you saw him enter conversation with our friend Partridge, give him a purse of money, and walk away with him.’

  ‘But he didn’t . . .’

  ‘How do you know? Something like that may have happened – it probably did. If Partridge was not selling the leaden bullets to Pertellis himself, then he was probably selling them to one of Pertellis’s confederates. Have faith – this story is perfect, it ties up everything for the best. Let us say Partridge was murdered by radicals when he tried to blackmail them. The constable can preen himself on uncovering a radical plot and solving a murder at once, and we will be safe.’

  ‘But Mr Pertellis—’

  ‘Is a radical. He probably spends his nights dreaming of roasting baby princesses like chestnuts.’

  It did not seem likely somehow. Mosca thought back to Pertellis’s baffled, spring-blue gaze, and tried to find the words to explain her doubts.

  ‘He tries to put squashed snails back together,’ was all she could say.

  ‘Then he is clearly insane,’ Clent answered confidently. ‘Anyway, what does it matter? The man is due to be hanged for high treason – one little murder will not make his situation any worse. Our position is too precarious to be nice about such things.’

  Clent’s words did have a ghastly sort of logic. Mosca was lost for an answer, and offered no protest as Clent put on his coat and steadied his periwig.

  ‘Now, that is a solemn face to be wearing when our salvation is within reach. Child, I quite understand your reservations, but trust me – no one will be able to disprove your story, and I doubt they will even try. Come now. If we tarry, that will look like conspiracy.’

  Mosca followed Clent through the streets like a sleepwalker. After all, would it be such a big lie? And besides, what choice did she have? If Clent hanged, he would see to it that she hanged beside him. Suddenly Mosca wished that she had told Kohlrabi everything after all.

  ‘Look at that,’ Clent murmured under his breath, gesturing with his cane at a ballad-seller near the bridge. ‘I write one ballad on Captain Blythe, and now every penny-a-page scribbler has a song about him. If they are to be believed, our poor friend Blythe spends his every working hour defending young maidens from unwanted advances, and giving money to starving beggars, and helping unfortunate farmers to escape from the beadles who would drag them to debtors’ prison. And apparently all the while he is a perfect picture of a gentleman with gallantries for every lady – I wonder where he finds the time to groom his horse and practise his gavotte.’

  Clent’s mood seemed to have recovered miraculously.

  ‘Mosca, you must remind me to pick up some fresh quills on the way back. I have a mind to compose that letter you requested, recommending you to Lady Tamarind’s employ. Would you prefer to be painted as a loyal character with a soul as pure and true as diamond, or an able-witted, adaptable, quicksilver sort of animal? No matter, I am sure I can contrive a union of the two. You know, it is the most curious thing, but . . . I believe I shall actually miss you, Mosca.’

  By a potter’s brick kiln, a waif-faced boy with a knuckle-shaped coal-smudge on his cheekbone paused to watch Mosca go past, a glowing pot gripped forgotten in his long tongs. His face was narrow and unforgiving.

  ‘It is strange to admit it now,’ Clent continued, ‘but there was a time when I felt that your companionship would be something of a burden to me. I was entirely mistaken, I confess it – you have proved a worth far beyond your years and the limits of your education. If your mind were not so set upon working for Lady Tamarind . . . ah, but I know that in that lofty castle dwells your dearest dream.’

  The grey Eastern Spire rose in the distance like a finger admonishing silence. In the dark doorway of a wigmakers’ a young girl in a bent yellow bonnet imitated the gesture, bidding her younger brother be quiet with a finger to her lips, and then pointing across the street at Mosca and whispering.

  ‘As for myself, I feel a yearning to see the Capital again. It is all very well to be such a notable figure and so sought after, but sometimes it is more relaxing to be just one minnow in a great iridescent school. And when you are well established with Her Ladyship, as I have no doubt you shall be, you must persuade her to take you with her to the Capital to see the Crystalcourt. Every one of its million windows is thinner than your finger, and filled with a shard of glass cut cunningly so as to throw tiaras of rainbow colour upon the floor. Some of the ladies have trains so long that whole legends of days past can be embroidered scene by scene along their lengths. And when your mistress can spare you, I shall show you the Dizzyfeather Club, where one may sit beneath a green-fringed canopy and sip wine as dark as blackberry juice from glasses narrow as thorns. And there is no sight to equal the gilded barges along the Pettygall . . .’

  There was no sight to equal the grim swing of the gibbet as rooks nipped at its links. Or the old watch house, round and battered-brown as a peaked pie, with the high walls of the jail behind it. In front of the watch house the red-headed constable shared his pipe tobacco with a tall man in Watermen’s colours, but when he saw Clent and Mosca his eye darkened, and he muttered a farewell to his smoking companion.

  ‘You found her then?’ he called out.

  ‘Fairly found, safe and sound, and filled with a tale which will gladden your heart, I think, sir,’ Clent called back cheerfully. ‘Might we step inside?’

  ‘You might.’ The constable was clearly somewhat perplexed by Clent’s change of mood.

  They followed him in through a heavy oaken door into a poorly lit room where a tousled deerhound lay upon the stone flags, its flanks twitching in sleep. The room smelt of cold suppers and boredom. Mosca had never realized before that boredom smelt so much like egg custard. The constable ruffled the hound’s belly with his booted toe, and leaned back against the wall, his pipe bowl cradled in his palm.

  ‘Go on, then.’ He looked expectantly at Mosca, and she found she could not speak. Not that it mattered much, for Clent was uncurling the coloured ribbons of his story before she could draw breath.

  ‘Perhaps you are unaware of it, but a week ago this child was the Undoing of a Wild and Notorious Radical, known as Hopewood Pertellis. It was she who first reported him to the Stationers, having witnessed him presiding over the Infamous Floating School, where he cast Seeds of Evil into minds as pink and innocent as baby clams. It was she who informed them where they might find his Forbidden Books of Infamy. For you see, this man Pertellis—’

  ‘I know about Pertellis.’ The constable’s face did not look so tired now. He had an alert look as if he had glimpsed something round and white inside his oyster.

  ‘Very well, then. Overcoming the fluttering frailty and fears which belong to her sex, this intrepid young woman followed the Dissident through the dark and winding dockside alleys.
And by the very waterside she saw Pertellis meet in a sly and sleekish manner with the captain of our river barge, and saw him offer him a purse of money, and depart with him. Clearly Partridge had some clandestine dealings with Pertellis . . . and perhaps he found out too much for the Vile Radical Conspiracy to let him live.’

  ‘Did she mention none of this before?’ The constable’s tone was sharp, but he seemed excited, not angry.

  ‘Oh, she did,’ Clent answered quickly. ‘But of course we were all far too interested in the Floating School to pay the rest of her story any mind, and for myself I had entirely forgotten it until she reminded me. She even went back to the captain’s barge herself the next day, so determined was she to uncover all evil doings, but he was not there.’

  ‘Is all this true?’ The constable looked directly at Mosca, and raised his eyebrows meaningfully, to show that he expected a response from her and not from Clent. Heat washed upwards from the base of Mosca’s spine to the tops of her unconvincing eyebrows.

  She nodded just once, and the deed was done.

  ‘Then that’s a tale to gladden my heart indeed.’ The constable’s battered face relaxed into a smile. ‘You’ll sit and have a tot of Kill-grief? Wait . . .’ He left the room, returning a moment later with a jug and three pots. ‘The girl will have to identify him now, of course, and again in the trial, but it sounds like she has the right sort of mettle, so I don’t think she’ll faint at the task.’ His eye was far friendlier now when it fell upon her, and his voice was warmer and more confidential. ‘You cannot imagine the trouble we’ve had since we clapped the darbies on Pertellis. So many people seem to see him as some kind of hero, and we get stones thrown at the door of the watch house, or rotten eggs flung at the windows of our homes. And poor folks come by the jail with money they should be using to feed their families, and beg us to use it to make Pertellis a bit more comfortable. It boils me up inside. But once everyone knows he’s a murderer . . . well, no one will see him as a hero then, will they? No one will care if he lives or dies.’

  Mosca took the offered pot, and sipped carefully. The gin stole the feeling from her tongue, and left the inside of her nose feeling stripped and cold.

  The door opened and three petty constables in Duke’s colours entered, supporting a fourth man between them.

  The blue-lensed spectacles were long gone, and every button had been pulled from his jacket. He was wigless and his brown hair had curled and matted itself into ingenious shapes. A chain linked the manacles around his ankles, and his arms were fastened behind his back. Red-rimmed, sleepless eyes winced at the dim light of the little room as if it were blazing sunlight. His clothes smelt of damp straw and despair.

  ‘Pertellis, do you know who is speaking to you?’ The constable asked coldly.

  ‘Yes, I think so.’ Pertellis’s face was dazed and deathly white, and he spoke stumblingly. ‘I’m terribly sorry but I . . . can’t remember your name. I’m not myself right now.’

  ‘You’re not likely to be yourself much longer, or anything else for that matter,’ muttered the constable with grim humour, and he walked over to stand before the manacled attorney. ‘We know all about the barge captain now.’ The constable bristled as Pertellis gave a short, mournful breath of a laugh. ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but I lose track of all the things I’m supposed to have done. Everyone tells me that I’ve been running an illegal printing press, and I’m very much afraid I haven’t. And all week people have told me that I’m the leader of a radical plot against the Twin Queens, and I’m really not, you know. And this morning someone ran in to tell me that I’ve been melting down religious statues to make bullets. Which is quite a clever idea, but I never thought of it.’

  ‘Pity you didn’t think of a better way of getting rid of poor Partridge than throwing him in the river,’ remarked the constable drily.

  Pertellis’s eyebrows drew up as he peered intently at the constable’s middle button. He seemed to listen for a few more seconds, as if the constable’s words were still echoing in his ears.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said at last, ‘but am I supposed to have killed someone?’

  ‘That won’t wash with me,’ the constable muttered through his teeth. ‘That pious act of yours may fool good and simple people into thinking that you’re some saint acting for the greater good, but you don’t kid me. I’m not some wide-eyed child you can fill with hell-skate ideas about equality and overthrowing rulers . . . poisoning their innocent minds . . .’

  ‘You have children,’ Pertellis said suddenly, his eyes widening.

  ‘How do you know?’ The constable sounded frightened and suspicious.

  ‘I’ve only just guessed. You worry for your children, and so of course you hate me.’ Hopewood Pertellis looked up at the constable, and attempted a smile. ‘How old are they?’

  The constable did not answer. To tell the truth, he looked a little afraid, as if answering the question might give Pertellis the power to flit away from the jail like a genie and steal his children.

  ‘You were seen,’ he declared in a steely tone, ‘meeting with the said Halk Partridge, speaking with him, paying him a sum of money and walking away in conversation with him, after which time the said Halk Partridge was never seen alive again.’

  ‘Who says so?’ Pertellis looked simply perplexed.

  It doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter he’s going to be hanged anyway and there’s nothing I can do about it . . . Mosca was guided forward by the constable, in a kind but firm manner. It’s too late now anyway because I nodded when they asked and it’s done, and now I don’t have any choice . . .

  Pertellis peered at Mosca as she stepped forward unwillingly, and a sad dawn of realization swept across his face as he recognized her. She stared back, her eyes wide and helpless with misery.

  ‘There now, child.’ Clent’s voice, warm and confident. ‘He’s manacled, he won’t harm you.’

  ‘Are you willing to swear on your oath that this was the man you saw? A nod will do.’ The constable’s voice, calmer now.

  Pertellis gave her a faint smile that was sad but kind, almost encouraging. It’s all right, said the smile. It’s all right. I know you have no choice.

  Mosca suddenly realized that she did have a choice.

  ‘No! You can’t make me say it, Mr Clent! It’s none of it true, an’ you can’t make me say it!’ Mosca’s voice, which had been trapped in her chest for hours, suddenly erupted, as shrill and unstoppable as steam from a kettle. ‘Every time I do what you say I tumble a bit further down this well of darkness, an’ this here is a drop too deep an’ too dark for me. I have to stop falling while I can still see a bit of the sky. Mr Pertellis never killed Mr Partridge. It was Mr Clent – I found him bendin’ over the body back at our rooms, puttin’ it into the old clothes chest. He told me to help him put the body in the river an’ I did, cos I knew he was a murderer an’ he would kill me if I didn’t, an’ I’ll swear to that if you need me to.’ The details of the dreadful night rushed out of her in a shrill torrent, and there was no stopping them.

  Clent answered her flashing gaze with a look of utter shock. Behind his eyes stars were falling.

  ‘Beloved above,’ the constable muttered in disgust. ‘All right, take Mr Pertellis back to his cell – and throw this one into the condemned hold as well, until we can sort out a trial.’

  Clent allowed himself to be led away, staring down at his hands as if they held the broken pieces of his perfect story.

  ‘And as for the girl . . . just get her out of my sight.’

  Mosca found her own way to the door, and she ran until the river’s edge stopped her. A sharp wind was blowing from the distant sea, and she stood and heaved it into her lungs. She felt as if she had forgotten to breathe for a week, and had only just remembered how to do it.

  P is for Prison

  What now?

  High above Mosca’s head, a small kite broke free. The larger, older kites tugg
ed and trembled on their leashes, but they understood that if they did not go where they were pulled, their story would be one long fall with a soggy ending. The little kite only knew that it could not bear the wires any more. Now it was a bird with harlequin plumage rising to steal ribbons of blue from the sky.

  Seeing a pale, thin girl squatting on a jetty, observers would not have guessed that Mosca’s soul was rising to do battle with the clouds. Her mind was cold and in a place full of dazzling and terrible perspectives, but it was free. She had been sleepwalking, letting Clent lead her every step, and now she could do whatever she liked. She was dabbling her feet in the icy water of the river to prove it.

  What now? Staying alive seemed to be the most important thing for the moment. She would deal with everything else later. Mosca’s feet were wrinkled, and she was not sure how long she had been sitting there. She pulled them out of the water, and scrabbled for her stockings and shoes.

  Word of what had happened would reach the marriage house before long, she suspected. Mosca had to get there before Word did, or her version of events would be lost. But the truth seemed to have rushed out of her too fast and washed away her strength. Her legs wobbled as she clambered to her feet.

  Three men were lounging by the watch house, one whittling a spoon, two playing at cards. When a constable left the watch house, they abandoned these pastimes and trotted alongside him, like dogs flanking a chef with a joint. They caught at his sleeve and he relented, tossing them a few sentences like scraps. They looked sharply at one another, clapped the constable on the back, and then sprinted to the jetty.

  The Word was already on the move, and it was not weak like Mosca, it was keen and as strong as a deer-hound.

  Mosca began to run, but the three news-carriers were faster. One piled into a waiting scull and began plying his oars. Another ran to the nearest alehouse, which a moment later spewed out a dozen urchins, all with excited, purposeful faces. The third sprinted to the perilous edge of the jetty, where a coffeehouse was just pulling away, and cupped his hands around his mouth.