Twilight Robbery aka Fly Trap

Goodlady Bollycoll, Spirit of Solidarity

‘No dallying!’ hissed Havoc. ‘But no slouching or scurrying! Walk as if you eat your enemies’ hearts for breakfast.’ The others fell in on either side of him like a pack of mastiffs of varying size and tried to match his loping confidence.

Mosca knew that their group had been noticed, but their grimly determined stride seemed to afford them a certain magical protection. Their journey was full of meetings that did not quite happen. Shapes that flitted out of alleys before them, outlines of heads on rooftops that bobbed down and were seen no more, rapid exchanges of whistles ahead of them that caused a turbulence in the shadows and then stillness.

Jade had noticed the grand old beech’ in Toll-by-Day, and led the way, with more than a few false starts due to the changed position of the streets. Havoc insisted that they never stop, never look lost, so they continued to stride with fierce determination even when they had no idea where they were going. At last, however, they stood beneath the beech, and saw opposite a cream-coloured sign on which a man with a great whip was flogging a snarling but chastened-looking black dog.

Beneath the sign stood two great barrels, crude and splintered faces cut into their wood as if they were turnip lanterns. The light of the clustered candles within leered out through

narrowed eyes, chipped noses and quivering crooked grins. Between these an open archway led to a set of downward stone steps.

‘I’ll go first,’ said Havoc. ‘Mye – keep a pace behind me. You others follow up and keep an eye out behind.’

The steps descended into what was clearly a vast old buttery cellar. Where once barrels had been stacked, however, now the proprietors had decided to cram people. From wall to discoloured wall the stone-flagged floor was clustered with shabby tables, some of them no more than crates or upended butts.

There was no hearth, just a myriad sickly candles. Everybody was breathing white vapour, and Mosca guessed that the cellar might have been as cold as the street, had it not been warmed in some small measure by the press of bodies. Skinny-looking young children squeezed through the crowds with bottles or casks slung on their backs, and flitted from table to table taking money and filling tankards.

Havoc picked a table close to the wall.

‘I like this one.’ He ran his fingernail across a rugged set of gouges in the woodwork of the tabletop, as if testing the mill of a coin. ‘Someone’s been using a dagger on this. That’s good luck, that is. Don’t anybody light our candle – we want to see folks around us better than they see us.’

Mosca pressed her fingers against her eyelids for six seconds, then opened her eyes and blinked hard, willing her night sight to strengthen. Having a table on the edge of the crush made sense, but left her feeling as if she could be cornered. The backmost recesses of the buttery were very dark, and although she could glimpse the movement of figures, the taller ones stooping beneath the low vaulted roof, she could make out no faces. It was busy, and yet strangely quiet for a tavern, and it reminded Mosca of the times she had spent lying along one of the rafters of her uncle’s mill, watching the mysterious and dusky traffic of the mice down below. All the movement was full of meaning and stealthy signals that she did not understand. A language of whisker-twitches and tail-flicks.

A small dark boy with great, wary fish-eyes took coins from Havoc and poured what looked and smelt like dishwater into four wooden cups.

‘You know what I think?’ Jade whispered, as the boy moved on to the next table. ‘I think this is where everyone comes to meet and talk – might as well be the town hall. See those down there?’ She nodded towards a series of passageways leading off the main cellar. ‘Private rooms, I’ll hazard. For making deals and talking quiet.’

Hearing this, Mosca glanced about her with renewed interest. She had, after all, her mission to consider. If this was Toll-by-Night’s talking shop, perhaps this would be a good place to start her investigations.

‘Someone’s coming our way,’ murmured Havoc. ‘Perch – is that your cousin?’

Perch looked up eagerly, and then the welcoming smile on his face faltered and faded. ‘No, that’s not him.’

The man approaching was bundled to bear-like dimensions in a great coat and two scarves, a large but lopsided hat perched on a small, pale, forgettable face.

‘My word,’ he said, through chattering teeth, which he showed a second later in a lifeless smile. ‘My word.’ He rubbed his gloved hands vigorously, held them palm out towards the dead candle on the table, then rubbed them again. ‘Havoc Gray. What a thing of wonders. You’ll let me buy you a drink. Fancy meeting Havoc Gray, what a story to tell the little woman.’ There was something oddly colourless about his tone.

A small girl ran up and placed a cup of wine on the table before Havoc, then scuttled away, a veil of fair hair hiding her face, and her chin tucked to her chest. The new arrival had not, as far as Mosca was aware, signalled to her in the slightest. The scarf-muffled man reached for a chair, pulled it over and seated himself, still warming his hands at the imaginary flame. Or perhaps he was warming them against Havoc, it was hard to tell.

‘I do not remember inviting you to join us,’ rumbled Havoc.

‘No.’ The smaller man took off his hat, and his thinning hair tried to follow it in surprised-looking wisps. ‘But forgetfulness is quite natural so soon after arriving. Quite natural. Anyway I really could not resist. What stories. What stories you must have to tell.’

‘Now, I don’t want you answering this question hastily -’ Havoc leaned across the table with a glitter of a grin – ‘but do I look like a wandering player? Somebody to caper and tell tales for you for the price of a mug of wine? You know my name. I don’t know yours, nor your face. And we’re waiting for somebody. And it isn’t you.’

‘But would it not be nice if it was.’ The small stranger was turning his hat about and about, a slight tremble in his gloved hands. ‘Would it not be nice if Havoc Gray was glad to see me and if I could be of service to him. And I hope that I can be. For it is sadly true that there is no life without toil. And what makes toil bearable is our choices. Who we choose to work with.’

‘So…’ Havoc moved his stool closer to that of the smaller man. ‘I think I can sniff out what you’re about. You think now I’m here I’ll be wanting to find myself a company of steady-mettled boys, and you want to join early before I have a chance to look around, is that it?’

The hat-twirler wet his lips, and then cast a fleeting glance over his shoulder. Within that tiny instant Havoc had grabbed him by the collar and tipped him back in his chair so that he was in danger of crashing to the floor.

‘No,’ said Havoc, so quietly and deeply that his voice was almost inaudible. ‘No, that’s not it. You looked over your shoulder when I pushed you out of the lines you had rehearsed. That means there’s others behind you. They’ve sent you trotting in ahead like a little dog to test the ground for marsh. I have heard it all before, more times than you’ve been smiled at. Everywhere I go, little gangs and brotherhoods come fawning and threatening and saying that I must throw in with them. Well -’ Havoc leaned forward a little, so that the smaller man was tilted at a yet more perilous angle – ‘I throw what I like, when I like, with whoever I like, and for no master. And if I see your face again I’ll be throwing you.’

The smaller man had gone very still, perhaps trying to make himself limp and unthreatening so as not to startle Havoc into carrying out his threat. His face was frozen, almost expressionless. Great gleaming blobs of perspiration bloomed silently on his unfurrowed brow like dewdrops swelling on a leaf. It was almost beautiful.

Havoc tugged him back upright, so that the smaller man’s chair righted itself with a clatter. The little man stared down into his hat, and then set it back on his head with the greatest of care. He stood unsteadily and tripped off between the tables without another word.

When he was almost out of sight, Havoc got to his feet.

‘Havoc!’ Jade caught at his sleeve. ‘Where you going?’

‘He has my name. And he’s off to report now. Bit of business I need to deal with.’ He glanced around the table, then smiled at Mosca and pushed at her chin almost roughly with the ball of his thumb as if wiping away a smudge. ‘You don’t need to know,’ he said, and gave a wolf’s grin. ‘Stay here, all of you. This won’t take long.’ And off he strode.

‘Haggard’s Teeth!’ Jade beat the heels of her hands against the top of the table in frustration. ‘We said we’d stay together!’

‘He can look after himself,’ murmured Perch.

‘I know!’ Jade gave a furious sigh. ‘It’s not him I’m worried about! It’s us!’

Mosca was only half listening to this exchange, her gaze following Havoc and his quarry. As Havoc’s boots struck the sawdust-covered floor, the small man seemed to sense him, turned and saw him. He froze, panic again giving his face a stillness not unlike a trance. His gloved hands, however, fluttered before his chest like frightened moths. As Havoc took a step forward, the little man took a few faltering steps backwards directly away from him, into one of the nearby passages. Then he gave a half-witted twitch of the head, turned tail and sprinted down the passage. Again Mosca felt she was up in the rafters, watching the mice. Little mouse, witless with fear. Running the wrong way. And here she was, just watching. Becoming a part of it by doing nothing.

Mosca realized that she was digging her fingernails into the tabletop, and that they were full of grime and splinters. Her mind’s eye was too vivid, and she could not shut it off. Little man running in terror down a dead-end passage, Havoc at his heels. Havoc with his twin daggers and the sword with the ugly bludgeon-like handle. Her new friend Havoc. She looked at Jade and Perch. Both of them were staring steadily into the foam of their cups.

‘Havoc knows what he’s doing.’ Perch took a rapid, angry gulp. ‘We’re going to need money, aren’t we?’ He rubbed at his long chin. ‘Well, aren’t we?’

‘And how do we know that that little worm had any?’ hissed Jade.

‘Surely you heard it?’ Perch gave her a sly glance. ‘When he was swung back in his chair. That jingle at his belt. That’ll be a purse, and a full one at that, and I’ll warrant Havoc heard it too – hey, what’s wrong with you, Mye?’

Mosca had leaped to her feet, causing the table to totter. She hastily lashed Saracen’s leash to the table leg, then scrambled and squeezed past the neighbouring tables and ran towards the passage down which Havoc had disappeared.

She hesitated at the mouth of the passage, just as the little stranger had done. Then she balled her fists and sprinted into it before she could decide to do something more sensible. It’s barely been seconds, she told herself. It might not be too late. If I can only speak to Havoc…

The passage ended at another cellar, this one still in use as a buttery. It was full of great barrels, some two yards in diameter. Most were perched on pairs of long wooden rails. One particular pair of rails, however, appeared to have tilted, and tipped one great barrel off on to the floor. It had probably tried to roll all the way to the wall, but had been brought up short by the body of the man lying in its path. Somewhere under its massive weight was presumably what was left of his head.

Mosca stood on the threshold and quivered. She hoped the cask had split. She hoped the darkened pool around the cask was wine. It smelt like wine. She wondered if she would ever be able to bear the smell of wine again.

There’s something I want to tell you, Mr Havoc Gray. It’s about the man you’re following. It’s the little details, you see – only makes sense when you got all of them.

A jingle at the belt. Well-made gloves. An offer of work.

Not a frightened little mouse. Not a mouse at all. Cat.

Locksmith.

Whoever the nameless, nervous little man in the hat had been, he was now nowhere to be seen. The corpse on the floor was that of Havoc Gray.

There was a step behind Mosca, a very deliberate step. She almost turned, but some instinct screamed at her not to do so.

‘What in the world are you doing here, little miss?’ The voice was unfamiliar, reasonably educated and so close that it was almost in her ear.

Boom, sounded Mosca’s heart. Boom.

‘I’m…’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m just standin’ here. And not turnin’ round.’ So I haven’t seen your face, whoever you are.

‘You came down here at quite a run. Looking for someone?’

Mosca shook her head slowly. ‘Not any more.’

‘That man down there – he wouldn’t happen to be a friend of yours, would he?’

Mosca forced herself to breathe evenly and shook her head again.

‘Face don’t look familiar,’ she whispered.

She felt a warm gust of breath as the person behind her gave vent to a small burst of laughter.

‘Oh, that’s quite good. What a sensible head you have on your shoulders. And what a good place for it that is. Little miss, do you know how to play hide-and-seek? You stay exactly where you are without turning round, and you count. You count all your fingers ten times. But when you are done… you do not play seek. You walk out of here very slowly and calmly and you never say one single word about any of this as long as you live. Do you think you can play that game?’

Mosca nodded.

‘Good.’ The steps moved away, more softly now, punctuated by the occasional faint jingle of metal on metal.

Mosca stared down at her own shaking hands and counted her fingers. And counted them again. And again. If she took her eyes off them, she might look up or over her shoulder. She counted them eleven times, twelve times before she realized what she was doing. Then she turned very carefully and walked on trembling legs back to the main cellar.

When she reached her group’s table, she found Saracen casually overturning stools and Jade sitting alone, her cup gripped fiercely in both hands. She looked up as Mosca approached, and her thin mouth grew thinner still.

‘Where’s Havoc?’

Mosca sank on to a stool and opened her mouth, but as soon as she did so she seemed to feel a presence floating ghostly just behind her, a calm and pleasant voice a few inches from her ear. Her throat tightened and would let no words out. She bit her knuckle hard and slowly shook her head.

There was a long pause before Mosca found words again.

‘Where’s Perch?’

Jade quivered, and her eyes suddenly became dark and alarming.

‘Do I look like his mother?’ she snapped with sudden savagery.

Mosca simply stared at her.

‘Stupid, addle-pated gull!’ Jade thumped the table. ‘Him and his cousin. His precious cousin who was going to sort everything out for us. Well, his cousin has debts, see. He’s in what they call the “toil-gangs”, trying to work off what he owes. And seems he’s rid himself of a heap of his debt by telling ’em Perch will take it on instead. That’s why he told Perch to come here, so the toil-gang could grab him and drag him off.’

‘But… where did they take him? What’s going to happen to him?’

Jade said nothing, but continued staring into her nearly empty cup.

‘You didn’t ask, did you?’ Mosca felt a wave of warmth sweep up from her socks to her crown. ‘You didn’t say a thing! You just let them take him! I thought you said we were supposed to stay together!’

‘Well, what do you expect?’ muttered Jade sourly. ‘I was born under Goodlady Gofflemire, She Who Helps Those Who Help Themselves. I’m not made to stick my neck out for anyone but myself.’

‘Is that it?’ Mosca exploded. ‘The Committee of the Hours – are they right about us? We nightfolk, are we just a bunch of cheats and bawdy-baskets and sheep-stealers, all just waiting to stick a knife in each other’s backs?’

Jade’s head snapped up, and Mosca found herself bathed in a glare of infinite loathing and contempt.

‘Oh yes, you’re loud enough when it’s safe, when you’re surrounded by daylighters who will only tut and get vexed. But you’d have held your tongue just like I did. And you know it.’

Mosca could say nothing. She thought of herself carefully and obediently counting her own fingers with Havoc’s murderer a pace behind her.

A heavyset man appeared by the side of the table.

‘You ready, mistress?’ The question was evidently directed at Jade. ‘He don’t like waiting.’

‘I’m ready.’ Jade stood.

‘No connections, you said.’ The new arrival was examining Mosca speculatively. ‘This girl with you?’

Jade shook her head without looking Mosca’s way. ‘Who’s with anyone?’ she snapped, with a bitterness that was almost despair. Mosca could only watch stunned as the last of her new allies walked away without a backwards look.

Mosca remained frozen in her seat, cold beads tracing their way down her back. She did not look round to see who was noticing her, a flimsily built young girl with a tasty-looking goose, sitting alone and undefended. But there would be eyes on her, she knew it.

The minutes dragged. Time and again she tried to chafe her cold wits and muster the spark of a plan, but every time she saw Havoc spreadeagled in the dark cellar, and the bleak and horrible glare of hatred in Jade’s eyes.

Got to get out of here, buzzed Palpitattle in Mosca’s head. Now. Right now. Gingerly Mosca got to her feet, wincing as her stool scraped and the table rattled.

She stooped and gathered Saracen in her arms. A big, hearty-looking goose, white plumage gleaming in the murk. A succulent roast dinner on webbed feet. A poster inviting every cut-throat to waylay her in an alleyway.

Mosca stroked a trembling hand over Saracen’s furled wing feathers, feeling their strange rough softness. ‘Me and you,’ she whispered against his neck. ‘Me and you ’gainst ’em all, right?’

Legs shaking, she edged through the crowd, squeezing past seated forms. Her neck prickled as behind her there was a stealthy, deliberate scrape of wood on wood as somebody else pushed back a chair. She pretended not to notice and made her way towards the exit, both arms around Saracen, hearing faint sounds of disturbance behind her as if another figure was pushing their way along the same route.

She reached the edge of the tables and set off as calmly as she could across the cellar floor. Her instincts screamed that she was being followed – she could smell the menace, feel it like the dry crackle before a storm. She reached the base of the steps that led up from the cellar… then raced up them like a kicked cat.

By the time she reached the street, gasping icy night air, there was a clattering of steps behind her that was not an echo. With a gasp of effort, she kicked one of the carved-face barrel-lanterns on to its side before the archway, then booted it down the steps. Off it rolled and bounded, spitting wax and dropping candles, and Mosca heard it recede with a bangitty-bangitty-bangitty-bangitty-YEEEAARGH-thubbitty-bangitty-bangitty-WAAAH-bangitty-roll…

She did not wait for Messrs Yeeeaargh or Waaah, since she doubted they were in a mood to talk. Even if they had not intended her any harm before, they probably would now. So instead she set about showing the Whip and Masty a set of heels. Not clean ones, perhaps, but certainly very rapid.

There was only one place in Toll-by-Night that might be a sanctuary: the house of the midwife and her husband. And it looked as if Mosca would be searching for it at high speed, with murder half a step behind her.