The Dragmen’s Arches had been cut into the old fortified wall so goods could be unloaded from boats and brought into the city. Mosca and Clent slithered down one of the brick ramps that descended through the arches, covered with wooden slats so barrels could be rolled up more easily.

“There she lies.” Mosca tugged Clent’s sleeve and pointed.

The Mettlesome Maid had been laid up at the end of the quay, at a slight distance from the other barges, as if, despite her name, she had become timorous or coy. One of her crewmen squatted on deck, twisting and plaiting some narrow lengths of line, the cotton startlingly white against his tanned fingers.

“Indeed. Mosca—I fear it is often incumbent upon a gentleman to prevent injury to the feelings of others, regardless of his own sentiments. At this moment I sense that Mr. Partridge must be quite mortified at the way he spoke of me to you. If I were to approach the boat, and he were already in a state of mental turmoil, the sight of me might cause him considerable distress, and he might . . .”

“. . . rip your heart out an’ spike it on a boat hook an’ roast it an’ eat it an’ throw the bits he didn’t like to the seagulls . . .”

“Mosca . . .” Clent glanced at her, then closed his eyes and gave a little shudder, as if he had looked down into a moral well at her benighted soul, and had been gripped by vertigo. He dropped a purse into her waiting hand. “Take the money. Retrieve your goose. Let us have the matter over with.”

Mosca approached the Mettlesome Maid with some trepidation, encouraged only by the fact that Partridge was nowhere to be seen.

“Good morning, sir,” she called out quietly. The crewman glanced up at her, then let his eyebrows rise and his knotwork fall into his lap.

“Blood and breath. Well, that’s something. Hey! Dotheril! The Niece is here.”

A mournful, eerie sound rose up from the belly of the barge. It sounded like a cat in a bucket. It might have been a sob of relief.

“Come on.” The sailor stood up and held out a hand. Mosca took it and tripped carefully aboard up the gangplank.

“Is Mr. Partridge about?” Best to know the worst quickly.

“No, he’s not. I’m hoping you’ve nothing particular you need to say to him, either, for I cannot tell you where he might be found. He went off yesterday, saying that he’d be gone for a while as he had some business to attend to—which I took as meaning business at the Ship Inn. When he was not back by dusk, I knew he’d crawled into a bottle. When he wasn’t back by morning, I thought maybe someone had stoppered the bottle before he could get out.” He gave a grim laugh.