“So—you talked to him yesterday evening, then?” Mosca was frightened to ask whether Partridge had left his men detailed instructions involving her heart and boat hooks, after chasing her over half the city.

“No—not since yesterday lunchtime. The captain’ll roll back down that ramp like a barrel before long, I’ll take my oath, but till then I can’t tell you where to find him.” The sailor suddenly glared at Mosca, and gave a slightly menacing motion as if loosening his shoulder. “Of course, now it comes into my head that perhaps the captain’s in a jail somewhere, clapped in handcuffs. Would you know something of that? Has your uncle decided to blow the widd?”

“No . . .” Mosca bit her lip, not entirely sure what she had been asked, but certain that “No” was probably the safest answer. She looked about for a change of subject, and gave a vague gesture in the direction of the deck. “Is . . . is he all right?”

“Not so hearty. A broken ankle, but he’ll rally.”

“That’s not what I . . .” Mosca stopped short of explaining that she had been inquiring after her goose, not the injured Dotheril.

“What are you waiting for?” There was an echoing wail from below the planks. “Get-this-thing-out-of-oh-Beloved-above-it’s-walking-up-my-chest-again . . .”

The sailor tugged up the edge of canvas, and gestured Mosca under it with a jerk of his head. Three planks had been left out of place, presumably to let air reach the trapped Dotheril. Mosca pulled off bonnet and cap, and swung her upper body down through the crack, head downward.

The first thing she saw was an inverted Saracen, his white plumage gleaming moonishly in the darkness. Fat little soap bubbles of joy burst in his throat as he saw Mosca.

Another fainter sound from the region of his feet drew Mosca’s attention to the object upon which he stood.

“Mr. Dotheril . . . ’s all right, just don’t move. ’S all right, really, he only stands on your face if he likes you.”

“I can’t say as my feelings is likewise,” hissed Dotheril through his teeth. There were tight creases around the corners of his mouth, as if he had been doing everything through his teeth for some time. He was bracing his elbows against the shifting beach of graven godlings, and trying to drag himself backward. One of his hands was tightening around an oaken pedestal.

“Please don’t go hitting him with Goodlady Syropia the Forgiver, it’s not good for your soul, or your health neither. You’ll go frightenin’ him. A wild dog tried to bite him once, an’ he broke its neck.”

Dotheril’s hand faltered, and released the icon.

“C’mon, Saracen, we’ll find you barley.”