Mosca received a further hint that something was amiss when she got back to find Eponymous Clent making hats for Saracen.

Sensibly enough, he had chosen to keep his distance while doing this. While Saracen gobbled barley from a chipped china bowl, Clent crouched by the door, watching him critically with one eye shut, like an artist judging an angle for a portrait. At arm’s length he held up a scrap of yellow damask, as if trying to judge how it would look against Saracen’s bulging brow. A few moments later he dropped the scrap, and held up a blue rag.

“Mr. Clent . . .” Mosca was for a moment afraid to ask what he was doing, in case his answer revealed that he had gone mad during the day. Perhaps this was what happened when you stole berries from shrines.

“Ah, you’re back. Tell me, do you think your friend Saracen would permit a ribbon or lace to be tied below his, as it were, chin?”

“Probably bite your ears off,” Mosca replied curtly. “What d’you want to tie ribbons on him for?”

“Mosca, sit down.” Clent’s tone was that of a kindly uncle who must break the news of the death of a beloved kitten. Mosca sat, wincing as the broadsheets in her petticoat pocket crackled loudly. “As you doubtless recall, we agreed that Saracen should pay his way in the service of the Stationers’ Company.”

Mosca twisted her mouth to one side to show that she was listening and did not like what she was hearing.

“Now, as you know, tonight we bless the Gray Mastiff with our custom. We are under orders to investigate the tavern, find out where the Locksmiths meet, and make sure Pertellis is there. Unfortunately, the part of the tavern containing the private rooms is barred to everyone but the staff, the Locksmiths, and, ah, the trainers for the beast fights . . .”

“No!” Mosca shouted when her breath returned to her. “You’re not puttin’ Saracen into the beast fights! I’ll set ’im on you an’ have ’im give you extra knees where there shouldn’t be—”

“Child, child!” A kindly laugh wove through Clent’s words like a golden thread. “I thought we had reached some sort of understanding and were past such demonstrations. Mosca, you must, must trust me a little.” He smoothed his hair back with the air of one who is amused but perhaps a little hurt. “The beast fights are not extravaganzas on the same scale as those in the Capital. Oh, I grant you that the Gray Mastiff’s posters boast of ‘Clashes Between All the Heraldry Beasts of the Many Monarchs,’ but I understand that the reality is a rather pitiful affair. Newts painted red to resemble salamanders, tabby cats standing in for tigers, calves passing for bulls.” Clent waved the daisy-shaped rag of cloth in his hand. “How else could we expect to enter Saracen as King Prael’s Star-crested Eagle?”