Mosca glanced protectively at Saracen.

“Were not your village supporters of King Prael anyway? Where is your sense of patriotism?”

“I keep it hid away safe, along with my sense of trust, Mr. Clent. I don’t use ’em much in case they get scratched.”

“Well, what about your sense of duty to your unfortunate fowl?” Clent changed tack without blinking. “Is he never to be more than he is? You may be standing in the way of Saracen’s destiny—preventing him from becoming the toast of every alehouse, the talk of every drawing room . . .”

“I don’t think Saracen cares much about fame, Mr. Clent. Maybe that just works on highwaymen.”

“All right, then picture this.” Clent spread his hands and smoothed the air in front of him, as if it were sand and he was preparing to draw in it. “A darkened alleyway, in which two hardened ruffians squat, brandishing cudgels. There is an unwary step—the pair hearken and tense for attack. A short figure appears in the alleyway. It is an old goose, its neck swinging stiffly as it waddles. The two thieves smile—there will be goose in the pot tonight. But wait! One seizes the arm of the other to halt him. ‘By my troth,’ he whispers, ‘it is the goose from the Gray Mastiff! I shall never forget the time I saw him best that pine marten tricked out as Queen Drizzlesoft’s lion.’ Their eyes mist over, and the cudgels hang forgotten in their hands. They let the feathered hero pass, and their minds fly back to the exploits of their forgotten soldiering days. Noble impulses of their hearts rekindle after long years, and . . .”

Clent’s eye fell upon Mosca, and he halted abruptly. “But why do I persist, seeing that your breast is clearly dead to all sense of duty and compassion? Very well, let me put the matter plainly without frills or ornament.” This sounded so unlikely that Mosca was intrigued despite herself. “If they are not stopped, the Locksmiths will take over the city. They will place an eye to every keyhole and an invisible knife to every throat. But why should that worry you?” Clent gave Mosca a quick, penetrating glance. “Perhaps you would like to help Lady Tamarind pack?”

“What?” Mosca sat bolt upright.

“It is no secret that Lady Tamarind has done her utmost to dissuade her brother from putting the Locksmiths in power. If they win, she will have no choice but to flee. Of course . . .” Clent paused in his pacing, then sat down opposite Mosca. “Of course, if anyone helped Lady Tamarind by exposing the diabolical plans of the Locksmiths, she would owe them a great debt . . .”

Mosca chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment or two, then looked up at Clent with an expression somewhere between shyness and hate.

“So it’s just newts an’ things, then?” Her tone was blunt but uncertain.