The man was tall. The skin of his face had a slight lumpiness, like rice pudding. His clothes were simply styled from black cloth, but at his belt hung a silver chatelaine from which dangled five finely jeweled keys. Mosca’s eyes, however, were fixed upon his hands, which were incredibly small and delicate. His calfskin gloves might have been made for a child.

Goshawk himself is a shadow among shadows, Clent had said. It is said that his fingers are as slender and dainty as a child’s . . .

Eyes as colorless as oysters rested on her face. Mosca flinched as he raised one hand . . . then watched speechlessly as he removed his hat, handed it to her along with his cane, and walked out through the buttery door. Aramai Goshawk, the leader of the Mandelion Locksmiths, the shadow among shadows, had apparently mistaken Mosca Mye for one of the Gray Mastiff tavern wenches.

Grimacing in her effort at stealth, Mosca tiptoed after the Locksmith and was in time to see him disappear into one of the trainers’ rooms. One undignified scamper later, she was dragging Clent down the corridor to the door where she had seen Goshawk disappear, accompanying the action with much gesturing and meaningful mouthing.

The door was thick and, with both their ears warring for the keyhole, Mosca and Clent could hear little.

“If I knew, I would tell you.” One voice beyond the door raised its tone enough to become clear for a moment. “But I don’t.”

Pertellis! Mosca mouthed at Clent in glee and excitement. That’s Pertellis!

Eyes glittering, Clent led Mosca back to the door which led to the main room of the inn.

“Quickly now. You must venture out through the street door and drop this handkerchief in a conspicuous manner. That will signal to our friends across the street that we are ready for the final scene in our little drama. I shall wait in the back corridor, ready to show them to the right room.”

Reentering the main room of the inn, Mosca was almost deafened by a tide of patriotic shouting, interrupted by occasional outraged hooting. She elbowed her way to the door, Clent’s handkerchief in her hand. Out in the street, feeling rather foolish, she let the kerchief fall to the cobbles, where a reveler immediately trod it into a puddle. Trying hard not to look around her for Stationer spies, she pushed her way back into the tavern and toward the pit.

Meanwhile the shouting in the room seemed to have become even louder. A man standing on the wooden stairway to the gallery was trying to make his voice heard above the racket.