M Is for Murder

M
IS FOR MURDER

By the time the shrieks and clatter of tumbling brass ware had faded in Mosca’s ears, rain was falling, in drops so fine that it was scarcely more than a tickle on the skin. After ten minutes the cobbles shone as if with nervous perspiration, and Mosca’s soles began to slither.

“Mr. Clent . . .”

“Keep walking.”

“Can we slow down?”

“No.”

They took a left through the Drimps, where the tallow makers’ wares hung behind dusty panes like the pale fingers of ghouls.

Clent at last paused in the empty street and stared up at the moon, which was the clean, startled white of a newly sliced cheese. He blinked as if the creamy light were trickling into his eyes, then wiped his hand up his forehead into his hair. Little panicky stars darted around within his eyes as if trying to escape.

“Catastrophe,” he muttered. “Utter catastrophe.”

“But we won, Mr. Clent!” Mosca could only assume that he had missed the end of the fight. “Saracen beat the civet and . . . and quite a lot of other people who weren’t even meant to be in the fight too.”

“It will be all over Mandelion by morning,” Clent intoned hollowly.

“Looked like half of Mandelion was there tonight already, nobs and guildsmen, and scholars—they all saw Saracen . . .”

“All of them at once . . . one fell swoop . . .”

“Yeah, swoops, and peckings and buttings . . .”

Clent hooked his finger into his cravat to pull it away from his throat, as if he had felt it tightening like a noose. “There is no doubt about it. It will mean war.”

Mosca stared at her employer.

“What?”

At about the same time, some of Mosca’s earlier sentences seemed to penetrate Clent’s absorption.

“What?” His gaze was cold, distracted, and somewhat annoyed. Then he sighed, and his face took on a look of weary tolerance. “Mosca, the Duke has arrested all the Locksmiths in Mandelion.”

“But . . . that’s good, isn’t it?” Mosca asked tremulously.

“No, it is not good!”

Even during his most petulant bellowing, Mosca had never heard him speak so coldly. Once again she felt that she had glimpsed a sharp and knifelike character sheathed within Clent’s pompous, ponderous exterior.

“There are Rules, child, Rules! For years, the Guildsmen’s Rules have been the only thing stopping the Stationers and Locksmiths from ripping each other apart. That throng we have just left may bellow for this king’s grouse or that queen’s civet, but in their heart nobody believes in the kings or queens anymore. The Realm is held together by the guilds, and everybody knows it. And if the guilds fall on each other’s throats, heaven help us all.

“Mabwick Toke expected the Locksmiths to be shamed, incriminated even, but not arrested! Beloved above, the Assizes begin tomorrow! Do you know what will happen if an entire chapter of Locksmiths is executed? What was the Duke thinking?”