Mosca swung her legs over to sit in the “saddle” more comfortably, and took the pipe out of her mouth.

“I want a job.”

“I fear that adverse circumstances have deprived me of all monetary advantages and simple luxuries and . . . did you say a job?”

“Yes.” Mosca pointed to the stocks. “I got the keys to those, but if I let you out, you got to give me a job and take me with you.”

“Fancy,” Clent said with a faint, desolate laugh. “The child wishes to leave all this.” He glanced around at the dripping trees, the bone-white stones, and the cold colors of the distant village.

“I want to travel,” Mosca declared. “The sooner the better,” she added, with an apprehensive look over her shoulder.

“Do you even have the first idea of what my profession entails?”

“Yes,” said Mosca. “You tell lies for money.”

“Ah. Aha. My child, you have a flawed grasp of the nature of myth-making. I am a poet and storyteller, a creator of ballads and sagas. Pray do not confuse the exercise of the imagination with mere mendacity. I am a master of the mysteries of words, their meanings and music and mellifluous magic.”

Mendacity, thought Mosca. Mellifluous. She did not know what they meant, but the words had shapes in her mind. She memorized them, and stroked them in her thoughts like the curved backs of cats. Words, words, wonderful words. But lies too.

“I hear you told the Widow a story ’bout how you was the son of a duke and was going to marry her when you came into your lands, but how you needed to borrow money so you could hire a lawyer and make your claim.”

“Ah. A very . . . emotional woman. Tended to take, ah, figures of speech very literally.”

“And I heard you told the magistrate a story ’bout how there was this cure for his aches which you just needed to send for, but which cost lots of money. And I heard you told all the shopkeepers a story ’bout how your secretary was coming any day and bringing all your trunks and the rest of your money so you could pay all your bills then.”

“Yes . . . er . . . quite true . . . can’t imagine what can have happened to the fellow . . .”

“They brand thieves’ hands, don’t they?” Mosca added suddenly. “S’pose they’ll brand your tongue for lying. S’pose it stands to reason.”

Everything was very quiet for a few moments except for the rattle of water on rock and the sound of Clent swallowing drily.

“Yes, I . . . I have quite lost patience with that secretary of mine. I suppose I must let him go, which means that I have a vacancy. Do you . . . do you have any qualifications or assets to offer as a secretary, may I ask?”

“I got these.” Mosca jangled the keys.