“Quiet, until we’re out of hearing of the town,” was the growled response from above. “Let’s try to make good speed toward Fainbless before the mists clear. The breeze will be rising soon.” The music of gullsong, horses’ hooves, and street cries was becoming softer. Somewhere above, a pole churned through the water, and the beams of the raft creaked like the frame of a broken bellows. The river had remembered a lot of deep things it wished to say, and spoke them at length.

From time to time there came a tiny, ponderously regular sound like a whip crack, which became louder and louder until it was almost deafening, and then was gradually left behind. In between times, curlews and warblers dropped thin spirals of sound into the stillness.

The ragman in the hold grew bored with ripping rags. His trunk of darkness approached the side of the press, and, from somewhere above her, Mosca heard two clicks, like a key turning in a stiff lock. The plate above her jolted and dropped an inch.

“Tare? Come up and take a look at this.”

The dark shape at the side of the press receded, and there followed the sounds of someone climbing the ladder.

“What is it?”

“Take a look for yourself—I’m manning the pole. There, by the hatchway. Do you recall seeing that before?”

“No, cannot say I have. Looks like a wigmaker’s box.”

In the darkness of the hold below, two black eyes became as round as sovereigns.

“Well, take a look and see if there’s anything in it.” There was a huff of someone stooping to lift something, and then a muffled thump-thump-thump as if they had shaken it to find out if it was empty. “Careful there, you’ll crush the wig—hey, what’s the matter with you?”

“Something . . .” Tare sounded shaken. “Something moved in there, Sorrel. Don’t look at me that way. I’ll show you—hand me that boat hook.” There was a pause, a faint thwoop of a lid sliding away from a wig box, and then two men’s voices joined in laughter.

“I was expecting a boggling or a snarp at least,” gasped Sorrel after a while. “You’ve an admirer, Tare. Someone’s left you a present. Well, there’ll be goose in the pot tonight, anyway.”

“Wait.” The mirth had died in Tare’s voice. “By my troth, it is the goose from the Gray Mastiff!”

It was happening, the preposterous scene Clent had painted for Mosca in words. The two men had recognized the valiant goose that had defeated the Civet of Queen Capillarie. They were touched, they were awed. They were remembering the exploits of their forgotten soldiering days and feeling noble impulses rekindle in their hearts. Mosca frowned. The kindling of noble impulses should surely involve less scuffling and shouting.

“Tare! What are you doing? Are you mad? Put that pistol away!”