“There is another way,” Eponymous Clent said. In fact, he said it several times without anyone hearing, but Copperback accidentally sparked the powder in his pan, deafening everyone and filling the room with smoke. While they were all still coughing, Clent declared loudly, “There is another way. Perhaps the Watermen will not listen to us, but they will certainly listen to the Stationers’ Guild. The two guilds have been on excellent terms for years.”

“Which does us little good, since the Stationers’ Guild will certainly not listen to us,” retorted Copperback, as he primed his rifle again.

“They will listen to me,” Clent declared with simple grandeur. “Particularly when they learn that someone has tried to trick them into a guild war.”

There was an impressed silence. “So,” Pertellis said slowly, “you are saying that we should send you to tell the Stationers about Lady Tamarind’s plot against the Locksmiths and persuade them to warn the Watermen about the Birdcatchers?” A hush followed this question while everyone tried to piece the sentence together in their heads. “Oh dear, this is complicated . . . perhaps if I drew a diagram to make things clearer?”

“Whatever happened to simple plans?” muttered Blythe, still sighting along his gun through the doorway.

“Do you have a better idea, sir?” asked Clent coolly.

“I’m far too confused to have a better idea!” flared Blythe.

Mosca found herself warming to him.

Blythe looked Clent up and down. “How well do you swim?”

“Ah . . .” Clent dropped his eyes. Most of the radicals and Locksmiths were looking similarly sheepish.

“I can swim,” said Mosca.

Clent raised his eyes to heaven. “What was I thinking? Gentlemen, this girl was brought up in a drowned village, nursemaided by frogs and swaddled in lilies. She can swim like a timberline trout, and she is a contracted apprentice of the Stationers’ Guild.” He drew Mosca with both hands into the center of the room. “She can take a missive from me to the Stationers at the Telling Word coffeehouse. Miss Kitely, do you have a small boat of any sort?”

“I fear we do not, Mr. Clent, but there is a wooden washing tub in which we sometimes lower one of the girls when we need to look to the hull.”

Mosca had flushed bright red and suddenly couldn’t understand anything that was being said, although the fog of faces was smiling at her. She seemed to have volunteered, and things were happening so quickly she could hardly keep her feet. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Goshawk beckon Clent over, whisper to him, and place two keys in his hand.

“Miss Mye”—Pertellis was looking into her face with his usual expression of dazzled concern—“no one will blame you if you choose not to do this.”

“That isn’t true, is it, Mr. Pertellis?” Mosca whispered back gently.