Linden Kohlrabi had been surprised to see four men in Stationers’ uniforms hurrying up the stairs with a look of furrowed purpose, but not enough to halt his step. There was no point in following them. You were likely to learn more from finding out where they had just come from. At the entrance to the Honeycomb Courtyard the guards were showing their nervousness by questioning everyone sharply before opening the gates. Kohlrabi, however, slid through easily on the grease of remembered tips, and learned in a few quiet words the direction from which the Stationers had arrived. With swift strides he headed toward the river.

On the jetty he paused to put on his gloves, and he drew deep breaths. Here the air braced him with its chill, the dry scent of a distant storm, and the rousing smell of gunpowder.

In one part of the street the crowd was hushed and huddled. An emergency of some sort had taken place. He strode to the center with quiet confidence and the crowd parted, assuming that he had come to solve the problem. Kohlrabi had delved his cane into the barrel of brine and hooked out part of the sodden apron when the redheaded constable laid a hand on his arm.

“Printed matter, sir,” he whispered urgently. “No Stationers’ seal.”

“I can see that. This is a child’s garment—I hope she is not still in it?”

“No . . . she threw it down and ran.”

“Did you get a good look at her?”

“Good enough,” muttered the constable. “Ferrety-looking girl with pink hair and unconvincing eyebrows. She boarded the Telling Word.”

To the constable’s consternation, Kohlrabi bent to peer at the wet folds of the apron more closely.

“Oh, Mosca Mye, what dangerous games you play. I had better find you before anyone else does,” he murmured under his breath.

The constable’s attention was quickly diverted from the young man with the unassuming smile who had vanished back into the crowd. People were pushing forward so keenly to watch the river battle that those in front were in danger of being pitched into the water.

“Sir . . .” A petty constable tugged at his sleeve.

The constable turned to find the crowd parting in awe and consternation before a sedan chair decorated in whorls of gold and blue. There was no mistaking the heraldic device emblazoned on the side.

Oh Beloved Above, not now . . . The constable had often daydreamed of meeting the Duke, perhaps by catching a thief with one of His Grace’s rose silk gloves, or by besting a burly footpad within sight of the ducal coach. But here and now the constable wished only that the Duke was away in his spire, having his teeth powdered, or his eyebrows scented, or some equally aristocratic activity.