Pelted with carcasses, the lugger slowly burned to the waterline. There was no call for aid from on board, however. No boats were lowered, no survivors were fished out of the water. A superstitious fear settled, and some whispered that the unknown ship might as well have been crewed and captained by the dead.

It was during the journey back to Mandelion that a sharp-eyed sculler spotted a chilled and feverish Mosca Mye huddled on one bank in the middle of a nest of rags.

Two days later, in a secret antechamber of what had once been the Duke’s Western Spire, Mosca and Clent found themselves standing before a group of quietly insistent men in very clean but well-worn overalls. Some of them wore pince-nez and ink-spattered cravats, and had thick pen calluses on their third fingers. Some wore gloves and chatelaines of keys, and their colorless eyes watched the world narrowly, like oysters peeping from their shells. Some were tanned brown as conkers, and wore sashes bearing the design of a silver pond-skater against a black background.

“What amazes me,” declared Mabwick Toke in a wormwood tone, “is that two human beetles of this sort should have played such a large part in creating this diabolical mess.”

Mosca used her free hand to wipe her nose, which was still sore and runny after her recent cold. Her right arm was being held captive by Aramai Goshawk of the Locksmiths’ Guild, while he tried to make out the faint print on her skin.

“How did this child come by so many bruises? I can hardly read the words.”

“As I hear it, she has been clambering into, over, and under anything that would permit it.” Toke barked a laugh. “Count yourselves lucky you have not found her hiding in your writing desks or frolicking in your afternoon stew.”

Eponymous Clent gave a warm gust of laughter, which cooled when everyone else in the room remained stony.

“We have little enough to laugh about, Clent,” Toke commented coldly. “A few weeks ago, Mandelion was a stable and thriving city, with one problem—an illegal printing press. The Stationers’ Guild called you in to find this press, in exchange for overlooking your past misdemeanors. We did not order you to fling bodies in the river, throw in your lot with radicals, release savage animals in popular alehouses, or investigate the Duke’s family.

“The Duke himself is stone-cold dead, and with him goes a decade of our careful diplomacy down the drain. His men have completely lost control of the city, and Mandelion is being run by a common highwayman whom your ballad has turned into the darling of the people. Thanks to you, the people of Mandelion will not be ruled by anyone but their famous Captain Blythe and his gang of radical reprobates.”

“We might have controlled the Duke, once he had reached an understanding with us,” Goshawk remarked quietly.