“From what I seen,” muttered Mosca, “the Duke didn’t have much of an understanding at all.”

Clent cast a beseeching look in Mosca’s direction.

“The Duke was mad,” Toke conceded, “but we knew where we were with him. This man Blythe is another matter.”

“Ah now, I quite understand your concern, but I can assure you that beneath that burly, boorish, black-dog exterior lurks a dapper wit and—”

“Clent!” Toke’s voice slammed Clent into silence like a gavel. “You have talked quite enough already. I hear from my counterpart here”—he gestured toward the head of the Locksmiths—“that you showed every willingness to join his guild when he caught you listening in on his meeting at the Gray Mastiff. Furthermore, the constables tell me that when you were arrested, you happily answered all their questions about our guild secrets and a few more they lacked the wits to ask. And finally, there was the letter in which you promised me evidence linking Lady Tamarind Avourlace to the printing press and the Birdcatchers. What if we had arrested her on your word, and then found ourselves explaining to the Duke that our only evidence was a black mark on an apron, blurred beyond recognition by a sojourn in a herring barrel?” Toke’s mouth closed itself into its cold little V. “You may count yourself lucky that my men were able to find evidence of forgery and treason in Lady Tamarind’s chambers. Two letters forged to look like the Twin Queens’ handwriting, and a copy of their signet ring, no less.”

“Of course it may be argued that the lady’s behavior is evidence enough,” Goshawk added.

“What did she do?” Mosca could not help asking.

“She set her crocodile on my men,” Toke snapped. “It shook one man around like a sheaf at threshing, then grabbed a second by the ankle. My man Caveat put a bullet in its skull, but by then the Lady had her own pistol to his head, and he was forced to escort her to a fast horse. She could be sipping wine in the Capital by now.”

. . . sipping pale golden wine with the late light in it, pouting her mouth carefully so that the paint on the lips could not wrinkle, pale and perfect as porcelain, with a snow-white guinea pig on a leash at her feet . . . Part of Mosca’s heart was glad that Lady Tamarind was still free, though something in her soul still roared with hate like a forest fire.

The head of the Watermen turned to Mosca.

“That other Birdcatcher.” His tone was low, almost confidential, as if they were the only people in the room. “The one who killed the barge captain. Coldrabble?”

“Linden Kohlrabi,” Mosca said quietly. Perhaps it had not been his name at all. She supposed that a Birdcatcher would care nothing for the wrath of his name-day god. Maybe he had put names on and off like gloves.