Mistress Bessel watched with a smile that was still indulgent, but the warmth had drained from her eyes.

“You had a pipe when you come in,” she said evenly.

Mosca tugged the pipe out of her pouch, and slapped it into Mistress Bessel’s waiting hand, along with the farthing.

“Well, I told you nothing, mind, and you chanced on him by your own good luck. He’s taking passage with the Mettlesome Maid, a barge fastened on the near bank. She flies a flag for King Hazard—you cannot miss her.”

Mosca took a couple of rapid steps toward the door, and then halted. Something was missing.

“Where’s my goose?”

“The goose?” Mistress Bessel whistled through her teeth regretfully. “Eponymous said it was his. I give him the names of some contacts in Mandelion and told him a place where he could stay, and he give me the goose in exchange. You better take the matter up with him when you find him.”

Mosca clenched her fists, and bristled like a cat.

“Saracen!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “Foxes!”

Around the doorway a muscular white neck curled questingly. Into the shop proper came Saracen with his sailor’s strut, making a sound as if he were swallowing pebbles and enjoying it. Mosca knelt and reached for him.

“Farthingale!” In answer to Mistress Bessel’s sharp cry, a young man with an armful of stone nettles put his head around the door. “Take that goose away and keep it under control, will you?” Farthingale wiped his free hand on his apron, and went to obey.

Rather a lot of things happened in quick succession. Since most of them happened after Mosca had ducked under the nearest table and pulled her new bonnet down over her face, she could only guess at their nature. However, they were loud, and violent, and sounded as if they might be expensive.

“Throw a rug over it, boy, and grab it!” she could hear Mistress Bessel shouting.

Farthingale must have followed her instructions, since a moment later there was a hoarse cry of pain and a sound like the counter breaking. To judge by his yelling, though, Farthingale was still alive, which relieved Mosca. He was bellowing a great many words that were new to Mosca and sounded quite interesting. She memorized them for future use.

At last she raised the broad bonnet brim and gazed cautiously out into the shop. The floor was awash with the chalky shrapnel of shattered leaves and slivered ribbons. Through the debris swaggered Saracen, trailing a hessian rug like a cloak, a sprinkling of stone dust across his orange beak. Farthingale had taken refuge behind the wreckage of the counter, and was cupping one hand over his bloodied nose. Mistress Bessel had scrambled onto a rickety chair, her skirts hitched. The wood beneath her portly weight creaked nervously as the goose strutted barely a yard from her feet.