The little trap peddler started to laugh, with a sound like a cat coughing up furballs. “Ah now, I does like the way you talks in capitals,” he remarked. “It’s as good as . . . well, now, will you look at that? It’s another of ’em fell foul of the Troll Hole.”

Ahead, the road took a sudden dip. The dip had clearly been rather too sudden for the large wheels of the biggest and most elegant carriage Mosca had ever seen. It blocked the road, tilting in a fashion that could only mean a wheel had come off. Two white horses grazed upon the gorse while two white-clad footmen were stooping to examine the damage. The white box of the carriage perched in fringed splendor on a frame of curling metal tendrils so slender that it almost seemed to float in the air on its own. The entire equipage looked far too fine and fairylike for the real world, Mosca thought, and the rugged road clearly thought so too.

“Bit of business.” The peddler smiled, and lowered himself off the cart.

The little peddler, it seemed, fancied that he had the tools to fix the wheel. The footmen were glad to hear this, and agreed with him that he should be paid handsomely for such a service. There was some disagreement as to what constituted “handsome,” however. The discussion of the attractiveness of various sums looked set to continue for some time.

Mosca sighed, and Clent blinked as a single raindrop tapped him peremptorily between the eyes. They clambered down from the cart and approached the bargainers.

“For five minutes’ work? That’s daylight robbery!” the carriage driver was exclaiming.

“Ah,” Clent intoned ominously, “better daylight robbery of this consenting sort than something bloodier, would you not say? After all, you would hardly care to be stranded out here come twilight, what with”—he paused dramatically—“Black Captain Blythe on the loose.”

“Who?”

“Ah, I daresay you know him by a different name. The Widowmaker, probably.”

“Or the Devil’s Friend,” Mosca added quickly. A number of eyes turned to her questioningly, two of them belonging to Clent. “Yeah, he’s so uncanny with the things he knows, some people say he’s got an imp given him by the Dark Gentleman, who tells him things. Like, when he attacks he always seems to know who’s carrying a pistol, and he shoots them before they can draw.” She had the satisfaction of seeing the carriage driver and one of the footmen go white. “Right through the gullet,” she added cheerfully.

Clent raised his eyebrows slightly, and gave the tiniest nod of approval.