Lady Tamarind’s words returned to Mosca’s mind: The Locksmiths are on the rise, and if I cannot stop them, Mandelion will be theirs. I must know if others mean to act against the Locksmiths. The Stationers, in particular . . . I must know their plans . . .

By this point, Mosca was listening so hard that she felt her ears might poke holes in her muslin cap. She did not understand everything that was being said, but three things were becoming clear. First, her conversation with Lady Tamarind had been no dream. Second, the Stationers did not like the Locksmiths any more than Lady Tamarind did. Third, Clent was heartily terrified of them.

“Ah. Ahem. I must say, had I known that you wanted me to spy on the Locksmiths . . .”

“Mr. Clent,” rapped Toke, “you were caught with sixteen illegal burlesque chapbooks of ‘King Cinnamon and the Milkmaids,’ hidden in a hurdy-gurdy. You wisely chose to work for us rather than hang. You, sir, are caught between the frying pan and the fire, so you will sizzle and like it.”

Clent visibly wilted and, despite herself, Mosca almost pitied him.

“We chose you as our agent because we cannot be seen to be investigating the Locksmiths. We are fighting a strange and secret war here in Mandelion—but it cannot become an open war between our guilds; that would be disastrous for the Realm.” Toke’s pale eyes shone. “Both Caveat and I have been followed everywhere for some time by gentlemen unwilling to introduce themselves. Fortunately they do not dare enter this coffeehouse. For the last four days I have lived here. Caveat has been here for two weeks.”

Caveat nodded rapidly, and twittered faintly.

“I could survive thus for weeks, but Mandelion will not. Do not be deceived by the city’s calm, Mr. Clent, there is hanging thunder in the air. The last time Mandelion crackled like this, it was just before that terrible Mye trouble, fifteen years ago . . .”

Mosca gave a guilty start, before recollecting that Mye was a common surname, and that anything happening fifteen years before was unlikely to have been her fault. Perhaps it was her nervousness that made the floor seem to plunge and rise again beneath her feet.

Toke finally noticed her. “Mr. Clent—is that girl yours?”

“Ah, yes—it became necessary to retain the services of this child. I brought her that she might be signed up as an apprentice of some sort, so we could bind her to secrecy . . .” So she was to be bound to secrecy again, even after signing the “ship’s articles.” Mosca was getting the distinct impression that Clent did not trust her.

“As you wish. Caveat, fetch the appropriate papers and have her sign articles as an apprentice rag sorter.”