“I shall have to send in Clent and his bold-eyed girl to spy out the place before we act,” Toke resolved. If Goshawk had read Clent’s report, he would know the poet’s name, but would probably not recognize his face. In any case, it was better to risk an irrelevant rogue than one of the Stationers’ valued guildsmen. “Casualties of war,” Toke growled as he picked up a pen to write out Clent’s new orders.

That evening, Toke’s letter lay on the dinner table in front of Clent, liberally smeared with gravy. Toke had given a sparse account of the night’s events, naturally omitting all mention of Clent’s intercepted report. Somehow, as Clent repeated this account to Mosca, it became a tale of breakneck chases and exchanged pistol fire.

Mosca listened, wide-eyed. “So . . . the Locksmiths got Mr. Pertellis in this Gray Mastiff, then?”

“Yes—and in three nights’ time, the Stationers plan to march into the Gray Mastiff and snatch this radical teacher from Goshawk’s very own gloved fingers. Word will reach the Duke that when this firebrand Pertellis was arrested, he was caught in a conspiratorial tableau with the Locksmiths . . . and the Duke will smite his noble brow with grief at his own blindness, and throw off his Locksmith flatterers. Our task is to spy out the tavern beforehand, and make sure that Hopewood Pertellis is within. A simple matter for two fox-witted souls like ourselves.”

The fox-witted souls bickered cheerfully over the last helping of broth, unaware that in another part of the city Aramai Goshawk was rereading Clent’s report and peering at the names of Eponymous Clent and Mosca Mye.

K Is for Kidnapping

K
IS FOR KIDNAPPING

“I want my goose back!”

“Mosca, while your affection for your anserine accomplice does you credit, I hardly think—”

“I want my goose back!”

“I can see that your orphaned state has caused you to regard the bird as a family member, perhaps a particularly beaky uncle—”

“Mr. Clent, I want my goose back!”

“Have you forgotten that by your own account Mr. Partridge is planning to roast my heart in the sun?” bellowed Clent. The conversation had made little progress over the last half hour, and he was starting to lose his temper.

“You could give him money. Bet he wouldn’t eat your heart if you give him enough money. Bet the Stationers gave you money for what I found out.” Clent had been so delighted with Mosca’s discovery of the Floating School that the pair had actually got on tolerably well for two days. However, Mosca had just woken to a gleaming morning and the sight of Clent trying on a new cravat. Instantly she had guessed that he had been paid without telling her. “They did pay you, didn’t they? That’s my money, or near enough, anyway.”