Fly by Night (48 page)

‘Yes . . . a rather trying interview, what with seven of Mandelion’s keenest minds all trying to fillet me like a fish. If I were a vain man, I might have taken offence at how many of their questions were about you. They seemed particularly eager to know whether you had read any of the infamous Birdcatcher books. Fortunately, I was able to put their minds at rest.’ Clent cast Mosca a twinkling glance. ‘“She is as sharp as a hornet’s breeches,” I told them, “and keen to learn, but her education has been sadly lacking. She can scratch out her letters, but she has no particular way with words.”

‘Curiously, I am not convinced that they believed either of us. The Stationers will probably have us followed out of the city and beyond, to see if we lead them to the press.’ Clent gave Mosca one of his sharp, questioning looks. ‘Of course . . . you really did send the press to drink deep of the Slye, did you not?’

‘Course,’ answered Mosca without hesitation.

‘Naturally. Though . . . sweet petals of Goodlady Aesthelia the Flower-faced, I could not have done so,’ Clent murmured with feeling.

‘It was tricky,’ admitted Mosca.

‘All those books unborn, waiting to spring out of it,’ added Clent.

‘Stories of genies an’ songs about kings with their heads cut off,’ said Mosca. They exchanged guilty, hungry smiles. ‘So, s’posing someone jus’ let the raft with the printing press slide off down the river – what do you think would happen to it?’

‘Well . . . if it was not found by the Stationers or nests of waiting Birdcatchers . . . I rather think it would float right out to sea to haunt the visions of late-night helmsmen and perhaps wash up against an exotic shore to cause more mischief.’

‘Good,’ muttered Mosca. When she had released the rope and watched the ragman’s raft float away down the river, she had felt much as she had watching the lantern fall from her hand into the gorse stacks on her last night in Chough. It occurred to her that perhaps, just perhaps, a part of her really
had
decided to set fire to her uncle’s mill, so that she would have no choice but to run away. ‘Some kinds of places need some kinds of trouble,’ she finished gnomically.

Mosca and Clent trailed their way along the Drimps, laden like two pedlars, and won hardly a glance from the shopkeepers, who were decorating sills and eaves with every ribbon, kerchief and stocking they could find to serve as flags. Many boats on the river had run up the silver swallowtail flag of celebration, and the kites of the coffeehouses danced and spiralled instead of hauling their strings in a workaday fashion.

‘I suppose,’ Clent asked casually, ‘I suppose there were no ready-printed books lying around the press? Not that I am saying you would sully your eyes with Birdcatcher books . . .’

They walked in silence for a few minutes.

‘Y’know what, Mr Clent? I don’t think books make you mad at all. I mean, I started readin’ ’em really slow, an’ stoppin’ now and then to see if I felt any more inklinged than before. Once I was feelin’ all fuzzy and light in my head, an’ I thought maybe that was me startin’ to go mad. But then I realized that I was just bored. The Birdcatcher books were mostly just boring, and a bit silly.’ Mosca wiped her nose up the length of her sleeve. ‘My father’s book was much better.

‘It was this funny story ’bout how all these people up in the Capital was arguing ’bout how they had to have a king or queen, and they had to choose right, cos the Beloved knew who should get the crown and you couldn’t wish it different without being sinful. They argued so loud, the Beloved heard, an’ started tryin’ to decide between ’em who should rule. They held a big, old meeting in the horizon-halls but they couldn’t agree to anything. Syropia wanted to crown the meanest and maddest to show her forgiveness, an’ Cramflick wanted someone with an ’ead like a potato, an’ Sussuratch wanted a sailor, an’ while they were arguing Palpitattle an’ Varple stole all the food for the meeting. An’ while they was all cooin’ an’ squeakin’ an’ boomin’ an’ shriekin’ like six winter winds trapped in a chicken coop, each of ’em thought of a sudden that if they ran back to the world of men, they could get their word in first.

‘So all the men praying for the Beloved’s advice felt a great big wind about them which swivelled their wigs an’ blew their garters right off so their stockings came down. They run out of the cathedral with Beloved swarming all over ’em, like bees over a beekeeper, all buzzin’ their wishes at once. The men run straight to the river an’ jumped in, but the Beloved hung on. When the men was almost goin’ mad with the sound of thousands of voices, they covered their ears and yelled for the Beloved to leave ’em to decide everythin’ for themselves. The Beloved said they were needed there to keep the moonblot beetles out of the lanterns, an’ peel the skin from the milk, an’ stop the snarps stealin’ children. But the men told ’em to leave the world anyway . . . an’ the Beloved did. And nothin’ changed at all, cos there never
were
any Beloved, just people making their voices up in their heads, the way I often do with people.’

‘That is a very charming story, Mosca. Never tell it again.’

‘My father didn’t believe in the Beloved, but he didn’t believe in the Heart of the Consequence either – he wasn’t a Birdcatcher. Mr . . .’ Mosca had been about to say,
Mr Kohlrabi worshipped him but he
’
d got him all wrong
. But she was not ready to think about Kohlrabi yet. When she thought of his name she felt nothing, but she felt nothing in a way that hurt.

‘No, from what you say your father was an atheist, an out-and-out unbeliever. Atheism will see your head spiked on a church spire just as soon as Birdcatchery.’

Mosca was silent for a few moments.

‘But, Mr Clent,’ she said at last, ‘what if he was right? What if it’s
true
?’

‘I think we will have to leave the clerics and scholars to decide that.’

‘Why?’ Mosca slowed her pace.

‘Who else should?’ Clent gave her a sideways glance. ‘You perhaps? Ah, I foresee frightful things when you are old enough to work your will on the world. Cathedrals torn down, mention of both the Consequence and the Beloved banned from the common speech, and children brought up to believe in an empty, soulless heaven . . .’

‘No, I . . .’ They were passing a cluster of shrines. As she watched, a troop of grateful citizens trooped past the shrines, dropping different thanksgiving offerings before each icon. A biscuit for Goodman Blackwhistle. A mackerel for Goodman Sussuratch. A shiny coin for Goodman Greyglory. The little gods looked so good-humoured, sitting side by side, none of them fighting to have all the worshippers to themselves, and Mosca felt a rush of weary tenderness for the Beloved. It was so different from the cold, inhuman zeal of Kohlrabi. Perhaps, as her father had thought, the Beloved were toys that a childish world needed. Perhaps, too, the world was growing up, and even now was starting to put them aside, affectionately but forever.

‘Beloved are all right,’ she murmured gruffly. ‘Wouldn’t want to go burning ’em.’

‘Not even in the service of truth?’

‘That’s not serving truth!’ Mosca thought back to what she’d already said to Kohlrabi, and tried to make sense of her scattered thoughts. ‘I mean . . . if I told people what to believe, they’d stop thinking. And then they’d be easier to lie to. And . . . what if I was wrong?’

‘So . . . if
you
may not decide what is true, and the men of letters may not, who may?’

‘Nobody. Everybody.’ Mosca looked up at the windows where the jubilant people of Mandelion swung their bells. ‘Clamouring Hour – that’s the only way. Everybody able to stand up and shout what they think, all at once. An’ not just the men of letters, an’ the lords in their full-bottomed wigs, but the streetsellers an’ the porters an’ the bakers. An’ not just the clever men, but the muddle-headed, and the madmen, and the criminals, an’ the children in their infant gowns, an’ the really, really stupid. All of ’em. Even the wicked, Mr Clent. Even the Birdcatchers.’

‘Confusion, madam. The truth would be drowned out and never heard.’

‘Maybe.’

‘People would close their ears and beg to be told what to think.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Terrible ideas would spread like wildfire from tongue to tongue, and nobody would be able to stop them.’

‘Maybe.’

Clent was right, and Mosca knew it. Words were dangerous when loosed. They were more powerful than cannon and more unpredictable than storms. They could turn men’s heads inside out and warp their destinies. They could pick up kingdoms and shake them until they rattled. And this was a
good
thing, a
wonderful
thing . . . and in her heart Mosca was sure that Clent knew this too. Mosca recalled the words she had heard Pertellis reading to the Floating School – words that she now knew had been written by her father, Quillam Mye.

. . .
there is one thing that is more dangerous than Truth
.
Those who would try to silence Truth
’
s voice are more destructive by far
. . .

In Suet Street, currant-scented steam eased through a gash in the diamond-paned window of a baker, lighting a flame in Mosca’s stomach and a concern in her mind.

‘What ’appened to the Cakes, Mr Clent?’

‘She lives and thrives, though I fancy she will be busy for a time, tending to that young admirer of hers until his shoulder recovers.’

. . .
the Cakes piling Carmine
’
s bedside with cinnamon treats and brandy-apple pies, open treacle pastries covered in flourishes of cream, and all the while wearing the pink-faced, bright-eyed look that made her seem less pert and pointed
. . .

‘What ’bout Mr Pertellis an’ the radicals? They won’t be arrested, will they?’

‘I think not. The radicals have spoken with the guilds, and I fancy an uneasy truce will be struck. Neither side will be happy with it, but Man is born to walk this world in misery.’

‘So . . . really, the Locksmiths an’ the rest will be taking over the city after all?’

‘Ah no – Blythe and his radicals would never allow that, and at the moment he has the backing of the whole city. And I think even when the hubbub has died down he will do well enough with Pertellis and that alarming ladle-wielding ptarmigan to advise him.’

. . .
Blythe sitting uncomfortably in the Duke
’
s spire and scowling his way through sheaves of papers
,
while Pertellis patiently leans over his shoulder to point and explain
,
and Miss Kitely frowning at a map of Mandelion as if it were the pattern for a smock that needed adjusting for a new owner
. . .

‘Hopewood Pertellis asked a great deal about you while we were in the coffeehouse,’ Clent added in a deliberately casual manner.

‘You didn’t tell him I was dragged out of a burning building by a goose, or kidnapped by gypsies, or any of those things?’

‘I was the model of candour. I told him that you were an inscrutable little animal and never told me anything, but that I believed your parents were dead.’

They were crossing the Ashbridge. Unexpectedly, Clent slowed and halted.

‘Mosca, give me the leash for a moment.’ She obeyed, compelled by the unusual seriousness in his manner. ‘The Guildmasters may have banished us, but their displeasure lies chiefly on my shoulders . . . and perhaps that of the goose. The truth is, they care little where you go. Pertellis has an interest in your welfare, and if you went to him I have no doubt he would take you in.’

It was true, Mosca felt it. And as if she were riffling the years of her life like the pages of her book, she saw in a very few seconds what would happen and how it would all go. Pertellis’s spring-blue eyes would brighten and he would take her in without hesitation or reproach. Miss Kitely would pick out some clothes for her, and she would find herself taking dictation in the Floating School, then teaching the younger children when it was noticed how well she read. In a hundred quiet little ways she would become trusted, and appreciated, and finally necessary. One day Pertellis would look up at her as she marshalled his library, and he would realize that she was not twelve now, she was twenty. And she would marry him, or someone very like him . . . as her mother had done.

‘No,’ said Mosca.

‘You have a chance of security here – food, shelter, friends, prospects . . . books . . .’

‘No.’ Mosca bit her lip and shook her head firmly. Books no longer seemed quite enough.
I don
’
t want a happy ending
,
I want more story
.

‘Mosca . . . I am not even certain whither I am wending. What can I offer a secretary but a life of sleeping in hedges, chicken-stealing, and climbing out through midnight windows to avoid paying innkeepers in the morning?’

Nothing, except
. . .
loose strands of possibility snaking like maypole ribbons
.
Roads fringed with russet bracken, roads sparkling with frost
,
hill roads split with the rising sun
,
forest roads livid with fallen leaves
,
the Crystalcourt with its million windows throwing tiaras of rainbow colour upon the floor
,
ladies with legends of days past embroidered along their trains
,
wine dark as blackberry juice sipped under a green
-
fringed canopy
,
accents as strange as a walking cane worn by another hand
,
estuaries bold with man
-
o
’-
war ships
,
and perhaps beyond it the shimmering
,
much
-
dreamed
-
upon expanse of the sea
. . .