Mosca was counting on them doing the same now, if she could fill them with enough panic. Brand and Laylow were on the wrong side of a locked door, and so was the Luck. She could only reach them if the barriers started to fall. Everybody was terrified of the Locksmiths, but you could fight fear with fear. If there was anything that the townspeople would fear more than the Locksmiths, it would be fire. And it didn’t matter whether it was a dangerous fire, providing everybody thought it was.
‘Fire! F—’
Mosca smelt smoke, turned a corner into a wave of unexpected warmth and gaped at a blazing street. Windowpanes were popping, plaster blackening, black smoke churning between timber joints. This was no smoke display. Sir Feldroll’s ‘warning’ had decided to carry itself out in good earnest.
‘Oh dungbuckets!’ she exclaimed breathlessly, then turned to yell at other fleeing figures. ‘Hey! HEY! Come back! We got to tear down these houses! There are people locked in there!’
‘Lass! Come away!’ A tall man in a smithy’s apron ran out and seized her by the arm, dragging her away from a large shower of sparks. ‘Lass, what—’
He stopped dead. Now that he had joined Mosca in the street, he could hear what she could hear: a chorus of thin, muffled cries from behind the plasterwork of the buildings.
‘Goodlady Syropia’s mercy! The nightlings!’ His honest features contorted with indecision as his eyes flicked between the blazing timberwork and the gleaming Locksmith locks just visible at the edges of the facings. She could see the agony of fear and superstition, and she thought for a moment he would flee and pretend he had not heard the cries. Then he spun Mosca around and took her by the shoulders. ‘Run down to my forge – corner of Tattle Street – and find my brothers. Tell them to bring as many hammers as they can, and rally some strong arms willing to wield ’em.’
Mosca was running even as he finished his sentence, and was soon back with a gaggle of the smith’s family and friends. The smith seized the largest hammer out of his brother’s hand and ran forward to confront the locks that held the nearest facing in place.
‘What are you doing?’ Another man ran forward, catching at the smith’s arm as he raised the hammer to strike at the locks. ‘What about the Locksmiths – have you gone mad? And the nightlings, you will release them upon us all!’
The two men struggled for the hammer, and Mosca felt the watchers stir, uncertain which side to help. Then the smith knocked his attacker down with a short, sharp punch to the jaw. He stared around belligerently, then stepped back towards the lock, raising his hammer once again.
‘Beloved preserve me,’ he muttered tremulously, and brought the hammer down upon the lock with shattering force.
Everybody flinched with each blow of the hammer, and when the locks finally splintered and the facing was slid aside to reveal a door, most people there took a step back, as if they expected Night to ooze out of it like star-infested gravy and drown them. But when the door opened, all that staggered out was a young woman with dull fair hair, wild, bitter eyes and an imp-like boy of six clasped in her arms. She shivered in the daylight, and flinched with fearful hostility from the dayfolk around her. The surrounding gaggle gawped aghast at the pair, who were clearly the worse for smoke, shuddering coughs shaking their pitiably thin frames.
‘Break these doors down!’ shouted the smith. ‘Smash those locks and take the sliding house-fronts off! Do the same on that side! You, boy, run to the mayor and tell him what’s happening!’
Nobody noticed a twelve-year-old girl stooping next to a charred timber, testing its warmth with a fingertip, then using the soot to smear her face, arms and dress.
In shattering that first day-night door, the smith appeared to have broken a spell. Breaching the barrier between day and night was still dreadful to the dayfolk, something that could barely be managed without trembling, but at least now it was possible, thinkable. The nightfolk that scrambled coughing out of their cramped homes might be fear-maddened, ragged and earthworm pale, but none of them had slitted pupils or needles for teeth. They were people. And so more and more daylighters set about wrenching the false faces off the houses, kicking in doors and battering their way past shutters. The impulse spread outwards across the town from that first hammer blow, like a ripple from a dropped stone.
Mosca was not slow to help it spread. Satisfied that here at least people were starting to deal with the fire, she was soon running down another street.
‘Fire!’ she shouted as she went. ‘Fire in Myrtle Street!’
‘Fire in the Winces!’ she shouted a few streets later.
‘Fire in Scupper’s Way!’ soon became her warcry. ‘We got to tear down the houses to break up the rows!’
As she suspected, people were a lot more ready to believe her declarations about the fire when she looked slightly singed. And naturally it was not enough to have people tearing houses down and breaking down doors near to the fires. She needed it to be happening all over Toll, which is why she needed to spread the panic far and wide.
Of course there was one house in particular that she wanted to see torn open, and soon she was cursing Eponymous Clent for selling her map. She had only been to Laylow and Brand’s hideout once, and then it had been dark and half the streets had been in different places.
At last she found what looked like the right street. Naturally there was no door there for her to recognize, only an expanse of innocent-looking plaster criss-crossed with timber, but she was fairly sure that behind it lay Brand Appleton’s sickroom.
‘Please, sirs!’ Her cry halted a set of tradesmen who were hurrying past with hammers, chisels and a set of thatching tools. ‘Can you help me break into this house? There’s a fire a few streets down, and . . .’ And I need you to help me break into this house in particular for reasons I can’t tell you. ‘And . . .’ she inhaled and took it at a run, ‘and I had a little baby sister born a month ago and she was born to a night name and they took her away nightside and I think she’s living in this house because I hear her crying through the wall some days and can you break in for me please before the fire gets here and roasts her like a piglet?’
Whether her story would have been believed if she had been wearing a dark Palpitattle badge will never be known. However with her borrowed day badge and cast-off gown she had magically become a respectable young lady in distress, albeit a slightly sooty one. She watched hungrily as the false front of the house was levered away with a crack to show the stained wall behind. The dingy door gave in to a few solid kicks.
‘Go find your sister.’ One of the men chucked Mosca under the chin, and then the group of them hurried on. Gingerly Mosca pushed open the splintered door, and jumped back just in time to avoid a claw in the face.
It was probably as well that Laylow had not been the first nightling to stagger into daylight. She was doing a very good impression of the dayfolk’s worst nightmare, squinting ominously against the sun, her metal claws raised ready to strike and various bruises and cuts livid on her face.
As she peered at Mosca, however, bemused recognition clouded her eyes.
‘You . . .’ She peered, and her face hardened. ‘Seisian, is it? “Teacher”, is it? You’re no more a foreigner than I am! You’re one of those visitors I helped get dayside some nights ago! What’s your game?’
‘I scarce know misself any more. But we’ll all lose if we don’t play on the same side. Listen – the mayor’s gone limp, Sir Feldroll’s gone mad, the Locksmiths are taking over and the town’s on fire. Beamabeth Marlebourne is safe, and as long as she is nobody else will be. And now we need to rescue the Luck. Can I come in?’
Gabbling through the truth behind Beamabeth’s actions to Brand Appleton was a grisly and unnerving business, but Mosca could see no way to leave it out of her story. At first he simmered at the slightest insinuation against Beamabeth, but as she went on she could see him taking her words on board, and a terrible lost expression crept over his face. Even Laylow looked away, her blunt features pa
ined and embarrassed.
‘So –’ Laylow crushed the silence as she would have done a poisonous bug – you say you have a plan? A way out of this?’
Mosca nodded. ‘We rescue the Luck.’
Laylow rasped a laugh. ‘From the Jinglers? Are you mad? How would that help us anyway?’
‘It will help – if we save him from everybody. From the Locksmiths, from the mayor, everybody. Get him outside the town walls.’
‘Outside the walls?’ Brand glanced at Laylow, who returned his look of shock, and Mosca remembered that they were born and bred Tollfolk, brought up on stories of the Luck’s protective power.
‘Oh Prill’s snout – don’t tell me you believe the town will fall off the cliff if the Luck steps outside!’ Their expressions
suggested that they might. ‘Well – and what if it does? This town is rotten. All that matters is the people in it, and most of them want to get out of it. Any town that has to keep folk inside it using walls an’ guns an’ fear is wrong to its roots. And if a town needs to lock up some lad just to feel safe, then maybe it don’t deserve to feel safe.
‘Right now, dayfolk are pulling the Locksmiths’ walls down. You know what that means? Just for once nobody’s surprised to see nightfolk running about the streets. You can slip out of this house, maybe head to the gate, and as long as nobody recognizes Mr Appleton people will jus’ think you were let out because your street was burning.
‘There’s panic in Toll-by-Day now, but that’s nothing compared to what there will be if we get the Luck out of the town. The men guarding the walls by day, they’re not like the Locksmiths, they’re just guards belonging to the mayor. Once they know the Luck has left, they’ll be too busy running to stop people leaving the town. Which means that you two can get out. And so can everybody else that wants to.
‘And then . . . you can even run off to Mandelion if you still want to. Nobody will chase you, because with the Luck gone nobody will trust the bleedin’ bridge.’ Including Sir Feldroll’s troops, Mosca added in the privacy of her own head. A distrusted bridge meant a safe Mandelion.
‘I say we take the risk,’ Brand said after a pause. ‘If we do nothing, it sounds like the Locksmiths take over the town and the sun goes down on Toll forever, trapping everyone in the dark. If Toll falls . . . it might as well do it with a splash.’
Laylow looked more reluctant, but eventually nodded. ‘So, where is the Luck being held, then?’
‘I was hoping you might know,’ Mosca confessed. ‘You were runnin’ around the streets the hours of Yacobray looking for that radish after the rest of us were hidin’ and prayin’. Laylow – do you remember seeing anybody else out on the streets after we all ran away? Anything that could have been the Luck being kidnapped? Any sign of the Locksmiths doing anything funny?’
Laylow crooked an eyebrow at her.
‘You mean apart from jigging about in a ghostly great horse?’
Mosca blew out her cheeks and raised her eyes to heaven. ‘The horse,’ she muttered. ‘Oh, I might as well sell my brains to a surgeon for all the good they do me. A lamping great horse, big enough to hold a gang of men with swords – and a skinny Luck lad to boot, no doubt. Did you see where the horse went?’
Laylow nodded. ‘Headed north-east. After Brand hit the cobbles, I dragged him back up those steps.’ She shrugged. ‘’Twas all I could think of. The Jinglers’ Clatterhorse was on wheels so it could not follow, and the bravos inside could not get loose to give chase straight away. Bought us just enough time to duck under a bush and lie there mum while they ran about looking for us. I dared a peek though, when the Clatterhorse left at last, saw it heading towards Blithers Yard. Wondered why it wasn’t snatching vegetables as it went.’
‘Probably went there to hide Paragon somewhere first, then came back for the tax-turnips.’ Mosca bit her lip. ‘Well . . . that narrows it down to Blithers Yard, anyway. Not far from the fires. And if the Locksmiths get the fright like everyone else they might run to pluck Paragon from his hide-hole to take him somewhere safer.’
‘So – this was as far as your plan went.’ Laylow grimaced, and rasped her calloused palm back and forth over her cropped hair. There was no contempt in her tone, however; it was just a blunt statement of the case. ‘All right, we search Blithers Yard, and keep a lookout for the Locksmiths trying to move this lad. I take the roofs, Mosca the streets and Brand stays here. What does this Luck look like?’ She listened intently as Mosca described Paragon.
‘And if you see him before I do,’ Mosca finished, ‘then . . . tell him the Soot-girl sent you to set him free.’
Laylow, who had put her head out through the door to peer at the roofs, ducked it back in again. ‘We need to shake our shambles and move – this hubbub will not last forever.’ She glanced back at Brand and looked irresolute.
‘I will do very well here,’ Brand reassured her hastily. ‘Go!’
Eponymous Clent had not been quite sure what manner of disaster he would be facing when he approached the walls of Toll under his white flag. If, as her letter suggested, Mosca had approached Aramai Goshawk about returning to Toll in order to revenge herself upon Beamabeth Marlebourne, he did not give much for her chances. Even in the unlikely event that Goshawk had let her live and helped her inside the town, he thought it most probable that by now Beamabeth had used her silken influence to have Mosca thrown into prison, possibly for the ‘theft’ of a lilac gown. For this reason he had asked to re-enter the town as an ambassador, who could not be so easily imprisoned, to see whether words would extricate his wayward secretary.
She is an insufferable burden, he had muttered to himself, but I suppose I cannot leave her trapped in a cell in a burning town.
However, the escort that met him at the gates made no mention of Mosca having been hauled off to the Grovels, and Clent started to wonder whether his uncharacteristic impulse of loyalty had been a blind and futile one. Unfortunately his escort did not seem inclined to let him bob them a bow and duck out of the town gates again, and instead insisted on escorting him through the streets, which Clent could not help noticing were filled with a good deal of smoke and noise.
He reached the castle courtyard to find the mayor in the middle of a stand-up row with a number of subordinates and in no temper to talk to ambassadors.
‘Tearing the faces off the houses? Well, stop them! We cannot have nightlings running around the streets! There is no danger of anyone burning to death! The Luck will protect the town. Tell everybody to go back to their homes and behave in a civilized fashion!’ Tiny furry fragments of ash chased through the grass at his feet.
Seated by the door with her sketchbook was Beamabeth, who flinched very slightly when she saw Clent, and then gave him her usual sweet smile, but there was something flat about the expression in her eyes, something appraising. He made haste to her side.
‘Miss Marlebourne, what luck!’ He thought she winced almost imperceptibly at the word ‘luck’. ‘I was afraid I might miss you.’
‘Mr Clent! I thought you had left town.’
‘Without bidding farewell to Toll’s most precious jewel? Unthinkable. We owe you at least that much.’
Clent had the satisfaction of seeing a glimmer of unease and uncertainty pass through Beamabeth Marlebourne’s eyes.
She was confused by his return, he guessed. She was gauging him, trying to work out what cards he had up his sleeve. For now he might be able to keep her off balance by smiling meaningfully and dropping hints, delaying the moment in which she realized that she held all the cards, and that his well-brushed sleeves held nothing but his arms.
‘Wait – this door has been broken in already. Have the people left?’
Brand, who had lolled back on to his mattress in a state of helpless torpor, fought to open his eyes and look towards the voice. He could just make out two dark and fuzzy silhouettes against the door. Perhaps they would not see him.
‘Look, over on the bed! An invalid! We cannot leave him here – the win
d is so changeable. Let us take him to the surgeon.’
The one time Brand needed daylighters to be callous, here they were rescuing him from the dark safety of his stop-hole and dragging him into the daylight where he could be recognized. He tried to protest when strong arms lifted him and his mattress, but his voice and limbs were too weak to prevent them bearing him outside.
He flinched as a shaft of daylight fell across his face. There was a gasp from one of his mattress bearers.
‘Wait – I have seen him before – this is Appleton! The radical! The man who kidnapped Miss Beamabeth!’
The mattress was set down roughly on the cobbles, and Brand opened his eyes to find himself confronted by the uncomfortable ends of a bill-hook, a rake, a cleaver and a chisel. The terror in his enemies’ faces suddenly tickled him unbearably, and despite the pain in his side he started to laugh, so breathlessly and helplessly that the other four took a step back, evidently fearing madness.
‘Yes,’ he choked. ‘The radical. The terrible radical.’ The absurdity was too much for him. ‘Bravo! You have captured the great Brand Appleton, the King of the Radicals! The mayor will be very proud of you. Ow.’ He clasped his hand to his side as his laughter threatened to reopen his wound. The very hopelessness of his position made him feel free and giddy all of a sudden. He was at death’s door, but his captors were the ones that seemed terrified.
‘We should take him to the mayor,’ whispered the billhook wielder.
‘Yes, to the mayor and his saintly daughter.’ Brand gave them a bruised and crazed grin. ‘What are you waiting for? Take me to them – do you think I will tell anyone but the mayor about my crimes? All these flames – that was me too, did you not know?’