Free Fly by Night by Frances Hardinge Page B

passengers out of the coach where we can see them.’
    He did not pass elegant comment on their predicament.
    ‘Take their purses. And their boots. And their wigs.’
    His eye did not twinkle. Mosca started to wonder if he was a real highwayman at all.
    As the coach driver and footmen clambered down to be searched, Blythe’s eye passed questingly over his other prisoners. The quivering trap-seller received a glance of contempt, and Blythe’s gaze slid off Mosca, to rest on Clent.
    ‘You. Open the carriage door and hand the passengers out.’
    Hesitantly, Clent laid his hand upon the carriage door.
    ‘My lady,’ he murmured softly through the window, ‘I fear your presence is required.’
    There was a pause. The moon-like face bloomed into view behind the curtain.
    ‘Do they mean to search us?’ There was no hint of outrage in the woman’s tone. It was simply a question.
    ‘I . . . think so. The captain has many men to pay, and seems too desperate to be nice.’
    ‘Unacceptable.’ The voice was soft, almost childish, but chill with resolution.
    ‘Unavoidable.’
    ‘Anything is avoidable. I have a pocket watch crafted in the shape of a pistol. If I give it to you along with my purse, you might take my money to the brigands’ leader, and then hold the watch against his head until my men are given back their pistols. You would be well rewarded.’
    Clent opened his mouth until it would have taken in a potato, then closed it again.
    ‘My lady, when a man takes a bullet, all the gold thread in the world will not sew him whole again.’
    ‘I am carrying an object of personal value with which I do not intend to part.’ Her face was now so close to the curtain that the lace left a fretwork of shadow across her cheeks. ‘Do you know who I am?’
    Clent gave a nod. Mosca saw that he was looking at a signet ring on the lady’s hand, and she was astonished to hear his next words, low and hurried.
    ‘My lady . . . if I can persuade the man not to have you searched, will you be willing to find employment for myself and my . . .’ he glanced at Mosca and visibly relented – ‘my secretary? We are poets and wordsmiths of no mean standing.’
    ‘Very well.’ The porcelain face receded from the window. ‘Let us see how you work your will with words.’
    ‘Pass me your purse, then, my lady.’ A pouch of purple silk slid through the window into Clent’s waiting hand.
    ‘Can you do it?’ hissed Mosca under her breath.
    ‘No.’ Clent took a shaky breath. ‘I need a moment to think.’ He pouted skywards for an instant, smoothing rain up his forehead and into his hair. After a few moments he gave Mosca a smile of slightly haggard hilarity. ‘Yes. Now I believe I can do it.’
    Blythe had been supervising the searching of the footmen, but now he gave Clent an ugly look of impatience.
    ‘What are you waiting for?’
    ‘There is no one within but a solitary lady – an invalid. She is taken with a fever, and is hurrying home to prevent it becoming dangerous. She has begged that you spare her the cruel humours of the evening air, and allow her to stay out of the rain. This is her purse –’ Clent raised the pouch above his head and advanced carefully – ‘and she says you are welcome to it, if you allow her the blessing of her health.’
    ‘The sooner she steps out and takes her place with the rest,’ Blythe muttered through chattering teeth, ‘the sooner she can be on her way.’
    Mosca advanced by Clent’s side, and was paid no more attention than if she had been a hedge sparrow.
    ‘I think you speak not as you mean. I have heard many stories of Captain Blythe, but nothing that would lead me to believe that he would let a defenceless flower of a girl suffer a lingering death amid agues and delirium. Those words were spoken by the bitter rain, by the holes in your boots, and by the bigger hole inside your belly – not by Captain Blythe. The man before me is too tall for such words.’
    Looking into