Free Twilight Robbery by Frances Hardinge Page A

come into line sooner or later. The mention of money had brought Clent into line, and quickly enough the long hand would overtake the short and run off into wilder plans, things that Mosca had not even considered.
    ‘Yes . . . yes.’ Clent’s tone was circumspect. ‘You are quite right, it is our duty. We must go to Toll, we must warn the damsel of her danger, point an accusing finger at her would-be abductors, modestly claim our just reward and use it to pay our way out of Toll on the far side. And then! Ah, the fair counties beyond! The warmer winds, the trees bowing under late-swelling fruit, the streams gleaming with trout, and above all the welcoming smiles of—’
    ‘People who don’t know us properly,’ finished Mosca.
    ‘Exactly.’
    Mosca and Clent parted company with the cart outside a village called Drinksoll and continued their journey on foot.
    Before long the route started to climb, and after an hour or so the first straggling pines and cedars came down to meet the road, their foliage wild and feathery, their trunks ankle deep in bracken and soft dunes of dry reddish pine needles. Gradually, although the air was still, Mosca became aware that she could hear a breeze-like breath in the distance, so relentless that it might have been a tickle of trapped air in her ear.
    They did not have the road to themselves for long. Soon they were overtaking carts dragged by stocky little ash-and-milk-mottled mountain ponies, their blinkers tagged with ribbons and bells to stop evil spirits calling to them from the roadsides. Alongside them tramped figures on foot, many muffled against the cold in cloaks and shawls of yellowing Grabely wool, their backs laden with packs and pots, baskets and spinning wheels. Few talked, and there was a nervous, exhausted urgency in the manner of every traveller, their hopes trodden as thin as their shoe leather. Clearly Mosca’s party was not the only one determined to escape the land between the rivers before winter set in properly.
    The road climbed until Mosca’s calves burned, and the soft roar in the back of her ears grew louder and louder. As they neared the very top, it became several roars in one. A long churning bellow, a thunderous echo, a thin and delicate hiss. Finally the road cleared the trees, and they emerged on to the stark, stony, sun-gilded crest of a knife-edge ridge.
    Mosca blinked, blinded by the sun, her breath still recovering. Down on one side of the ridge, back the way they had come, was the county that had shunned and half-starved her for the last few months. Its grey stone villages were little more than gravelly blots, its beet and pumpkin fields furrowed patches of brown corduroy, its drystone walls rippling over the lumpish land like seams in cloth.
    On the top of the ridge itself a shanty village perched like a shabby hat. Here, it was clear, the river of desperation had been dammed. Families skulked huddled under the same cloak, all eyes bleak with waiting. On the far side of the ‘village’ she could see what appeared to be a large gatehouse of ochre-stained brick, beyond which the ground seemed to drop away. The roar which had been seething at the corner of her hearing was much louder now. Mosca guessed that this gatehouse guarded Toll’s precious bridge at the end furthest from the town itself. Looking up Mosca could see arrow slits and punctures in the stonework for pouring boiling oil upon attackers.
    Listening to the murmurs around them, Mosca soon worked out the reason for the atmosphere of despondency. The admission toll had been raised, and many had trekked here for miles only to find that they did not have enough money to enter. Some families seemed to have been camping here for several days, each morning sending down a few of their number to hunt out odd jobs and try to scratch together the last few coins they needed. There were of course a number of people there who had come specifically to ‘help’ them. Men and women with an eye to