Free Twilight Robbery by Frances Hardinge Page B

the main chance, hopping through the rubble of stones and tired figures like magpies, offering a meagre price for anything the wanderers had left to sell – their boots, their heirlooms, their hair. Mosca’s heart lurched as she wondered whether the little riches in Mistress Bessel’s sock would be enough.
    Mosca caught at the sleeve of one of the ‘buyers’ as he passed. He cast a quick and watery eye over her stolen handkerchiefs, then a shrewd and watery eye over Mosca herself. The price he named was a pittance, and Mosca felt herself flush. Clearly he had guessed they were stolen.
    ‘All right, my little linnet, I’ll add a bit more if you’ll throw in the goose.’ His smile was probably meant to be winning.
    ‘No!’ Mosca’s cry was echoed by Clent, who took her by the shoulder and guided her away from the haggler. ‘Trust me, sir,’ Clent added over his shoulder, ‘I am doing you the greatest of services.’
    ‘Mr Clent,’ whispered Mosca, ‘what shall we do if the money is short? Mr Clent?’
    Clent had glanced over his shoulder and frozen, one hand creeping to his cravat as though he feared to find a noose there. Mosca risked a look behind her and felt her heart plummet like a stunned starling.
    Struggling to the top of the track and into the shanty village was a familiar figure, wisps of auburn hair escaping from its mob cap, its freckled face strawberry-red with anger and effort. It was Mistress Jennifer Bessel. She did not appear to have spotted them yet, but she was barely twenty yards away and it could only be a matter of time.
    Both Mosca and Clent instinctively ducked to avoid her view, and Mosca offered no resistance when Clent grabbed her wrist and dragged her away into the crowd and towards the gatehouse.
    Once in the thick of the crowd, Mosca dared to raise herself on tiptoes, curious to see if she could peer past the gatehouse and catch a glimpse of the river and bridge, or perhaps even Toll on the far shore. However, here the crowds were denser and more urgent, and one short girl had no hope of seeing past the crush of adult bodies.
    Worse still, there was little chance of two new arrivals pushing their way to the front. The shrill tones of Mistress Bessel were now all too audible. By the sound of it, she was mere yards behind them, and asking after ‘a girl with a goose’.
    ‘Coming through! Coming through! Message for the guards!’ Clent called out hastily, and his words carved a narrow pass through the throng. When Mosca, Clent and Saracen reached the front, they found what looked like half a dozen guards holding the crowds back from the portcullis and the great door behind it.
    Arms aching with Saracen’s weight, Mosca watched with her heart in her mouth as the coins were counted out of Clent’s purse one by one into the hand of the leader of the guard. There was a pause. The coins were stirred with a forefinger. A nod.
    As they were allowed past the line of guards the mood of the crowd changed, and the glances cast upon them became outraged, even hostile, as if they had broken a rule somehow by having enough money.
    A cranking grind, and the portcullis was winched a yard or so clear of the ground, and Mosca and Clent were encouraged to duck under it while the guards held the rest of the crowd at bay. They were through the gate, and the portcullis began lowering behind them, inch by jolting inch.
    ‘Stop!’
    Mosca flinched at the bellowed word and spun around. Pushing her way through the crowd behind them, she could see Mistress Bessel, her ice-blue eyes fixed upon Mosca’s face.
    ‘That’s her!’ Mistress Bessel jabbed a finger in her direction. ‘That’s them – the thieves – the skirling bandrishes! Raise the portcullis again! There is a magistrate in Grabely who—’
    ‘Sorry, madam.’ The guard touched his forelock. ‘These people have just paid entry – they are in Toll now. The Grabely magistrate has no sway here.’
    ‘What?’ Mistress Bessel stared in