Read Online Fly by Night by Frances Hardinge - Free Book Online Page A

Lady Shempoline in the eye—’
    ‘Silence!’
    Mosca followed her employer into the cramped darkness below the deck. The darkness was almost absolute, apart from a few strands of light visible above between the deck planks. She raised her hand and felt the coarse wooden underside of the deck and wished she hadn’t. It was like finding oneself inside a wooden coffin.
    The voice of the water was now far louder. Here you could hear the thoughts of the barge, how it clicked its tongue in annoyance as the wavelets slapped its flank, how it boomed and droned with effort as it strained against the ropes of the hauliers, the drag of the current.
    A crickle, a crackle. Somewhere not far from Mosca’s head lay Clent’s fistful of papers. Somewhere among them lay the Stationers’ letter. Even the few lines Mosca had read were enough to prove Clent a Stationer spy. This was her chance to gain something that might give her a hold over him. ‘Somink big,’ Palpitattle’s voice echoed in her head. Her long fingers reached out stealthily and touched a papery corner.
    ‘. . . elcome aboard . . . seems to be the probl . . .’ Partridge’s voice from on deck.
    ‘. . . orders of the Duke . . .’ Long-suffering tones from a stranger. ‘Nay, there’s no need to uncover all o’ the bales. If we search every inch of every boat we’ll not see our wives tonight . . .’
    Mosca carefully gripped the paper corner between thumb and fingertips, and started to pull at them. Almost immediately her knuckles took a sharp blow from what felt suspiciously like the knobbled features of Goodlady Agragap, He Who Frightens the Harelip Fairy from the Childbed.
    ‘. . . what are you looking for?’
    ‘. . . oofprints.’
    Mosca’s free hand closed around a bust of Mipsquall, the Patron of High-pitched Winds, and a moment later the saint’s twin horns were jabbed firmly into Clent’s clenched fist.
    ‘. . . what?’
    ‘. . . orders of the Duke. On account of the highwayman Clam Blythe. His Grace has made it known that his loyal people would never harbour such a rogue –’ there was a wealth of weariness and cynicism in these words – ‘so Blythe must be a-comin’ from lands across the river, an’ we’re to stop all boats to look for signs that they’ve given him an’ his men an’ their horses passage across to Mandelion. Hoofprints, dung, signs of horses where there should be none . . .’
    Below deck, stealthy move and countermove had disintegrated into a stifled tug of war. A faint rattle told Mosca that Clent had lost his grip on Goodlady Agragap, and was scrabbling for a new celestial ally. She lashed out, too slowly to prevent him snatching up St Whillmop of the Peaceful Dream. As St Whillmop’s bland and loving features struck Mosca painfully above the eyebrow, she could not help uttering a stifled mewl.
    The conversation on the deck hushed, and feet stirred above, quietly, carefully. The two fugitives froze in the darkness.
    ‘Just the goose puttin’ in his farthing’s worth,’ Partridge declared coolly. Saracen’s flabby steps were just audible above.
    There were a few more affable murmurs, the slap of palm in palm, and then a cry to the hauliers to take up their ropes. The Mettlesome Maid swung back into the current.
    Ten minutes later there was a whisper of foliage against the barge-side and a protest of ropes. Two deck planks were levered hastily, revealing a banner of blue sky and two scarlet faces.
    ‘Out,’ said Partridge.
    The hidden passengers clambered on to the deck, Clent triumphantly clutching his mangled papers to his chest, Mosca gingerly feeling the tender place on her forehead.
    ‘Off,’ said Partridge.
    There was a duet of protest. The land around was a featureless moor of gorse, without even a dirt track to be seen.
    ‘The route’s swarming withWatermen. Ye’ll pay what ye owe now.’ Partridge watched as Clent grudgingly placed a few coins in his hand. ‘And some more for this trouble,