Poets are, as a matter of fact, natural spies. Nondescript in appearance, they're quick, ever-watchful, and shifty in their skins. Practised at fleeing, and at giving pursuit. Likely to reach for a pen that fires a dart. Likely, too, to cross each other's paths in out-of-the-way places, and exchange some vital capsule of information. Most importantly, perhaps, they are experts at slipping the grip of a rival spymaster, who is their own dark double – for a time, at least. And when called out of retirement to do their bit – well, take any reticence with a pinch of salt...