The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 (16 page)

  Trumpets blared. Mal craned his neck to see over the black velvet caps of the noble lords who crowded the royal pavilion. Dozens of small barges and wherries rowed back and forth at a discreet distance from the wharf, crammed to the gunwales with eager spectators. Beyond them, a ceremonial barge decked out in blue and gold was gliding across the murky water, oars dipping to the beat of a pair of deep-voiced drums.

  Though English in design, the vessel was manned entirely by skraylings. Most were tall by skrayling standards and broadshouldered, clad in geometric-patterned tunics of dark blue and white. In the centre stood two older skraylings in merchants' robes and a dark-haired figure wearing vivid blue. More than that he could not make out at this distance.

  "Historic day, eh, Catlyn?"

  Mal turned to see Leland beaming at him. Lodge hovered at his elbow, clutching a sheaf of papers.

  "Oh?" Mal said.

  "First time their ambassador has set foot in England."

  "Didn't he set foot in Southwark before boarding the barge?" The words slipped out before Mal could stop himself.

  Leland flushed.

  "A trivial detail. This is the landing history will recall."

  Of course. This is what will get put in the chronicles, not some unceremonious disembarking observed only by dockhands and wharf-rats. He fidgeted with his lace-trimmed cuffs, wishing his first introduction to a skrayling didn't have to take place in such a public manner.

  "The Master of the Queen's Music has outdone himself again," Leland said. He waved towards another awning, where a trio of flautists were doing their best to murder a rondeau.

  "Is that meant to be skrayling music?" Mal asked. It sounded little like the playing he had heard at the stockade.

  "It has a wondrous melancholy air, has it not?"

  The music was soon drowned out by the approach of the royal barge. As it came closer, the rhythm of the drums quickened into something almost dance-like. Mal was surprised to see that two of the skraylings were in the bows of the barge, leaping back and forth between the two drums and striking them with their bare hands. Two others in the aft clashed cymbals in a complicated counterpoint. The rest of the crew pounded on the deck with elaborately carved and ribbon-bedecked staves.

  The barge bumped against the jetty, and the crowd drew back. The drummers concluded their performance with a final flourish and the skrayling guards, as Mal supposed them to be, disembarked, rapping their staves on the stones as they went and chanting in their own tongue.

  The skrayling guards arranged themselves in two lines, their teeth bared in an unmistakable warning, and between them walked the guests of honour. The elders had the typical whitestreaked manes of their kind, and their faces were covered in swirling tattoos of a subtly different design to those of the guards. The leading figure, who must surely be the ambassador, wore long robes similar to those of English scholars, made of lapis blue brocade and fastened with a broad sash of white and gold. He was also a good deal younger than his companions, perhaps no older than Mal himself, though with a serene air that belied his age. He wore his black hair cropped short, and his face, though mottled pink and grey in a symmetrical pattern, had no tattoos at all. Without the patterns obscuring his features he looked, if anything, less human: the high-bridged, flattened nose and thin bluish lips were more reminiscent of a beast's muzzle, the pupils of his eyes more obviously oval than round. An Antilian? He certainly resembled Lodge's description of the city-dwellers.

  Leland stepped forward and cleared his throat.

  "Carlan rich, sen leeren. Calt toe-cure London an een tourak. Een carlan lish endeth toothache."

  The ambassador raised his eyebrows at this unexpected attempt to greet him in his own language, but said nothing. He waited until Leland had finished speaking, then bowed in the English fashion as gracefully as any courtier.

  "
Kaal-an rrish, Ingilandeth
," he said in a clear voice that carried to the back of the crowd, then added in English with only a slight sing-song accent, "We thank you for your kind welcome."

  A gasp ran around the assembled company. If a beast in the royal menagerie had spoken, they could hardly have been more astonished.

  "W-well, indeed, we are most honoured," Leland murmured. "I… Your Excellency, may I introduce you to His Highness the Prince of Wales and his noble guests?"

  Leland waved Thomas Lodge away, and ushered the skraylings towards the royal party. Out of the corner of his eye Mal saw the playwright turn scarlet with impotent rage at being robbed of his moment of glory.

  "Your Excellency," Leland said, "this is Robert, Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall and heir to the throne of England. Your Highness, this is…"

  "I am Outspeaker Kiiren of Shajiilrekhurrnasheth," he said, "and this is eldest of our clan, Judge Sekaarhjarret, and Chief Merchant Hretjarr."

  He gestured to the elders, who bowed awkwardly.

  "We are honoured to meet you, Lord Outspeaker," Robert drawled, "and your elders also. I trust your voyage was not too unpleasant?"

  The introductions droned on, each of the notables in the royal pavilion being presented in strict order of precedence. The visitors bowed to each one, the elders' faces inscrutable behind their masks of tattoos. The ambassador on the other hand seemed to take an interest in everyone and everything. Mal wondered if he was some kind of prince amongst his people, to be entrusted with such an important role so young.

 

Master Naismith had hired a boat to attend the ambassador's arrival, at a ridiculous price as far as Coby was concerned. She had been surprised by her master's extravagance until she discovered that Mistress Naismith and the other wives had insisted on being taken along as well, to see the Court in all its splendour. Thus it was that Tuesday morning found a dozen people squeezed into a boat meant for half as many.

  "You should have hired a larger vessel, Henry," Mistress Naismith said for the hundredth time, as they bobbed amongst the other spectators. "By my troth, if we are not all drowned it will be a miracle."

  Coby scanned the crowd of nobles and gentlemen gathered on the wharf, but could not see Master Catlyn. She hoped nothing was amiss.

  "There's my lord Suffolk," Naismith shouted over the noise of the crowd.

  They all waved their hats in the direction of the man in the great pavilion. Coby had seen their patron at the playhouse on several occasions, but he usually sat in the lords' box above and behind the stage, where he could be seen by the audience as clearly as the play itself. A tall man of middle years with grey in his sandy beard, he wore a well-cut suit of garnet-red silk, elegant but restrained. A younger man, taller still and fairer of hair but with an obvious family likeness, stood at his elbow. Was this the prodigal son Master Catlyn had told her about, now standing there in unity with his father? The skrayling ambassador seemed to be spreading peace by his very arrival in England.

  For a moment she thought Suffolk would not deign to notice them, but then he smiled and inclined his head in acknowledgment. Naismith bowed low, causing the boat to rock and the ladies to shriek.

  They watched as the ambassador and his companions were introduced to the royal party and courtiers. As usual, Coby paid little heed to the individuals; she was too busy storing away the details of their appearance in her memory. Her eye was caught by a middle-aged man whose heavily padded doublet and trunk hose only served to emphasise his spindly calves, whilst his purple-dyed beard clashed with his florid complexion. Such a look would be perfect for the role of the self-serving Lord Villuppo in
The Spanish Tragedy
.

  "Isn't that Catlyn?" Parrish asked, leaning over her shoulder and pointing.

  A slender man dressed in sombre black livery and bearing a long silver-hilted rapier was being introduced to the skraylings. As he swept the black velvet cap from his head and made a formal bow, her breath caught in her throat. He was even more handsome in uniform than in his threadbare doublet and slops. She chided herself for such foolish thoughts; they were worlds apart now and likely to stay that way.

  "He is a very picture of manly grace, is he not?" Parrish murmured in her ear.

  "I had not noticed," she replied coolly, praying her treacherous complexion would not give her away.

  "You dissemble very ill, my dear. I know you spent a great deal of time with him this summer, dallying in Paris Gardens." Parrish placed an arm around her shoulders. "And after I was so careful to warn you."

  "Nothing untoward took place between myself and Master Catlyn, I can assure you, sir."

  "If you say so."

  "I do say so. On my honour."

  She glanced around. Luckily the other actors and their wives were too absorbed in the spectacle on the riverbank to pay any attention to their little exchange.

  "Now, now, no need to be so stiff about it," he said. "Anyone would think you had a maidenhead to defend."

  Again he came too close to the truth. Perhaps the best way to get him off the scent was to let him think the worst. She gave an exaggerated sigh.

  "You are right, sir. I do love him, and I am ashamed of my unnatural desires." She gazed into his pale blue eyes. "Please, you will not tell anyone?"

  Parrish's teasing expression gave way to a smug grin.

  "I knew it!" He gave her shoulder a squeeze. "Never fear, your secret is safe with me."

  Coby turned back to the ceremony with a genuine sigh of relief. Her plan had worked for now, but she did not like to think what the consequences might be. She only hoped the actor would think twice about crossing swords – literal or figurative – with Master Catlyn.

 

"Your Excellency," said Leland, "this is Maliverny Catlyn, who has been appointed as your bodyguard whilst you sojourn in our city."

  Mal swept the velvet cap from his head and bowed low, determined to hide his nervousness at all costs. When he raised his head again, the ambassador was staring at him. He knew, Mal was certain of it. He knew about that night nine years ago and was about to denounce him in front of the entire Court. He quelled the instinct to bolt as he had done at the Catherine Wheel. Perhaps he was mistaken and this was his guilt speaking.

  Long moments passed, and still the skrayling held his gaze with inhuman amber eyes. A murmur, faint as a summer breeze, passed over the crowd.

  Leland coughed. "Your Excellency?"

  "Forgive my poor manners,
Catlyn-
tuur," Kiiren said. "Your service honours us."

  Mal inclined his head and forced a smile.

  "It is my honour to serve you, sir," he said with another bow.

  Ambassador Kiiren smiled back, showing neat, even teeth. No fangs? A memory of iron pincers, and a bloody trophy held aloft, flashed before Mal's eyes. Sweet Mother of God, surely not?

  The heralds blew a fanfare, and the princes rose from their seats.

  "If you would come this way, Your Excellency," Leland said, guiding the skrayling party into the procession that was beginning to form.

  Kiiren beckoned to his guards, who formed up before and behind him. Then he gestured to his new bodyguard to join them. Mal took up a position amongst the rearguard, heart still pounding from the confrontation with the ambassador, conscious of both the stares of the courtiers and the closeness of so many skraylings. This was something he was just going to have to get used to, he told himself.

  The Prince of Wales led the company in solemn procession along the wharf to the main entrance of the castle complex. As they passed the Lion Tower the beasts roared, causing the skraylings to halt and look around them in alarm.

  "No fear," Mal told the skrayling guards, hoping they knew Tradetalk. "No fear. All good."

  They looked doubtful, but after a brief discussion in their own tongue they moved on, much to Mal's relief.

  The procession continued across the moat, through the outer ward and under the Garden Tower, and thence to the innermost ward and the newly refurbished Great Hall. Yeoman warders in bright ceremonial uniforms flanked the doors, which stood wide open.

  Inside, long tables had been set out covered in snowy linen and laden with baskets of bread and flagons of wine. The ambassador was invited to sit at the high table on Prince Robert's right hand; Mal took up his station behind Kiiren's chair, a not very subtle reminder to all present that the Crown took threats to this alliance most seriously. The elders were seated at the near end of the lower table and the skrayling guards lined up against the side wall, as close to their masters as was courteous.

  Whilst the rest of the Court filed in, Mal stared up at the painted beams, trying to ignore the rumblings of his stomach. The flautists appeared on the makeshift minstrels' gallery and took up their positions. Trumpets sounded again, and a troupe of serving-men began carrying in an endless stream of silver and gold platters.

  Mal tried not to stare and drool. Even his Cambridge college's Christmas Feast had not had so many courses and subtleties. There were pies in the shape of skrayling ships, with sails of crisp-fried bacon; open tarts filled with candied sweet potatoes and other exotic vegetables from the New World; and wines of every colour and type that Leland's cellars could supply. The latter were being consumed in larger quantities than even the most profligate courtiers were accustomed to; some of the dishes had been spiced with the fierce pepper favoured by the skraylings, and many a lord's face flushed and streamed with sweat as a result. The noise in the hall was deafening, quite drowning out the flautists in the gallery – which was no bad thing, to Mal's mind. One could take a compliment too far.