The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 (17 page)

  "You speak English very well," the Prince of Wales said.

  "Thank you, Highness," Kiiren replied. "I learn from English travellers to our land. John Cabot and his men."

  The prince paused, cup halfway to his lips. Some of the other guests glanced at one another.

  "Cabot's second expedition disappeared nearly a hundred years ago," Prince Robert said quietly.

  The skrayling inclined his head in agreement and smiled. The prince covered his confusion with a feigned cough, and dropped the conversation. After a discreet pause the other guests began murmuring together over this extraordinary revelation. From the little Mal could overhear, most dismissed it as a misunderstanding. The foreigners might parrot English speech, but only a fool would expect them to make sense.

  The Duke of Suffolk cleared his throat.

  "If the effort of speaking our tongue grows wearisome, Your Excellency, you are welcome to use the services of my man Lodge. He speaks Vinlandic very well, I am told."

  "Thank you for your kind offer, my lord, but I am
senlirren
. Outspeaker. It is my duty to speak for my people; I have trained my whole life for this."

  Suffolk's face was a mask of politeness. He could hardly press Lodge's services upon the ambassador further, but the snub clearly rankled. Mal wondered what the duke felt he had to prove. He was already a member of the Privy Council and a confidant of both the Queen and her elder son. On the other hand he was not a young man, and perhaps he feared a fall from grace once Prince Robert succeeded to the throne.

  After yet another showpiece dish – a roast peacock in gilded pastry, with its tail feathers arranged as if in life – had been brought in and presented to the bemused ambassador, Leland got to his feet, and the trumpets blared.

  "Pray silence for His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales!"

  A hush fell over the company, then everyone stood up in a deafening scraping of wood on tiles.

  "Once again, I welcome our guests to this our fair city," Robert said, when the noise had died down, "and to the seat of my ancestors of blessed memory. May this be only the first of many visits, which will confirm and seal the alliance between our two peoples for all time."

  He continued in this vein at some length. Mal scanned the company, wondering how many of the courtiers shared their prince's sentiments. Some had profited immensely from the new goods and ideas brought to England by the skraylings, but many felt threatened by the skraylings' mysterious devices, and even more by their dogged refusal to convert to Christianity. The erstwhile interpreter, Thomas Lodge, watched the ambassador from his place at one of the lower tables, his complexion flushed with wine and ill-concealed jealousy.

  "… and in token of that friendship and fellow-feeling," Prince Robert was saying, "I hereby announce that there will be a contest between the city's three finest companies of players, to be judged by Your Excellency, if you would do us the honour."

  Mal glanced from one patron to another. Prince Arthur's regal calm was spoilt by the twinkle of boyish delight in his blue eyes, the Lord High Admiral sat back in his chair with a confident smile on his face, and even Suffolk's grim visage softened a little at the compliment to his retainers.

  "This sharing of tradition is most pleasing to us, Your Highness," Ambassador Kiiren said, and bowed low.

  The prince inclined his head in acknowledgment and took his seat. At this signal, servants began clearing away the dishes, and the courtiers took advantage of the bustle to gossip about the contestants' relative merits.

  When the servants were done, Leland stood up and cleared his throat.

  "It is my great honour, sir, to be your host for your visit. You are no doubt weary after your long journey; allow me to escort you to your quarters."

  Mal sent up a silent prayer that the skraylings would baulk at being housed in a dismal fortress, but the saints were not on his side today.

  "Thank you, Sir Leland," Kiiren said. "We are greatly honoured by your hospitality. As we say in my homeland, 'Friendship is forged in cooking-fire'."

  "Ah, yes, indeed," Leland replied. "Very… profound, sir. Catlyn, will you lead the way?"

 

Mal escorted the ambassador's party up the steps to the nowfamiliar apartments. Two of the ambassador's attendants followed him through the door, carrying a large trunk made of dark polished wood. They set it in the middle of the room, then left again. Another trunk followed, and another, then four more skraylings appeared carrying armfuls of some kind of matting. This latter was laid before the hearths in both rooms, after the rushes had been swept aside. From one of the trunks the skraylings brought forth several small translucent bowls which they placed on the hearths and tables in both rooms and filled with clear liquid that soon began to glow like the lamps of the stockade.

  So that was their magic. An alchemical secret – and a bargaining chip to be kept back for future negotiations? England's enemies would certainly love to get their hands on anything that made the creation and control of fire – and therefore guns – easier and more efficient.

  At last the attendants seemed to be satisfied the rooms were comfortable, and all but two of them retreated to the dining room. Mal breathed out, a deep breath he had been unaware of holding. Kiiren looked around, an expression of puzzlement plain upon his face. Mal cleared his throat. They are just people, he told himself, in a strange land far from home.

  "How can I help you, Your Excellency?" he asked. As an afterthought, he made an obeisance in the skrayling fashion, as he had seen the elders do, inclining his head back and to his right rather than bending forward. It felt like he was inviting a blow. He straightened up hurriedly, discomfited by the experience. As a gesture of submission, it was far more effective than any bow.

  "Perhaps you can tell me where I sleep?" Kiiren said.

  Mal led him to the bedchamber, trying to shake off the feeling of vulnerability his action had aroused. He held the curtains of the bedstead aside whilst the ambassador peered at the interior, head cocked on one side. Was the young skrayling really so ignorant of English customs, Mal wondered, or was he waiting to see Mal make a fool of himself?

  "It's a bed," Mal said. "You sleep on it."

  "But it is so high," Kiiren said at last. "How do you not fall off in sleep?"

  "You… just don't," Mal replied in some confusion, gesturing at the wide expanse of mattress. It made the bed he shared with Ned look like a child's cot.

  "It is not our custom to sleep this way."

  "I will speak to Sir James," Mal said. "Perhaps the mattress could be moved to the floor, though I'm afraid Your Excellency may find it very draughty."

  "What is this word, 'draf-tee'? It was not taught to me."

  Along with a great many others, no doubt. Perhaps he should offer to help the ambassador expand his vocabulary in new and interesting directions… He dismissed the thought with an inward smile. Leland would not thank him for teaching the Ambassador of Vinland to curse like a Billingsgate fishwife.

  "It means wind coming in through a crack in the wall, or under a door," he said instead.

  The ambassador nodded. "And you will sleep in next room, in other bed?"

  Mal recalled that it would be empty now Lodge was no longer needed. Tempting, but…

  "No, sir. The lieutenant instructed me to sleep in here, the better to protect you."

  He reached under the bedstead.

  "See, there's a servant's bed here," he said, pulling out the wheeled truckle bed. "Cunning, eh?"

  The ambassador seemed impressed by this piece of human ingenuity, and ran the truckle bed in and out of its hiding place several times.

  "I will sleep here," he announced, pulling the bed out and kneeling on it. "You have high bed."

  "Ah, no, Your Excellency, that is most generous but I cannot, it would be unfitting–"

  "I insist."

  So, they did teach him the important words.

  "The truckle bed won't be very comfortable," he said as a last resort.

  "Nor will high bed, if I cannot sleep for fear of falling."

  Mal gave up the argument. How he was going to explain this to Leland, he had no idea.

 
 
 

Coby was getting ready for bed when a hammering on the front door made her start. The noise was followed by muffled shouting that sounded like threats. She ran down the stairs two at a time and found Master Naismith by the front door, looking worried.

  "Open up, Nocksmith!" the voice came again. "I know you're in there!"

  "Is that Master Lodge?" she asked her employer.

  She glanced around the hall, hoping to see a walking stick or cudgel to hand. It was high time she made use of Master Catlyn's lessons.

  "Aye," Naismith said. "Cup-shot as a rat in a malthouse, by the sounds of him."

  "Shouldn't he be at the Tower, aiding the skrayling ambassador?"

  Lodge banged on the door again.

  "Oi, open up, I say! Or shall I tell th'whole parish how you were cuckolded by–"

  Master Naismith unbolted the door and pulled Lodge inside. The playwright tripped on the threshold and made a grab at Coby, who dodged back so that he sprawled on the floor at her feet.

  "What is all this, Lodge?"

  The playwright stared up at him.

  "S'all your fault," he moaned. "I wish to God I'd never heard of Suffolk or his Men."

  "What happened?" Coby asked. "We saw you at the Tower this morning–"

  "Did you? Did you see it all?"

  "Well, not everything. We could not get close."

  "Passed over, I was." Lodge mumbled something incomprehensible that sounded more like Vinlandic than English. "Like, like a spare prick at a wedding. Three years, it took me, three puking years…"

  He demonstrated by rolling onto his side and throwing up on the floor.

  "Tell Betsy to get a bucket of water, lad," Master Naismith told her. "And a mop."

  A few minutes later, Coby returned with the unhappy maidservant in tow. Lodge was still moaning incoherently.

  "Help me get him to his feet," Master Naismith said.

  Coby took hold of one grimy sleeve and together they hauled him up. The playwright stank of brandywine, sweat and vomit. He stared from one to the other with unfocused eyes, then pulled himself free.

  "Give it back," he said, gazing wildly around him. "I know you have it here." Seeing the open door of the dining room, he staggered away from them. "Where do you keep 'em, eh? Locked up safe as virgins in a nunnery, I'll be bound."

  "What are you talking about?" Master Naismith called after him.

  Lodge spun around and nearly fell over again.

  "My play." He began to weep. "My beautiful, magnificent play."

  His knees crumpled and he sank to the floor, head in hands. Coby exchanged glances with her master, who shrugged. She crouched by Lodge.

  "What about your play?"

  "He shan't have it," Lodge muttered. "Wasted. All that work…"

  "Who shan't have it?"

  Lodge looked up, a cunning glint in his pale green eyes. "Suffolk. Snubbing me before the Prince of Wales. If he thinks he can profit from my hard-won scholola – schoraly – learning, he can think again."

  "Then you are not in the skrayling ambassador's service?"

  "He will have none of me."

  "Surely your services as a speaker of Vinlandic–"

  "His Eske – Excellency speaks the Queen's English. I am… superfluous." Lodge hid his face in his arms again.

  Coby got to her feet. All those lessons in Tradetalk she gave Master Catlyn, and the ambassador turns out to speak English? She began to laugh.

  "S'not funny!" Lodge scrambled to his feet. "How would you like it, eh? Eh?"

  He tried to grab the front of her doublet, but she caught hold of his wrist, ducked under his arm and threw him to the floor. Master Catlyn would have been proud, she thought, staring down at the limp body of the playwright. Then she realised he was not moving.

  "Sweet Jesu," she whispered, stepping back with her hand over her mouth. "I think I killed him."

  Betsy gave a shriek, dropped her mop and ran into the kitchen.

  "Nonsense," said Master Naismith. "He is passed out, nothing more."

  He was right. Lodge's chest was moving up and down steadily. A moment later the unconscious man began to snore.

  "What are we going to do with him?" she asked. "We can't turn him out into the street in this state."

  "We'll haul him out to the barn. He can sleep off the drink there, without troubling the rest of the household." He took hold of Lodge's shoulders. "Come, let us get him away so Betsy can finish cleaning up."

  Fortunately the street was almost empty, this close to curfew. Between the two of them they managed to manhandle the playwright's dead weight out of the front door and down the alley to the barn. They dumped Lodge on a pile of hay by the opposite wall where he lay, slack-jawed and snoring, as if in his own bed. Master Naismith wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve, then ushered her out of the barn and closed the door.

  "Aren't you going to lock him in, sir?" Coby asked as he turned back towards the house.

  "What, and have him cause more damage when he wakes? No, let him crawl home unremarked, like the misbegotten worm he is. If Lodge is out of favour, I want as little to do with him as possible."

  "Should we then look for another play?"

  "I fear it is too late. All we can do is carry on as planned, and hope His Grace's wrath is spent ere we come before him again."