The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 (27 page)

  "Oi, where are you going?" the guard shouted.

  He blocked Ned's escape with his polearm and glared at him in what Ned assumed was meant to be a menacing manner. It might have worked better if the man had not possessed a nose like an over-ripe strawberry and the flaccid build of a habitual drunk.

  "Having second thoughts, are we? Makes me wonder what's so important you come all the way here in the pouring rain."

  Ned slumped against the wall in defeat. He just wanted this to be over with.

  After what felt like an age, the other guard reappeared, crossing the causeway at a brisk walk. Mal was not with him. Ned resigned himself to having to go further into the fortress. This plan was getting worse by the minute.

  The guards conferred in low tones, and the red-nosed man laughed.

  "It's more than whips he'll get where he's gone, poor sod," he said to his companion, just loud enough for Ned to hear. "I bet you a pint to a bucket of piss he'll not be able to sit down till Michaelmas."

  "What's going on?" Ned asked, dread curdling in his stomach.

  "You're too late," the other guard told him. "He ain't here."

  "What do you mean, not here?"

  "He's gone. Skraylings up and left this afternoon, and took Catlyn with them."

  "Left? Where did they go?" He had sudden visions of Mal being shipped off to Sark, or even the New World.

  "How should I know? Now clear off, before the curfew bell rings and we have to arrest you."

  Ned turned and set off for home. There was nothing for it; he would have to go along with Kemp's plan, and God have mercy on his soul.

 
 
 

Coby stood on the balcony, watching the rain pour down into the theatre yard. The actors had finally gone home to their suppers after spending the entire day in rehearsal. They seldom had the luxury of such lengthy preparation, but with the contest only days away, Master Naismith was doing everything in his power to ensure they were as ready as their patron desired. The actors seemed to have forgotten the business with the poem already, and even Master Parrish was back with the company as if nothing had happened. Master Naismith was not so complacent, however, and had bade Coby stand watch again, even though it was the Lord's Day tomorrow.

  Well, tonight she was not going to sleep in the open gallery and get rained on, that was for certain. Not when there was a snug box-office to sleep in, and no one around to gainsay her. Why carry the cushions down to the gallery, when she could make her bed right here?

  She went inside, shrugged out of her doublet and shoes then, after a moment's indecision, pulled up her shirt and began unlacing her corset. Though she had grown accustomed to wearing the constricting garment, it still itched on warm, humid nights like this, and she was glad to put it aside for a while. After all, it wasn't as if anyone was here to see her. Comfortable at last, she tucked her shirt back into her hose, stretched out on the cushions and closed her eyes.

 

Their departure from the Tower was heralded by a low rumble of thunder, and moments later the heavens opened. The little gull-headed boat that ferried them across the river offered no cover from the weather, and Mal found himself wishing for one of the royal barges with its canopied seats. The guards seemed untroubled by it, however, and bent their backs to the oars without complaint.

  By the time they reached the south bank of the Thames he was soaked to the skin and shivering in delayed reaction to the flogging. One of the guards pounded on the gates with his staff until they opened, and the ambassador's party splashed across the little drawbridge. Walkways made of wooden planks raised a few inches above the ground criss-crossed the encampment, bridging runnels that guided the rainwater back into the moat. Apart from themselves and the gate guards, the camp could have been deserted, all its inhabitants having apparently retreated to the shelter of their tents.

  Mal assumed he and Kiiren were being led straight to the enormous pavilion that rose in the centre of the encampment like a mother hen over her brood of chicks. Instead the guards turned aside at the last moment and escorted them to an otherwise unremarkable-looking tent. In size it was not unlike the ordinary soldiers' campaign tents he was accustomed to, about a dozen feet across and slightly higher than a tall man, though it was round instead of square. Next to the tent stood a large shrub of a kind Mal had never seen before, with enormous drooping oval leaves that were just beginning to turn yellow. Somewhere nearby a slow, mournful melody was being picked out on a stringed instrument. He felt like he had crossed the seas to the New World and entered the skraylings' own country.

  One of the guards pointed at Mal's feet. "No shoe," he said.

  When Mal had removed his boots, the guard held up the tent flap and gestured for them to go inside. Mal made the sign of the cross and whispered a prayer, then ducked through the entrance in his stockinged feet.

  The tent was lit with the same lightwater lamps that the skraylings had used at the Tower. Panels of azure-blue silk hung from the sides of the tent, catching the lamplight on their glossy weave. Each panel had a different design on it, though what they were intended to represent, Mal could not make out. On one side of the tent stood a low table and some kind of enclosed brazier which gave out a welcome heat.

  The tent smelt strongly of tobacco smoke, mingled with the dry musk of skrayling and another scent Mal could not place. He was uncomfortably aware of the fact he was dripping rainwater onto the expensive Turkish rugs that covered the floor. Kiiren began stripping off his wet clothes and was soon down to singlet and breeches.

  "Please to take off your shirt and sit."

  Mal peeled off the wet, blood-stained garment he had hastily donned before their departure from the Tower, wincing as the fabric parted company with the weals on his back.

  "I am sorry you could not be tended more soon," Kiiren said, taking a bundle of linens from a skrayling who had appeared at the tent flap.

  "It's nothing," Mal muttered. He was just glad to be out of that place.

  The light shifted as Kiiren knelt down behind him and raised a lamp to examine his wounds. The skrayling's hissing intake of breath sent waves of shame through him. Mal had witnessed plenty of men flogged during his time in the army, but he guessed Kiiren had never seen anything like it before. He longed to make some jest, break the tension, but the words stuck in his throat.

  Something ice cold touched Mal's back and it was all he could do not to cry out.

  "What is that?" he gasped. A sharp woody scent began to fill the tent.

  "
Ashaarr
."

  Mal wondered if that was the name of the stuff in the bottle, or if Kiiren were trying to hush him. He braced himself as he heard the slosh of liquid again. But where the stuff had first touched his shoulder the pain was already fading, to be replaced by a pleasant warmth. He breathed shallowly, trying not to flinch away every time Kiiren dabbed the searing fluid on another cut. Eventually all his wounds were salved, and Kiiren corked the bottle and put it aside.

  "We must cover these," Kiiren said. "You English are so dirty."

  He began winding a smooth bandage around Mal's torso.

  "Are you angry with me, sir?" Mal asked, trying to take his mind off Kiiren's closeness. The skrayling's breath was hot on his raw back.

  Kiiren sighed. "Not with you. With – Leland, and
Ingilandeth
. Unkindness to one of our clan is unkindness to all."

  "But–" Mal twisted round. "I am not of your clan."

  "You are one of us." Kiiren reached out and traced the line of Mal's cheek, his eyes never leaving Mal's own. "You are touched by Erishen, I can feel it."

  Mal willed himself not to pull away. "Is this…
Erishen
your god?"

  "He is light of my soul," Kiiren whispered.

  Mal swallowed.

  "Whatever you think, sir," he said, as politely as he could, "you are wrong."

  Kiiren lowered his hand. "I fear so." He picked up a heap of folded cream wool and held it out towards Mal. "Please to put this on."

  Mal took the robe gratefully and, turning his back on the skrayling, stripped off his wet hose and stockings. The garment was very like the one the ambassador wore in the evenings, after he changed out of his ceremonial robes. Mal felt a little self-conscious wearing it, but at least it was dry and warm.

  The tent flap opened again. One of the skrayling guards who had accompanied them back from the Tower crouched there, his eyes lowered in respect. He spoke briefly to Kiiren, who beckoned to Mal.

  "Come, it is time."

  He handed Mal a pair of sheepskin moccasins, then ducked through the tent flap.

  "Time for what?" Mal asked, hopping after him with one moccasin on.

  Four of the guards waited outside, this time with a canopy to hold off the rain, and Mal and Kiiren were escorted to the central pavilion. Inside, it was packed with skrayling men of all ages, from youths of perhaps fourteen or so to silver-haired elders. The central area was empty; around its periphery, tall wooden standards stood at intervals, hung with three or four of the coloured lamps, whose light turned the skraylings' tattooed features into tiger masks of black and silver.

  "Wait here, Catlyn-
tuur
," Kiiren said as they reached the inner edge of the ring of skraylings.

  "What's going on?" Mal asked.

  "Elders of clans wish to know what happen today, and why we are here," Kiiren whispered.

  The young ambassador walked into the centre of the open space, and the crowd fell silent. He began his account of events, pointing northwards at intervals. Mal caught the occasional name here and there, mainly "Leland". Judge Scarheart, Chief Merchant Greatyard and the other elders seated in the front row of the crowd asked many questions. Kiiren's account went on for a lot longer than seemed necessary to describe such a simple incident.

  At first Mal could not make head nor tail of what was going on, then he realised it was not so different from the debates at university. If one ignored the words and watched the expressions and gestures, it was possible to make out the general intent, if not the detail.

  Kiiren appeared to be on the defensive, as if he were trying to justify his decision to leave, but without a sound argument to back it up. Mal began to think he had been wrong about Kiiren's status; throughout the debate, participants referred back to the judge, as if seeking his expert opinion on a point of contention.

  Eventually Kiiren came over to where Mal was sitting and held out his hand, gesturing for him to rise. Mal followed him into the centre of the circle, wondering what this was all about. Suddenly the ambassador seized the shoulder of his robe and pulled it down. Mal glanced at him in alarm.

  "Do you neked," Kiiren murmured in Tradetalk, smiling.

  Mal let the robe fall to the ground, so that he was wearing nothing but his linen drawers. Kiiren untied the knots holding the bandages in place. As the strips of linen fell around Mal's feet, those of the crowd sitting behind Mal gasped. The ambassador put a hand on Mal's shoulder and turned him gently so all could see.

  "Was that necessary?" Mal muttered to Kiiren, clutching the robe to his chest, as they returned to the front row of the crowd and sat down.

  Kiiren smiled apologetically. "Our people must see what is done, so they understand why we leave."

  Judge Scarheart now took the floor. This time Mal did not even try to follow the discussion. He sat, eyes downcast, whilst Kiiren rewound his bandages, trying to ignore all the stares the two of them were attracting. He felt totally out of his depth, alone amongst a people whose customs made no sense to him. Men who took on the role of women; an ambassador who was at once revered by his people and yet as humble as Our Lord… He caught himself at this blasphemous thought. He must not allow himself to be led into heresy and damnation by a skrayling, no matter how charming.

  The skraylings fell silent, then one by one they began to remove their necklaces, placing them on the ground at their feet. Mal glanced at Kiiren, but the young ambassador was too intent on his own part in this apparent ceremony. Once the crowd was still again, Judge Scarheart began chanting, low and soft. Others took up the song and soon the tent reverberated with their joined voices, rising and falling like waves on the shore. Memory stirred, and a terrible loneliness swept over him. Without thinking he reached up and removed the earring, placed it in his lap…

  He was there, under the strange starless sky, but he could no longer see the moor with its distant lights. A wall of mist surrounded him, not quite close enough to touch. Shapes swirled within it, and he thought he heard voices, but when he turned to locate the speaker he found only an echoing silence, like the memory of words just spoken.

  He ought to be afraid, the creatures were still out there, he was sure of it, but somehow he knew the mist protected him. Together we are strong, the mist voices seemed to say.

  "Who are you?" he shouted, but no sound reached his ears.

  A brighter patch of mist weaved back and forth in front of him, as if examining him. He was reminded of the blinding light from before, only this time it was veiled, a pearly glow like the moon behind clouds. The light retreated, and he plunged into the mist after it. The light flared around him, engulfing him, drowning him in shining water like the skraylings' lamps. He cried out – and woke with a start in the musty dimness of the little tent.

  Kiiren was kneeling by the brazier, watching him intently.

  "Wha' happened?" Mal mumbled, sitting up and rubbing his face. He felt as if he'd woken from a long fever.