The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 (3 page)

  "You are in the Queen's debt, not mine. I'll instruct the purser to take it out of your pay."

  "Of course, sir."

  "Someone will be along presently to see you out, and return your blade. Until August, Master Catlyn."

  The moment Leland left, Mal sank down onto a nearby bench, shaking with relief. He had been so certain he was condemned to die – and dammit, Monkton had let him stew here all night in that belief. Did the captain know more than he was letting on, or was he judging Mal by his elder brother's reputation? And then there were the skraylings. If Leland found out why the very sight of the foreigners chilled his heart, he would be back in that cell faster than a sixpence into a whore's bodice.

  He wondered again why he had been chosen. It had not been Leland's decision, that was clear enough. So whose was it? With the Queen herself in seclusion, any orders most likely came from her advisors, the shadowy members of the Privy Council: Puckering, Cecil, Suffolk, Walsingham, Oxford, Pembroke and Effingham. Mal had the uncomfortable feeling he was being used as a pawn in a game where he could see neither board nor pieces, still less the players making their moves.

 
 
 

The cockerel's cry split the cool damp air, heralding the end of another all-too-brief night. Ned groaned and buried his head under the bolster. How much had they drunk last night? Next time he would stick to beer, regardless of who was paying. Speaking of which…

  He slid out of bed, wincing at the bruises: a parting gift the other night from a pair of disgruntled Tower guards. Rummaging around in Mal's discarded clothes, he found a familiar pair of worn slops, and in the pocket a purse heavy with gold. He counted the coins out slowly to avoid clinking them together. Almost three pounds, less the few shillings Mal had spent on wine and oysters by way of an apology. Where did he get hold of so much money, and so quickly?

  Ned's chest tightened. With that much money Mal could have spent the night with the best whore in Bankside, and yet here he was, back home with Ned. Was it only caution and a desire to be certain of repaying his debts, or had his feelings changed? Best not to dwell on it. Hope was a treacherous mistress.

  Mal muttered something in his sleep. Ned eased back into bed and propped himself up on one elbow, the better to admire his companion's profile in the fragile dawn light. A half-grown-out military crop curled above a smooth tanned brow that led his gaze down to a chiselled nose as perfect as an Italian statue. Black lashes fluttered as Mal's eyes twitched beneath closed lids.

  "No! Leave him alone!" Mal tossed his head from side to side, struggling as if pinned to the bed by invisible hands.

  "Hush, my lamb," Ned whispered.

  His reward was a soft moan and a furrowing of that dark brow. He leant over and kissed the sleeping man's shoulder, savouring the salt sting of sweat – and nearly got his lip split open a second time when Mal sat bolt upright with a cry of fear.

  "What is it?" Ned asked softly.

  Mal rubbed his face, then swung his legs out of bed and sat with his head in his hands, breathing ragged as if he had been running. Ned reached out a hand to comfort him, then thought better of it. After a moment Mal got to his feet, stretched as best he could under the low rafters, and scratched his groin.

  "I can't do this," he muttered, picking up his shirt.

  "That's not what you said last night." The words were out of Ned's mouth before he could stop them.

  "What?" Mal popped his head through the neck of the shirt and frowned at him.

  "Er, nothing." Ned wriggled sideways into the warm hollow Mal had just abandoned, and watched him dress. Play of muscles under milky skin, tantalising glimpses of tight arse as the hip-length shirt rose and fell with each movement… He sighed. What was the point of an early rising if you didn't get to use it?

  "Going somewhere?" he asked as Mal pulled on his boots.

  "Just down to the garden. I need to think." He took his rapier down from its peg.

  Ah, that kind of thinking. "Can I watch?"

  "If you will."

  Mal threaded the rapier's scabbard onto his belt. The matching dagger joined it, then he cinched the belt around his hips. Ned ducked as Mal turned to leave. The long, slender blade was meant for the lofty halls and galleries of noblemen's mansions, not cramped attics in the backstreets of Southwark.

  After Mal had gone, Ned lifted the bed-sheet and peered into its musky depths.

  "Never mind, mate. Maybe next time."

  Was that a nod or a shake? With a grunt of effort he climbed out of bed.

  "First sign of madness," he muttered to himself. "Talking to your… self."

  He cast about the room for his own discarded clothing, and remembered the purse. Whatever Mal was up to, he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

 

Mal drew his rapier and held it up to the light. The rising sun gilded the elegant curves of the hilt and shimmered along the blade. Forty inches of finest Solingen steel, exquisite and deadly.

  
Mandritta, reversa, fendente, tonda…
His fencing master's voice echoed
in his memory as he adopted the
terza guardia
stance, blade dipping towards the grass.

  He moved through the familiar drills, emptying his mind, becoming the blade. Stepping back and forth along the garden path, the tip of his rapier wove a pattern of glittering arcs above the rows of dew-spangled cabbages, sending butterflies spiralling up like scraps of torn paper.

  "Hey, what are you doing?" Ned cried out as the rapier snicked the head off a flowering onion.

  "Sorry," Mal muttered.

  He wiped the blade on his cuff and sheathed it. Ned looked at him expectantly.

  "Yesterday," Mal said, "I was offered – no,
given
– a job."

  "But… that's marvellous news!" Ned leapt off the upturned barrel he'd been sitting on. "It is marvellous, isn't it?"

  When Mal did not answer, Ned went on: "Are you… Are you leaving London?"

  "No." Mal looked north and east, towards the dark smudge of the city on the opposite bank of the Thames. "No, you'll have to put up with me for a while yet."

  "Then what's the matter?"

  Mal picked up a stone and threw it at a pigeon that was eyeing the cabbages with interest.

  "The job is to guard the skrayling ambassador."

  "Oh. I didn't know they had an ambassador."

  "Neither did I, until now."

  "So, what are you going to do?"

  "What I should have done a long time ago." He walked back towards the house. "Put on your Sunday best. We're going to Court."

 

A young Englishman of noble birth could generally be found in one of two places: on campaign in Ireland, or at Court. Fortunately for Mal, Blaise Grey had managed to avoid the former, so he and Ned made their way to Whitehall Palace, on the Thames west of London.

  Two enormous gatehouses straddled King Street, guarding the east and west entrances to the palace and its gardens. A constant stream of people flowed in and out under the watchful eyes of the royal guard.

  "If anyone asks," Mal told Ned as they neared the gate," you're my manservant. Keep your mouth shut and your eyes down, even if you recognise someone; this isn't the Bull's Head on a Saturday night."

  Whitehall swarmed with courtiers, servants and petitioners, though this hive no longer centred on a queen. Prince Robert took care of much of the kingdom's business, sitting at the head of his mother's Privy Council as
de facto
regent. On the riverward side of King Street lay the prince's lodging and private gardens. Even if Blaise were there, Mal knew he stood little chance of gaining admittance. In any case, his quarry was far more likely to be found on the other side of the street, in the maze of tennis courts and bowling alleys where the young bloods idled away their hours.

  After making several enquiries of servants and getting lost twice, they found Grey in the larger of the palace's two tennis courts. The game was still in progress, so Mal and Ned joined the press of spectators in the mesh-covered galleries running down one side of the court. There was little to be seen without pushing through the throng, though judging by the cries of triumph and anguish from the crowd, the game was reaching its climax.

  Mal glimpsed Blaise's dark blond curls for an instant over the heads of the spectators, then the whole court erupted in deafening cheers that echoed off the white stone walls. Money changed hands, and the crowd began to disperse.

  Signalling for Ned to hang back, Mal moved forwards, letting the departing courtiers flow past him. Amongst the stragglers was a slight red-headed figure, face flushed, his fine linen shirt soaked in sweat. Prince Arthur, the younger of the Queen's two sons. As the prince passed, laughing at a jest from one of his companions, Mal swept a low bow.

  "Catlyn, isn't it?"

  Mal looked up to see Grey staring at him. "My lord."

  "Come for a game?" Grey asked, wiping his brow with a towel.

  "I – Yes, why not?"

  He removed his sword belt and doublet and tossed them to Ned, who frowned at being treated in such a peremptory manner.

  "Manservant, remember?" Mal hissed.

  Someone handed him a racquet and he followed Grey through a side door onto the tennis court. A few of the departing courtiers drifted back, curious to see how long the newcomer would last.

  Mal was out of practice and Grey had a good four inches on him, but he managed to hold his ground, at least to begin with. He's playing with me, he realised after a poor shot gained him a point. He feigned clumsiness on his next return. Grey, falling for the feint, tapped the ball into what should have been empty space – to find Mal there.

  "Thirty all!" the umpire announced.

  Surprised murmurs echoed around the gallery, and by the sounds of it, bets were placed.

  On the far side of the drooping net, Grey twirled his racquet in one hand and shifted his weight from foot to foot. Mal smiled. Impatience: that would be his opponent's weakness. He strung out the moment as long as he dared then served, sending the leather ball bouncing off the left-hand wall and onto the sloping penthouse above the galleries.

  It teetered on the penthouse edge for a moment before falling into the hazard end of the court, and Grey flicked it straight back over the net. Mal returned the ball in a high arc that sent the other man running sideways until he all but collided with the tambour wall. The spectators roared with laughter, and Grey flushed. He scooped his racquet under the ball as it bounced heavily on the wooden floor and sent it flying back to the service end. Mal stopped it with a neat backhand – too neat. Grey watched, grinning in anticipation, as the ball hopped over the net and bounced once, twice–

  "Hazard chase, second gallery!" the umpire announced.

  The spectators clapped or jeered according to their allegiance and placed further bets.

  "Got money on this one yourself, Catlyn?" Grey asked. "Or perhaps you're not your father's son after all?"

  Mal bit back a retort. This is no different from duelling, he told himself. Better to keep silent and let the other man's ill temper work in your favour. He served again, focusing all his attention on the flight of the little leather ball.

  "So," Grey said, "what have you been doing with yourself since you were sent down?"

  Mal froze. "I was not sent down, I left."

  The tennis ball whistled past his head, hit the wall with a crack like a pistol shot and ricocheted into the
dedans
.

  "Forty–thirty!" Grey smiled. "Change ends, Catlyn."

 

From his vantage point halfway along the court, Ned was paying more attention to the players than to the game, of which he knew little and cared less. Mal so rarely talked about his past, it was easy to forget he was the son of a diplomat, as far above a mere scrivener as Prince Arthur was above a gentleman commoner like Mal. This was a rare window on a part of his friend's life he seldom got to see.

  "That's merely what I was told," Grey said, preparing to serve.

  "What else did you hear?"

  "Nothing." Grey wiped his hand on his damp shirt, which clung to his tall, muscular frame. He was handsome enough, Ned had to admit. If you liked cold-eyed arrogant bastards.

  A heavily built young man in a gaudy scarlet doublet slashed with yellow silk pushed in front of Ned, blocking his view of the game. Ned was about to push back when he remembered where he was. Muttering under his breath he stepped backwards until he could go no further. He leant against the condensation-damp wall of the tennis court, eyes closed, wishing he was somewhere else, somewhere he didn't feel like a stranger in his own city.

  When he opened his eyes he saw another courtier leaning against the wall not far away, watching him slyly from under lowered lids. The youth was no more than sixteen, thin and with a sickly complexion like something found under a stone. Eyes down, mouth shut, Mal had said. But if he was approached, surely it would be rude to say no? Not that he wanted to say yes to anything this creature might propose.

  "You. Fellow."

  Ned bridled at being so addressed by a mere boy, but ducked his head anyway.

  "My lord?"

  The youth detached himself from the wall.

  "You are Catlyn's man?"

  That was one way of putting it. "Yes, sir."

  "He is the swarthy fellow playing against Grey?"

  "Well, I wouldn't call him swarthy–"

  A well-manicured hand slapped him backhanded, rings scraping his cheek.

  "Do not talk back to your betters, sirrah," the youth hissed, lifting a silver pomander to his nose.