The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 (37 page)

  The door to the ambassador's bedchamber stared at him accusingly. He was just putting off the inevitable. Kiiren had to be told, and watchwords agreed on. He would keep Sandy's name and identity out of it, though. He was not ready to discuss his brother – or his past – with a skrayling, no matter how friendly. And there was still this Erishen business to get to the bottom of. No, he would play his cards close to his chest, and see what more he could find out. Sandy's life might depend on it.

 

Coby headed west from London Bridge, but not along the Strand. It occurred to her she could defer her decision, and be useful to both sides, by investigating the disappearance of Master Catlyn's brother. Ned Faulkner had said he didn't see which way the coach went after the wherry returned him to Bankside, but perhaps others had been more observant.

  Reaching the head of Three Cranes Stairs, she looked around. The first crush of playgoers returning across the river had long dispersed, and a number of wherries bobbed idly in the current, awaiting new passengers. She thought of asking if any of them recalled seeing Sandy and his captors, but the wherrymen had a poor view of the lane from the river.

  She turned into the Vintry, a triangular quay surrounded on its two landward sides by warehouses. The quay swarmed with sailors, dockhands and customs officials, as well as the whores and pickpockets who infested every crowd like lice on a beggar. The larger ships could not sail this far up the Thames, but lighters ferried wine and other luxuries to the warehouses around the Vintry. Though it was some distance from their camp, many of the skrayling merchants also rented storage here, away from the stink of Billingsgate and the coal market.

  Coby ducked as a crane loaded with wine barrels swung overhead. As she turned away she collided with an ebony-skinned dockhand. The man grimaced through the sheen of sweat and grime coating his features and swore at her in a fluent mix of English and Arabic. She backed off, muttering an apology; the man was twice her size, with biceps as big as her head.

  Heading away from the riverside she noticed a group of perhaps half a dozen skraylings at the doors of a warehouse. Their leader was arguing with a short, red-faced man, punctuating his Tradetalk with angry gestures towards a barge moored at the quayside.

  "What's going on, mistress?" Coby asked a middle-aged woman in the fine woollen gown of a merchant's wife.

  "My husband just inherited that warehouse from his cousin," the woman said, "and now the foreigners want to pay their rent to
his
widow, as if it belonged to her."

  "They do seem to have a lot of respect for women," Coby replied.

  Not that she knew a great deal about their customs, but if Lodge's play were anything to go by, skrayling queens were revered more than any Christian king.

  "Perhaps I can help," she said. Getting on a good footing with these people might help her investigation.

  Before the woman could protest, Coby stepped forward.

  "Excuse me," she said to the red-faced man. "In the name of the Queen's peace, perhaps we could come to some agreement here?"

  The man stared at her. "Who are you to butt in here, whelp?"

  "I am a servant of the Duke of Suffolk, and have assisted in his transactions with Merchant Cutsnail."

  "You? You are scarcely more than a boy. Be off with you, before I call the watch!"

  The skrayling merchant held up his hand and addressed her in Tradetalk. "You know Qathsnijeel?"

  "I have drunk
aniig
with him."

  This appeared to satisfy the skrayling.

  "These English think they can change our contract," he said, baring his teeth, "because of the death of one of their men, and now they try to double our rent."

  "Double?" She looked at the warehouse owner. "Is that true?"

  "Well, I–" The man mopped his face with a striped kerchief. "There are running costs. And taxes. My cousin didn't keep the roof in good repair, and the price of vermin control has tripled in the last year–"

  She held up her hand.

  "Are you happy, sirs, with the state of the warehouse?"

  The skrayling stared at the ground. "It has not been as good as we would like."

  "But you would pay more if it were better."

  "Yes."

  She turned back to the warehouse owner. "If you were to begin repairs before increasing the rent, that would be a show of good faith, would it not, sir?" He seemed about to protest, so she added, "They always pay on time, do they not?"

  "Oh yes, my cousin did praise them for it."

  "And you," she said to the skraylings, "will pay your rent to this man's wife?"

  She gestured to the woman in the crowd, who turned pale as the skraylings bowed to her in unison.

  "If she is the new mistress of this property, yes."

  "Good," Coby replied, clapping her hands together. "My lord Suffolk will be most pleased with this happy outcome."

  "I– I will send him a butt of my finest sack immediately," the warehouse owner said, shaking her hand.

  "Thank you."

  She wondered what on Earth the duke would make of this unexpected largesse. Given the size of his household, he would probably not even notice.

  "There is one more thing," she added. "You have men patrolling this wharf night and day?"

  "Of course."

  "Then perhaps they may recall something that happened yesterday, around noon."

  The warehouse owner beckoned to a tall, heavy-set man in a leather jerkin.

  "Wat, you were on duty yester noon, were you not?"

  "Aye, sir."

  Coby cleared her throat, picking her words carefully. "Master Wat, did you see a coach arrive here yesterday, with four men in it? One got out and caught a wherry, and the rest drove away again."

  "A coach, you say?" He scratched his head. "Plenty of coaches fetch up here in the early afternoon, bringing folk what want to cross the river." He nodded knowledgeably. "That's when the plays start."

  "But not so many before noon, I dare say," Coby prompted.

  "That's true enough. Aye, come to think on it, I did see one betimes. I remarked that the fellow who got out looked more like a servant, and an ill-kempt one at that."

  That certainly sounded like Ned Faulkner. "Do you remember anything else? Which way did the coach go, afterwards?"

  "Now that was the odd thing. They waited a long time, until the servant was well across the river and out of sight. I was going to go and ask their business, but just as I stepped out, three more men got out and boarded another wherry, and the coach left without them."

  "Was one of them tall and thin, with black hair?"

  "Aye," the watchman said. "I got a good look at his visage; he was staring about him like he'd never seen the river afore."

  "Which way did the wherry go?"

  "Why, upstream of course. I watched it for a good while, until it disappeared round the southward bend towards Westminster. Beyond that, I can't say."

  "Thank you again, gentlemen." She bowed, trying not to show her elation. "My master will hear of your faithful service."

  Heart pounding, she ran back to Thames Street to make her excuses to Mistress Naismith. The thought of that unfortunate young man being carried away by ruffians, and to who knew what fate, had made up her mind. Tonight she would return to the Tower, and hazard the consequences.

 
 
 

The Borough Compter was attached to the courthouse in Long Southwark. It had once been part of the parish church of St Margaret, its jewel-coloured windows replaced with plain glass and its Biblical murals whitewashed over. The walls were not white any more, but stained brown with the sweat of guilty men.

  Ned hunkered on his heels against the wall to which he had been shackled by one ankle, unwilling to sink into the vermin-infested straw that covered the floor. At least he was in one of the upper rooms, where prisoners who could pay the gaolers' fees were kept. Down below, in filth and gloom worthy of Hell, were the debtors and other wretches who had run out of money or had no one to support them. Ned patted the purse hanging round his neck under his shirt. Gabe had given him a few shillings, since he had fled the scene of his crime with almost nothing. All Ned had to do was avoid being robbed by the other prisoners within reach of his chains.

  The cell had room for perhaps a dozen men, with heavy staples cemented into the walls at intervals of a few feet. If the gaolers chose to use short chains, they could easily keep the prisoners apart, but they seemed to find it more entertaining to allow them enough freedom to torment one another. Word soon got around that Ned had murdered a man twice his size, and thankfully so far no one had seen fit to challenge him to prove it.

  He glanced from side to side. The man on his left was curled up in the filthy straw, shivering as if with a fever; Ned noticed that the prisoner beyond him gave the poor wretch as wide a berth as the chains would allow. Plague? Ned muttered an oath and turned his attention to the man on his right. A scrawny fellow with thinning mousy hair, he sported a large purple-and-yellow bruise on his forehead that did nothing to improve his homely looks.

  "Don't I know you?" Ned asked him.

  The man peered at him, but said nothing.

  "I saw you in the Bull's Head, when Naismith was hiring," Ned went on. "You're an actor, right?"

  "Now and again," the prisoner said with a shrug. "Beats real work."

  "Ned Faulkner. Philip Henslowe's copyist, amongst other things."

  "John Wheeler," the man grunted. He looked Ned up and down. "They say you killed a man."

  "He broke into our house and–" He could not say it out loud, not in this place. "It was kill or be killed."

  To Ned's surprise, Wheeler broke into laughter. "Then I should count myself lucky the fellow who did this was armed with naught worse than a three-legged stool."

  He touched the bruise gingerly, and winced.

  "Are you – were you playing in the contest?" Ned asked.

  "Not any more. I had a small part with Suffolk's Men, but…" He moved his leg, rattling the chain that pinned him to the wall.

  "They play for the ambassador tomorrow, I hear," Ned said.

  "Without me. Not that I care."

  "Oh?"

  "My part is already played," Wheeler said with a smirk.

  Ned stared at him. Was this the fellow who had been sowing discord amongst Suffolk's Men with libellous doggerel? He launched himself across the gap that separated them, and pinned the unsuspecting actor to the floor.

  "I should beat you into a bloody pulp for what you've done," Ned growled, and punched Wheeler in the mouth, splitting his lip. "That was for Gabriel."

  The rest of the prisoners whistled and stamped their feet at this new entertainment. Wheeler pulled his arms free, shielding his battered face with one and reaching for Ned's wrist with the other. His groping fingers connected with Ned's nose and clawed at the tender flesh within, sending spikes of agony through Ned's skull. Ned caught the man's hand and forced it back to the floor, arching his own back to increase the space between them.

  The purse swung free of Ned's half-unfastened shirt and Wheeler made a grab for it with his free hand, twisting the cord tight. As Ned tried to pull away, Wheeler pushed upwards, flipping Ned over onto his back. He did not press his advantage, however, but got to his feet and staggered backwards. Ned scrambled up after him, testing the limits of his shackles. Nowhere near long enough, unless Wheeler was prepared to advance.

  "Ready for another bout?" he growled, retreating a little in the hope that his opponent would follow.

  "You're not worth swinging for, Faulkner." Wheeler spat blood into the straw.

  "You've already earned your hempen collar, and more," Ned replied. "Spreading sedition is near enough to treason that they will gladly gut you like a herring for it."

  Wheeler turned pale for a moment, then regained his composure.

  "No one can prove anything. This," he touched his forehead, "this was a mistake, I grant you. But it's the boy's word against mine."

  "So you've taken to beating up children, as well as spreading lies?" Ned sneered. "You're a worse coward than I took you for, John Wheeler."

  "At least I walk out of here, tomorrow or the next day. Or the one after that. You they'll save for the Michaelmas Assizes."

  Ned swallowed. A whole month? Surely Mal would get him out of here before then?

  Wheeler swayed again, stumbled against the wall and slid down to a sitting position. His face was pale and clammy, as if he were about to vomit. Several of the prisoners jeered or threw filth at the actor. Ned turned away in disgust and returned to his own station.

  When it became obvious neither of them could be provoked into further fighting, the other prisoners lost interest. All but one, who continued to watch them closely whilst feigning not to. A spy? It was common practice to put informants amongst prisoners, to gain their confidence and trick them into betraying themselves. Ned felt certain it was more than coincidence that had placed him right next to Wheeler. But was it Providence at work, or did a more sinister hand direct his fate?

 

Master Catlyn was delighted at Coby's report, though she protested it was little enough intelligence to go on. He pressed her to stay the night in the ambassador's quarters, offering her the use of the canopied bed in a side room. There was no door, only an open archway, but the curtains of the bed gave enough privacy for her to feel at ease, provided she did not undress completely.

  Before they retired for the night they took supper in the small parlour between the ambassador's bedchamber and the dining hall. She told Master Catlyn about the poem and Wheeler's attempted theft, and her theory that they were part of a stratagem to spoil the contest and perhaps even harm the ambassador.