The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 (41 page)

  "No," he said more firmly. "Do not ask this of me."

  "Why?"

  "Because they will kill the man whom they plot to replace me with." Play along with this superstition of theirs, for Sandy's sake. "These Christians are not reborn, and they believe their souls go to a terrible place if they die without a priest's blessing. If that is true, I cannot bring such a fate upon even one of them."

  "You were always gentle one,
amayi
. Very well, I trust you in this."

  "Only in this?" Mal took off his doublet and threw it on the bed.

  "In all things."

  When Mal turned back round to face Kiiren, the skrayling's eyes widened.

  "You are hurt,
amayi
!"

  Mal looked down at his shirt. It was spotted with the girl's blood, as if he had done as she feared and taken her maidenhead. Perhaps he had in a way. He smiled to himself. She was not so very plain, to tell the truth. A little too skinny for his tastes but quick-witted, and lively enough to be promising.

  "It's nothing," he said. "Just pig's blood, from a careless butcher's boy in the market."

  He stripped off the filthy linen, scrubbed it under his armpits, then rummaged around in the chest at the foot of the bed for a clean shirt. After a moment's thought he pulled off the bandages as well, salved the tattoo, and allowed Kiiren to help him with clean dressings. Whilst he was tended, he rehearsed in his head what he was going to tell the ambassador.

  Kiiren tied the last of the bandages and planted a moth-wing kiss on his bare shoulder. Mal shrugged him off and pulled on his shirt. Best to get this over with, before Wheeler started naming names in an attempt to stop the agony.

  "There is something more I must tell you, sir, though it pains me to do so. Something I would not have you hear from others." He drew a deep breath. "You know there are enemies of the skraylings in England, calling themselves Huntsmen."

  "Of course."

  "Did you also know there are many of these Huntsmen in the lands where I grew up?"

  "It has been reported to me, yes. How else you think I find you?"

  "Then you know my elder brother Charles is – or, I should say, was – one of them?"

  "Yes."

  "Did your informants also tell you that… that I am one too?"

  "You?" Kiiren stared at him. "How can this be? To kill your own kind…"

  He backed away, the blotched pattern on his face more pronounced than usual.

  "I killed no one," Mal assured him. "When I was sixteen, they forced me to join against my will, took me on one of their rides. I… I saw Erishen murdered."

  Kiiren muttered something in the skrayling tongue in a venomous tone Mal had never heard from the mild-mannered ambassador before. He looked up.

  "Liar," Kiiren spat.

  "Sir?"

  "If you are Erishen, you cannot have seen his death with living eyes. We are reborn only into bodies of unborn children. If you saw, you are not him."

  "I–" Now he was totally confused. If Sandy had not been possessed that night, why…? The murder had been horrible, but surely not so horrible as to make a man lose his wits.

  "Why do you lie to me?"

  The young skrayling stood toe to toe with Mal, staring up into his face with inhuman amber eyes. Mal could think of nothing to say that would not further incriminate him at this point.

  Kiiren turned paler still, if that were possible.

  "You are in their pay," he said slowly. "They have taught you our tongue, that you may deceive me better."

  "No–"

  "Get out."

  "Sir!" Mal had to force himself not to grab the ambassador by the front of his silken robes. "I swear to you I am not in the pay of your enemies. Now let me do my job and protect you from them."

  He snatched up his sword belt and wrapped it about his waist, adjusting the buckles with military precision until both blades rested in the perfect position for combat. By the time he finished the familiar ritual, Kiiren had calmed down, at least a little.

  "Very well," the ambassador said. "Now go. I do not wish to look upon you."

  Mal snapped a formal bow and walked out. In the antechamber he halted, the reality of what had just happened finally hitting home, like a wound that goes unnoticed in the heat of battle.

  He had come within a hair's breadth of dismissal, endangered Sandy's life and probably lost Kiiren's trust forever. As soon as the ambassador's visit was over, his job would be done and he would never see the skrayling again. The thought should have been comforting.

  He paced the antechamber, cursing his stupid mouth. Wheeler probably knew nothing; it was his word against Mal's, and with the ambassador as his ally and protector, Monkton would have been hard pressed to make anything of it. Well, it was too late now.

  A pity he had not managed to get more information out of the ambassador whilst the ruse lasted, but he had a few crumbs to go on, not least the confirmation that Kiiren had enemies amongst the skraylings as well as in the city. He would report to Walsingham tomorrow, after the play. All that mattered now was that he was still able to protect the ambassador and, with any luck, find Sandy and bring him back. Best to forget about the skraylings and their heresies, and focus on the here and now. Starting with a good night's sleep.

 

Coby spent a restless night trying to find a sleeping position that did not feel like she was being stabbed again. The knife wound had not bled through the bandages, thank the Lord, but it was still tender to the touch. She consoled herself with pleasant memories of Master Catlyn's closeness, wishing there was more to remember.

  Perhaps the accident had been the hand of Fate, nudging her towards her true destiny. She was bound to be found out eventually, and who better to do that than the man she loved? Of course he might not return her feelings. He had made no move to take advantage of her, though that might simply be because he was a gentleman, not a Bankside ruffian. At least he would not speak of her as the apprentices did of their conquests, or so she hoped. The names they called the poor girls who gave in to their charms made her ashamed to call them friends.

  It was all moot anyway. Now he knew her secret, there would be no more fighting lessons, no more running hotfoot across the city with urgent news, no quiet moments of comradeship. He would start treating her like a helpless girl – had done so already, fussing over her and bringing her water to wash her bloodied clothes. Sooner or later someone would notice, and then her five-year adventure would be over. Best to forget she had ever met him.

  Lying awake and miserable in the watery light of dawn, she realised with horror there was still much to do before the performance, including delivering the trunks of costumes to the theatre. In the past it had been one of her tasks to help the draymen, but that was out of the question now; she could barely walk without wincing, never mind lift a heavy leather box. There had to be a way out that wouldn't draw Master Naismith's suspicion, something less strenuous that could occupy her time.

  As she washed and dressed she ran through everything she could think of. All the arrangements had been made well in advance, even without Master Dunfell's further help: the makeup and wigs were at the theatre, a spare plot-board written out, the costumes checked and re-checked… That was it. There had been a dress rehearsal on Monday, and only she and Master Parrish had stayed behind to put away the costumes. What if they had missed some damage that needed a lastminute repair? And if none existed, it could be made…

  Tiptoeing down the stairs in stockinged feet, she took Master Naismith's bunch of keys from their hook by the front door. She put on her shoes, slipped out of the door and round to the barn. Sunlight flooded in as she pushed back the door, catching motes of dust in a glittering whirl and making her sneeze.

  Leaving the door ajar to let in some light, she mounted the steps at the back of the wagon. Inside, three large storage trunks awaited her. She unlocked the nearest and went through the folded layers of fabric. It had to be something important, so she could justify being freed from other duties to mend it. And the damage must be obvious and plausible but easy to repair. To ruin the play after all their hard work was unthinkable.

  Nothing in the first one fitted the bill, being mainly soldiers' uniforms, shoes and belts. The second was more promising, however. In here were the faerie queen's gown and the doublets belonging to the three princes. The doublets had silver buttons down the front and silver-tipped points at the waist. A lost button or broken cord would be believable, but would take only minutes to replace from the spares in her sewing basket.

  She turned her attention to the queen's gown of sapphireblue silk brocade. The outer skirt bore a matching strip of velvet all round the hem, to guard the more fragile silk from damage. It was already worn a little flat where it dragged on the floor, but not enough to be noticeable. And yet what was more natural than for a misstep by young Philip to catch on it and tear a section loose?

  Hardly daring to breathe, she took out her knife and cut the velvet guard near the back of the skirt, then began to pull it away from the brocade. She cut the more reluctant stitches as well, to prevent tearing, and soon had a very convincing "accident" on her hands. It would take a good hour to sew it up again, even working quickly – and she was not minded to be too quick.

 

Ned picked up a Venetian lace ruff, and let it fall. No point in trying to tidy this place; Gabe would hate it, and in any case there was nowhere to put everything. He contented himself with straightening the bed and gathering their dirty linens in a basket to take to the laundress.

  He was just peeling an embroidered stocking from its sticking-place on the headboard, when a knock came at the door. He froze. Who could it be at this hour? Gabe would be at the theatre by now, applying makeup and fussing over his costume, and Mal was on duty at the Tower. He cat-footed it over to the door. The rain-soaked, sun-dried wood had warped in its frame, leaving cracks wide enough to see through. A dark eye stared back at him.

  "Faulkner?" the visitor asked.

  "Who wants to know?"

  Ned hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. The ancient timbers would not keep the stranger out for long, not if he were determined to come in. Ned could only hope that, if it came to a break-in, the draper in the shop below would send someone up to investigate the noise.

  "I'm a friend of your friend Catlyn," the voice behind the eye said. "Now are you going to let me in or not?"

  Ned recalled his jibe at Mal.
You don't have any friends
. So who was this man? If he was telling the truth, he was at least not one of Kemp's allies. Mal would not conspire to kidnap his own brother, of that he was certain.

  "I'll let you in," Ned shouted, "if you can tell me the maker's mark on the blade of Mal's rapier."

  "Christ's balls! This isn't a game."

  "There are men out there who want me dead. You could be one of 'em."

  "All right, all right. It says 'Me fecit Solingen' down the fuller. Not that you won't find that on half the rapiers in London."

  "And?"

  "There's a triple cross after the inscription, and the initials JM as well. Satisfied?"

  Ned made an affirmative noise and shot back the bolts. The man entered the room, glancing round with disinterest.

  "I need you to come with me." He picked up a broadbrimmed hat, considered it for a moment, then tossed it back on the pile. "Better if you're not recognised."

  "By whom?"

  "Now, that's the question."

  Ned folded his arms. "You still haven't answered my question. Who are you?"

  "Name's Baines. More than that, you don't need to know. Don't want to know, if you get my drift."

  "You're one of Walsingham's lot."

  Baines inclined his head.

  "So what are you doing here?" Ned asked.

  "You have intelligence that's of use to my masters."

  Ned swallowed. He had feared all along it would come to this. As if reading his mind, Baines grinned.

  "No need to shit your breeches." He held up a striped djellaba, a gift from a Moorish admirer of Gabriel's, and threw it at Ned. "No one's going to lay a finger on you. Not as long as you do what you're told."

  Wrapped in the concealing garment, Ned followed Baines down Bermondsey Street and thence westwards through Southwark. Just before Battle Bridge they turned aside, down a narrow alley that led to the river. Before they reached the turbid waters of the Thames, however, Baines halted in front of a battered door.

  "What is this place?" Ned asked in a low voice.

  "A place."

  Baines opened the door and went inside. Ned followed, the horrible feeling he was being watched growing despite their being out of public view.

  "This place stinks like a charnel house," Ned complained, lifting a fold of the djellaba to his face. He thought he was used to the city's many foul odours, but the smell of death brought back too many memories.

  Baines led him down a short passageway and opened another door. The room beyond was dimly lit by ripples of sunlight reflecting off the river and through the uneven shutters. Blowflies rose in a cloud as they entered, circling the men's heads in irritation at the disturbance of their feast. On a rough pine table in the centre of the room lay a corpse, bloated and greenish-grey, like a week-old oyster from the bottom of the barrel.

  "Fished him out of the river," Baines said. "Know him?"

  Ned stepped a little closer, trying not to gag.

  "Kemp," he muttered.

  The villain might have been much the worse for his sojourn in the river, but Ned would have known that face anywhere. He had seen it often enough in his dreams. And his fantasies of revenge.