The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 (54 page)

  Both adopted the
seconda guardia
position – sword held horizontally and waist-high – with left hands held out to one side, ready to catch an incoming blade on dagger or cloak. Mal watched and waited, allowing Grey's impatience to do most of his work for him. No flurry of blows here, like actors on a stage – a real duel was a mind game, out-thinking your opponent in order to get in that one deadly blow.

  After a few more moments of watching and pacing, Mal made his move, a swift thrust to his opponent's right side, well away from the entangling cloak. Grey sidestepped and parried down and outwards. A rapid disengage and counter-thrust almost skewered Mal in the guts, but he turned sideways at the last moment and the blade passed a hair's breadth from his flesh. Grey withdrew, and they resumed their guard positions.

  "How did your brother escape?"

  "How should I know?" Mal replied. "I was tied up and drugged. One of my friends must have cut him free."

  Grey lunged, his sword point aimed straight for Mal's heart. Mal parried with his dagger whilst his own blade snaked upwards in a counter-thrust towards his opponent's face. Grey swirled the cloak, enveloping the rapier and deflecting it past his ear. Mal leapt backwards, withdrawing his blade before the weight of the cloak could wrench it from his grasp.

  The edge of the cloak swept across the brazier and caught fire. Grey dodged behind the pillar, shaking off the burning fabric. That left his off-side vulnerable. Mal manoeuvred around the pillar to his own right. A thrust through the guts would finish off his opponent for good. He recalled Leland's instructions.
Don't let it happen again.

  "We can stop this any time you like," Mal said, stepping back a pace.

  "I'll stop when you're dead at my feet, demon."

  To Hell with Leland's instructions. He thrust towards Grey's vulnerable side. Grey tried to bring his blade around in time to parry but the pillar blocked his way. The point of the rapier pierced doublet, shirt, and slid between his ribs.

  Grey's eyes widened as Mal withdrew the blade. He clutched the wound, trying to draw breath, and staggered against the pillar. The sword fell from his hand. Grey looked up, eyes hard as flint. His mouth worked but no words came out.

  "I've wasted enough time on you already," Mal told him.

  Never taking his eyes off his opponent, Mal retrieved his sword belt and backed away. When Grey made no move to follow, Mal turned and bounded up the stairs to the courtyard. Somewhere out there, Sandy was waiting for him.

 

The porter strode across the courtyard towards them, crossbow raised. He halted when he saw what they were carrying.

  "Put his lordship down gently, or I shoot."

  "If you shoot me, I'll drop him," Coby replied. "Help us, if you want your master to live."

  With the porter's aid they carried the duke up to his bedchamber, where his doctor fussed over him and scolded them all in broken English and what Coby guessed was obscene Italian.

  "Now then, you two, come with me," the porter said.

  "No," the duke gasped. "Let them go. It is too late now."

  The porter looked dumbfounded, but he could hardly contradict his master so he left them with a curt bow. On the table nearby, next to a large medicine cabinet, Coby spotted a white porcelain dish contained the missing pearl earring. How had that ended up here? She scooped it up and dropped it in her pocket.

  "Where is my son?" Suffolk asked.

  "In the cellar with Mal," Ned said. "Settling an old score."

  The duke nodded. "He had his chance. He cannot stop me now."

  Coby exchanged glances with Ned, who shrugged.

  "What have you done with Sandy?" she asked Suffolk.

  "I? Nothing." The duke smiled bitterly. "I underestimated Erishen. It has been too long since any of us tried such a manoeuvre."

  "He's raving," Ned said, picking up the black doublet that lay draped over a chair. "Come on, let's find Mal."

  "Yes, go, go," the doctor said, shooing them out of the door. "His Grace must rest."

  Back in the courtyard they were met by Mal. In the leaden light of a cold September afternoon he looked almost as haggard as his brother, his pale flesh slick with sweat. Coby handed him the doublet and he put it on gratefully.

  Then they heard the hoofbeats. Looking through the open gate Coby could see a lone rider cantering down the drive, but by the sounds of it there were a dozen or so others behind him. There was no sign of the porter.

  "The river," Mal said to her as they ran back into the house.

  "We have a boat," she gasped, "but it's some distance off."

  "How do we get out?"

  "I saw a door at the far end of the passage–"

  "Locked," Ned told them as they reached him.

  "Don't you have lock-picks?"

  "Yes, but…" He looked sheepish. "I have no idea how to use them."

  "Here, give them to me."

  She shook out the canvas roll and selected a probe. All those hours spent dawdling over her broom in the workshop, so she could eavesdrop on her father instructing his apprentices, would not be for naught.

  "Do you know what you're doing?" Ned asked.

  "Hush."

  She felt around inside the lock. Typical symmetrical design, three wards. She probed the furthest for depth and width, then chose a skeleton key from the roll. It turned in the lock, but did not engage with the mechanism. She withdrew it and selected another.

  "Hurry up!"

  "I told you to be quiet," she replied. "Damn, too wide."

  She tried one after another, searching the roll in vain for another key of the right size. Longer and narrower. Ah! She seized the key and slid it into the lock, whispering a prayer. It turned, and the bolt snicked back.

  "Well done!" Master Catlyn helped her to her feet whilst Ned rolled the lock-pick set up and stuffed it in his satchel. "Now, let's get out of here."

 

The door emerged between two buttresses onto a narrow strip of level ground. Beyond, a grassy slope was all that lay between them and the river. Several boats were still moored at the jetty. Mal paused. They still didn't know where Sandy was, though as long as he was away from here, that had to be a good thing. Or so he hoped. He scanned the façade of the palace opposite. Its windows gleamed dull gold in the afternoon sun. Was Prince Robert there now, staring back?

  "At least we don't have to run all the way to Syon House," Ned said with a grin. "All we have to do is row across to the palace–"

  "No."

  "What do you mean, no?" Ned gestured towards the palace. "Where better to take sanctuary?"

  "What would we tell the prince's household?"

  "That you and Sandy were abducted and held prisoner–"

  "By the prince's own mentor? And that I attacked the duke's son and left him for dead?"

  "Good point."

  A low rumble to the east made Mal look up. Leaden clouds massed overhead – another thunderstorm? Reaching the jetty, he found Hendricks had untied all but one of the boats and was pushing them out into the river.

  "Well played!" He patted her on the shoulder. "Now, everyone aboard!"

  Hendricks and Ned got in, taking the fore and aft oars respectively. Mal cast off, leaping into the little craft as it started to move downstream. He gestured for Hendricks to surrender her oars; the girl was already white, her face taut with pain. She smiled in thanks and moved to sit in the narrow space between the two rowers.

  On the slope above them, armed men were issuing from the house. Men in royal livery. And behind them, a tall figure in black and gold. Mal swore under his breath and bent to his oars. Hendricks craned her neck to see past Ned.

  "Is that–?"

  "Prince Robert, yes."

  The royal guards ran down the slope and raised their crossbows. Mal pulled harder on the oars, expecting to feel the thud of a bolt any moment, but the missiles plopped harmlessly into the river around them.

  "With any luck we'll be out of range before they can reload," Ned grunted.

  Across the water more guards, this time carrying arquebuses, were running out of the palace.

  "Say your prayers, lads," Mal muttered.

  A second round of crossbow bolts whined through the air, and Ned yelped.

  "Are you all right?" Hendricks asked him.

  "Near miss," he grunted, pulling a bolt out of the woodwork beside him and tossing it in the river. "Told you I had the Devil's own luck."

  Hendricks crouched in the thwarts, looking from bank to bank in horror. The arquebusiers lined up, primed their weapons hurriedly and raised them to their shoulders. Like a string of firecrackers the arquebuses erupted in noise and smoke – and something hit Mal's left shoulder like a sledgehammer. As the force of the impact ripped through his body, he let go of his oar. It bounced in the rowlocks and began to slip, very slowly, into the river.

  "Christ and His Holy Mother!"

  "Sir?"

  "Get the oar," he told Hendricks through gritted teeth.

  He glanced at his shoulder, which burned as if thrust through with a hot poker just above the collarbone. The black fabric of his doublet was torn and wet, the ragged hole scarlet around the edges, but the blood was not spurting from some vital conduit. That at least was a relief.

  Ned continued to row, but with Mal incapacitated they were making slow progress. The arquebusiers began to reload. Mal used his uninjured arm to pull Hendricks towards him, turning her back to his belly so they could ply the oars as one. So small, she fitted into him like a lover… For a moment he rested his cheek against her hair, letting the pain melt into the distance, then they bent to the oars and pulled, and he ground his teeth against the fire in his shoulder.

  The rumble sounded again from downstream, echoing across the water. Not thunder, nor, thank the Lord, more gunfire. Drums.

  "
Rehi!
"

  Mal spared a glance backwards. Sandy was waving to him from the prow of a large craft heading in their direction. The ambassador's barge.

  The royal guards halted, looking to their captains, who motioned for them to lower their weapons. Prince Robert stood on the jetty, arms folded, watching the oncoming barge. Hendricks twisted round with a grin of relief, but her smile faded on seeing Mal's expression.

  "The ambassador will save us, won't he?" she whispered.

  The drumbeat changed and the rowers on one side shipped their oars. The barge began to turn in a wide arc.

  "Come on, Mal!" Ned shouted, hauling on the oars.

  The wash from the barge pushed against them, even as their efforts drove them on. Mal's vision began to go dark around the edges, until all he could see was the bright patch of his own blood on the girl's doublet in front of him, accusing him of failure. He turned towards the barge. The vessel's dark bulk loomed over them for a moment, and Mal felt sure its oars would rake the little skiff out of the water and tip it over like a child's toy. Then the barge was past, lurching side-on to the current as it turned back for London.

  "Sandy!"

  His brother looked round for a moment from where he stood in the barge's prow, arms wrapped about the diminutive skrayling. He gazed at Mal with dark eyes that seemed to look right through him, sparking a jolt of some buried memory that strove to reach the surface of Mal's mind but floundered like a drowning man and was gone. The barge swung round and Sandy disappeared from view behind its central canopy.

  Dammit, now they really were on their own. Kiiren had what he came for, and he was leaving the rest of them to the wolves.

 
 
 

Coby turned to look at Mal. He was deathly pale, his eyes unfocused. Had he lost so much blood already? It was hard to tell against the blackness of his livery doublet. Without thinking she let go of both oars and put her palms to his face.

  "Don't die on me," she whispered.

  He coughed and managed a weak grin. "I'm in no fit state."

  Over his shoulder she glimpsed a pale-haired figure in the stern of the barge, swinging a coil of rope. Gabriel Parrish. Moments later the rope sailed overhead and she flailed for it.

  "Careful!" Faulkner shouted at her. "Here, take this and wrap it round the cleat."

  He passed her a loop of rope. When she looked blank, he pointed to the two-pronged metal thing on the prow, where the painter was still tied. She clambered past Mal and wrapped the line around it as best she could before the retreating barge pulled the rope taut. Faulkner threaded the loose end under the thwarts and secured it, just to be certain.

  "They could have bloody stopped to pick us up," Faulkner muttered. "Here, let me see him."

  "I'm fine," Mal replied, waving him away.

  Coby slid onto the thwart on his good side.

  "You don't look fine," she told him.

  "S'not the first time I've been shot at." He peered at the wound. "Closest, though."

  "We're going to have to get nearer to the barge," Ned said, pointing to the next bend in the river. "We're going to be all over the place at this rate."

  Fortunately Parrish had had the same idea, and had enlisted one of the skraylings to help him haul the skiff in. They picked up speed, slowly edging closer to the barge's stern. Mal seemed to be rallying now they were getting away, though his face was still pale and drawn. She clutched his good hand and talked to him in a low voice.

  "We did it, sir. We found you both and got away. See, we're nearly to the barge."

  "And then what?" he rasped. "What happens when we get back to London?"

  "Don't worry about it. Your brother is safe. That's all that matters, right?"