The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 (29 page)

  "Help! Someone help us!" Mal shouted, taking hold of Sandy's head and trying to get the piece of gingerbread out of his brother's mouth before he choked on it.

  One of the warders came running. "Gawd help us, the lad's possessed!" he wailed.

  "Don't be an ass." Mal glared at him. "It's just a fever brought on by the sun's heat."

  He didn't believe it himself, but it seemed to reassure the warder, at least for the moment.

  "Let us get him inside," Mal told him. "Cool shade and a drink will soon bring him to rights."

  The warder fetched a stretcher and they carried Sandy, still twitching and moaning, back to the gatehouse and his own bed. Some of the other inmates watched them go, moaning in sympathy. Back indoors the air was humid and pungent, promising little respite for any fever victim, but at least the cell was out of public view.

  "Bring wine – the good stuff, mind, none of that vinegary swill," Mal said, pressing a shilling into the warder's sweaty palm. "Now, if you please."

  Sandy had stopped moaning but was now muttering to himself in the secret language of their childhood.

  "Sandy? Sandy, are you all right?" Mal whispered, crouching on the edge of the bed.

  His brother opened his eyes and sat up. His pupils were enormous, great pools of darkness that seemed to draw Mal in…

  "
Itë omiro
?" Sandy asked. Who are you?

  "It's me, Mal. Remember?"

  Sandy screamed. Mal threw his arms around him, trying to quiet him before he set off the whole ward. Sandy writhed in his embrace but despite having a madman's desperate strength he was too frail from his long confinement to break free. Mal held him tight until he stopped struggling, then reluctantly snapped the gyves around Sandy's wrists and ankles before he could gain his second wind. Sandy's pupils shrank in an instant, like a door slamming shut, and he slumped back on the bed. Mal stroked the sweat-damp hair from his brother's brow, blinking back tears, then sank to his knees beside the bed and prayed to St Giles, patron of madmen, cripples and those with the falling sickness.

  The warder eventually returned with a cup of sweet hippocras, made the sign of the cross at the sight of Sandy, and fled. Mal coaxed a few drops of the wine between his brother's lips.

  Sandy gazed up at him with wide eyes. "Mal? What happened?"

  "A brief fit, nothing more," Mal said. "We should not have sat out in the sun so long."

  Sandy closed his eyes again, and soon his breathing began to slow and his features relaxed in sleep. Mal stayed with him whilst the sun traced its slow path across the floor, alternately pacing the cell with soft tread and kneeling in prayer for his brother's soul.

  At last the bells of nearby St Botolph's tolled five, and Mal remembered he had promised to return to the skrayling compound by six. He knocked on the cell door to be let out. The thought of leaving Sandy in this condition and being unable to visit him for a whole week tore at his heart, but what could he do? They would both have to endure the separation as best they could.

 

When Mal returned to the compound he was shown back to the small tent. Kiiren was seated cross-legged on a large woollen cushion next to the brazier, where a lidded metal jug stood heating. The jug's spout emitted a thin wisp of steam. That smell again: bitter and woody yet strangely pleasant.

  "Please, sit," Kiiren said in a low voice.

  He took the pot off the fire and whisked the contents, sending up a cloud of steam. Mal breathed it in, and felt his spirits lift a little.

  "What happens now?" Mal asked. "This… is not a good start to your stay in London."

  "We go back to Tower, perhaps tomorrow."

  Tomorrow, the day after, a week from now; Mal didn't care any more. He just wanted to see Sandy again.

  "Next Sunday," he said firmly, "I must have time for my own affairs."

  "Of course. We honour your customs." Kiiren looked thoughtful. "Day of sun. So many of you humans revere sun in different ways, yes?"

  "We do not revere the sun as the pagans of old did," Mal replied, trying to shake off his melancholy. A discussion of history would perhaps take his mind off his troubles. "But we kept their names for the days of the week. You know about the gods of the Greeks and Romans?"

  "I speak of humans that live near my homeland."

  "I have heard rumours," Mal said. He leant forward, hoping to learn something of use to Walsingham. "Beyond Antilia, a mighty empire rich in gold."

  "Always it is gold with humans." Kiiren gave a hissing laugh. "Gold, tears of sun… And yet you Christians still not agree if sun travel round earth, or earth round sun."

  They sat in silence for a while, listening to the hiss of steam and the distant strains of Vinlandic music.

  "Last night…" Mal began cautiously. "Last night you said it was unwise to take my earring out, but that I would come to understand."

  "It was not safe for you to join us." Kiiren lowered his voice. "The others may have set spies amongst the clan. And even if they have not, the elders must not know about you. Not yet. As soon as you came amongst us, I hurried to conceal you. I am sorry if I hurt you, but it was needful to be swift."

  Mal felt none the wiser after this "explanation", but he let it pass. Kiiren had just admitted there were factions amongst the skraylings and that they spied on one another, just like the nations of Christendom. That fact alone was a useful titbit to take back to Walsingham. The strange vision of the mists, on the other hand, was not something to reveal to the spymaster, at least not yet. The skraylings had powerful magics, that was clear, but he needed to know more.

  Recalling the vision brought another memory to mind: his conversation with Kiiren before the meeting.
Light of my sou
l, the ambassador had said. Perhaps it meant something different to skraylings.

  "This is something to do with Erishen," Mal whispered.

  Kiiren produced a wooden box from which he took two small cups carved from lapis lazuli. Mal stared at them. The skraylings valued the deep blue stone more highly than gold, and these cups comprised enough to buy a fleet's worth of skrayling cargo. Kiiren whisked the contents of the pot again, then poured the foamy brown liquid into the cups.

  He passed one to Mal. "What believe your people is happen to them after they die?"

  Mal hesitated, wondering what to make of this sudden change of topic. He took a sip of his drink.

  "What is this?" he asked, trying not to pull a face.

  "We call it
shakholaat
," Kiiren replied. "It is good for weariness, of body and spirit."

  Mal took a longer drink. The hot, bitter liquid was definitely an acquired taste. His mouth began to tingle slightly. The stuff must be spiced with the hot pepper the skraylings loved so much.

  "Their souls pass on," he said, returning to the question Kiiren had posed, "to whatever destination God deems fit: Heaven, Purgatory, or Hell."

  "I hear much talk of Heaven and Hell," Kiiren said, "but what is this… Purgatory?"

  "It is a place – some say a great mountain on the other side of the world – where the souls of those who did not turn away from God in life, but who are yet too sinful to enter straight into Heaven, are purged of their sins so they might be fit to enter therein."

  Kiiren smiled and nodded politely, but said nothing.

  "You do not have similar beliefs?" Mal asked.

  "Beliefs, no. There are things we know as fact." He put his cup down, and leant towards Mal, hands clasped in his lap. "We have no stories of afterlife, as you call it, no Heaven or Hell, no Purgatory. When man dies, his spirit is gone. Like candle flame." He made a gesture, touching his fingertips together with his hand pointing upwards, then spreading them suddenly, like a flame dispersing into smoke. "But there are those amongst us whose spirits are strong, and they can be born again and again. If they find mortal shell."

  "Pythagoras believed as much, though Christians call it heresy," Mal said, trying to frame his argument in terms that would not offend. "My people are… not tolerant of other faiths."

  "And yet there is disagreeing between Christians, is there not? Some follow Great Father in city beyond Inner Sea, and some defy him."

  Mal guessed he was referring to the Pope.

  "That is true. For fifteen hundred years we were one Christendom; but in the last few generations, everything has changed."

  "This does not please you."

  Mal couldn't help but glance around the tent, fearful they were somehow being overheard – and not by skraylings. Foolishness. If there was anywhere in London they could speak freely about religious matters without some informant overhearing, it was here.

  "My mother was of the Old Faith," he said. "She taught us – she taught
me
to follow the old ways, but it had to be in secret. The Pope – the Great Father of whom you spoke – declared Queen Elizabeth a heretic and urged his followers to kill her. As a loyal Englishman I cannot of course condone this, but anyone of the Old Faith is suspect. I have no choice but to obey the edicts of the Established Church."

  "And if Church say we are demons?"

  Mal drew a deep breath. "If I may be honest with you, sir, a month ago I would have said they were right."

  "And now?"

  "Now I am not so sure. You do not seem like demons to me. Of course the theologians would say this is merely a clever deceit of yours, that in hiding your true nature you prove your demoniacal power… but in truth I could never follow such subtle logic. I have not the wits for it."

  Kiiren smiled. "I am glad you not think us demons. We are friends, yes?"

  Mal nodded cautiously. He could not help but like the young skrayling, even if half the time Kiiren's conversation made no sense. Perhaps in time he could tease out more of the skraylings' secrets, but only if he retained the trust of his one ally amongst them.

  He raised his cup in salute.

  "Friends, yes."

 

As soon as the city gates were open, Coby ran back to Thames Street and told Master Naismith about the intruder. Then she went to St Augustine's church as was her custom, and afterwards ate dinner with the Kuypers, one of the Dutch families of her acquaintance. As Master Kuyper was wont to remind her, the Lord's Day was for contemplation, not worldly matters. It was a relief to forget about the theatre for a while and enjoy the simple company of friends.

  She knew she could not long avoid the events of last night, however, and late afternoon found her returning to Thames Street on reluctant feet. Though she was glad to have prevented the theft, she felt guilty about injuring Wheeler; men did not always recover from such hurts.

  Master Naismith called her into his study as soon as she got back. He was sitting by the fire, reading by the light of a single candle. The shadows carved deep lines in the old man's features, and for a moment Coby recalled the lamplit visage of the masked intruder.

  Naismith looked up.

  "I wanted to thank you again, lad, for catching that viper in our bosom," he said. "We are well rid of the cur."

  "What has been done with him, sir?"

  "He has been handed over to the sergeant of the watch and thrown in the Compter to await trial. Perhaps," he added with a humourless smile, "they should have put him in the Clink, where his erstwhile master could watch over him."

  "Wheeler was working for Henslowe?"

  "He admitted as much, when pressed."

  "Then he has regained his wits," she said with relief.

  "Such of them as he ever possessed. He still claims to have no memory of yesterday afternoon or evening, but he did recall Henslowe offering to pay five pounds to anyone who could obtain the manuscript."

  "Five pounds?" That was barely half what Lodge had been paid for the play.

  "It's a lot of money to a poor player like Wheeler," he said. "Enough to tempt even an honest man to crime."

  "But why steal the sides now? We have had the play for almost three weeks, and the contest begins a few days hence – surely it is too late for the Admiral's Men to profit by it now?"

  Naismith shrugged. "Perhaps it was done principally to cause mischief, with Henslowe's reward only a side bet. Better to do that as near the performance as possible, no?"

  "But why would he want to harm us? It makes no sense for a man to bite the hand that feeds him."

  "Who knows why anyone of these dissident fellows chooses to do a thing? There are Puritans enough who will pay their penny entrance fee to the latest play, just to have something new to rail against."

  He got to his feet and put the book back on its shelf. It was not the Bible, as would be most fitting for the Lord's Day, but
A Mirror for Magistrates,
an old book of poems examining the lives
– and falls – of England's great men, including kings and dukes. Coby wondered if Master Naismith had been seeking the libeller's inspiration in its pages.

  "You think Wheeler wrote the poem as well?"

  "Probably. Half these actors are would-be playwrights, are they not?"

  "But you did not ask him?"

  "I thought it best not to mention it. The fewer people who know, the better. Besides, it is too much of a coincidence for us to be the target of two enemies at once. No, trust me, the villain is caught and our troubles are over."

  Coby nodded, wishing she could be as certain.

  "P-perhaps I should continue as nightwatchman anyway, sir," she said.

  "No need for that now, lad," Master Naismith replied, patting her on the shoulder. "You shall have the reward of your own bed after this."

  She smiled, grateful at the reprieve. Though she was still not convinced their troubles were over, she was not keen to spend another night in the empty theatre.