The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 (33 page)

  "You are cold,
Erishen-
amayi
," Kiiren said, retrieving a towel from the bench by the fire. "Sit, dry yourself. Others return soon."

  Mal sank onto the bench and began scrubbing his wet hair with the towel. To his surprise Kiiren knelt at his feet, gazing up at him. In the darkness his shadowed face looked almost human.

  "I am sorry it had to be this way,
amayi
," Kiiren said. "I knew when first I saw you, something was wrong and you did not remember. I hoped that to see me again, to share our memories, would bring all back."

  "Only pieces," Mal replied, realising with a shock that it was true. He did remember things he could not possibly know. Was Kiiren right after all?

  "That is why I had to try
qoheetsakhan
." Kiiren glanced towards the tower room. "I am sorry if it frightened you to remember so much so quickly."

  "I… I thought I understood your words, but already it is fading again."

  Kiiren nodded. "It may take time, and perhaps more
qoheetsakhan."

  Mal said nothing. He did not relish the thought of another dose of the skrayling drug, if it muddled his thoughts so.

  "Please,
amayi
, tell no one of this night," Kiiren said in a low, urgent tone, glancing at the door. "It is too soon. If you – if we are found out…"

  "I understand," Mal lied, hoping his relief did not show. Say as little as possible, Baines had told him; let the gull fill in the blanks and his own hopes and fears will betray him. Still, he could not help but wonder why Kiiren wanted to keep this a secret. Some incomprehensible matter of skrayling politics, perhaps, in which the ambassador did not care to show his hand too early.

  Kiiren smiled and touched Mal's cheek, then leapt to his feet. The sound of skrayling voices, slurred with drink, drifted up from the outer ward.

  "They return," Kiiren said.

  He disappeared into the tower room and returned a moment later with Mal's shirt and doublet.

  "Quick, into chamber."

  He thrust the bundle of clothing into Mal's arms and all but pushed him towards the doorway into the bedchamber. Mal needed no further prompting. Within moments he had retreated to the bed and closed the curtains. Belatedly he remembered he still had his wet, muddy boots on. He pulled them off and slipped them to the floor just as the front door banged open.

  The guards' rowdy chatter faded into muttered apologies. Mal guessed that Kiiren had waited behind in the dining room, and was giving his men a good telling-off for coming back in such a drunken state. He smiled at the thought of the slight, soft-spoken ambassador facing down a dozen burly skrayling warriors. Like a raw young captain on his first command? his memory prompted. No, he and Kiiren were nothing alike.

  With a sigh he lay down on the bed, ignoring his stinging back. So many questions buzzed around his head, but they all came down to one central point. Why was Kiiren being so secretive about this Erishen business? Mal thought back to the debate in the skrayling pavilion. Had Kiiren only suspected then what he now believed? It seemed to be the real reason he was so concerned about Mal's treatment, and yet he was hiding it from his own people. The young ambassador was up to something, and whether it boded well or ill for England, Mal could not tell.

  With a soldier's sense of priorities, he forced himself to relax. Sleep now; tomorrow was time enough to worry about the dangers that lay ahead.

 
 
 

Ned woke with a start. The grimy light of dawn crept in through the shutters, promising another day of rain. He rolled over, seeking the warmth of a fellow living creature, but the bed was empty. He buried his face in the bolster – and almost missed the creak of footsteps on the stair.

  "Mam?"

  His mother often woke early, but she didn't usually venture up the stairs in the near-dark, and the lodgers gave the attic a wide berth. Heart pounding, Ned groped for his knife. His hand closed around the hilt just as the door swung open.

  A tall, heavily built man filled the doorway. Ned couldn't make out the intruder's features in the dimness, but he didn't need light to know who it was. Armitage. So, his usefulness to Kemp had come to an end.

  He edged out of bed, heedless of his own nakedness.

  "How did you get in here?" he asked, hoping he sounded less terrified than he felt.

  Armitage made no reply, only advanced into the room. He didn't appear to be armed, not that he needed weapons with fists like that. Ned crouched in a knife-fighter's stance, wondering what his chances were of slipping past his opponent. Speed was his one advantage; speed, and knowledge of this house and its environs.

  Armitage paused, his eyes flicking to the blade then back to Ned's face.

  "Not so stupid, are you?" Ned muttered. "Kill me if you must, but I'll plant this knife in your guts before I die."

  He dodged to one side, but in the narrow space it was child's play for Armitage to block his escape. He was going to have to rely on his wits. With a cry of rage Ned leapt onto the bed, giving himself the advantage of a couple of inches of height, though he had to crouch to avoid hitting his head on the canopy.

  Armitage took hold of the two uprights at the foot of the bed and began to shake the whole bedstead from side to side. Ned shifted his weight, trying to keep his footing. The ancient, worm-riddled woodwork was beginning to shake apart under the assault. Clouds of dust fell from the canopy. Ned coughed and spluttered, barely able to see his opponent through streaming eyes. He felt rather than saw Armitage lunge, and rolled aside just in time, landing on the floor next to the bed with a thud and nearly dropping the knife. As he scrambled to his feet, an enormous fist caught him in the ribs with a sickening crunch.

  Ned fell backwards, coughing, pain tearing into his side. Armitage grabbed an ankle and began to pull him out of the narrow space. Ned flailed his arms, trying to get a purchase on the wall and bed-frame, and his groping fingers touched cold stoneware: the chamber pot. He snatched it up and hurled the stinking contents into Armitage's face, followed by the pot itself. The big man brushed the missile aside, cursing. Free of Armitage's grasp, Ned launched himself upwards and buried the knife in his opponent's belly.

  Armitage roared in pain and enveloped Ned in a piss-stinking bear hug that threatened to crush the life from his body. Ned screamed as his cracked ribs exploded in fresh agony. The hilt of his knife was digging into his own belly now. With a last effort he leant against it, pushing it upwards into the man's chest towards the heart. As blackness took him, he heard Armitage give a strangled moan, and then he was falling…

  He came to in a pool of blood and piss, half-buried under his attacker. He drew a cautious breath, and wished he hadn't. He felt like a dog after a bear-baiting, and not one of the winners either. He extricated himself from Armitage's final embrace and limped over to the wash stand. The water was cold but clean, and Ned spent a long time scrubbing at his skin with a damp flannel, trying not to think about what had just happened. He had killed a man. Not a good man, admittedly, but a man nonetheless. Ned knew his Ten Commandments, and whilst kidnapping was not on the list, murder certainly was. If he had ever doubted he was going to Hell for his sins, he could not do so now.

  The house was silent; no sound came from the lodgers' rooms below, though they surely could not have slept through the fight. Ned thought back to some of his nights with Gabriel; no doubt the lodgers had long since learnt to ignore the noises from the attic. Clean at last, or as clean as he was ever likely to get, he pulled on his clothes with trembling hands. Where was his mother? She must have been woken by the noise, unless–

  He crept down the stairs, sick to his stomach with dread, and made his way down to the ground floor and along the passage to the kitchen. A faint glow from the banked fire gave shape to the room and its meagre furnishings. Ned knelt at the hearth and lit a spill from the embers, then touched the flame to a candle stub and looked about him.

  At first he could see nothing amiss.

  "Mam?"

  There was no reply. He went to his mother's bed and pulled aside the thin woollen hangings, but found only crumpled sheets and blankets. The back door creaked in the morning breeze, making him jump. Perhaps she was out in the garden.

  Just as he reached the door, his foot caught against something. He looked down. A pale face stared up at him from the floor.

  "Mam!"

  He fell to his knees, patting her face and looking in vain for any sign of life. The old woman lay still, not a mark on her, only a slight frown of pain marring her features. Had the shock of Armitage's arrival at such an early hour caused her heart to fail? He took her hand. So cold. But her hands were always cold these days, that didn't mean anything, it didn't mean she was – He probed her wrist with his other hand, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. He pressed the back of her hand to his cheek, tears trickling down to pool where their flesh met.

  "I'm sorry, Mam. I'm so sorry…"

  After what felt like hours he rose, shaking with exhaustion. Now he really had to get out of here. There was a dead man upstairs, another man kidnapped… The parish priest would see his mother buried. Reluctantly he went back upstairs to gather his few belongings.

  "Craven swine!" he screamed at the closed doors. "I should burn the house down with you lot in it."

  Only the thought of his mother lying downstairs, and the innocent neighbours in the adjoining houses, prevented him from carrying out the threat.

 

With only a couple of days left before their performance in the competition, Suffolk's Men were spending every morning and afternoon rehearsing. The theatres had been closed all week in order to increase the public's anticipation of the great event. Nerves were stretched taut as bowstrings, and Coby was still needed as a prompt even though every man knew his lines backwards by now.

  Master Parrish arrived late, and was even more distracted than usual. After yet another fluffed speech, he retreated to the back corner of the stage, where Coby was sitting on a stool with their one full copy of the script in her lap.

  "May I speak with you privily?" he asked.

  Coby glanced around. Several of the actors were in earshot, though they were engaged in the current scene and not paying her any attention.

  "If it's something important, should you not tell Master Naismith?" she said.

  Parrish hunkered down next to her.

  "This isn't theatre business," he said quietly. "It's… personal."

  She was tempted to remark that she had seen more than enough of his personal affairs.

  "I have too much work to do today, sir," she replied, turning a page. "As well you know."

  "A few minutes of your time, that is all…"

  "Is it about…?" She jerked her head towards Philip, who was arguing with Oliver about a bit of stage business involving a fan.

  Parrish shook his head.

  "Very well," she said. "You can talk to me when we break for dinner."

  "Thank you."

  The rest of the morning went smoothly enough, and Coby soon found herself leaving the theatre with Master Parrish at her side. They walked along Bankside in silence, until Coby had to ask: "So, what is so important you must drag me away from my dinner?"

  Parrish halted, and took hold of her shoulders.

  "First, you must swear to tell no one what I am about to relate; at least, not yet."

  "I cannot swear to something when I know nothing about it, nor whether it is honourable to do so."

  "And I cannot tell you unless you swear."

  "Then we are at an impasse," Coby replied.

  She pulled free of his grasp and carried on walking. He ran to overtake her, standing in her way like an ill-behaved child thwarting his mother.

  "I thought you were in love with that fellow Catlyn," Parrish said. "Or do you not care if he lives or dies?"

  She stared at him, heart in mouth.

  "What are you talking about? Is Master Catlyn in danger?"

  "Not yet. And you can help – but only if you swear to secrecy."

  "I swear," she whispered.

  "Then come with me. We should not speak of this in the street."

  Coby went with Master Parrish to his lodgings, all thought of her day's work forgotten. Master Catlyn was in danger, and it was in her power to help…

  Parrish lived above a draper's shop in Bermondsey Street, not far from the skraylings' guild house. Coby had been to the shop a few times, buying oddments of Holland and sarcenet for costume repairs, but had never ventured into the actor's home before. She followed him down a short alley to the shop yard, where a rickety wooden stair led up to a walkway that ran round the upper storey of the tenement.

  "Is he here?" she asked.

  "Catlyn?" Parrish shook his head. "Someone else."

  He opened the door and ushered her inside. Coby's eyes widened in surprise. The single-room lodgings looked more like a cross between Master Cutsnail's office and a brothel than an impoverished actor's home. A motley collection of old tapestries, lengths of painted cloth, and threadbare velvet and damask cloaks covered the walls. The close-curtained bed was hung with rich fabrics too, dotted with embroidered animals in appliqué: harts, leopards and other heraldic beasts. Numerous chests stood about the room, some shut, some with lids wide open; one was piled high with hats of every colour and style.

  "Gifts from admirers," the actor said, waving a hand in the general direction of the heaped treasures. "You can come out, love! He's here."

  This last was not addressed to Coby. The bed-hangings twitched aside and Ned Faulkner emerged, looking even paler and grimmer of visage than Master Parrish.