The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 (39 page)

  "How can I ever repay you?"

  "For coming here, and bearing witness? It was the least I could do."

  "No, for putting up the bail money."

  "I?" Parrish held him at arm's length. "I would gladly have raised ten times that, had I known, but…"

  "Then who?"

  Parrish shrugged, and they both looked at Coby.

  "This was Mal's doing, wasn't it?" Ned asked wonderingly.

  "I suppose so," she replied, then added, in harsher tones than she intended, "He must care about you very much."

  She turned on her heel and walked out of the courtroom, tears pricking in her eyes. She wiped them away with her cuff and cursed her selfish jealousy. If Master Catlyn wanted to use his influence to save a friend from the gallows, it was no more than she ought to expect of any Christian. She walked back to the Tower in an ill humour with herself, wishing she could return straight away to Thames Street and forget about everything except the performance tomorrow.

 
 
 

Mal spent an anxious morning criss-crossing the city on real and imagined errands for the ambassador. At no point was he hit over the head and dragged into an alley by his brother's captors, somewhat to his disappointment.

  He had been in a siege or two in his career, but this waiting was worse than any he had endured. What he needed was a distraction, a bodily exertion to ease his tortured mind. He was tempted to head up to Bishopsgate and beat seven shades of Hell out of that whoreson Cooke. He could not risk it, however; if he went anywhere near Bedlam, the villains might learn they were found out and then all would be lost. No, he had no choice but to feign ignorance and wait for them to make their move.

  At the very least he could fortify his defences. To that end he made his way westwards to Thames Street and asked for directions to the house of Henry Naismith of Suffolk's Men.

  The door was opened by a girl of about fifteen who looked him up and down with a cynical air.

  "Maliverny Catlyn, to see your master," Mal said. "On the Queen's business."

  The girl's mouth fell open, then she remembered herself, bobbed a curtsey and ushered him down a dark hall and through a half-open door.

  "A Master–"

  "Catlyn!" Naismith exclaimed, getting to his feet. He waved the girl out. "Not bad news, I hope, sir?"

  "Not at all," Mal replied. "I merely have some additional instructions for the morrow."

  "Of course, of course, only too happy to oblige. Will you join us for dinner?"

  "I… Yes, thank you."

  "Excellent." Naismith went to the door. "Betsy! Tell your mistress we have another to dinner."

  He returned to his desk, where a fat ledger sat open, and shook sand over the page.

  "Please, sit down," he told Mal, tidying away his pens and ink.

  Mal closed the door, then sat down gingerly on an ancient stool on the near side of the desk. How to begin, without betraying Hendricks' confidence?

  "As I am sure you are aware, sir," he said at last, "the skraylings are not universally loved."

  Naismith grunted, and shut the ledger with a thud.

  "Tell me something I do not know," the actor-manager said. "I have had men spit on me in the street for going into business with one."

  Mal frowned. He knew feelings against aliens in the city sometimes ran high, but having avoided the skraylings as much as he could, he had seldom witnessed it at first hand.

  "You've had problems at the theatre?" Mal asked.

  "Nothing serious," Naismith said. "One troublemaker who was dismissed as soon as he was found out. My other men are trustworthy, I can assure you, sir."

  Mal nodded. "I fear the general populace are not."

  "All too true, alas."

  "I therefore think it unwise to put the ambassador within easy reach of anyone with a grudge against the skraylings."

  Naismith sighed. "You wish us to perform at one of the royal palaces," he said.

  "No."

  "Oh?"

  "I do not want any… conspirators to feel they have the better of us," Mal said. "The play will still be put on at the Mirror, but with utmost care for the ambassador's safety."

  The actor-manager looked relieved, and patted his ledger absentmindedly. "Of course, we will do whatever is necessary."

  "Can you show me around the theatre this afternoon?"

  "It would be my pleasure, sir."

  At that moment a bell rang, and Naismith got to his feet.

  "That will be dinner," he said. "Please, come this way."

  He led Mal into the front room of the house, a small diningparlour with smoke-darkened panelling. A worn oak table took up most of the space, with a chair at the head and benches either side. Hendricks, who had been standing behind the nearer bench with head bowed, turned and looked up as they entered, and gave Mal an almost imperceptible nod. So, the hearing was over already.

  "Please." Naismith gestured to the place at his right hand, opposite Hendricks.

  A few moments later Mistress Naismith joined them, and Betsy brought in a large pie with steam rising from the slashes in the pastry. A fishy aroma filled the parlour.

  "Eel pie," Naismith said with a broad smile, and tapped the side of his nose. "My wife's mother's secret recipe."

  They said grace and sat down to eat. After serving the pie, Mistress Naismith kept up a steady stream of small talk whilst they ate. In the course of the next half-hour, Mal learnt far more than he ever wanted to know about the comings and goings on Thames Street.

  "Are you not hungry, Master Catlyn?" she asked as she refilled her husband's goblet. "You've hardly touched your pie."

  "It is delicious, truly, fit for the ambassador's table. My thoughts were… elsewhere."

  "Ah, what it is to be young and in love," she replied.

  "Sorry?"

  "When a young man is so distracted, there can be but one cause. A girl."

  Hendricks' knife skidded on his plate, making a hideous screeching noise and splashing gravy across the table.

  "Where are your manners, boy?" Naismith barked, leaning across and giving him a clip around the ear.

  Hendricks flushed scarlet and muttered an apology. The rest of the meal passed in near-silence, and though Mal tried once or twice to catch Hendricks' eye, the boy remained intent on his own dinner. In any case, an open discussion of the morning's events would have to wait until Mal could catch him alone.

  After the plates were cleared away and Mistress Naismith had taken her leave of them, Naismith pushed back his chair and belched contentedly.

  "A fine wife, that," he said. "Very fine."

  Mal murmured an acknowledgment. The pie had been very good, though it might as well have been bread and water for all that he could taste it in his present mood.

  "God a' mercy." Naismith belched again. "Alas, I cannot walk all the way to Bankside in this heat. Hendricks, be a good lad and take Master Catlyn to look about the theatre."

  "Yes, sir."

  He flashed Mal a grin that went unnoticed by his master. They made their farewells and set off towards London Bridge.

  "How did it go?" Mal said at last.

  "Master Faulkner was freed on bail." Hendricks described the hearing in brief. "Do you think," he added in a low voice, "Kemp will take the bait, sir?"

  "We can but hope," Mal replied.

  They walked on in silence, Mal running over the few known facts for the thousandth time and wishing they would miraculously fall into a pattern, like a winning hand of cards. They did not. He let out an involuntary grunt of frustration.

  "Sir?"

  "Nothing," Mal replied.

  The city drowsed in the midday heat, its air heavy with the stink of sweating humanity and their refuse. A few citizens made their way listlessly across London Bridge: porters pushing handcarts laden with goods, bored matrons drifting from shop to shop with even more bored maidservants in tow. In a narrow gap between the buildings that lined the bridge, a cloud of blowflies buzzed around a beggar who might have been dead or merely asleep, though either way he would not be allowed to remain there long.

  Mal hoped they would not bump into Ned in Southwark, though no doubt he was lying low with Parrish. Tomorrow, when the actor would perforce be at the theatre – that was when Kemp would strike, if he had any wits. And there was nothing Mal could do about it.

  They arrived at the theatre at last, and Hendricks led the way around to the back door.

  "This will have to be locked during the performance," Mal said, eyeing the door. "We want no one creeping in unnoticed."

  "Of course, sir."

  They went through the tiring room, now made ready for the performance tomorrow. Trestle tables had been set out under the back window with wig stands and hand mirrors ready for the actors to apply their makeup, and some of the props and less-valuable items of costume hung from pegs on either wall. They walked out onto the stage and Mal surveyed the galleries. After a moment's consideration he vaulted down into the yard, took the stairs two at a time and went along the lower gallery to the lords' room.

  It was much like the Rose, with a simple latched door between it and the rest of the gallery. Even if that were bolted, someone could lean or climb around the dividing wall, or simply take a shot from the yard. Not protection enough, not by a long way.

  He glanced over at the minstrels' gallery above the stage. The central section was some four or five yards from the main galleries on each side, and cut off from them by solid walls of wattle and daub. Enough to deter or delay an assault, at least in public.

  "How do you get up there?" he shouted down to Hendricks.

  The boy beckoned him back to the stage, and led him through the tiring room to a stair leading upwards.

  "This was where you were sleeping when Wheeler came in," Mal said, as they emerged into the office.

  "Yes, sir. Through here is the gallery."

  He opened a pair of folding doors, and Mal walked out onto the narrow space overlooking the stage. It was common enough for the richest patrons to buy seats up here, where they could be seen by all, but the ambassador had insisted he should have the same view as the rest of the audience. This time Mal would overrule him. More than one life was at stake now.

  As they walked back through the box-office, he noticed the two practice staves propped up in a corner. Perhaps there was another way to work off his anxiety.

  "Care for a fight, Hendricks?"

• • • •

They sparred on the stage, and for a while it was as if the last few weeks had never happened. Coby realised how much she had missed their time together, back when there was nothing more urgent to think about than the next fighting move.

  "You have not forgotten your lessons, then," Master Catlyn said when they stopped for breath.

  "No, sir. I've practised them alone, and run through them in my head when I could not practise." And imagined much more. If she were not already red-faced from the exertion, she would surely be blushing now.

  "Very good," he said, leaning back against one of the pillars and mopping his brow with a handkerchief. "Any more of that beer?"

  "Sorry, sir," she replied. "I think Master Rudd took the last of it home with him, and the supplies for the audience won't be delivered until tomorrow."

  He grimaced at the news and pushed himself upright in one fluid movement. A ray of sunlight flashed on the silver pommel of his dagger, bright against the black livery.

  "Sir?"

  "Mmm?"

  "I'd like to learn how to fight with one of those," she said, pointing to the dagger.

  Master Catlyn blinked against the bright light. "Why? I warned you, did I not, that the best thing to do in a knife fight is run away?"

  "I know, sir, but–" she looked around the empty theatre "– we are up against desperate men. Men who nearly killed Master Faulkner, and might try to kill anyone else who stands in their way."

  "All the more reason to run."

  "And what if I cannot?"

  "All right," he sighed.

  She stared at him. "You aren't going to try to dissuade me?"

  "You've made up your mind. Now you get to live with your decision." He gestured to the knife on her belt. "Hand it over."

  It was an ordinary ballock knife, a nine-inch single-edged blade, suitable for use at table as well as in a fight. He examined it carefully, then handed it back. The familiar tool felt strange in her hand, a friend turned foe.

  Master Catlyn smiled thinly. "Changed your mind yet?"

  "No."

  "All right then." He drew his own dagger, then to her surprise laid it on the floor at the foot of the pillar. "Come at me."

  "Sir?"

  "Do it."

  She advanced, blade held overhand at chest height.

  "Level with the floor, dammit," Master Catlyn growled. "Elbow out. You want to gut your enemy, not yourself!"

  She adjusted her stance. The knife was heavy in her hand, its wooden grip slick with sweat. She struck, but in an instant he caught her right wrist in a reverse grip, grasped her elbow with his other hand and twisted her arm behind her back.

  They repeated the move several times, and each time he disarmed her. On the final pass, he kept the knife.

  "Right, now you try."

  She took a deep breath and held her ground, letting him advance. She went for his wrist but her arms were too short, the blade came too close to her body and she faltered.

  "Again. This is a fight, not a courtly dance."

  They tried again, but her right arm ached from being twisted behind her back and her movements were too slow.