The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 (42 page)

  Baines grunted. "Thought as much. But you're the only man left alive to testify – the only one apart from Kemp's employer, at any rate – and we had to be sure."

  "Drowned?" Ned asked.

  "Hardly." Baines pushed the corpse's head to one side, revealing a jagged bloodless gash. "Messy, if you ask me. Not the work of a man accustomed to such business."

  "And that's supposed to make me feel better, is it?"

  "We're not here for your benefit. But if you don't want to be next, you'll do exactly as I tell you."

 
 
 

Coby sat in the box-office, mending the gown she had ripped earlier that morning.

  "What's going on here?"

  She started, almost stabbing the needle into her thumb. Looking up she saw Master Dunfell standing over her. Behind him two servants were manhandling a padded bench up the stairs.

  "Just some last-minute repairs, sir." She held up the hem of the gown. "See, good as new."

  Dunfell sniffed. "I hope so."

  The servants carried the bench out onto the gallery and traipsed back through the box-office. Coby bent her head to her task. Just another couple of inches and she was done.

  The servants returned with another bench, followed by other liveried men laden with baskets of food, wine and silver tableware. The banquet was set out on a table at one end of the gallery, whilst Dunfell fussed over the disposition of every item.

  As the servants departed with empty baskets, Philip came running up the stairs.

  "Oi, Jakes, where's my gown?"

  She snipped the end of the thread and held it out to him.

  "Here you go."

  He gathered the thick folds in his arms and wandered out onto the balcony to examine her work in better light. Coby followed him, curious to see what delicacies were eaten by dukes. Plates of pastries ringed a silver stand piled with peaches and grapes. Flagons of pale wine were chilling in a porcelain cistern that stood on three gilded lions' feet.

  "Where do they get this stuff in summer?" Philip asked, dipping his hand into the cistern and pulling out a chunk of ice.

  "Get your filthy paws out of there, knave!" Master Dunfell flapped his hand towards Philip's wrist.

  "I am also curious, sir," Coby put in. "Surely it cannot have been kept since winter."

  "Some houses have deep cold cellars filled with great blocks of ice, it is true," Dunfell said. "But that is rarely possible in London. No, His Grace owns an ice-making engine."

  "An engine just for making ice?" What she wouldn't give to know how such a thing worked.

  Dunfell nodded. "A secret alchemical process, invented by the skraylings. It is the only one in England, I believe."

  Not the only one, Coby thought. But perhaps the only one owned by an Englishman. She bowed to the duke's secretary and took her leave. There was still plenty to do, even though it was a good hour until the theatre opened.

  The tiring room was empty for the nonce, and she took advantage of the quiet to make one last check of all her preparations. She took down the plot board from its hook and ran down the list. The props had all been set out on a table by the stage door in order of use: a scroll with tasselled ends, a basket of apples, a lute, three lanterns, a match-cord in a brass holder and a fake severed head in a sack. The only thing missing was the cage containing a live popinjay, which Master Eaton was bringing with him.

  A hand grabbed her collar and something icy cold and wet slithered down her back. She yelped and sprang up, reaching behind her back and trying to get the ice cube out. Philip was standing a few feet away, arms folded, a malicious smirk belying his girlish features.

  "That's for ratting on me to Master Parrish," he said.

  "I did nothing of the sort."

  "Says you. Little Master Ne'er-Do-Ill. Where were you the other night, anyway? With Catlyn again?" The boy leered. "Bet you squeal like a girl when he fucks you."

  Coby's fist flew up of its own accord, hitting Philip's face with a satisfying crunch. The young actor fell on his backside with a wail, clutching his nose.

  "What's all this?" Master Naismith appeared from nowhere and hauled Philip to his feet. "God's teeth, lad! Here, let me have a look."

  Philip removed his hand from his nose. A thin stream of blood ran down from one nostril, and his lip was already starting to swell. Naismith cuffed Coby round the head.

  "What in God's holy name did you think you were doing, boy?"

  "He said–"

  "I don't care what he said, you don't punch one of my actors in the face the morning of a performance. Now go and get some ice from his lordship's table, and be quick about it!"

  She did so, thankful that Master Dunfell had already left. By the time she returned, Master Parrish had arrived and was fussing over his apprentice like a broody hen. Master Naismith hauled her away by the ear.

  "What am I going to do with you boys?" he said, shaking his head. "Go on, get on with your work. I'll deal with you later, when the play is over."

 

They left the Tower later than planned, after a long and fruitless argument about seating arrangements. Kiiren had not been happy about the decision to sit in the gallery above the stage, but Mal had overruled him. Once the young ambassador might have tried to cajole him into changing his mind; now he was distant and imperious in demeanour.

  As the ambassador's coach rattled along Bankside, a trumpet rang out in the distance, announcing the opening of the theatre doors. Mal shook the reins of his borrowed gelding and urged the beast into a trot, passing the coach and gesturing for the driver to speed up. The man shrugged, pointing to the crowd that blocked the turn into Gravel Lane. Mal turned his mount back towards the skrayling guards, beckoning them to ride forward and clear the way. Their leader hesitated, stooped to confer with the ambassador, then waved his men forward. Mal sighed. This was going to be a very long day.

  The crowd parted like the Red Sea as the skrayling guards rode ahead of the coach, baring their teeth in friendly warning. Soon the coach was through the gates and heading for the back of the theatre, watched with idle curiosity by many on the fringes of the crowd.

  Mal dismounted and knocked on the back door. It was opened by a boy in a corset and farthingales, his face covered in white makeup. The boy took in Mal's royal livery with a shrewd glance, then his eyes widened as he saw the skraylings.

  "Come in, sirs," he replied in a piping voice quite unlike Hendricks' husky alto. "My lord Suffolk is already within."

  Mal turned to Kiiren, who gestured curtly for him to go ahead. As they stepped into the darkened hallway at the foot of the stairs, Henry Naismith emerged from the tiring room.

  "Welcome, sirs, to our humble theatre–"

  Mal touched a finger to his lips.

  "Please do not address the ambassador, either now or after the performance," he said, pitching his voice to carry into the tiring room. "It is against skrayling protocol, and might disqualify you from the contest."

  "Of course, of course," Naismith told him. "Please assure His Excellency we respect his people's customs."

  Mal thanked him, and escorted Kiiren up to the box-office. As they emerged onto the gallery, Suffolk and his party got to their feet in a rustle of silk and lace. The handsome fair-haired woman must be Lady Grey, from her likeness to her eldest son; others were cousins and hangers-on of the sort that surrounded every man of influence. Mal was surprised to see Blaise amongst their number, however. Either father and son were reconciled, or they were putting on at least as good a show up here as on the stage.

  It crossed his mind that Grey would make the perfect Huntsman assassin, able to get close to the ambassador then hide behind his father's considerable influence. On the other hand he would have to be foolish or desperate to try such a gambit, and Grey did not have the look of either. On the contrary, he appeared at ease, and greeted Mal warmly.

  "Catlyn!" He embraced Mal, murmuring in his ear, "I see you did the right thing after all."

  Before Mal could react to this unexpected statement, he found himself being introduced to the duke.

  "Father," Blaise said, "I'd like you to meet Maliverny Catlyn, an old friend of mine from Cambridge."

  "Your Grace." Mal bowed low. "It is an honour to meet you."

  Suffolk inclined his head in acknowledgment.

  "I am always glad to know more of the company my son keeps. Did you enjoy your time at Cambridge?"

  "Y-yes, sir. I took a great interest in music and astronomy, though my father urged me to study the law."

  "Very wise of him."

  Throughout this brief exchange the duke's eyes scanned Mal's face without pause. Did Suffolk know, or suspect, that Blaise had acquaintances amongst the Huntsmen? Given his son's erstwhile antipathy towards the skraylings, he must surely be on the lookout for anyone who might prove an enemy.

  "The play is about to start, my dear," the duchess said, gesturing towards the stage with her fan. "Do sit down."

  Mal stepped back into the shadows of the gallery. Should he be guarding the door against enemies from within the company, or watch the audience for signs of armed assassins? He decided to stand to one side of the gallery door, where he had a good view over the head of the ambassador into the crowd below.

  The door opened a crack, making him start.

  "Is everything to the ambassador's satisfaction?" Hendricks asked in a low voice.

  Mal nodded. "Shouldn't you be downstairs, dressing the actors?"

  "All done," she replied. "Master Parrish likes to do Pip's makeup, so I'm not needed now until the end of the first scene."

  Mal glanced towards the duke's party, but everyone's attention was fixed on the stage, where Henry Naismith was reciting the introduction to the play.

  "How are you?" he asked Hendricks. "Does my… tailoring pass muster?"

  "It is sore," she conceded. "But it does not burn or fester."

  "Good."

  An awkward silence.

  "I should get back to work," Mal said.

  "And I too."

  "Right."

  She reached out a hand and touched his arm, turned scarlet with embarrassment, mumbled something incomprehensible and slipped away into the tiring house. Mal caught himself grinning, and immediately felt a pang of guilt. The poor child had entrusted him with a secret as delicate as his own; only a dishonourable varlet would take advantage of her innocence. He rubbed a hand across his face, wishing he could soothe his distemper with some of the ice-chilled Rhenish the duke's guests were enjoying, and resumed his vigil.

 

At the start of Act Three, the cannon was raised up onto the stage via the trapdoor, to add spectacle to the scene in which the pompous second prince lay siege to the gates of Elfhame. Coby had checked the mechanism earlier by lamplight, but now with the cannon primed with the flash powder provided by Master Cutsnail, she had to keep all flames well away.

  She picked up the keg and made her way back through the cramped space as fast as she could; she didn't need to be told that standing under a firing cannon was a bad idea, even if the stuff was perfectly safe as long as it wasn't mixed with gunpowder…

  Gunpowder. She recalled Wheeler's empty pistol. Heart pounding, she scurried past the wave engines and other stage machinery, and up the short flight of stairs. The tiring room was full of actors preparing to head out onto the stage. Should she warn them now? No, best to make certain, or Master Naismith would have her hide for ruining the performance with a false alarm.

  She pushed through the crowd of actors to the back of the room, where the row of makeup tables stood under the windows, and tore open the keg. Hands trembling, she shook out some of its contents onto a clean rag and held it up to the light. Her eyes widened in horror. Black specks marred the redbrown powder.

  Even as she turned to warn the actors, they began to march onto the stage through the curtained exits. She elbowed her way through the stragglers, heedless of the pain in her side.

  "Master Naismith?"

  The actor-manager stopped and looked round. He was dressed in antique armour, with a plumed helm that sat on the back of his head and gilded buskins on his feet.

  "Not now, lad! This is my big scene."

  "Please." She grabbed hold of his sleeve. "Sir, I think Wheeler put gunpowder in the skrayling fireworks."

  He frowned at her, the garish stage makeup exaggerating his expression. "And that's bad, is it?"

  "Yes, yes, really bad. Please, sir, we have to stop Master Rudd from lighting that fuse."

 

Ambassador Kiiren was most intrigued by the appearance on stage of the little cannon, but Mal was glad the muzzle was pointing well away from the minstrels' gallery. He had been in enough battles to respect the indiscriminate power of artillery.

  A group of actors emerged from the tiring house below them, dressed in white cloaks and bronze helms. Their leader struck a heroic pose, brandishing a smouldering match-cord at the end of a brass rod.

  "He'll put that out if he's not careful," Mal murmured to himself.

  He stepped nearer the front of the gallery, battle instincts roused. The actor cleared his throat and began his speech.